“So why don’t they release more water?”
“It’s not that simple. The Nile runs through seven countries, and its waters are almost fully utilized. In Egypt alone the population has doubled since 1978, so more and more freshwater is consumed by people, tourists, and farms. The High Dam is particularly harmful because it blocks silt from passing. Without replenishing silt, alluvial soil degrades, fish starve, and the whole delta suffers.”
“Okay, okay,” Paul said, holding up his hands to block the verbal onslaught. “I didn’t mean to uncork the Earth First! genie.”
“Don’t trivialize this, Paul. People face a shortage of drinking water because plutocrats would rather irrigate golf courses. Egypt has an annual water deficit of twenty billion cubic meters. Myopic capitalists like your boss should be held responsible for the negative externalities their so-called investments create.”
“Former boss,” Paul corrected. “I’m now a proud member of the unemployed proletariat.”
She grinned. “Welcome to the revolution.”
During the next hour they sped by several agricultural towns, including Mahalat Diyay, Diminkan, and Kafr Magar. Each one, Paul admitted, did not appear to have benefited from a capitalist economic bonanza. Poor farmers lived in mud-brick buildings with few modern amenities or conveniences. On the other hand, everyone appeared well fed.
Around noon they passed under two major highway bridges. Ammon said the large urban center was called Disuq. Paul wondered aloud if any famous gods were buried there. Ava smiled and said that centuries ago Disuq was a capital of the Hyskos, an Asiatic people who invaded from the east.
As they continued north, Ava could tell they were nearing the sea. The indigenous flora and fauna began to take on a marine character. In the large settlements of Qabit, Fuwah, and Sandayoun, boatbuilding seemed to be an important industry. A tang of salty air carried the pungency of old pilings, rotting despite their creosote. She noted a variety of rusty seagoing vessels at anchor. This stage of the river was heavily involved with aquaculture, forcing the boys to navigate carefully lest they damage the hull on a subsurface fish farm. When they reached Mutabis, Ammon reduced speed.
“We stop here,” Sefu said. “Ten minutes, okay?” He tied the skiff to a rickety pier. Ammon disembarked and disappeared into the crowd.
“Ava, this might be a good place for a bathroom break,” Paul said. “Why don’t you scope it out?”
Something about his manner made her wary. He’d been consistently overprotective. Now he was suggesting she go ashore alone? Nonchalantly, she hopped onto the pier and went into a restaurant. Then she doubled back to a window to surveil the boat. Her suspicion was confirmed when she spied Ammon toting a large cardboard box mummified in shipping tape. He stowed it in the skiff’s hold and smiled roguishly at Paul. Ava had guessed they’d been keeping a secret from her. Now she knew it.
Furious, she stormed back to the pier. “What’s in the box?” she demanded.
Paul’s eyes met hers. He shook his head and said, “Don’t get upset. Everything’s fine. The boys just need to deliver something to Cairo. We’ll be on our way in a minute.”
Ava was less than satisfied by his explanation. Tears formed in her eyes. In a voice tight with anger and sadness, she announced:
“No. I’m sorry, Paul. I’m getting off.”
“Huh? Wait, you don’t understand!”
“No, I’m sure I don’t. I don’t understand a thing about trafficking drugs except that I’m not getting involved. So, good luck, and I hope you all make a huge profit,” she said, now sobbing.
“It’s not what you think!”
“Oh really? What’s in the box then?”
He glanced at Ammon and Sefu. His look asked, “Can I?” They shrugged, clearly displeased by the situation. Paul beckoned Ava aboard. Reluctantly, she complied. Ava doubted Paul would actually kidnap her, but if he was mixed up in drugs, nothing was certain.
He crouched, removed the box from the hold, and, using his knife, cut through the thick transparent tape. With considerable effort, he ripped open a flap and dozens of Victoria’s Secret catalogs spilled onto the deck, along with old issues of Maxim, Vibe, Details, and Playboy. The boys leaped down and began stuffing glossy magazines back into the hold, looking over their shoulders to ensure that no one had seen.
“What the hell?” Ava asked, baffled.
“Pornography is forbidden by the Qur’an and by Egyptian law. So naturally the black market for racy magazines, VHS tapes, DVDs, and whatever else is thriving. It’s incredibly profitable to smuggle. Back home, people give away this stuff. In Cairo, dealers sell these magazines for six bucks apiece.”
“Isn’t it easier to download your filth from the Internet?”
“You’d think so, but since the Arab Spring, the authorities have cracked down. At Internet cafés users sign a form swearing they won’t access or download pornography. Private accounts are monitored and spot-checked by government censors. They even tried to ban YouTube, and if you break the law, you go to jail. Egyptian jail! Plus, most Egyptians aren’t hooked up to the Internet. They can’t download images or watch streaming video.”
“But, I mean, Victoria’s Secret? That’s illegal?”
“Have you seen the pictures? It would have been illegal in Boston in the fifties.”
Simon dialed the number for his Yemen headquarters. The receptionist answered.
“Connect me to crypto,” he ordered.
From his tone, she knew better than to speak. She directed his call to the computer center’s cryptologic unit, where the twenty-three-year-old manager picked up.
“Hello?”
He sounded as though he had food in his mouth.
“Fritz, I have Mr. DeMaj holding for you.”
“Huh! What does he want? I mean, put him through, please.”
“Where are they?” Simon demanded.
“Sir?”
“Our fugitives. I told you to drop everything and find them. So, where are they?”
“We know they’re in Egypt.”
Simon took a deep breath. Silently, he counted to three, allowing his frustration to dissipate sufficiently for the conversation to continue. Even so, a measure of anger leaked into his voice.
“Fritz, I know they’re in Egypt. I’m the one who told you they’re in Egypt. It’s a big country. I need you to be more specific.”
“Yes, sir. We tracked Paul’s phone. It was a dead end. Apparently, he gave it to a desert nomad. Ava’s phone hasn’t been used since she left Boston.”
“Credit cards?”
“We’re watching them. Bank accounts too. Nothing since the hit on Kamaran. They must be paying for everything in cash and using aliases.”
Simon had expected as much. Paul was hardly a master spy, but he’d worked for DeMaj long enough to learn some basic espionage.
“Have we picked them up on security video?”
“No. I think we can safely conclude they’re avoiding airports, train stations — any form of mass transit. We’re listening to the Egyptian military and police. They don’t have anything either.”
“What about text messages, e-mail?”
“We can read their mail, but we’re having trouble tracing the device. It might be piggybacking a signal over the national net, relayed off a LEO satellite. The transmitter doesn’t use standard GPS, and the software is hardened against reverse-search protocols. It’s actually a pretty cool hack—”