17
At six p.m., Quinn was sitting in the vehicle in an alley behind a patisserie in Abbasiya. Leila had gone in to buy mille-feuilles, which she told Quinn were the finest this side of Paris. When she returned, she handed him a pastry in a grease-spotted brown paper bag.
“Try this,” she said.
He bit off a corner of the flaky cream-filled crust, and it was indeed scrumptious.
“So?” he asked.
“Yes, everything is arranged. I chatted with my waiter friend, and he agreed to send Ahmed Tohani through the back door. If he arrives.”
“And if he doesn’t, we’ll have to come up with a plan B.”
She looked at him. “Yes. Then we will have to try something else. How do you like the mille-feuille?”
“Wonderful!”
By six fifteen, Quinn was starting to get worried.
“This is Egypt, Ezra. Relax. People
