Scoundrel's Honor (Russian Connection 3)

“Did he give a reason he desired my death?” he rasped.

“No.”

Dimitri regarded the bumbling assassin with distaste. “You were willing to kill a man in his sleep and cut out his eye for no other reason than a purse of silver?”

An unctuous smile curved his lips as he pressed a hand to his chest.

“My mother is ill. I need the money for her medicine.”

“Of course. Your poor, sick mother,” Dimitri drawled, his eyes narrowing as he realized the pathetic louse might actually be of worth. “Then we had best go and collect your reward.”

Without warning Josef moved to grab his arm.

“Have you lost all sense?” he demanded.

“We shall soon enough discover.” Dimitri’s gaze never shifted from Fawzi. “Where were you to meet your mysterious patron?”

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

DIMITRI WAS CAREFUL TO keep the pistol prominently displayed as Fawzi led them through the sleeping citadel. It seemed wise to remind the man just what would happen should he be foolish enough to attempt an escape or to alert the guards that prowled through the dark corridors.

Depending upon Fawzi’s familiarity with the maze of rooms, they were soon out of the main building and moving through the servants’ quarters. Dimitri demanded that they pause long enough for Josef and him to change into the rough linen tunics and loose breeches of stable hands before they were leaving the main building and heading toward the massive tower that guarded the nearest gate.

There was a tense moment as they were halted by the sentry, his expression skeptical as Fawzi babbled in Arabic. Unable to follow the conversation, Dimitri could only trust that the knife Josef had discreetly pressed to the man’s back would discourage any attempt to attract unwanted attention.

At last they were through the thick walls that surrounded the citadel and moving down the hill to the city below.

Dimitri sucked in a deep breath, astonished that they had truly managed to escape the fortress.

Of course, if he were thinking clearly he would knock Fawzi senseless and flee Cairo with all possible speed. Instead, he poked the slender man in the back with his pistol and urged him toward the clump of palm trees.

Once they were lost in the thick shadows, he grabbed Fawzi’s arm and yanked him close enough he could whisper in his ear.

“Is that his carriage?”

He pointed toward the black vehicle that was parked before an abandoned building. At a glance he could determine no more than it resembled nearly every other carriage in Cairo and that there was one burly Egyptian groom standing next to the horse, lazily smoking a cheroot.

A closer glance, however, revealed the occasional twitch of the curtain that covered the carriage window, as if whoever was inside was growing impatient, and the slouched inattention of the groom.

His sheer negligence was a silent invitation to be hit over the head.

Obviously, whoever was plotting his death clearly had no military training and few skills necessary to survive the streets.

“Yes,” Fawzi said. “I recognize the servant.”

Josef moved to stand at his side. “Do I need to remind you that this is perhaps the most stupid decision you have ever made, Tipova?” he growled. “Including the night you dueled with three swordsmen at the same time.”

A reminiscent smile touched his lips. Over the years his authority had often been challenged. His polished manners and preference for elegant attire convinced some fools that he could not possibly be as dangerous as his reputation implied.

In the past, he had enjoyed proving his worth.

Thankfully, he had reached an age where he was ready to put such reckless stupidity behind him.

No doubt because he now had something, or rather someone, to live for.

“I won, did I not?”

Josef narrowed his gaze, clearly not amused by his teasing.