A deep pause while the colonel thought it over. Shakuri had done well so far, but he did not need to know this. The Pharaoh was a one-man show, the colonel’s mask as a valuable counterintelligence source and his ticket to freedom. “That sounds like another enemy for us to track down, Major. Find Swanson, and if you uncover the Pharaoh, arrest him, too.”
“Absolutely, sir.”
“Good. So why don’t we both get a few hours of sleep? Good night, Major.”
“I can’t sleep, sir. The night isn’t over yet.” The major hung up, still chuckling, feeling that the razor had been removed from his throat. But Colonel Naqdi did not understand that his blade had two edges these days, for Shakuri knew all about the colonel’s backdoor ruse as being the Pharaoh, and his contacts in London and within the Egyptian military. In his time as chief of staff, he had burrowed quietly into everything he could find in the colonel’s private files and the office safe, and even had followed him to determine his contacts. He had enough to confirm, if the need ever arose, that the man was a traitor. The question was, who was using who? If Naqdi held a razor, Shakuri believed he held an ax.
He, aware of his growing independence and ability, had not told Naqdi about the attack on the motor pool, and now he had been handed this report that a Guards outpost was wiped out. This could not be the work of a few upset civilians, for the signature of upscale ferocity indicated military activity. He would call back in a few hours, hopefully interrupt the colonel’s sleep again, and warn him that based upon the latest information, there was a strong possibility that NATO special operation teams had been inserted.
Five thirty in the morning, with the bleak winter dawn only an hour away. Please, Allah, let the rest of the night remain quiet.
The two jet skis were side by side, bobbing together some two hundred yards from the hulking mass of the Iranian freighter that separated them from the shoreline. Abdel was in the water, having unhooked the connecting chain and let it sink rather than chance having it make a sudden clatter if they tried to stow it in the compartment under the seat. He had other chains back at the shop.
Then his attention turned to Kyle’s ski. Tourists had a bad habit of thinking they were extreme sports athletes when they got a jet ski between their legs, and going too fast and making sharp turns was dangerous in a crowded water sports environment. Head-on collisions were not uncommon. Therefore, marina operators usually rigged governors to the jet ski throttles to limit the speeds, and El-Din was putting one in place on the accelerator that Kyle would use. It was a plastic wedge screwed onto the handlebar to prevent the throttle from being squeezed all the way back in an overenthusiastic grip. When he tightened the bolt, he swam back to his Yamaha and climbed aboard.
“Are you ready?” he whispered.
“Have to crank it up sometime,” Kyle responded. “Might as well be now.” While Abdel had dealt with the chain and the throttle, Kyle had used duct tape to secure both ends of the handlebar to keep the ski pointed straight ahead. “You go ahead and drive out of danger range. If something goes wrong, get the hell out of here. If not, come and get me.”
“Or whatever is left of you.”
“I’ll creep in to about thirty yards from the midsection, light the rags, then jack the throttle back all the way and tighten it in place with duct tape. I will roll into the water.”
El-Din nodded in agreement. “I will be right behind you. Just grab on tight as I pass and hold on until we get clear of the target and the blast. After that, you climb aboard and we leave in a hurry. Right?”
“Right. Let’s get this done.”
Abdel cranked his jet ski with a minimum throttle and little noise and scooted into a wide circle without creating a disturbing wake. Swanson took a deep breath and turned the key on his Honda. The engine spun to life without igniting the extremely flammable cargo, allowing him to exhale. He pressed the throttle slowly and the little ski slid forward, as if being summoned by the big boat, which loomed larger in his sight by the second. A hundred yards away, he could see a few figures moving around on board, but no alarm had been sounded.
Seventy-five yards, and he forced himself to concentrate on delivering the package perfectly, not on getting off of the homemade bomb as quickly as he could. Sixty yards, and the ski remained perfectly positioned, its nose aimed directly at the metal hull looming in front of him. Kyle revved it up, pulled the throttle back to its maximum position, and held on tight as the ski almost stood on its tail. When the bow hit the water again, he looped a turn of duct tape around the accelerator to hold it in place.
Jump, you crazy fool, he thought as the ski lunged ahead like a Thoroughbred out of the gate. A cigarette lighter had been kept dry in the neck of his wet suit, and he thumbed it once with his left hand, then twice, and the little flame caught. He touched it to a gasoline-soaked cloth that snaked from the filled gas tank tied at the front, then to another rag that fed into the rear tank. Somewhat surprised that he was still alive, Kyle Swanson rolled easily off and smacked into the water, careful not to kick away hard, which might throw the jet ski off course.
In the old days of wooden ships, enemy fleets and blockades were often attacked by ships that had been sailed into them while burning fiercely, thus torching the sails, spars, and hull. Swanson popped to the surface just in time to see his own version of a fire ship crash into the Iranian freighter.
“Oh, my God. not another one!” Dr. Tianha Bialy had been awakened for the third time in a single night by a monstrous explosion, this new one sounding like it was just outside her hotel window that opened out onto scenic Naama Bay. She had been dozing in her wrinkled clothes, and her hair felt wild, her eyes were blurry, and a foul taste was in her mouth.
She staggered to the window as sirens and alarms began sounding around the harbor, where a ship was in obvious great distress. It took her only a moment to realize that the new blaze was engulfing the Iranian ship that had been so placidly rocking at anchor all day long, unloading supplies. A wave of flame from the starboard side was marching hungrily along the deck, fingers of fire licking around the wheelhouse superstructure while boxes and crates on deck started to ignite. There was another crash as one container of mortar shells blew apart.
Grabbing her binoculars from the night table, she focused tightly on the ship. Crewmen were unreeling hoses, and spotlights came to life from other nearby ships to give the scene an awful glow. A tugboat was already approaching, looping a line of spray from a middeck water cannon. There was a pounding at the door behind her, and Omar came in with his own key to join her and watch the fiery disaster. Another explosion, more muffled, rumbled through the ship.
“That one was belowdecks,” said Omar. “They have big trouble out there.”
“So do you think there is a guerrilla force at work in Sharm? Maybe a special ops team from outside that we don’t know about? I mean, all of these attacks tonight have been severe.” A sudden sheet of flame spouted from an open deck hatch, and two men with fire chewing at their clothes dove overboard, screaming. Then there came another thud below the waterline, but no accompanying flame, just a ball of smoke.
“No. I think our dangerous friend Kyle has been working hard all night long. That last explosion may have put a hole in the hull.”
Bialy sniffed. “Impossible. He’s only one man, and these attacks have been all over the place. The airport and the ocean? What do you think I should report to London, Omar?”
As he watched, the topside fire crawled swiftly across the deck, obviously out of control. A harbor firefighting boat arrived and started arcing water uselessly into the inferno, but the men on board had withdrawn in the face of the heat and the implacable moving fire and the danger of being blown to pieces.