The private jet touched down in Cairo at 3:30 PM local time. Alex was puzzled. Most of the time part of his job had been to keep a "low profile"—one that did not involve private jets and Lamborghinis. But sure enough, sitting there on the runway was a Lamborghini Mercielago LP640 waiting for them. The piles of Fendi and Louis Vuiton luggage was unloaded from the plane and placed in the car—with only an inch of room to spare. Camille—or Helene as he was to call her—slid into the passenger seat. Alex, even more puzzled, slid into the driver's seat.

"You do know how to drive, correct?" Camille appeared skeptical.

"Yeah."

"Then you might want to start the car."

Alex did as she asked, but before he moved the car, he turned to her, "Isn't the point to keep a low profile? When did driving a Lamborghini become 'low profile'?"

"That would be the point; we're not trying to keep a low profile. If we don't attract their attention, we'll never get a hold of these people. If we tried to keep a low profile, they would suspect us right away, but this way, we just appear like prospective buyers."

"What exactly would we be buying?"

"Weapons, some planes and missiles, they might even have the schematics for a nuclear weapon. No one knows exactly. That's why we're here."

Alex remained silent, but he mulled over what she had said. They were dealing with people that had nuclear weapons? What would that sort of people do to spies? He didn't even want to think about it.

"Where are we going?" Alex was hit with the sudden realization that he had no idea of what they were doing. Everything was in Camille's hands.

"The hotel, and then we are going to go for lunch. Later we are going to hit a few clubs."

"Clubs?"

Camille sounded exasperated, "Yes, Alex, clubs. Night clubs. Many of the members' children frequent them."

Alex remained silent. This entire thing was quickly turning into a James Bond like mission, now all he needed was an Aston Martin.

Alex wove down a smoothly paved road. They had driven for almost an hour and were now outside the main city. Suddenly they neared a large, high tech looking gate. "I thought you said we were going to the hotel?"

Camille didn't take her eyes off of the gate in front of her, "We are."

"It looks more like a military base."

Camille didn't smile or laugh. Alex inched the car forward slowly. A guard walked out of a camouflaged hut to the right of the car that Alex hadn't noticed.

"Passports?"

Camille handed over both her and Alex's forged passports. The guard walked back to the hut with them. Five minutes later he walked back toward them, obviously satisfied. "Enjoy your stay Ms. Marseille," he handed the passports back to Camille. She motioned to Alex to drive, and they drove through the now open gates without a word.

For a mile they drove, the landscape becoming more and more lush and green. The road was lined with tropical foliage and looked as though it belonged in the Amazon Rain Forest, not the middle of the desert. Alex actually found himself enjoying the drive. He could feel the raw power of the car beneath his fingertips. It obeyed even his most gentle touch. Without realizing it, he pushed it all the way to 150 mph. Camille looked calm and relaxed, as though she did this every day.

As Alex rounded a sharp curve with enormous speed a giant palatial Mediterranean estate came into view. It was obviously the hotel. He slowed the car and pulled up in front of the giant mosaic encrusted doors. Two white polo shirted valets scampered toward them, groveling for the keys. Even with all of the luxury cars they had become accustomed to, the jet black Lamborghini was something special.

Alex and Camille hopped out of the car. The valets began unloading the luggage behind them. Camille waltzed ahead, through the doors, which opened accommodatingly for her. Inside, a thin woman that looked like she had jumped off the pages of vogue, handed Camille a key, and bowed, "Ms. Marseille. Jeffery will show you to your room." She gestured toward a tanned twenty-something man with jet black hair.

Camille appeared relaxed in all of this luxury, Alex would have too, had he not spotted a certain man twenty feet away. The man had graying hair and wore an expensively cut suit. On his arm was a woman that looked like she could be his daughter. She had bleach blonde hair and her shirt was so low cut, it was barely legal. It wasn't the woman that worried Alex, but the man, he could be a problem. Alex needed to make sure he wasn't seeing things, so he tapped Camille on the shoulder, "Who is that over there with the Anna Nicole Smith clone?"

"That would be the Prime Minister."

"Of Great Britain?"

"Yes," she followed Jeffery nonchalantly, as if seeing the Prime Minister was a regular occurrence.

"Camille, I can't let him see me."

"Why on earth is that?"

"Do you want our cover to be blown?"

"No. I doubt he will remember you as the one that shot him. He couldn't really get a good look at you when you were dangling from the rafters."

Alex was shocked, "How the fuck do you know that?"

"I have my sources. But, let's put it this way, there wasn't a soul in the intelligence world that doesn't know about that particular little escapade."

