The Cairo Code Read Free

the Nile, covered in darkness. I looked through the correspondence and papers, but there was really nothing of interest. As I closed one of the drawers, I knocked over a table lamp. It fell to the floor with a clatter, and then one of the other doors slammed open.
    I turned and saw a tall, elderly man come into the room. The bedroom he’d stepped out of was in disarray behind him, papers scattered everywhere, and he held a pair of reading glasses in his hand. He wore a pale trench coat, his silver hair was flecked with sand, and he had a slightly haunted look on his tanned face. I knew he was at least in his eighties, but he was remarkably well preserved, a freshness about him that made him appear ten years younger. And he still looked every inch the military type—over six feet, his features finely chiseled, though his shoulders were slightly stooped and his piercing gray eyes looked watery with age.
    They narrowed as he took me in. “Who the devil are you?” he demanded, his accent unmistakably American.
    â€œI could ask you the same question, if I didn’t already know the answer, Colonel Weaver.”
    He seemed taken aback. “You know me?”
    â€œNot personally, but what American hasn’t heard of Harry Weaver? A legend in his own lifetime. Security adviser to American presidents for almost forty years.”
    â€œAnd who are you?” Weaver snorted.
    â€œThe name’s Frank Carney.”
    He seemed unimpressed, but then something flickered in his eyes and he frowned. “Not Carney the New York Times reporter?”
    â€œI’m afraid so.”
    Weaver relaxed for a moment. “I used to read your columns. Not that I agreed with everything you wrote, mind.”
    â€œYou must have agreed with some of it, though,” I offered. “I was a cub reporter covering Dallas as a stand-in when Kennedy was killed. You were one of his security advisers. You told him not to go, remember?”
    â€œToo many weak spots. Holes everywhere in the local security. And he was a sitting duck in that open-top car, despite the assurances of the Secret Service that they could protect him.”
    â€œHad Jack Kennedy listened to you, he might still be alive today. I said as much when I wrote about it afterwards.”
    Weaver shook his head wistfully. “Too late now. But come to think of it, I seem to remember your article. It was a fair and honest assessment of the facts.”
    â€œThat’s because I did my homework. I read what I could about your background at the time. Trust no one and doubt every fact was your personal motto. With a career as long as yours, you seemed like a man worth taking advice from.”
    â€œPut it down to experience. The years harden you.” Weaver seemed suspicious again. “None of which explains what you’re doing here. This is private property.”
    â€œAgain, I could ask you the same. Did the landlord let you in?”
    â€œWhat is it to you if he did? Just answer the goddarned question.”
    â€œOh, I think you can guess why. We were both at the morgue for the same reason. Johann Halder. Arguably one of the greatest enigmas of the Second World War.”
    Weaver stiffened. “You were at the morgue?”
    â€œApparently I just missed you. And by the way, the attendant wasn’t very pleased you didn’t leave a tip.”
    Weaver’s eyes narrowed cautiously. “How do you know about Johann Halder?”
    â€œEgyptology happens to be an abiding interest of mine, which is why I’ve spent the last five years in Cairo as a correspondent. Quite a few years back I was researching an article on one Franz Halder, a wealthy German collector of Egyptian artifacts. I had it in mind to write a book about some of the priceless Egyptian treasures that went missing from private collections and museums all over Europe during the last war, many of which have still never been found.”
    Weaver registered