Free Reprisal by Ian Barclay Page B

pass as a tourist, keep his mouth shut, and hope people wouldn’t spot him as an American—a wild hope, he knew.
    The phone rang.
    It was a Mr. Pritchett to see him. Dartley knew no one by that name, yet had him sent up to his room. Whoever this turned
     out to be, Dartley wanted to face him behind a closed door.
    “Pritchett, from the embassy.” The stout, red-faced man with blue eyes shook Dartley’s hand and flopped into a chair. “Got
     anything to drink?”
    “No,” Dartley said in an even voice to the sweating man. “You didn’t say which embassy.”
    In reply, Pritchett produced a plastic-encased ID card.
    “I’m not here on American business,” Dartley snapped.
    Pritchett shrugged. “You know, before Hasan kicked out Mubarak, the U.S. was making long-term, low-interest loans to Egypt
     to buy American wheat. Two hundred and seventy-five million bucks’ worth.”
    “You afraid I’ll teach them how to grow their own so they won’t want any more from the Middle West?”
    “Naw. I was just showing off my knowledge. I couldn’t give a shit about wheat.” Pritchett mopped his brow with a large red
     handkerchief. When he saw that his host still was not going to offer him a drink, he went on, “Mr. Lewis, I want you to keep
     your eyes and ears open wherever you go and report anything unusual to us at the embassy.”
    Dartley cursed silently. Contact with the American Embassy was the last thing he wanted. He said, “I’d certainly be pleased
     to help any way I can. However, I can’t jeopardize my work for the United Nations by seeming to be an… agent or whatever for
     the American Embassy. Even talking to you here would probably be enough to have me expelled from the country.”
    “You don’t have to approach me directly,” Pritchett said hurriedly. “We needn’t ever talk again. It would be better that way.
     Here, memorize the name of this Egyptian. You will find him at that location at that time every day of the week. He is very
     dependable. Write what you wish me to know. Verbal messages become confused. Sign it with a code name. How about N. Hilton?”
    “Great,” Dartley said. After some small talk, he eased him out the door.
    Pritchett wasn’t such a fool as he pretended to be. After all he had known of Dartley’s arrival in Egypt within three hours.
     Somehow he had learned that his name was Thomas Lewis and that he worked for CIMMYT. Obviously Pritchett had an informant
     in Immigration, and obviously Pritchett was CIA. He hadn’t pressed Dartley to collection information, just left it to his
     patriotic duty. CIA method of operation.Dartley made up his mind. Thomas Lewis was going to disappear from the Nile Hilton that very night.
    He would get moving right away. That Egyptian would be a start. He looked at the piece of paper Pritchett had given him. The
     Egyptian would be there in about an hour. Outside the Mahmoud Khalil Museum, opposite the exit gate of the Gezira Sporting
     and Racing Club, on Zamalek Island in the Nile. The man’s name was Omar Zekri.
    “No, no, it is enough that I pick up messages for Mr. Pritchett,” Omar Zekri was saying in his high-pitched voice and unusually
     accented English as he and Dartley walked along a dusty residential street. “I see no reason for me to have talks with people.
     It is not expected of me. You give me your message. No more. It is not reasonable.”
    Dartley let him go on complaining so long as he kept moving. The big houses along this stretch of the roadway were behind
     walls, and they walked beneath fragrant trees which leaned out from behind the walls, giving shade. They were alone.
    Dartley interrupted the Egyptian’s complaints. “I want to know where the scientist Mustafa Bakkush is located.”
    Omar paused and looked at him in surprise. “At Cambridge University in England. That gentleman considers himself too important
     to stay among us humble Egyptians.”
    Dartley shook his head. “He’s been back now for a