He found an empty corner in which to nurse his beer. A pretty young brunette at a nearby table checked him out and whispered to her girlfriend, and they giggled. He ignored them. Not tonight. Even amid the crush and chatter of the young people, Swanson had the uncomfortable, creeping feeling that he was old and alone.
Normally, even when deep in enemy territory, that seldom bothered him, for there were times that he preferred to operate totally on his own. He knew that he was a U.S. Marine, and therefore a member of an elite force of more than two hundred thousand brothers and sisters whose fighting prowess was known around the world. From the newest recruit to the four-star commandant, they all had his back. Then there was Task Force Trident itself, a little five-person unit with clout far beyond its size, for it answered only to the president of the United States. If he was in trouble, usually all he had to do was call, and help would be on the way, sometimes through methods that lay far outside of normal channels.
That was what was really troubling him; in Egypt, Swanson would be beyond the reach of his security blanket. He would not be going into a potentially hostile situation as a Marine, much less in his specialty of the Trident sniper. His position would be that of a civilian, a prosperous business executive. He would move in open luxury, not evading surveillance. His only backup was a woman MI6 agent who knew more about King Tut, the kid monarch who died a thousand years before Christ was born, than she did about twenty-first-century terrorism. Things had changed a lot since the time of chariots. If he didn’t really know her, how could he trust her? It would be up to her to win that trust, not his responsibility to make it happen.
The pint was empty, and he went to the bar, ordered another, then returned to his corner. It was such an automatic move, back to the wall, view of the door, that he did not give it a thought. His camouflage on this trip would be the dark suit of a corporate vice president, and his hide would be a hotel suite, not a hole in the dirt. As long as nobody questioned him closely about business affairs, he could fake the corporate role because he had watched Sir Jeff lead meetings of the Excalibur board of directors. Swanson wondered how any serious business could be conducted at all in Egypt, which was wrapped in convulsions of change, but money did not rest, no matter who was in power.
At a table against one wall, two serious-looking young men with backpacks hanging on their chairs were immersed in a game of chess. That steered Kyle into thinking about pawns and strategy and MI6. The Brits were firm allies, of that he had no doubt, but government intelligence services were always playing games within games. Could C, Sir Gordon Fitzgerald, be using Jeff and Pat and Kyle as bait for some unknown purpose, or multiple purposes? Jeff was not an easy man to fool, but C knew more than all of them put together about what was really going on in Egypt, where the double-cross was an art form. C had used vague terms about his unidentified source without really saying anything about the contact. Did the director of British intelligence even know who it was? Was he being used, too?
Over at the chessboard, one of the players sacrificed his white knight to the black queen. Kyle’s brain was beginning to hurt from stirring around all of the ingredients in the assignment, and he puffed out his cheeks in exasperation. He was nobody’s white knight, and he had no intention of being sacrificed.
Once they arrived in Sharm el-Sheikh, Swanson would fall within the operational control of MI6 and be beyond the normal reach-back to Trident for support. Their local contact and guide was to supply him with a handgun. Instead of being overprepared, he thought that would leave him almost naked for firepower. He drained the beer, left the pub, and pulled his personal encrypted phone from his jacket pocket, speed-dialing Washington. Within a few minutes, the Trident team was working to sharply upgrade Swanson’s capabilities during his venture into the land of the Pyramids.
“One final thing, guys,” he said. “Do a workup on my mysterious new partner from MI6, this Dr. Tianha Bialy.” He spelled the name, and the Lizard confirmed it.
“I have already done that. MI6 sent me her particulars. Highly educated and a recognized Egyptologist. She’s clean, Kyle.”
“That’s what worries me. With all of her years studying her academic specialty, she cannot possibly be an expert operative. I doubt that she has had any field training beyond the minimum needed to qualify, although they are passing her off as an experienced hand.”
“Want me to dig deeper?” The Lizard laughed. “That’s a joke, Kyle. Archaeology. Digging up tombs. Lara Croft?”
The voice of Lieutenant Colonel Sybelle Summers cut in. “Stay on topic, Liz,” she ordered, then changed her tone. “Kyle, if you don’t want her, we can just abort the mission. It’s dangerous enough without saddling you with more difficulty.”
“No. They insist that she knows the turf, and they will send her on alone if I cancel out. I’ll just keep a close watch, and if we can’t rely on the Brits, we’re in trouble.”
“When do you and this mystery woman leave for Sharm?”
“Tomorrow.”
“Stay in touch.”
“Roger that.”
Tianha Bialy sat cross-legged on the soft carpet of a tidy four-room apartment, snug in a thick blue bathrobe and with a towel wound around her wet black hair. A cup of hot tea was within reach, Arabic music swam softly from hidden speakers. Her packing for the trip was done. All she had to do was snap the latches and she would be ready. Passport, documents, cash were in her purse. Makeup would be kept at a minimum. A smart gray skirt and jacket with a modest white blouse were waiting on hangers in the closet. She was ready. She was prepared. She was nervous and welcomed the feel of her fiancé’s strong hands on her shoulders.
“Why are you doing this, Tianha?” Jonathan Blake was an archaeologist and geologist who had spent most of his working days digging in faraway places in search of clues about the world of old. Somewhere along the line, his interests changed to the more lucrative occupation of hunting for oil.
“It’s an assignment, Jon. The orders came straight from the top. I can’t refuse it.” She leaned back against him.
He gently kissed her shoulder. “You are a brilliant academic, my dear. Your phenomenal talents are best suited for archaeological sites and computer searches. Just look at your work in the last five years. Your reputation is already made, and you can lecture at any university you wish.”
“But I am also an MI6 agent.”
“You were conscripted by them because of your expertise in the Arab world, my dear, to be an analyst, not some spy adventurer.”
“That’s why they are sending me down there. I know the people and the culture and the politics. We want to find out who is likely to inherit the levers of power in Egypt before the whole place explodes.” She closed her eyes, and he peeled back the robe from her shoulders, sliding his hands over the soft skin that had the scent of lavender.
“Anyway, if there is trouble, my American partner will protect me.” She gave a slight shiver.
“Do you trust him?”
“I don’t know. He is an absolutely frightening person, Jon. He is not very big, certainly not as tall as you, but there is an absolute sense of confidence about him. He moves like a ghost. He’s smart and obviously lethal, with narrow gray-green eyes that see everything.”