Abdel shook his head in amusement. “That is almost the truth. So are you going to leave me out of any further action? I don’t want to be left out.”
Kyle stared at the earnest youngster, then picked up a loose business card from a rack on the counter. “I need all of the friends and assets I can get, Abdel, so it is likely I will be asking for more of your help. Meanwhile, stay in the background, and don’t tell anyone what really happened last night, not even your family. Just continue working here. I’ll find you. This thing is not over.”
El-Din watched the strange American leave, heard the SUV engine boom to life, and saw the 4Runner drive away. His thoughts turned to food, and for some reason, he wanted an enormous breakfast. After that, he would contact the police. He was just full of energy.
Major Shakuri believed his overall situation was good. While being the on-site commander in Sharm, he could blame the army general at the airport for the military mishaps, and now he saw a unique opportunity born of that rising confidence.
Instead of being the whipping boy of Colonel Yahya Ali Naqdi, the major sensed that there might be a chance here to topple his vile boss, take his place, and leap forward in rank and privilege, maybe even become a general. All he had to do was inform Tehran that their man was selling secrets, almost on the open market, and the colonel would be gone forever. He was weary, but this entire operation was playing out much better than he could have imagined.
Already, he had the colonel dangling, and Naqdi’s normally confident voice was sounding strained. He had told his senior to get some sleep; then he had awakened the colonel a short time later with really bad news.
“The transport ship! The ship was sunk?”
“Yes, sir. At present, we do not know if it was a torpedo or a missile from the infidel fleet, but nothing is being ruled out. It certainly had the look of a decisive military attack, and resultant heavy loss of life. I have asked General Khasrodad for his explanation for still another military failure.” And what do you care, you old dog? You had one of our ships sunk with a missile strike without giving the crew any warning.
The colonel had grown agitated. “I sent you down there to run this operation, Major Shakuri, and most of the reports I receive are of new disasters.” The voice was rising, and Shakuri could detect a little fear from the colonel at the sudden loss of control. Someone else was pulling the strings in Sharm el-Sheikh while he was in Cairo trying to oversee the entire operation to put Egypt into Iran’s military grasp.
“Even after the earlier attacks, our army commander failed to take adequate precautions, sir. Apparently no one on the ship even saw the attack coming. The captain and his first officer are among the dead, lucky for them, for I would otherwise have them shot for their negligence. I regretfully recommend that after his dismal performance of the past twenty-four hours, you consider relieving General Khasrodad of his post.” And replace him with me.
It was if the colonel were no longer even listening. “I must spend some time this morning finding out why the Muslim Brotherhood has been unable to come to our rescue down there, as they had promised. And then I must talk with our leaders in Tehran about the situation, and what the diplomats are saying. That will not be pleasant. But I am definitely coming down today, Shakuri, and you had better have some adequate explanations by the time I arrive.”
Shakuri let the uncomfortable silence hang in the air, knowing the colonel would be feeling pressure from Tehran. Push him harder. “Sir, I recommend that you consider placing Sharm under martial law. General Khasrodad simply must get his soldiers out of their holes and into the streets.”
“I will be there this afternoon, Major. Carry on.” The colonel abruptly hung up his phone. No new orders. No asking about the spies. The Pharaoh was falling apart.
Major Shakuri snorted in disgust and brushed aside the call from his superior officer, who was too far away to change anything at all for a few more hours. Shakuri called aloud for the intelligence officer seated at his own desk outside of the main office and told him to bring in the lists, then ordered an aide to bring in a hearty breakfast. His intel officer spread out the sheets of names of candidates for the new round of public executions.
Yesterday, they had simply rounded up victims at random and treated them with respect before shooting them. The uneasy truce that followed evaporated with the overnight actions, so Shakuri wanted twenty more examples to be picked for death, men and women of substance, whose names would be recognized by the people of the coastal city.
The chief of police was the first on the list. A couple of large merchants, and a woman television reporter who had become too outspoken, fomenting resistance. A professor, a dockworker, a mother of three. The twenty would get their final visit to the park at nine o’clock that night after a day of severe questioning.
Having done all that he could for the moment, he instructed the intel officer to carry out the arrests. The spy business intrigued him. What would the rewards be if he could capture both a CIA agent and the MI6 woman? Meanwhile, the major had time for a nap before going to the Four Seasons at ten.
Once he had pried himself from beneath the thumb of the colonel, Shakuri had enjoyed the freedom of thinking for himself, and this whole spy business had intrigued him. All in all, this might turn out to be a fine day.
“Bad business, this.” The normally placid face of Sir Gordon Fitzgerald, the chief of MI6, was wrinkled with lines of tension. The man had been protecting England from foreign threats since the bitter years of the Cold War, and his office was filled with glass cases containing rare weapons and souvenirs from his long career. Soft leather chairs, a big desk, and tall dark cases of books in several languages served to emphasize his old-school manner. He did not have, nor wish to have, a computer, for he had others to deal with details, and the material he wanted would never be on the Internet. Through the decades, he had learned to recognize both the unusual and the inevitable, and the quickening developments in Sharm el-Sheikh qualified on both counts. A small war was blazing within a bigger one. “How much do you trust your American?”
Sir Geoffrey Cornwell snorted. “He’s not ‘my American,’ he’s our son. And I’ve never met a better man. I have total trust in him, C. Total trust.”
“Forgive me, Jeff. I refer only to your evaluation of his rather unusual skill set.”
“There is no one better in these situations.”
Fitzgerald lifted a quizzical eyebrow. “There is always someone better.”
A deep voice joined in via speakerphone from across the Atlantic Ocean. General Brad Middleton, the commander of Task Force Trident, was on the horn from his Pentagon office. “Actually, with all due respect, sir, I agree with Sir Jeff. There isn’t anyone better at this sort of action. From what we’ve been able to piece together on this end, Gunny Swanson is raising hell in Sharm, and he is still on the loose.”
The MI6 man had come to the same conclusion, based on a different set of facts. C cleared his throat. “General, I must apologize for not letting you know directly that we have been using Swanson as an unsuspecting plant to draw the attention of a potentially valuable secret source of information. I had assumed wrongly that the CIA, which was involved all the way, was passing along the plan. It was a massive mistake on my part, but I thought that everybody was on the same page over there since 9/11. Sharing all information, you know?”
Sir Jeff gripped the arms of his wheelchair. “You dangled him on the hook without knowing he was bait. That was inexcusable, C.”