Scorpion Scheme Page 4

  Tucker switched to English. "Dr. Hope Sze, I'd like you to meet Dr. Rudy Mohamed."

  "Rudy?" I held out my hand, glad I wouldn't muff up the pronunciation on that. "I'm Dr. Hope Sze. From Canada. Really nice to meet you." When you're a woman, you can't say doctor too many times. And they'll still mislabel you as a nurse and ignore your orders.

  "Welcome to Cairo," Rudy replied, with a minimal accent and a white-toothed smile. The carefully-combed hair and blue tie tipped me off that he was probably an internal medicine resident even before I read his embroidery. He added, "I hope your second day will be better than your first."

  Uh oh. Tucker must've led with the IED.

  "What happened on your first day?" asked a woman wearing a beige head scarf and discreet but pretty eyeliner and lipstick. She was shorter than me and had a slightly large nose, but stood balanced on both her feet and seemed self-contained. Her English was even better than Rudy's.

  I underplayed it. "We got too close to the Egyptian Museum at the wrong time."

  "Oh, I heard about the IED. Are you hurt?" Her deep brown eyes catalogued both of us.

  "Absolutely not." I tried to smile. "Hi, my name is Dr. Hope Sze, and this is Dr. John Tucker. Could you help us find Dr. Sharif, the chief of the ER?"

  "Of course. I am Samira Gamal, a third year medical student. Welcome," she said, giving me a quick, firm handshake. She nodded at Tucker instead of touching him.

  Tucker smiled and bowed back at her. Points to him. I once offered to shake hands with a Hasidic Jewish man at St. Joe's, repeatedly, before the man brought his hands behind his back and made it clear that any physical contact was culturally inappropriate.

  Samira dimpled at me. "You can probably find Dr. Sharif in the doctors' lounge." She pointed to our right. "Follow the wall past the trauma bay, and you'll see the doctors' lounge, the one with the code on the door. The code is 1 and 5 together, then 2, 3, 4."

  Easy to remember, poor security. I smiled and waved. "Thank you so much!"

  "She seems nice," said Tucker, cutting behind me as a stretcher trundled past us.

  "Yeah, she's cool."

  Samira's code opened the doctors' lounge door. No one sat on the large couch facing a TV blaring an Arabic newscast. I surveyed the fridge, the doctors' mailboxes, the microwave and the empty coffee maker. Switch the language, and it could have been any Canadian doctors' lounge.

  I slung my back pack on an empty hook on the wall behind the door.

  Tucker texted Youssef and asked him to forward the message to the ER chief. "Just to let him know that we're here."

  "Good idea." You never want to be late in medicine if you can help it. Too bad lateness is my jam. I glanced at the TV and blinked. "Hey, that's Karima Mansour!"

  I recognized her straight, blondish hair, although the reporter had adopted an earnest expression and a dark smudge on her left cheek that reminded me of the marks football players made under their eyes.

  "Weird. I thought she had an afternoon show. Oh, she's reporting on the IED," said Tucker.

  Sure enough, they switched to footage of the blown-out bus windows before honing in on Gizelda and me bent over Mr. Becker.

  "Hey," said Tucker when his own image appeared onscreen beside the Mombergs. Papa Momberg yelled at Karima Mansour.

  "He looks pissed," I said.

  "Wouldn't you be, if that was your family?"

  I nodded while Tucker changed into his loafers. Then we heard voices outside. More than one. Shouting.

  I tensed immediately.

  "Maybe it's a patient," said Tucker, shoving the door open.

  I peered over his shoulder. Call me a chicken, but I prefer to market it as "wise" and "cautious."

  The doctors' lounge opened into an empty hallway. The yelling continued to our left, toward the nursing station where we'd met Rudy and Samira.

  We bore left. "They could be armed," I murmured to him.

  "They have metal detectors, right?"

  "Security theatre," I whispered, which he understood because I'd explained it before. My ex, Ryan, had pointed out that part of security is pure show. Places have metal detectors and X-rays, but the goal is to make you feel safer, not because they've actually eliminated all weapons.

  "You can stay in the lounge," Tucker said.

  As if. I jerked my head at the people in front of the nursing station shouting in Arabic. Then I raised my eyebrows, meaning, Do you understand anything?

