“I don’t trust the navy,” the colonel said. “Stay on top of that movement and do not let them become tentative. Make sure that ship is where it is supposed to be, Major. If the admirals argue, tell them to talk to Tehran — after they follow my orders.”
“Yes, Colonel. Is there anything else?”
Colonel Naqdi grew quiet as he mentally ran through his timetable. It was too early to bring the missile crew to full alert status, for that could arouse unwanted interest at a time when suspicion was already high in Egypt. “No,” he said and dismissed the major.
Then he walked back to his window to watch the demonstration below as he weighed the situation. There was a lot yet to do. The Muslim Brotherhood and its leading clerics were trying to take over the legislative branch of the elected government, the People’s Assembly. The Brotherhood was still a minority after last year’s vote. The prime minister sided with the Supreme Council of the Armed Forces, and he was still in control because the generals were reluctant to surrender power, despite the outward appearance of supporting civilian rule.
Colonel Naqdi recognized that the fires of revolution burn brightly for a only brief time; then demonstrators go back to their day-to-day and leave only the predators to fight for the ultimate power. He knew this to be true because he was one of those predators. The risks were great, but the potential payoff was enormous.
The costly American experiment to establish democracy in Iraq had failed, but it had deposed the Sunni dictator Saddam Hussein. Baghdad and its firebrand preachers and figurehead politicians now rested easily in the pocket of the religious rival Shia government in Tehran.
So now it was again Egypt’s turn at the altar, and Colonel Naqdi was to deliver the strategically important country as still another puppet state. At the end, he would have the Egyptian armed forces also under the control of Iran, and it would become a Muslim Brotherhood dagger pointed straight at the Israelis. In addition, the standing armies in both Egypt and Iraq would sandwich Sunni-led Saudi Arabia, and Iran also would have military control of the vital sea routes that fed the world’s unending appetite for oil.
What could be better? That kind of geopolitical shift was worth the sacrifice of the soccer team. A few more hammer blows, a handful of soldiers, a little time and a little luck, and he would have it.
8
A private car was waiting at Heathrow. Swanson was a bit surprised that it was not a white luxury vehicle of the Excalibur Enterprises fleet but rather a dark police sedan with a pair of plainclothes types as an escort. Other than a preliminary greeting, neither man in front spoke as they cruised along the direct route between the giant airport and a modest and totally secure safe house where the Cornwells had been hidden in the university city of Oxford.
Kyle fidgeted in the backseat. One of his core principles as a sniper was to consider that going slow was almost always better than too fast. This was not one of those cases. He felt as if he had been poking along like a man on horseback, exactly one horsepower, when he wanted to travel at the speed of light. Even the hottest military jet would not have been fast enough. He chewed on his anger as the big car ate up the miles.
The stone house was normally used by visiting academics at Oxford and had the exterior look of an old English home, with base stones that reflected the weak winter sun in shades of soft orange. It was unremarkable in every way and blended perfectly with similar cottages nearby. Another policeman was at the door and required Kyle to show identification before being allowed to pass. Just inside was an immaculate, small reception room with a uniformed cop at a little desk, his hand casually resting on a submachine gun. He logged Kyle in as an approved visitor, then touched a buzzer.
The door at the far end of the room was opened by an attractive woman in dark slacks, a pink cowl-neck sweater, and low heels. “Gunnery Sergeant Swanson,” she said, offering a hand; the grip was firm. “I am Tianha Bialy,” she added, with no further explanation. Her voice had a low pitch, long black hair fell over her shoulders, and the distinctive bump of a holstered pistol showed beneath the sweater at her waist. “Please come in. Lady Pat and Sir Jeff are in the living room.”
A few paintings of someone’s ancestors hung on the walls, shelves were jammed with old books and files, and Lady Patricia Cornwell stood drinking a glass of beer before a fire that burned in a wide hearth of gray stone.
Kyle walked straight to her, his eyes searching for any damage, and she laughed and embraced him. “Relax, Kyle. I’m fine.”
He turned to Jeff, who remained seated in a cushioned chair, a knobbed wooden walking stick tilted against one arm. Kyle went over and gave him a hug. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here sooner,” he said.
“It’s all good now, boy,” Jeff said with a deep laugh. “Have no worries about us. The security jockos have us locked up like the queen’s jewels, and our Pat even broke a leg of one of the toffs.”
There was a gleam of excitement in the older man’s eyes. Kyle noticed a framed map of Egypt propped on the mantel above the fireplace. Something had been under discussion when he arrived, and he could guess what it was.
Jeff turned toward the other person in the room, a middle-aged man with thin brown hair, who was in a common bureaucrat’s vested suit and black shoes that were scuffed in places. “Kyle, let me present Sir Gordon Fitzgerald, the chief of MI6.”
“Delighted,” said Fitzgerald, lifting his whisky and taking a sip. Known more commonly by the letter C, the head of the British Secret Intelligence Service that handled foreign threats looked more like a tradesman than a spy. Kyle supposed that was the point.
Swanson got right to it. “I want them. I want both of the bastards who attacked her.” His eyes reflected the frustration that he had been holding in for hours.
The small and portly MI6 chief was unperturbed by Kyle Swanson’s outburst. He had been prepared for it and was used to handling high-strung field agents. His voice was steady and quiet. “That is quite out of the question. They are in the custody of the queen’s government. It will remain that way.”
“Do a rendition, then,” Swanson said. “Put them on a plane to a country that specializes in making prisoners more cooperative. Your hands remain clean, I will get what I want there, and whatever happens is not your fault.”
“Now you are just being insulting. My friends Jeff and Patricia assured me that you could put aside your personal feelings so that we might work together. If you cannot, then I have no further use for you. You can fly right back to America, as far as I am concerned.”
Swanson put his hands on his hips and stared at the seated security chief. “What?”
“You see, I know quite a lot about you, Gunnery Sergeant Swanson. In fact, I had a word with your General Middleton at Task Force Trident in Washington about an hour ago. He has issued new orders for you to lend all assistance possible to us. Paperwork to follow, if need be. Are you prepared to do that?”
Swanson turned to face Cornwell. “What’s going on here, Jeff?”
“Things are looking rather nasty, Kyle. Forget the attackers; they are little fish.”
Lady Pat came over. “Sit down, Kyle, and put on your thinking cap. It seems the attack on me was just part of some big plot. I am a bit put out that I was not the big prize. I thought I was the star.”
Swanson sat, breathed deeply, and relaxed his tight muscles. He really had no choice. “All right. I’m in, Sir Gordon.”
“Grand. There is a lot of ground for us to cover. First, let me set your mind at ease — the unsavory chaps who attacked Lady Pat have already assisted police with our inquiries to the maximum of their limited abilities. They were just common waterfront riffraff hired by an anonymous solicitor to do the kidnapping. One of them followed their unsuspecting benefactor all the way home and thus obtained his name and address. By the time the police ran round to that apartment, it had been destroyed by fire, and the bodies of the solicitor and his wife were discovered in the debris. It was murder and arson.” C lifted his glass again.