Abdel rose and wiped away the tears, which had mingled with the sweat. His eyes grew hard. “No. I do not, but I am only one man.”
“You told me last night that other people were as outraged as you by that first round of executions, so I don’t think that you are really alone. Egyptians have not survived so many centuries by acting like a bunch of frightened rabbits.”
El-Din regarded the slight American; no doubt this was a dangerous man. “So do you have another idea, like the one we did last night?”
“Yes. With a little help from your friends, I believe we can stop tonight’s executions.”
“Really?”
“Why not?” Kyle sketched out the possibilities, like a salesman pumping an inevitably positive response into a client. The clock read just after noon, which gave them nine hours to pull something together.
The muted purr of the twin-prop Cessna 421 was almost hypnotic to the pilot as he skimmed the private plane along the eastern bank of the Suez Canal. Not a ship was moving down there. Colonel Yahya Ali Naqdi had held his private license for many years, was rated for multiengine aircraft, and had, in a rare moment of weakness, managed to purchase the Cessna for his own use three years ago with money laundered through the Palm Group cover company. He had sold his masters back in Tehran with the idea of using it for covert reconnaissance, when in reality he just loved flying and treasured the feeling of freedom that being in the air gave to him. On his own plane, he was master of his own fate.
Getting a flight plan filed and the necessary permissions to leave Cairo had been brutally frustrating today. Since no one was really in charge of the airports due to the riots and pitched battles around Cairo, no one wanted to make any decisions. The colonel had to bribe his way into the air, arguing through multiple levels of bureaucrats that his unarmed plane was no threat to anyone, and that he was on a legitimate and urgent business trip for the Palm Group, which had holdings down in Sharm. Yes, he had been given assurances that the Iranians would let him land safely. The lies and money finally won approval for him to go but had burned several hours. It was almost six o’clock in the afternoon, only an hour and a half before dusk, as he neared the end of his flight and saw the canal widen to empty into the Red Sea. He banked slightly and dipped to a lower altitude when Sharm el-Sheikh appeared off of his left wingtip after the trip of slightly more than 230 miles.
The view was startling. Naqdi could see out to where the broken oil tanker Llewellyn was being held awkwardly in place by anchors and tugboats, surrounded by the sheen of a huge oil slick. Containment rings were in place, but heavy oil had coated the nearby shoreline, and the cleaning process was still days away from even starting. Another large oil slick marked the death waters of the Babr, the first ship to die, and the bow of the destroyed supply ship in the harbor stuck out of the water like a macabre monument. The city seemed quiet, and few people were out along the line of big hotels that dominated the long sandy beaches.
This is a war zone, he thought. Things had gotten messy. Ripping his eyes from the long line of idled ships that stretched out as far as he could see, the colonel banked back toward the Sharm airport, using the gray columns of smoke that rose from the destroyed ammunition dump as guideposts. He was eager to get on the ground and receive a full tour and updated briefing from Major Shakuri. His usually reliable aide had not been in contact since early this morning.
The colonel slid his radio headset over his ears, tuned in the military frequency for the airport, and requested landing clearance, which was immediately granted. The little Cessna passed by the charred and skeletal wreckage of the crashed Boeing airliner, made a featherlike touchdown, and taxied up to the control tower. He cut the engines, then pushed open the fuselage hatch and stepped out onto the tarmac. Shakuri was not there. Only a curious sergeant carrying a clipboard filled with papers stepped out to meet him.
28
They abandoned the marina because Kyle believed it might very well be under observation by the police, although they had feigned disinterest in Abdel’s report of the theft of the jet skis. Perhaps, deep inside one of those nearby buildings, a couple of cops with binoculars and a radio were waiting and watching. So Abdel took some time to sweep up glass and debris, then locked up and put out a CLOSED sign, just like the other businesses. The activity kept any attention on him while Kyle crept back out the way he had come in, still unseen. They met at the home of one of Abdel’s cousins, not far from the public park where the executions were held, and El-Din went around the city to collect other relatives.
By dusk, they had a pickup team — nine men, including Kyle. The size was determined by Abdel selecting only people whom he would trust with his life. The men were all members of the El-Din clan or the extended family, with a collective attitude of retribution. Each had brought at least one weapon, a mix of AKs and SKS rifles and even one old M-14, all with multiple clips of ammunition.
They were surprised to see the American outsider, and suspicious until Abdel vouched for Swanson’s friendship and explained how he was a tourist with military experience who had been caught in the same vise that clamped them all. His local-style clothing and dirty appearance were explained away as part of his just trying to stay away from the Iranians until he could leave.
Kyle was lavish in praise of their bravery for deciding to come today, and he freely acknowledged Abdel as the leader. He himself was there only to help and offer advice because he knew a lot about how counterinsurgency works, he said. Eventually, the group accepted him.
On the other hand, he was struck by the fact that these men were not hardened desert warriors or lethal mountain tribesmen like those he had faced on battlefields throughout the Middle East, the kind of fighter with deep scars and hatreds. These were merchants, workers, fishermen, and city dwellers who had earned their livings from free-spending tourists and lived far from the fighting that roiled Afghanistan, Iraq, and Pakistan. Despite the political revolution erupting elsewhere, their lives had been calm before fanatics had stormed the hotels, killing people, and the Iranian soldiers showed up, almost in the next breath. Since then, their normal lives had vanished. Their eyes and muscles were soft, and their fighting experience and discipline were limited or nonexistent. The youngest was sixteen, the oldest around sixty. None had military training. Would they fight? Some would, some would hesitate, or spray and pray, and some might run away. He would not know that until the shooting started.
It did not take long for the meeting to collapse into a useless council of war, during which every member of the team gave his opinions, some of which were very wordy and long and, in the end, useless. Kyle bit his lip to remain silent, depending on Abdel to run this show. The kid let them talk until the general opinion drifted inevitably toward pessimism, and he stopped it there.
“My friends,” Abdel said softly, politely addressing the hardest arguers as everyone remained seated on the scattering of cushions, the carpet, a sofa, and chairs. Some were his elders, which meant he had to step carefully or risk insulting them. “We have now heard all opinions, and the time for talking is done. The choice is simple: We either fight or run away. If we run, the Iranians will remain in control of our city, perhaps forever, and execute our people whenever they want, as they did with Hamid, and as they will do again tonight with others. If we fight, as a group, we can answer the Iranian violence with violence of our own. There have already been some significant attacks that have hurt the invaders, and I admit to you, my trusted family, that I am part of this rebellion. I will continue to fight. They want to own us, and we must not allow it.”