24991125 | 0932

  Old Cairo River Bazaar | Misr al-Qadima | Free City of Cairo

  30°00′33″ N

  31°14′20″ E

  The place didn’t have a name worth mentioning.

  If it once had a sign, it was gone now.

  A rectangle of cleaner stone above the door was the only indication something was ever there.

  A mark of something had been bolted and later torn free.

  Another signboard – the tenant above – hung above.

  Harrington & Blythe Waterworks.

  The entrance sat half a step below street level.

  As though the building itself had sunk over time.

  Inside, the light flickered and spluttered.

  A single fluorescent strip buzzed overhead.

  Its casing yellowed, its hum slightly out of sync with the generator outside.

  Someone had tried to fix it once.

  The tape was still there, browned and peeling at the edges.

  It cast everything in a washed-out sickly green.

  The air reeked of old beer, stale tobacco, and sweat that had soaked into wood.

  Underneath it all was something metallic and faintly sweet.

  Cheap disinfectant.

  Hospital and puke.

  The tables were scarred.

  Knife points.

  Cigarette burns.

  Outlines of glasses set down too hard, too often.

  The floor was concrete, cracked and uneven.

  A permanent puddle of water near the back wall.

  Where a pipe sweated condensation and no one knew if the puddle is water or piss.

  Maybe both.

  A fan turned slowly in one corner, pushing warm air in lazy circles.

  It did nothing useful, but no one bothered to switch it off.

  Two men sat outside.

  Not even Cobra and Viper want to sit inside.

  Two mismatched plastic chairs.

  One with a cracked armrest.

  One without.

  A low metal table between them.

  Its surface pitted and rusted through in places.

  Places hastily patched with resin that had cured unevenly.

  Two shot glasses sat between them.

  Something that passed for liquor inside them.

  Ice long melted.

  They hadn’t ordered food.

  No food.

  They slept rough last night.

  It showed.

  The jeep was parked close enough that Cobra could see it without turning his head.

  Dust-coated.

  Windows streaked.

  A fine layer of grit had worked its way into every seam overnight.

  They slept in it anyway.

  Their backs against the doors.

  Weapons within reach.

  Engine heat long gone by morning.

  Viper pass a hand over his stubble.

  He was always cleanly-shaven.

  He looked dishevelled.

  Unshaven. Shirt creased and sweat-stained.

  The collar sat wrong on his neck, twisted slightly from where he’d slept against the seatbelt.

  He had his feet propped up on the table.

  At least his boots were properly laced.

  Cobra looked no better, just quieter about it.

  His jacket was still on despite the heat.

  Sleeves rolled down, cuffs darkened with old grime.

  This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.

  One hand rested loosely on the table.

  Fingers curled as if they’d forgotten how to fully relax.

  The other hand stayed close to his thigh.

  More habit than intent.

  They didn’t speak.

  Conversation was the furthest thing from their mind.

  A truck stopped by the shop next door.

  Khassim’s Tasty Mutton.

  The truck driver opened his door and hopped out.

  He opened the back of his truck and began dragging whole frozen goats out.

  The man inside started shouting at the truck driver.

  The truck driver shouted back.

  Their clamor broke the spell.

  “What I won’t do for an ice-cold bath,” Viper spoke up then, “back at the Falls.”

  Cobra had to stifle a chuckle.

  “You were always complaining about the cold back then.”

  “Yeah,” Viper said, “hell freezes over.”

  They laughed.

  “Reminds me of the time, we were stuck in Prague.”

  “Everywhere reminds you of Prague.” Cobra said drily.

  “Yeah, Prague was FUBAR.” Viper snickered.

  “A whole week in the sludge.”

  “And its freezing,” Viper said, “you remember? I thought my sacks were gonna –“

  “Stop.” Cobra said, dead serious.

  “Took us a whole week of scrubbing to get rid of the stench.”

  “Come on,” Cobra slapped the table and stood up.

  Viper slung his feet down.

  They headed off to the alley between the shophouses.

  Found a tap with running water.

  They freshened up.

  They splashed water upon their face, across their hair, down their collars.

  They emerged with their top half-soaked and returned to their seats.

  Viper hailed the proprietor.

  He ordered water.

  The man merely nodded.

  He knows better than to argue.

  Cobra sat across from Viper, his eyes upon the coursing Nile.

  His eyes gazed casually at a posh-looking coffeehouse.

  He pointed then.

  “Why can’t we ever have a meet… in one of those fancy establishments?”

  Viper turned around.

  Across the Nile.

  The Bazaar.

  Spanning the river, a pedestrian bridge.

  The pedestrian bridge cut a pale line across the river.

  Utilitarian concrete and old iron railings polished smooth by decades of hands.

  It wasn’t beautiful in the way postcards wanted beauty.

  But it served.

  Wide enough for foot traffic, narrow enough to force proximity.

  From where they sat, it framed the opposite bank like a window.

  Beyond it, Café al-Nilayn caught the morning light.

  White stone frontage, shaded terrace, glass panels already catching the sun.

  A place that sold coffee as ritual rather than fuel.

  The kind of place where people sat because they had time and luxury.

  Cobra’s eyes drifted there.

  Slightly wistful.

  The movement of servers.

  The slow choreography of chairs being adjusted.

  Cups placed, bodies leaning in toward one another.

  A different beat than the street they occupied.

  A different world separated by thirty meters of water and a bridge.

  Viper followed his gaze, then snorted softly.

  Café al-Nilayn.

  Viper turned back.

  “Ok, boss. I’ll be sure I get the next shady, dodgy fellow we need to coerce or threaten to meet us in a fancy English bakery over tea and pastry.”

  “You are British.”