"Okay. But that isn't the only time I've seen him. The other time he definitely got a good look at me."

"Alex, calm down."

"I am calm, I just don't want out cover to be blown."

"Neither do I, but don't worry, this resort encompasses 50 square miles, I think it will be easy to avoid him."

"Okay."

Jeffery led them through a set of double doors, into the sweltering Egyptian heat. He led them down a floral lined path to a large bungalow. "Here is your room, please, if there is anything I can do for you, do not hesitate to call." Camille only nodded.

He led them into the house. Inside they were met with a sunny foyer. Persian rugs covered the dark wooden floors, and priceless art hung on the walls. Jeffery cheerfully gave them a tour of the bungalow, which was more of a mini mansion in Alex's opinion. It spanned three stories, contained five bedrooms, eight bathrooms, a home theater, a full kitchen complete with a personal chef, three staircases, including an ornate spiral staircase in the back of the house, three sunrooms, a private pool and hot tub, and finally a stretch of private beach front. Apparently, they were closer to the Mediterranean than Alex had thought. In the Lamborghini the drive had only take an hour, but they had obviously covered over 150 miles.

"Would you like to dine in tonight, or would you like to dine at one of the seven restaurants we offer?"

"I think we will have dinner at The Mandarin tonight," it was Camille who answered.

"Very nice choice, Miss. Marseille, I shall make you a reservation for six thirty," Jeffery began to back out of the bungalow after giving each of them a respective bow. Alex noted a slight Italian accent in the man's voice.

Camille motioned to the chef, "I would like some champagne, now."

"Of course, Miss. Marseille, just a moment."

Alex was a little surprised at Camille. She was drinking and it was only three in the afternoon.

"What would you like, sir?" the chef spoke with a heavy Spanish accent in his voice.

"The same."

Camille raised her eyebrows at Alex, but said nothing.

Within minutes the chef brought two crystal glasses and bottle of Krug, Clos du Mesnil. He popped the cork and poured the liquid into each glass and handed one to each of the teenagers standing in front of him.

They drank their champagne in a silence only broken by the occasional noise outside the bungalow. Camille was the one that broke it, "Alex, go get dressed. The restaurant is formal."

"Fine," Alex drained his glass and set it on the small table next to the chaise he had been lounging on.

Half an hour later Alex descended the grand staircase in the center of the house to find Camille lounging on a chaise, another glass of champagne in her hand. She looked stunning in a Badgley Mischka midnight blue bubble dress that was almost as low cut as the blonde's in the lobby had been. A diamond pendant lay over her considerable cleavage; it matched the chandelier tiffany diamond earrings she wore. As she stood up she towered even more than usual due to her sky high gold Valentino stilettos.

Outside they found a vehicle that was a cross between a golf cart and a luxury car. A driver in crisp white trousers sat at attention. He jumped out to open the door for the pair. He gestured Camille inside taking a long glance at her cleavage. Alex snickered to himself as he imagined the gun that was more than likely hidden beneath that dress. As he began to clamber in after Camille the man gave him a look as though asking, 'How the hell did you land a chick that looks like that?' Alex struggled to refrain from rolling his eyes.

They pulled up at a beautiful starkly modern building in less than five minutes. The chauffer once again rushed around to open their door. "Please enjoy your meal."

Neither of them said anything. The inside of the restaurant was similar. All of the patrons were dressed similarly to Camille and Alex. A woman in a black skirt and matching black jacket led them to their table. "Welcome to the Mandarin. I will be back in a moment to take your drink orders." She walked away toward a table where two men, most likely father and son, sat in deep conversation.

Camille looked intently at the menu the woman had handed her. "Do you see the men the waitress is talking to?" she asked Alex, not looking up from her menu.

"Yes."

"The father is one of the ringleaders of the terrorist cell. His son is the one we will see at the club tonight."

Before Alex had a chance to respond, the waitress returned, "What may I get you to drink Ma'am."

"A mojito."

"And you, sir?"

"I will just have water."

Alex was a little surprised that Camille was drinking…again. This would have been her third drink in under an hour, and she probably needed to have her wits about her this evening. "Should you really be drinking again? Don't you want to be conscious tonight?"

"Alex, three drinks will not make you unconscious. Plus, with only three drinks in my system, I'll be one of the most sober ones at the club tonight. Let's put it this way, people that can still walk in a straight line have a tendency to stand out."

"Oh," was all Alex could think of to say. He didn't care what she said; he had no plans to end up drunk in Cairo.

Here it is! Sorry about the wait...

-Marissa

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