Abeer Rashad darted into a dark, abandoned shack. The old wood creaked as she leaned against the wall, jerking away the scarf that covered her mouth, gulping air. Sweat trickled down between her breasts. She knew it came as much from fear as the hot, dry air. Black gloves and robe—making her all but invisible—stifled like a sauna but provided the anonymity urgently required. Without them, she would never have made it this far. The cramped quarters of a shared taxi from Cairo had put her in much too close proximity for maintaining her cover otherwise. For the last several hours she’d said little and tried to breathe out the open window to keep from gagging on the pervasive stench created by too many unwashed bodies packed into the rattling wreck. Determination, aided by sheer luck, had allowed her to elbow her way through the crowded coffee shop to the counter and insert herself next to the Brother she followed. A strategic reach for the bowl of sugar in front of him brought her ear within inches of his mouth.
