Free The Cairo Code by Glenn Meade

motorcycle come down the street on his left and slow to a halt.
    An Arab sat on the machine. He wore a djellaba and had a beard. The man gestured for Evir to join him. Evir climbed on board the pillion seat, and the BSA roared away from the curb.
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    The man kept glancing over his shoulder while he drove, as if to be certain they hadn’t been followed. He headed towards the El Hakim mosque, weaving through the tight back streets, until ten minutes later they came out onto a cobbled square, ringed with tall brick-and-wood tenement houses. They climbed off the BSA. The man locked it with a padlock and chain, and beckoned for Evir to follow. He stepped into the open hallway of one of the houses and climbed a flight of bare wooden stairs to the second floor. There was a door with three heavy locks, and the man unlocked them in turn with a bunch of keys, led Evir inside, and closed the door.
    â€œWell?” the bearded man asked.
    â€œI did as you asked.”
    The man looked pleased. “You’re certain no one saw you at the residency?”
    Evir laughed. “If they did, do you think I’d be here?”
    He had been in the apartment twice before, when the man needed to show him how to use the equipment. It was neat but functional, with a coffee table and some cushions scattered on the floor, a metal stove by the wall, but it smelled musty, and Evir had the feeling the place wasn’t often lived in. The man held out his hand. “Give me the camera.”
    â€œMy money first,” Evir demanded.
    â€œYou’ll get your money afterwards.”
    Evir shook his head. “I want it now.”
    â€œLater,” the man answered firmly. “When I’m finished examining your work. If the photographs don’t turn out, I want you to go back again.”
    â€œAgain?”
    â€œAgain. Now, give me the camera.”
    Evir heard the hard edge in the man’s voice, saw the threatening look on his face. There was a dangerous air about him that made Evir feel uncomfortable. He took the tiny Leica camera from his pocket and handed it over.
    â€œWait here.”
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    The man stepped into the bedroom and closed the door. The stand-up closet he used as a darkroom was off to the right, a faint, pungent smell of chemicals wafting out. He went in and pulled the sliding door after him, tugged a string hanging from the ceiling. A red light came on, revealing a shelf containing glass jars of developer and fixer. There was also a stopwatch, a couple of metal soaking basins, an electric fan, and a thin wooden box, topped with opaque glass and underlit with a couple of bulbs. He filled one of the basins with developer, removed the roll of film from the tiny Leica, placed it in the liquid, pressed the stopwatch, and waited for three minutes.
    Finally he turned on the fan, plucked the roll of film from the tray, and held the exposed negative over the stream of air until it was dry. He flicked on the underlit glass and laid the strip on top. Carefully, he examined the exposures with a magnifying glass. As he studied one of the negatives of the pages marked “Top Secret,” he quivered with shock.
    It took him several moments to compose himself, then he picked up a cotton towel and wiped his hands. He must still have looked shocked when he stepped back into the room, because Evir said, “What’s the matter? Is something wrong?”
    The man shook his head. “Nothing. You’ve done excellent work.” He tossed away the towel. “Now, let’s get out of here.”
    â€œWhere are we going?”
    â€œYou want your money, don’t you?”
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    Twenty minutes later they arrived outside a dilapidated warehouse on the old Nile docks. The place was deserted, the wire-metal gates unlocked, and the man turned the BSA into a darkened cobbled yard in front.
    Evir felt a pang of fear.