The broken body lying in the alley had been that of the lovely-voiced woman formerly known in Cairo as Miss Constance Al Qamaroo, having been stripped of all identifying possessions some hours prior, anyone finding her might mistake her for a mugging victim, or worse. No one looking into such a tragic event would ever know the truth. With the slothful nature of the city of Port Said’s coroners, even identifying the body would take a few weeks.
The attack had been brutal, and efficient, most of the damage done to the body had occurred post mortem, had any medical professional been willing or able to take the time to check. But Port Said had been chosen for the body dump specifically because the local medical examiner's offices were woefully underfunded, overworked, and most importantly, disinterested.
Some two hundred kilometers away in Cairo a VP of production at SunRize International, along with three junior executives, were now pulling back into the garage beneath the corporate headquarters, and would spend a fruitful night cleaning out the interior of the carrier they had just driven back from Port Said. While they would say nothing of their recent excursion to the twin port cities of Port Said and Port Foud to anyone, they were devoutly professional, they did nod to the three other groups of like minded executives who were also cleaning out their own unmarked, bulky carriers with hoses and bleach solutions. Their own task had been the easiest of those sent out on disposal earlier in the evening.
Back in the dark alley, as the silvery moon rose over the city, something stirred amongst the tattered and blood stained pile that had been Constance Al Qamaroo. Fitfully at first, then with slightly more vigor; shoulders popped back into sockets, and a femur reconnected itself. The torn flesh of her fingers knitted themselves back together over the popping of bones seeking to realign. “…dirt…sand…dirt…CRAAAAAPPP…” she wheezed a quick exhale as her new skin extruded itchy grains of filth that had been ground into her form. Her nails, cracked, and damaged, shed from her rapidly fingers like serpent's scales, as new nails emerged, pushing the old and damaged flesh out and away.
It was a very large and very busy city, crime just could not be stamped out, no matter who was in charge, and like in all bustling port cities, people were sometimes found dead in dark alleys. A thousand sorry tales, certainly, but none to raise too many eyebrows. Robberies, and much worse, happened all the time, and the regular flow of people, in the form of sailors, merchants, business people, and manual laborers made for a logistical nightmare for any law-keeping forces.
The bruises and the contusions on her person had been expertly placed so as to lead one to this conclusion. If the body was found soon, she would look as if beaten to death either for her purse, or for whatever else her assailants could get from her; if it took longer, more evidence would be lost to scavengers and decay.
Some plans work due to the complexities in human nature, but Amra’s personal guard went the other way with simplicity at its best. A body in an alley, beaten to death, with neither personal belongings nor identification in Cairo would raise eyebrows and questions, but that same body left here? A sad occurrence, but one seen all too often.
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Cracking and clicking, her jaw slowly worked to reseat several teeth that had loosened in the frantic moments before she had willed herself into playing dead.
It was a thoroughly professional job. Amra’s men had a knack for such proficient work, they had proven just so with most employees who had incurred the wrath of their god-king over the last few decades. Some of them saw this task as nothing more momentous than bringing in the morning paper. Three of the junior executives who had retired last year had been replaced by their own sons. Faithful, raising generation upon generation of faithful... fanatics, it seemed, were mad for the concept of nepotism. These killings were never done with any anger, and the prettier ones were never molested unless
that was the trail they wanted to leave for whatever constabulary existed in the city where the dumps would occur, cities chosen specifically because their peace keepers never much bothered with the deaths of the anonymous, the unidentified, and the unreported.
Shaking her head slowly from side to side to dislodge as much grit, dirt, and road grease, and as many small pests as she could, Constance appreciated this level of professionalism. It made her job that much easier. She had done this many times over the last two centuries, quite often during the war a century and a half or so gone; but, too many times in the last twenty years. If she hurried, she might be able to make it home, wash up, change her hairstyle, and be back in the secretarial pool by nine. It would be tight, but it would be a thoroughly professional job. No one would know the truth.
Security would not have been informed that her pass was no longer valid; that would have been a clue to anyone looking for her. SunRize Security would be just as concerned and surprised as anyone had some diligent police investigators shown up on their front door asking questions. "Why, no! We saw her leave the building last night after she had finished for the day, officers. Would you care to take a seat, and have a cup of coffee while we get you the video files from our security logs from yesterday? Won't take but a moment to get them for you."
However, once she made it through the doors, the change in hairdo and clothing style would throw off most of the upper management. Just another pretty face in the sea of beauties they employed in the home offices of Egypt’s
largest tech concern. Good looks had become anonymity in a building stuffed with the fairest of Cairo’s roses.
Middle management would not have been told about her liquidation last night after failing to procure the services of Tzal, and if upper management, consisting here in Cairo of only Amra, wanted another “Pretty young woman from the
secretarial pool” he would never recognize Constance. He just wasn’t enough of a people person to bother with noticing people other than himself. It always had been that way, ever since they were children, playing in the reeds by the Nile as their great grandparents built the Old Kingdom.
She painfully shrugged three quarters of her left shoulder, hearing it pop back suddenly into joint and realign itself, as she said simply “…managers…”
It was just approaching midnight, and her clothing, dirty and bloodstained as it was, was presentable enough if she stayed in the shadows while looking for transportation back to Cairo.
Closer to four in the morning, Constance began walking back to her apartment from the light-rail line hub in the now historic ruins of the Abdeen Palace Museum to clean up and start the day again. After showering, and choosing a new hairstyle, she would call her great grandfather, and let him know Amra had tried to hire Tzal to remove the possible thorn from his side.
She wondered how the mystery man at the center of the explosion was doing