  He frowned and tilted his head from side to side. Not really.

  Greeeeeat.

  "I love you," I mouthed at him.

  His lips shaped it back as he squeezed my hand, but didn't break his stride.

  I kept up the pace, even though every part of me screamed, Are you nuts? Other way!

  There are security guards! Police!

  Maybe the army will kick in here!

  What can we do in our first half hour on-site, when we can't speak the language?

  As we approached, two black-clad police officers left cubicle 5.

  I sighed in relief. The police would get everything under control. Although I couldn't figure out why they headed the wrong way, even as security guards strode toward us.

  Back in cubicle number 5, the patient held his bloody nose.

  No. Not a patient. He still wore a white coat, his name and pathology title now spattered in blood.

  I recognized the man whose broken silver glasses dangled from his left hand. It wasn't Rudy, but his quiet friend who hadn't said hello. He looked like the kind of guy who'd be good at chess or could be trusted to dog sit.

  Samira, the medical student who'd directed us to the doctors' lounge, handed the pathology resident some gauze. He pressed it to his nose and fingered his swollen left cheek.

  "What happened to him?" I whispered to a woman at the back of the crowd. She wore a red head scarf with a cheerful paisley pattern.

  "His nose is broken," she said in English. "His jaw may be fractured also."

  "But … how did that happen?"

  She shook her head and picked up a file from the nursing station instead of answering.

  Someone must've seen this. It was 8:25 a.m. We'd left him and Rudy less than ten minutes ago. What about the secretary at the nursing station? A nurse or passing phlebotomist?

  Tucker questioned people at the back of the crowd, but I could read their head shakes and pursed lips.

  Fine. I turned my attention to the victim, standing two feet away from everyone circled around him.

  "Do you need help?" I asked the pathology resident.

  He shook his head and gazed over my right shoulder in a fixed way that made me turn around.

  "Oh, you are the new doctors!" a skinny, bearded, 40-something man called to Tucker in a carrying tenor. "Canada, right? You must meet the chief and program director and get your paperwork in order. I will find someone to help you. Come with me."

  The word Canada rippled through the crowd.

  "Where do you come from in Canada? How did you choose our hospital?" The skinny doc, whose white coat said Emergency Medicine, forced a mini-smile and waved us away from cubicle number 5. I couldn't tear my eyes away from his arachnid build. His dress pants reminded me of pipe cleaners.

  "Dr. Hope Sze and I are both from Montreal," said Tucker, stopping to wave me up between them.

  I chose Tucker's right side instead. Can't break up the bromance.

  The man frowned before he turned to me. "I am so sorry. You're from Canada also?"

  My smile turned into teeth. "Born and bred."

  "I see. The Chinese diaspora stretches everywhere, doesn't it?" He turned back to Tucker. "I think you'll enjoy it here very much."

  My mouth hung slightly open. I reminded myself to close it.

  "Dr. Sze is as Canadian as I am," said Tucker, pulling back from Dr. Arachnid to fall in step with me.

  I had to smile. Tucker is a white anglophone male. He could stick with his bros and beer. Instead he chose me and a life of DEF
CON 1.

  "I see." Dr. Arachnid sniffed and ushered us into an elevator. He maintained a pointed silence until the doors opened, when he pointed us down a hallway on the second floor and wished us a good day.

  Tucker and I stared at each other before we knocked on the closed door with a plaque that said Dr. Mostafa Sharif, Chief of Emergency Medicine.

  No one answered.

  I raised my eyebrows at Tucker.

  Dr. Arachnid had ported us on a wild chief chase to distance us from the ruckus in the ER, where someone had hit the pathology resident.

  Egypt looked so beautiful, with its real and fake palm trees, the hospital's impressive entrance, and everyone's meticulous clothes.

  Yet I remembered Ryan quoting Isaac Asimov: "the rotten tree-trunk, until the very moment when the storm-blast breaks it in two, has all the appearance of might it ever had."

  6

  After a day of paperwork, orientation modules, and a no-show from the chief because he was apparently double-booked, we clocked out without seeing a single patient.

