 By that time, they were all around me, dragging me up the alley. Somewhere back, I could hear an alarm sounding and the shouts of more men running out of headquarters. But already, we had reached a side street where a light field truck was waiting, its motor running. The hooded figures piled me in, the driver footed in gear, wheels spun, and we were careening off down the narrow winding streets. Well, we must have traveled every side street in Cairo to shake the police. Finally, the truck roared across the Bulak Bridge of the Nile, through Giza, on west and north above the Nile Valley as it meets the desert.