Mr. Dunbar was a veteran British foreign correspondent who had reported from Eastern Europe. Just before his death, he had been reporting in Ukraine.

She read the article twice.

Okay, good to know. Continuing background.

Russia. Ukraine. Putin. Mysterious death. Apparent political assassination.

Special significance beyond that? If there was any, Rizzo didn’t note it and she didn’t catch it.

She yawned. She undressed and showered. She brushed her teeth.

She collapsed into a very comfortable bed and was asleep within seconds.

In the 1300s, Cairo had been the crossroads of trade between Europe and the Far East. As Cairo grew as a commercial center, the need expanded for space within the city for traders to gather, open stalls, and engage in commerce. The horse keeper of one of the sultans, Gharkas al-Khalili, seeking appropriate new quarters for Muslim merchants, purchased the land of the old Fatimid royal cemetery. He dug up the bodies that had been interred there, transported them by horse-drawn carts to a place outside the city walls, and dumped them to rot in the heat and sunlight.

So much for early urban renewal.

With the land now cleared, a new market was built in 1382 by the Emir Djaharks el-Khalili in the heart of the Fatimid City upon the old burial grounds. Together with the al-Muski market to the west, the new commercial area created one of Cairo’s most important shopping areas in the Middle Ages. But more than that, the market established Cairo as a major center of trade, and at the Khan, as it is now called, one will still find foreign merchants where the market was founded in 1382.

Historically, this same market was involved in the spice monopoly that encouraged the Europeans to search for new routes to the East. Indirectly, it led Columbus to sail for the Americas.

On the evening of her second day in Cairo, Alex walked through this shopping district, passing through the narrow passageways between shops and booths, tradesmen and artisans, until she came to an old café named Fishawi’s. Cairo remains a city that reeks of age, and Fishawi’s is a great part of that aroma.

Fishawi’s has been open every day and night for two centuries. It is a dark, noisy place, reminiscent of an old-fashioned Paris café, with gas lights and small tables scattered inside and out.

Alex entered the café alone and surveyed the chamber. It didn’t take long to find the people she was looking for. There were two women in headscarves and robes at a table midway back in the café, talking, but obviously waiting for someone. Their eyes were upon Alex from the moment she saw them. They wore no veils. They would have been otherwise unremarkable except Alex spotted the bouquet of roses immediately. That, and the fact that they were the only pair of women within the entire café. There were scores of men.

The roses were upright in a vase. That was the “clear” signal.

Alex walked to the table, conscious of many eyes upon her. The women stopped talking and looked up at her, though the chamber remained noisy.

“I’m a friend of Fitzgerald,” Alex said in low tones in English.

“Yes?” one of the women said. “You are Josephine?”

“I am Josephine,” Alex said.

“I’m Artemiz,” the woman answered. “Be seated. Welcome.”

“You are alone?” the other woman asked.

“I am alone.”

“You were careful when you came here?” Artemiz asked.

“I’m always careful,” Alex said.

“That’s very wise,” Artemiz said.

The women looked enough alike to be sisters. Dark eyes, round faces, black hair. Mocha skin.

Alex looked for an extra chair. There was one nearby. She reached for it but Artemiz stopped her hand.

“Wait,” Artemiz said softly.

Alex looked back at her. She knew enough not to interfere with any safety precautions. As was usual in cases like this, Alex was very conscious of the gun under her jacket, and how quickly she could get at it.

The two women spoke to each other. Alex was surprised. She realized that she had missed something. The women spoke Farsi to each other. They were, it was quickly apparent, Persians, not Arabs, though Muslim nonetheless. They were most likely Iranians in exile.

The second woman got up, went to the entrance, and stepped outside where she could see the street as well as be seen. Artemiz remained in the café. She indicated that Alex should now take the seat. Alex did.

“Sit and relax for a minute,” Artemiz said.

Alex watched as the woman on the street flipped open a cell phone and made a call. Then the nameless woman retreated from the café side of the street to the opposite side. Artemiz engaged Alex in a petty conversation, but Alex kept her eyes on the street. She then saw two burley men appear and take positions, like sentries, by the door. They were conspicuous in their size, well over six feet each, and bulked up. Alex assumed they were also armed and part of the security arrangements for the meeting. It was Alex’s first clue that she wasn’t about to rendezvous with any old broken-down street spy.

Several minutes passed. Artemiz continued a meaningless conversation about tourist sites in Cairo. Alex replied politely to each question and waited. She broke a sweat. The woman on the street stayed within view. Alex felt her anxiety level rise but continued to watch. The woman out on the street took an incoming call that lasted no more than five seconds. She then put her phone away and reached with her right hand to her left elbow, tapping it twice.

Artemiz changed subjects in mid-phrase. She reached beneath her own robe, pulled out a checkered head scarf and handed it to Alex.

“Here. Wear this,” she said. “We’re going to move. Come!”

“To where?” Alex asked.

“Voltaire is ready. He will see you now,” Artemiz said. “Put the hijab on.”

“I have my own,” Alex said.

Artemiz was surprised. “Then wear it,” she said.

Alex reached to a pocket and pulled out a hijab. She wrapped the new scarf around her head and neck. The Persian woman looked at her and then smiled, as if Alex hadn’t donned the scarf just right.

She hadn’t.

“Here,” Artemiz said. “Let me.” She reached to Alex and with a greatly bemused grin adjusted the scarf. “You have a beautiful face,” she said, staring into Alex’s eyes. “The scarf sets it off. I have a cousin who lives in America, in Los Angeles, and you remind me of her. Now, come with me and walk quickly.”

Alex stood. The Persian woman put a hand on her arm and pulled her toward the rear of the café. Alex suddenly was apprehensive and felt a fresh surge of fear.

Was she being set up? Led somewhere to be shot? Had there been a breach of security? She didn’t have time to sort out such thoughts. She only had time to go with the moment. Artemiz took Alex’s hand and pulled her quickly along. Alex kept her other hand near her weapon and followed. Artemiz weaved past the waiters and a klatch of men standing in the rear of the café, drinking and smoking dark acrid cigarettes or hookahs. Artemiz seemed to know them. She smiled and they stepped aside for her, allowing her to move toward a doorway, curtained with thick beads, that led toward a kitchen.

The two women pushed through the curtain.

Then they were in a kitchen, where several Muslim men in white labored over various dishes and grills while chattering in more high-decibel conversation. The chamber was full of conflicting cooking smells: baking fish, charred lamb, grilled chicken, steamed fruits, and spices.

Artemiz pulled Alex through the kitchen and to a rear door. Then they were out into a back alley where the footing was treacherous.

“Follow, follow,” Artemiz said with urgency. “Fast, fast.”

They went several paces down the alley. Rubbish and who-knewwhat crunched underfoot. Artemiz turned sharply and led Alex into the back office of another café, where another big man sat by the rear door-an armed sentry, Alex assumed-and then into another kitchen. It all happened so fast that Alex could have been being kidnapped and wouldn’t have known it until a pistol was placed to her head. Then they were through the kitchen and next arrived breathlessly in the back of the café, this one slightly more presentable.