  "What a waste," I muttered to Tucker once we stepped out into the rain. "We should've gone to the Pyramids, or King Tut, or who's the other guy—"

  "Nedjemankh. You've heard of ankhs, right? Like a cross with a loop on top? Only he was called Ned-jem-ankh. I remember it like Ned doing a jam with an ankh. His coffin's not coming back 'til next week, though." Tucker checked his watch. "Want to go see the Beckers? And maybe the Mombergs?"

  "Yeah, I'd like to do one clinical thing today. How's the dad's eye?"

  "They're not sure yet. He had an ultrasound today."

  I made a face. No one talks about the uncertainty in medicine. It's not all code blues and 16-hour transplant surgeries. Much of it involves educated guesses and watchful waiting.

  Tucker adjusted his hood to shield himself from the rain. "Did Ms. Becker update you on her dad's injuries?"

  "Not much. She didn't know much except that he was tubed and going to surgery. It sounded like an epidural and cerebral contusion last night, but I wonder about a subdural in an older guy. And what if the contusion was an intracranial hemorrhage?"

  Tucker gave a low whistle. "Epidural, subdural, and intracranial hemorrhage. Could be all three. The trifecta. Or maybe it would be a quadrifecta? Because of the nail? I should look that up."

  His phone dinged. He texted while I tried not to grind my teeth. Tooth enamel is precious. Finally, I said, "Let's go to KMT Hospital. And who are you texting?"

  Tucker winked and finished his message while shielding his phone from the rain. Neither of us had brought a dry bag, since we'd expected a desert. "It's a surprise."

  "Why?" Ryan never kept secrets from me. Not that I was comparing.

  "Because that's the definition of the word 'surprise.' Do you feel okay taking the bus?"

  I sighed. "It's like getting back on a horse, right?"

  "Egggg-xactly!"

  I breathed in and out, holding it for four seconds between inhalations and exhalations. It's called a box breath. Good for relaxation. 'Course I still felt more like boxing Tucker's ears as he diddled with his phone all the way to the bus stop.

  "Quadfecta!" He waved his phone at me.

  "Huh?"

  "You know how we said trifecta, but he might have four neuro problems? In horse racing, you can also win a quadfecta, perfecta, a grand slam, a quadrella, or quaddie. They're not all the same thing. You want to hear the difference?"

  I shook my head both at Tucker and the cars clogging the roads. They moved so slowly that two male drivers waved and chatted through their open windows.

  "Maybe we should walk. Google says it's only another hour. Two hours, one hour, what's the diff?" I half-joked.

  "We have to walk to El-Zahraa to catch the M1 anyway," said Tucker. "It'll take us 23 minutes, and we should be able to pick up something to eat on the way home."

  I sighed. A normal person would head back to our hotel instead of hoofing it through the exhaust fumes.

  "Or wait! We could take a taxi service down the Nile."

  I perked up. "That sounds like fun. Expensive but fun."

  "Hang on, I think they travel on the half hour. We're not close to one of their stops. Plus it takes an extra half hour."

  I shook my head and yawned. "Not today."

  "Satan?" Tucker leaned forward and pressed his forehead against mine.

  I laughed and waved him away as I finished yawning. "You're more like, "Today, Satan!"

  He winked at me. "Today. Tonight. Tomorrow. The ensuing fortnight … "

  Well, with that kind of attitude, he wouldn't be banging anyone else up and down the Nile. I kissed him to remind him that I was better than his text-mate.

  He kissed me back so hard, my lips swelled with the pressure, and I could taste the peppermint on his tongue.

  I broke off, grinning, before he pushed me against a palm tree. "Isabelle wants us to take time to sight-see. And the chief doesn't seem to care. What do you think, Tucker?"

  He took a second to downshift and change gears. He shook his head. "Do you need time to recoup?"

  "I don't know. I don't really stop. I just kind of keep chugging along until I fall over."

  He finger-combed my hair, getting his fingers tangled, which made him laugh. "That doesn't sound good."

  "Naw. You know what does, though?"

  "Tell me."

  I waited until we crossed a street, keeping all my senses alert to avoid getting nailed by a white truck. It still splashed us with rainwater. "First let's talk about the IED. I looked it up. The BBC said 17 people were injured."

