It was only 5:45 and André could since today was going to be a hot one. Nothing could possibly be happening today, he thought to himself as he looked out through his hotel window at the city of Cairo.
Over his shoulder he heard the ringing of his cell phone. He picked it up and look at the name of the caller. He sighed, and took the call. "Que voulez-vous?"
"Don't act like that," said the man on the other end, his thick Brooklyn accent vibrated against André's ear.
"Et pourquoi pas?" asked André falling into the nearest chair. He stared into the room, which began to brighten with the rising of the sun. "Nothing is going on here, there is nothing to be excited about."
"Nothing to be excited about?" His editor made a grunt of a noise. "Yeah, Mubarak announcing he is going to have free election, there is nothing exciting about that."
"You say this every time," André sat up in his chair. "This isn't even my permanent location. I'm just here temporarily. Why should I commit myself to anything here when I know I'll be leaving at anytime."
"Because you are a journalist and it is your job to get the story, no matter what it is," said his editor, Mike Pane.
"Justé," André replied.
"Now, you've got the paper, or mail, or whatever they call it?" said Pane.
"Yes," said André, reaching for it on the nearby table.
"Good," Pane said. "What you should be looking for is on the bottom left of the front page."
André scanned the page, and fixated on the article. He read from left to right, and figured the translation from Arabic to French, and then to English.
"Non! There is no way you are sending me to cover this boring merde that you wont even have me write about," André threw down the paper.
"You didn't finish reading it," said Pane. "Guess who is going to be there?
"Qui?" asked André.
"Robert Langdon," said his editor. "You-"
"No, I am drawing the line there," André stood to his feet and walked to the window, shaking his sandy brown hair away from his eyes.
"Come on, André," said Pane. "You know this guy is a story."
A story? Andre thought to himself. It sure was a story when you sent a newbie reporter to literally stalk him when he was in London a few months ago. From what André heard, it took some heavy persuading to try and get him not to file anything against them.
"Mahmoud Abass is a story," said André. "Robert Langdon is not."
"Just go alright," said Pane. "Do you want to go back to working for a french newspaper or do you want to stay with Time International?"
At least I had more dignity with Paris Normandié, André thought.
"Just go," said Pane. "You might learn something."
"D'accord." André hung up the phone, and picked up the paper from the floor. "I am beginning to hate this man, Robert Langdon," he told himself.
