“Got it.”
“Also, I would suggest you make sure your people have ample funds to cover their travel expenses-including those that may arise without prior notice. These are lean budgetary times, and a bit extra might be of use here and there.”
“Right. Anything else?”
“Only that I might return to my sleep and dream peaceful, uninterrupted dreams.”
Andrews grinned. “Asser, if you’re very fortunate, it might happen after you retire,” he said. “Men like us, though…I’m guessing we’ve seen too much of what makes the world tick to ever enjoy that luxury again.”
The ferry from Aswan to Wadi Halfa was a crowded, rackety metal steamer that ostensibly left at noon every Monday from a sand-blown pier at Aswan High Dam-or El Sadd el Ali-on the large man-made body of water known as Lake Nasser. Bound by a system of three massive dikes on the Egyptian side of the Nile, the reservoir was the product of a major construction effort in the 1970s, its southern edge lapping up on the pebbled Sudanese shoreline, where the preference was to call it Buhayrat Nubiya.
Kealey and Abby had landed in Cairo Sunday morning, after an uneventful five-hour flight, their embarkation of the plane at Yaounde airport having been a successful first test of their cover documents. These had arrived separately at the United States and Egyptian consulates in sealed diplomatic pouches, then had been couriered over to Kealey at the Hilton on Boulevard du 20 Mai, where they were directly handed off to him in his room. The pouch from the U.S. consulate had also included envelopes containing several thousand dollars in mixed American bills and an equivalent sum in euros.
The name printed alongside Kealey’s U.S. passport photograph was Ryan Harner. Abby, whose passport declared her to be of French citizenship, was identified as Abigail Leung Evart. In addition to the CIA-fabricated passports, both had received, through the swift efforts of Asser Kassab, a variety of credentials establishing them as employees of the Boutros Advanced Packaging Corporation in Alexandria, a developer of biodegradable and recyclable shipping materials for food, pharmaceuticals, and other commercially transported goods. A note in the Egyptian packet explained that someone named Yusuf would await them at the Cairo International arrivals terminal.
A dark-eyed and alacritous young man who spoke fluent English, Yusuf was there as arranged, his car waiting in the parking lot. Within minutes of their arrival, Yusuf was driving them over the bridge to the train station at El Giza, explaining that the minor detour was necessitated by expansion work at the Cairo station on the east bank of the Nile.
With its elaborate facade of limestone building blocks and classic colonnades, the El Giza railway station was an impressive, vaulting structure teeming with humanity, the travelers passing through its entrance doors and lined up at the ticket windows scrutinized by white-uniformed security personnel. Although Kealey and Abby’s tickets had been purchased in advance, Yusuf discreetly asked Kealey for four hundred dollars inside the station, nodding in the direction of two guards standing near the gate for their train to Aswan.
“It will ensure that your papers are given quick inspections,” he explained. “And viewed in the most favorable light.”
Which they were with accepting nods.
“ Rihlah muwaffaqah, ” Yusuf said in colloquial Arabic, wishing the pair well as they were waved onto the platform. “The ferry’s booking agent in Aswan is a Mr. Ferran. Your crossing to Sudan will be in his very capable hands. Should you encounter any problems, however, mention my name.”
A short while later the sleek, air-conditioned Abela express had pulled from the station, leaving on schedule for the country’s southernmost border town…an overnight journey of somewhat under 900 kilometers. Yusuf had reserved a two-berth sleeper compartment, and both Kealey and Abby, leaving their cots folded, managed to doze off intermittently in their seats en route to Aswan.
It was half past eleven the next morning when they reached the village center-and just thirty minutes before their boat was supposed to set sail. There was a row of cabs waiting outside the station, and they hurriedly took one to the ferry line’s ticket office, which was tucked away amid a ramshackle outdoor mall consisting of a fruit and vegetable stand, the local tourist center, and a spice market that sold powdered laundry detergent in unmarked baskets alongside its ground, dried edibles.
The office itself was a small, unadorned, somewhat shabby store-front with a counter at the rear. Wearing a traditional Muslim robe and embroidered taqiyah on his head, the man on the stool behind it provided a stark, immediate contrast to his surroundings. He was perfectly shaven and manicured, with gleaming diamond rings on several fingers of each hand. Entering the door, Kealey could at once smell his expensive oriental cologne-its blend of musk and agar-wood, dabbed on judiciously so as not to overwhelm, accenting an overall air of fastidiousness that approached, but did not quite reach, the threshold of excess or ostentation.
“Mr. Ferran?” Kealey said.
The man rose from his stool, nodded. His expression, such as it was, seemed indicative of a mild strain of boredom.
Kealey took Abby’s documents from her hand, moved to the counter, produced his own identification from the carryall on his shoulder, and set them all down in front of Ferran. “We need to get aboard the next ferry to Wadi Halfa,” he said.
Ferran glanced at the wall clock on his side of the counter, shook his head. “The boat is departing in fifteen minutes,” he said. “If you left here this minute, it would be too late.”
“We’ve come all the way from Cairo,” Kealey said, looking at him. “It’s very important that we get across.”
“Impossible.” Ferran’s tone was disinterested. “I can look at your documents and issue tickets, but they will be inspected a second time at the dock. That alone might take an hour…or more if there is a backup.” He paused. “We have a barge leaving tomorrow afternoon. It is meant for vehicles and items of freight. I can find room aboard on occasion, but the cost of passage would be high, and there is no seating for passengers.”
Abby had come up to stand beside Kealey. “Yusuf assured us we could count on you, Mr. Ferran,” she said.
Ferran turned to her. “Yusuf.”
“That’s right,” she said. “I expect you know who he is?”
Ferran’s eyes had narrowed. “Yes,” he said. “Full well.”
“Then don’t play games with us,” Kealey said. “We need to be on that boat when it leaves today. Tell me what it’s going to take.”
Ferran had returned his attention to Kealey. “One thousand dollars,” he said.
Kealey nodded, started opening the flap of his carryall.
“For each of you,” Ferran said.
Kealey snapped a glance at Ferran’s face, kept it there a moment before reaching into the carryall for one of the envelopes he’d gotten from the courier pouch. He counted out two thousand dollars in hundreds, doing it slowly enough for Ferran to watch. Then he held the money over the counter. “Here,” he said. “Let’s get it done.”
Ferran took the money from him, slid open a drawer beneath the countertop, deposited it inside, and pushed the drawer shut. Then he reached into a pocket of his robe for a cell phone and fingered a speed-dial key.
“Gamal,” he said, “inform the passengers aboard the ferry there is to be a slight delay…for minor repairs, yes? In the meantime, I have two additional fares who will be seeing you at the dock shortly…”
In the garden behind Ishmael Mirghani’s home in Khartoum’s upscale Bahri section-his chair near the very spot where he had once watched a late-afternoon breeze scatter cinders of his Harold Traylor identity beyond recovery-Cullen White sat opposite Mirghani in the shade of a guava tree laden with ripe yellow fruit, his satellite phone in hand, the hand lowered to his lap. His face sober, his jaw set, he glanced down at the phone, then up at Mirghani.