  “I’m Irish, sir.”

  “What’s the difference, John Bull?”

  “Like A Texan calling a Californian cowboy.”

  Cobra chuckled.

  “What?”

  “Just realized you never called me boss like the other two clowns.”

  “Need to keep up appearance, sir.”

  The moment lingered lightly between them.

  The street in front of them moved around the bar like water around a rock.

  A delivery cart rattled past, wheels squealing softly.

  Somewhere down the row, a radio played something old and mournful.

  The signal warbling as if the song itself was tired.

  The proprietor stepped out of the bar with the water bottle.

  Viper took it off him and handed him a bill.

  The man looked away immediately.

  Cobra watched as the man returned to wiping his counter.

  He thought it was already clean by the standards of the place.

  The man moved slowly, quietly.

  He never once looked at them directly.

  Cobra shifted slightly in his chair.

  Their contact was late.

  24991125 | 1011

  Café al-Nilayn | Misr al-Qadima | Free City of Cairo

  30°00′33″ N

  31°14′20″ E

  The soft chime of porcelain cups meet saucers met with controlled precision.

  Silver spoons chime once, twice, then settle.

  Espresso machines hiss and sigh rather than roar as they ground the next batch of beans.

  Their brass housings polished to a mirror sheen.

  Deeper within the cafe, water trickles over a stone feature echoing the river beyond the glass.

  Soft lounge music played idly.

  “Fancy,” Illeana said, holding up a polished silverware.

  “I knew you will take a liking to it.”

  Café al-Nilayn sits at the river’s edge.

  A tourist spot.

  A deliberate indulgence.

  It occupies the ground floor of a restored colonial structure.

  Its foundation predated the last three governments.

  Tall arched windows face the Nile.

  The glass cut into narrow panes framed by dark wood and brass latticework.

  Morning light pours in unfiltered.

  Scattering across patterned tile floors and low marble tables veined with honey-colored stone.

  The air inside is cooler than the street, carefully conditioned, faintly perfumed.

  Coffee dominates everything.

  The aroma of but depth and lineage.

  Roasted oils, dried fruit, cocoa husk, spice.

  Hundreds of varieties are catalogued behind the counter in tall glass cylinders.

  Each labeled in neat script proclaiming their origin, altitude, roast date.

  Ethiopia. Yemen. Java. Sidamo. Harrar. Bourbon.

  Names lost to the Fall.

  Names spoken softly by servers as they recited lineage.

  Only within the Free Cities are their heritage preserved.

  Where their craft and brew were kept alive.

  The clientele reflected the room.

  Tourists dressed too carefully for the heat.

  Business travelers nursing jet lag behind expensive sunglasses.

  Local elites who treat the café as neutral ground.

  Conversations stay low.

  Voices moderated by acoustics designed to absorb excess sound.

  The river beyond the windows moves constantly.

  Feluccas drift past with sails half-raised.

  Barges slide through with industrial indifference.

  The Nile reflects light upward.

  Rippling faint patterns across the ceiling.

  The café seemingly floated slightly apart from the city.

  From the terrace, the pedestrian bridge arcs gracefully across the water.

  Its stone balustrades worn smooth by generations of hands.

  The café’s name is etched discreetly into brass near the entrance.

  al-Nilayn.

  The Two Niles.

  A convergence of meeting currents.

  A far cry from the sharp bitterness of crude street brews or the burnt edge of necessity,

  The door opened with a chime.

  Kurt entered.

  He propped himself into the empty seat as the attendant brought Shirley and Illeana their coffee.

  A staffer immediately came forward.

  He declined to order.

  Another immaculately-dressed male staffer approached.

  He bore a brass tray laden with coffee and treats, balanced skilfully upon one hand.

  He wore crisp white jackets trimmed in dark green, sleeves cuffed neatly.

  His movement was both economical and practiced.

  He greeted Shirley and Illeana.

  He placed a porcelain cup and saucer before them.

  He served with small accompaniments.

  Dates, candied citrus peel, thin squares of dark chocolate, all arranged with symmetrical care.

  Each step is measured.

  Each placement intentional.

  Only then did he poured the coffee of a copper jug.

  “Enjoy.” He said as he departed.

  Shirley nodded in thanks and took a sip out of her cup.

  Illeana popped one of the dried dates into her mouth.

  “Why are we here?”

  Shirley took another sip, unhurried.

  She gestured with her shades.

  Kurt turned around.

  Across the Nile, an unremarkable district stared back at him.

  But one name stood out.

  Harrington & Blythe Waterworks.

  “Does the name ring a bell?”

  Kurt removed his shade, peering intently.

  He sat down for a moment, searching his memory.

  “Yes.” He said shortly.

  “Charles Harrington and William Blythe,” Illeana said softly.

  “EVECorp Certified Tier 1 Engineers,” Shirley said, munching on the chocolate treat.

  “Only twelve of them were ever given that certification,” Kurt said.

  “Charles and William signed off the blueprint for Aquifer, almost twenty-five years ago.”

  Shirley did not reply, merely sipped from her cup.

  “Good work, Tempess,” Kurt said, rising from his seat.

  He grabbed his shades and headed for the door.

  “Go. I will be here,” Shirley said.

  Her eyes darted to the side.

  Their tail.

  Kurt nodded.

  “Illeana,” he called

  “I’m not finished.” She protested.

  “You can come back for it.”

  Illeana sulked on the way out.

  She grabbed her shades.

  She headed for the door.

  Turned back, popped a bit of chocolate before running to catch up.

  Shirley shook her head smiling.

  She watched them go.

  It was when they walked into the crowd Shirley realised Ileana left her purse.

  She picked it up and went after them.