Kyle paused and thought for a moment. Most of civilization clung to the water, and the people of Sharm were no different, for water brought trade and money and success. He realized that he might have found the next step in his night’s work. The Gold Sun should have what he needed, and it most likely would be closed because the grieving family of the mayor, who ran it, would be huddled together at their home. “OK. You guys stay safe.”
“Kyle?” Tianha said, but he was gone.
Heading south again, he checked his position on the Toyota’s global positioning system and found a small track that led to the back road to the Gold Sun Water Equipment marina. The tourism trade of Sharm depended on watercraft, for this was a world-famous diving spot, but even divers needed a break from the reefs and caves and coral, and they rented everything from sailboats to windsurfer boards and played around the beaches when not lying around the hotel pools. All of that had collapsed, and now the storehouses of the fun toys stood empty and locked. Just outside the city, he entered a wide rectangular area in which a central road was flanked by storehouses. Upturned kayaks lay stacked alongside like pancakes. A few palm trees loitered around the buildings, beyond the reach of the sprinkler systems of the hotel grounds.
He parked one street over and made a careful circuit of the area on foot, checking the rear of the buildings, the rooftops, the windows, the yards, other parked vehicles, anywhere that danger might hide. He saw no inside lights, although a few bulbs glowed feebly above some front doors. The place was deserted. He went back to the 4Runner and took it almost to the water’s edge, parking behind a battered white pickup that bore the words GOLD SUN WATER EQUIPMENT in English.
The building extended out over the water, and a blunt pier outside extended inside, too, so watercraft could be sailed directly into the building. A metal roll-down gate sealed the opening. Kyle went to the glassed-in front, where the rental office could be seen. Colorful posters of underwater scenes hung behind a single desk and over a four-drawer filing cabinet. Two straight chairs were in front of the desk, with one cushy executive model behind it. Beside the front door, another passage led out to the waterside working area where all of the gear was stored. He kicked around at the decorative stone border until he found a heavy rock. In the middle of a night that was already filled with explosions and fires, nobody would even notice the shatter of the small glass window in the door. He threw it and was in.
The inner door opened into a wide space in which two concrete piers were separated by an open finger of water. Swanson switched on his flashlight and went directly to a rank of five jet skis that were cradled on lifts, and two more — a Yamaha and a Honda, both blue — were tied at the pier, ready to be taken out in the morning. He unscrewed the fuel caps and found that both had full gas tanks.
He went over to a broad piece of plywood that was used as a bench and table where wet suits were rented. Once again he was happy to be of average size, for he immediately found a full-length diver’s suit, a face mask and snorkel, and a pair of swimming flippers.
He had constantly been alert for noises but had heard nothing except the lapping of the water, and he peeled off the sagging Egyptian clothes. As he began putting on the wet suit, there was a movement in the shadows, and a young man stepped out, pointing a pistol at him. Kyle stopped, with one foot in the suit, one out, then slowly raised his hands. “Don’t shoot,” he said in English. “I am a friend.”
Merchants and businessmen throughout Egypt usually speak several languages, and he was betting this guy was one of those multilingual types who dealt with tourists from all over the world. Anyway, Kyle’s knowledge of the Egyptian language sucked.
The young man stepped forward, but not too close. He was in his early twenties, wore an oil-stained T-shirt over baggy cargo shorts, and had a stubble of beard above penetrating eyes rimmed in red, as if he had been crying. The pistol remained steady. “You are an American?”
“Yes.”
“The Americans are coming here?”
“Maybe. Who are you?”
The man walked to the left, not even looking down as he stepped through and around the gear, indicating that he knew where everything was. “Who are you?”
“I’m a tourist who was caught here by the attacks, and I am just trying to get out.”
“So you were going to steal my jet ski?”
“Yes.” A grain of truth helps the total lie. “Try to make my way to an American ship.”
“You would never make it out alive through all the boats out there. You really are not an Iranian?”
In answer, hands still raised, Kyle spat into the water. To his surprise, the young man did the same and slowly lowered his weapon. “Those bastards executed my brother last night. Had you been Iranian, I would have killed you on the spot. You can lower your hands.”
Whoa, thought Kyle. This might be better than I expected. “Your brother was Mayor Mohammad El-Din?”
“Yes.” He said it with a grim face. “My name is Abdel El-Din. Now who are you, and why are you here?”
“First, I’m sorry about your brother, Abdel. I would have stopped it if I could.”
Abdel pushed himself up to sit on the counter. A wall clock behind him showed the time to be just a minute or two after five o’clock in the morning. “Really? Just you?”
“My name is Kyle Swanson, and I am a United States Marine.” Kyle nodded his head toward the outside, where explosions were still being heard. “I’ve been doing what I can.”
“My brother was a good man, Mr. Swanson. We do not know why he was put among those people the Iranians decided to murder, for they were just picked up at random. He went to his death with his head held high, scornful of the executioners. My family made me hide out here to avoid also being picked up in some future sweep. I was asleep until I heard you break the glass out front.”
“So I will tell you the truth, Abdel. I’m not really trying to escape. I’ve been fighting them on my own, but even my own government doesn’t know I am here and what I’m doing. I really was here on a business trip, had a room at the Blue Neptune and everything. Now I just cannot let the Iranians take Sharm without a fight.”
“I want to fight back, too.” El-Din’s face twisted with emotion. “Nobody asked those soldiers to come to our city.”
“Fighting is dangerous work,” Kyle said. “I’m trained to do this kind of thing. You aren’t.”
“Those Iranian pigs have come to our home and took my brother and shot him in cold blood. They are not wanted in the city. A lot of people feel just as I do. We were stunned by the suddenness of it all, but now we are getting angry.”
“Do you think there will be an uprising?” Kyle believed he was witnessing the first spark on a sputtering fuse of rebellion.
El-Din gave that rueful smile again. “Maybe. Only Allah knows the future. I only know that I must do something to avenge my brother.” He paused, took a breath. “So let me help you. You want a jet ski, I’ll let you have it. And I know these waters well and can be of help out in the channels.”
While he thought, Kyle finished wiggling into the wet suit. Another local asset in addition to Omar would be a definite advantage, and this job would be a good test to determine if the kid had any guts or if it was just bravado coming from grief doing the talking. Zipped up, Swanson said, “OK. You’re on, Abdel. Here’s what we’re going to do.”
24
Abdel El-Din listened wide-eyed to the audacious idea, then immediately proved his merit by turning on all of the lights in the boathouse. Should anyone stop by to question why, he could say he was simply getting ready for tomorrow’s business. In minutes, he was suited up like Swanson.