The Cairo Codex by Linda Lambert Read Free Book Online

meeting with Nadia later this morning, but I’m free this afternoon.” She was curious to observe this man in the context of his family.
    “Shall I meet you in the lobby of your hotel around four?”
    “Four would be fine.” They hung up at the same time and Justine sat for a moment, gazing out at the rose colored fog on the Nile.
It’s very early,
she realized.
Too early for anyone not suffering from jet lag. He must have been truly bothered by his behavior last evening.
    She reached for her green Lycra running suit and shoes, worn into shape by almost daily use.
Several hours till I meet with Nadia. Time for a run, another shower, and a third reading of the proposal.
    When she stepped out onto the sidewalk in front of the Shepheard, the streets were quiet except for a few donkey carts hauling garbage. It was 7:00 a.m. in Cairo, and ten hours earlier in California. At the corner, she ran in place for a few moments then moved cautiously across the Corniche, stepping onto the high curb and turning south. To her right floated the stationary, gleaming white Shepheard dinner boat, framed by soaring palms; the walkway to the boat, now chained closed, was lined with trimmed bushes and hyacinths.
    Unused to sidewalks cracked and raised by roots of banyan trees bulging through the cement, Justine almost tripped twice within the first few minutes. Once, she barely caught herself by reaching for a limb over her head and swinging across the defacement. Soon, though, she found the sidewalk pattern: smooth, then cracked and rising, smooth, then . . .
Everything has a pattern
, she thought.
But they’re not always so discernable
.
    As she found her stride, her breath fell into its familiar pattern and she tried to absorb the city around her. She moved past Garden City and the Four Seasons on her left. Floating restaurants, colorful islands of nighttime gaiety, lined the shore to her right. Out of the center of the Nile arose Roda Island and its grand Manial Palace, built for King Farouk’s uncle, Prince Mohammed Ali Tawfiq. He was a man who couldn’t make up his mind, so he’d built his palace in all the popular styles of the day: Ottoman, Moorish, Persian, and European rococo.
    By the time she reached the Roman aqueduct, cutting east through the city, the town was waking up. Bean pots on rollers moved into the side streets; bakers raised their storefronts, displaying layers of Egyptian baladi bread, which resembled pita. Young men on bicycles took to the streets.
    About a mile from the hotel, she stopped. In this part of the city, new and maintenance construction gave way to houses and stores scarred by vehicle exhaust and crumbling around the edges, pressed together like crowded children scrambling for a ball.
    Turning away from the Nile, Justine stood for a moment to get her bearings, bending over, hands on her thighs, stretching her back. A hand, not her own, reached under her from behind, firmly stroking between her legs then withdrawing as quickly as it had arrived. A wave of terror shot through her stomach and chest. For a moment, she couldn’t believe what she’d felt. She swung around to see a stooped man in a gray kaftan and woolen scarf limping swiftly away.
    She could have caught him easily, but what would she say? What would she do? Would the authorities pay her any mind? Not in Egypt. She turned and ran back to the hotel, stumbling occasionally, shaken by the violation.

    Justine was still jittery when she entered the hotel’s coffee shop to meet Nadia at 10:00. The story of her morning run poured out. “I did a very stupid thing this morning. I went out running in a tight Lycra suit. An invitation.”
    Nadia listened quietly, reaching across the wide table to take her hands. “Believe me, it’s so rare. In spite of your attire, I find myself disturbed . . . you should be able to expect safety.”
    “Let’s forget about it. I should have known better.” The last time Justine was in Cairo, she’d been a