Jon eased Tianha to the carpet and lay beside her, sliding a hand beneath the robe to cup her breast. “What did MI6 say about him? Surely they gave you his file.”
She sighed in comfort. “There is not much of a file, believe it or not, because most of it has been blacked out. He is thirty-six years old, a career Marine gunnery sergeant, one of the best snipers in the world, and holds the U.S. Congressional Medal of Honor. Almost everything else has been erased because of security matters. Kyle Swanson officially fell off the map about six years ago.”
“Can you control him?”
“I don’t know, but that may not matter. He has his job and I have mine.”
Jon kissed her, more roughly. “And what is your job down there, Tianha?”
“Remember the Official Secrets Act, Jon. I can’t tell you. We could both end up in prison.” She grimaced a bit because he was hurting, but also exciting her.
He pinched her nipple and twisted, and she closed her eyes against the bolt of pain. “To the devil with the Official Secrets Act. What you find could be worth a fortune if we use it properly. Tell me.” He smiled down at her, leaning on his elbows. “I can make you tell me.”
Tianha leaned up and bit him lightly. “No you can’t.” She laughed.
Blake curled his hand in her hair and pulled it hard. “You are being a naughty girl, Tianha. You know you will tell me eventually, so make it easy on yourself.”
She began to struggle, and Blake moved atop her naked body, pinning her to the floor. The belt from her robe was in his hand, and he wrapped it around her wrists when she extended her arms to him. “Not this time, my love,” she whispered, staring into his dark eyes and handsome face. “I go to serve queen and country.”
“Everything,” he said and lowered his face to her belly, nibbling at the soft flesh. “Tell me everything.”
“Never.” She slipped her bound wrists over the back of his neck and pulled him down as he spread her legs. “I will never tell you about the Pharaoh. Never.”
10
One hundred and forty-six people boarded EgyptAir flight MS780 at Heathrow Airport in England for the long southeastern flight to Hurghada International Airport in Egypt. Kyle Swanson was the last passenger to cross the threshold, delaying in order to study the others. After boarding, he told a flight attendant that he needed a moment to go through the coach section and say hello to an old friend at the rear of the aircraft before taking his own seat in the first-class cabin. The attendant asked him to please hurry, for the crew would soon be closing the door and preparing for takeoff.
The stretch wide-body Airbus was carrying only about half of its capacity, and the cavernous coach area loomed like an empty frame on a wall, a testament to the reluctance of people to travel to the troubled country. Passengers were spreading out, staking claims to vacant seats, as Kyle went down one aisle all the way to the rear, circled through the galley, and came up the other side without seeing anyone suspicious.
An attendant arrived to take his suit jacket and hang it up, and Swanson settled into the comfortable wide seat next to that of Dr. Tianha Bialy, who gave him a strange look. “Why did you wait so long to get on?”
“I had to go to the bathroom.” Kyle buckled his seat belt.
“They now have bathrooms aboard the planes.”
“Really? I’ll try to remember that.”
“Are you planning to be rude for this entire trip?” she asked.
Swanson turned a bit, the hardness of his face slightly easing. “No, not at all. In fact, the better we get along, the better we can work together. I just wish we would have had more time to get to know each other before heading out as partners. That’s certainly not your fault. Happens all the time on missions.”
The twin engines below the wings growled to life. “I agree. Then let us make the best of a strange situation. Shall we shake hands on it?”
“Sure,” replied Kyle. “Three days in Sharm, three days in Cairo, maybe a side trip to Alexandria or Port Said, and then back to London. A straight-up business trip for all intents and purposes. We should be able to get through that without gashing each other too much.”
She laughed at that. “You must call me Tianha, and I probably should not refer to you as a gunnery sergeant when we are in public.”
“Kyle.” He noticed she had a charming smile when she was relaxed. Just like that, the tension had seemed to drain away from her. “Are you worried, Tianha?”
“Of course.” The airplane began its long crawl to get in line for the taxiway. “This could be very dangerous. For a woman, even someone like me, it would be impossible to do on my own. How about you, Kyle? Aren’t you worried?”
“No. I’ve had a lot of experience in volatile situations. I try to keep nasty surprises to a minimum.” The plane shuddered and stopped on the tarmac before moving slowly forward again, and the engine noise grew a notch. An announcement came from the intercom that they were next for takeoff, and the attendants should take their seats.
“Well, you look very nice in your company’s vice presidential suit and tie instead of a camouflaged battle dress uniform.”
He laughed as the Airbus began its roll. “Tianha, the suit is my camouflage.”
By the time the plane was airborne, each knew the other was lying. Nothing had been settled between them.
The flight coasted uneventfully across France and down the length of Italy, Greece, and then the broad Mediterranean, with Turkey to the east. After entering Egyptian airspace, they followed the deep crack of the Suez Canal all the way to the Red Sea. As the pilots began to shave off altitude, Swanson examined the approaching coast, where the pale desert sand met blue-green waters. “Not much to this place, is there?”
“No,” Tianha said. “Hurghada is just another fishing village that has grown up to be a medium-sized city. I’ve been through here a few times before while doing research projects around Aswan and Luxor. Being on the proper side of the canal, it has always been a jumping-off spot to some of the more historic places down south, but mostly they are promoting the diving and fishing opportunities on the nearby islands. The tourism crisis must be pretty severe down here.”
The Airbus circled lower and sped in for a smooth, one-bounce landing on one of the two long runways. As they coasted to a stop, Kyle noticed that only two other commercial planes were parked before the long terminal area, which was topped by spiky tentlike coverings. Far away, though, were plenty of military aircraft: several varieties of helicopters, a squadron of American-made F-16s, and what looked like old Soviet-era MiGs. Hurghada lived on tourism, but it was also the home of a major Egyptian Air Force base beside the Red Sea. Why had she not mentioned that?
When the door opened, there was no gate extending into the building, which meant that even on the hottest days when temperatures soared well above 100 degrees, the passengers would deplane on the scalding tarmac and hurry indoors to the air-conditioning. He was glad it was January.
“Your people have someone meeting us, right?” Kyle asked as they went through customs. “Look at that mob of taxi drivers. The natives seem restless.”
“They are hurting for fares. Usually, it’s pretty orderly in the taxi ranks.”
The first passengers to pick up their bags were besieged by drivers offering deals in various languages. To one side, beside a row of yellow molded plastic chairs, stood a middle-aged man wearing white trousers and a short-sleeved white shirt and a skinny dark tie that was slightly askew. He held a simple sign that bore the name of BIALY, and she beckoned to him rather imperiously. He hurried over, bowed politely, and retrieved their bags, then led them outside to a clean hire car waiting beside a decorative garden.