  Tucker nodded. "I saw 'at least 14,' but I'm not surprised it went up. Hope it stops there."

  I ignored the use of my name as a verb, even though I subtract additional points for using it in conjunction with IED's. "Me too. I've got to tell you something before we see Mr. Becker, though."

  His eyes gleamed, and he squeezed my hand. Tucker adores secrets. "Tell me."

  "It might be nothing, but at the site, Mr. Becker apparently said something about treasure in Afrikaans."

  Tucker brightened. Even his soggy bangs seemed to perk up. "What do you mean?"

  "I don't know. His daughter dismissed it right after she translated it. It could've been altered mental status. He did lose consciousness a few minutes later."

  "Or maybe he really hid some treasure!" Tucker whispered in my ear, sweeping me into a dance. "Calloo-callay!"

  "What are you doing!"

  "Waltzing in celebration. One-two-three, one-two-three."

  "What the fuck is that?" I hissed, while an elderly lady shielded herself from us with her bag of groceries.

  Tucker laughed before he spun me in an awkward twirl. "That's the spirit. Okay, okay."

  I burst out laughing. The dude always makes me laugh. Then I detached myself before we hurt anyone, or slipped on the wet sidewalk. First walking like Egyptians, now waltzing like doofuses. "We should practice in private before we try dancing in the streets of Cairo."

  Tucker flexed his arms at the elbows and wrists, pointed his hands away from his body and twitched his head from side to side.

  "OMG. Are you trying the Egyptian walk again? Or vogueing?"

  In response, Tucker planted his hands on his hips, pouted, and jerked his head back and forth in a pigeon-like, vaguely familiar way.

  "Uh, Tucker?"

  Some girls filmed him, so he kept it up for a few more seconds before he waved and blew them a kiss, sending them off in fits of giggles.

  Meanwhile, I heard a meow coming from the overhang of a stone building with Roman columns and archways that had unfortunately been converted into a KFC.

  Under this shelter lurked the most beautiful cat I'd ever seen, the black and orange markings on its flanks contrasting with a white body and a black mask over its kittenish face.

  "Look! Our first Egyptian cat!" I pointed, charmed.

  Tucker tossed his arm around me, still smiling. "Gorgeous." He
pressed a kiss on my cheek. "I was channelling Mick Jagger and 'Dancing in the Street.' Do you not know any pop culture?"

  "Um, no. Not if it's not on the MCAT or USMLE." Those are the Canadian medical entrance and American licensing exams. I waved at the cat. It stared at me with bright green eyes.

  He sighed. "I can YouTube it for you. Well, at least you got some tips on treasure."

  "Right. I wondered if you'd forgotten."

  "Never. That's why I was dancing in the first place. Did Ms. Becker tell you anything else?"

  "No." I pondered while the cat curled its tail into a question mark. "Well, she mentioned Johannesburg."

  "Right. The South African connection. The Momberg family is from Durban. Almost the whole bus came from ZA." I figured out that was the short form for South Africa while Tucker smiled at the cat and asked, "Anything else?"

  "Something about a mongoose? I know that sounds random. Oh, and he said Kruger. It reminded me of Kruger National Park." I'd always wanted to go on safari. Someday. When I was done with school and had made some inroads on my debt. In other words, in 2000 years.

  Tucker snapped his fingers. "Hope, that's it! Holy—"

  "What?"

  "Paul Kruger!" He popped up and down on his toes and ripped his phone out of his pocket.

  The cat swished its tail, watching him.

  "I assume they named the park after him?"

  "Yes! Stephanus Johannes Paulus Kruger. Rich dude thanks to all the coal and gold in South Africa. President of their republic. Led the Second Boer War against the British."

  I peered over his shoulder. "I don't know any South African history, besides apartheid, but it says that guy died in 1904. Phillip Becker wouldn't even have been born."

  "But wait! There's more." Tucker clicked on a new page with this prominent headline: Kruger Millions

  "Are you serious?"

  Tucker shook his phone at me.

  I grabbed it so I could read properly. Some believe that Paul Kruger hid a cache of gold. The mythical Kruger millions, now totalling $500,000,000's worth of gold bars and coins.