Grant Madigan waved a cablegram at the short, dark man, who beamed a wily smile at him. Both pairs of eyes were simultaneously cruising the bar of the Gezira Sporting Club sizing up the most attractive women. Grant Madigan stood up, towering over his friend, and the two men shook hands and walked together to a table where they could watch the women lusciously adorning the edge of the pool. “The most beautiful women in the Middle East. And classy,” stated Irving. He sighed. Grant Madigan read from the cablegram. “ ‘Meet me favorite bar soonest. Irving.’ How did you know I would be in Cairo this afternoon? I didn’t even know myself until I was halfway here from Damascus on my host’s jet.” Irving Kirshner tapped his index finger against the side of his nose. “Never forget, this is an Israeli nose you’re looking at, old buddy.” “And how did you know where I was staying?” Irving tapped the side of his nose again. Grant Madigan shook his head in admiration of that percipient nose and called a waiter.
