“Where is he now?”
“I have him under arrest in the barracks.” The general went to the door and told his sergeant major to go bring Naqdi, on the double. “When do we get started on this withdrawal?”
“Withdrawal? Once back in Iran, you can call it anything you want, maybe a strategic redeployment of troops at the request of the United Nations, which you claimed asked you here in the first place as peacekeepers; but on our side, it has to be a surrender because of the insult to our territorial integrity. We will let the diplomats sort out the final terminology.” General Suliamin opened his briefcase and handed the Iranian a three-page legal document to make it official, including a schedule. “I will bring some troops over today to take over your perimeter outposts and keep the locals away. Do you have any of those transports left?”
“Only three that are still airworthy. We can use them for the airlift.” He finished reading the document. “I have to obtain permission before signing.”
“I know. I will go back to Hurghada now and send a couple of staff members back to work with your people and finish the details.” He stood and shook hands with the defeated general.
The sergeant major threw open the door and barged into the room without knocking. “Sir! Colonel Naqdi is gone!”
The ringing telephone did not awaken Kyle Swanson, nor did the knock on the door of his rooms. The knock became a pounding, and still he didn’t stir, for he was buried in clean sheets and soft pillows, snoring and relaxed for the first time in days. Finally, Karam, the concierge, unlocked the door with his master key and allowed the chief of police to go inside and shake Kyle awake. It was eight o’clock in the morning, and he had been asleep for only a little more than an hour. Swanson groaned as the burly Egyptian cop called his name loudly and shook him roughly by the shoulder.
His eyes opened, bleary and unfocused until the face of the chief swam into view. Kyle pulled a pillow over his head and said, muffled, “Why in the name of all that’s holy are you here, Chief? What does a man have to do to get some rest in this place?”
“Get up, Mr. Swanson. Something urgent has happened.”
Kyle lowered the pillow and read the bedside clock and groaned. “Urgent? I thought the fighting was over.”
“That it is. In fact, a surrender is being arranged, but that’s not why I am at your bedside. You must get up.”
“This had better be good.” He shucked off the sheet and sat up, wearing boxer shorts. A bottle of water was on the table, and he gulped at it.
“An Iranian officer, a colonel, drove up to one of our roadblocks and surrendered to my men, saying that he had important information.” The chief of police found a chair and made himself comfortable. “And he asked for you by name.”
Kyle closed his eyes for a minute. It could only be one person. “Let me guess; he calls himself the Pharaoh, right? Says he’s some kind of spy.”
The chief blinked. “Yes. How did you know? We have him downstairs.”
“Oh, double shit,” Swanson said, getting to his feet and yawning. “OK, Chief. Give me a few minutes to dress and make a few calls, then I’ll come right down.”
“We are holding him in an office area that had been confiscated by another Iranian officer, a Major Shakuri.”
“I heard that guy was taken off the street a few days back by British intelligence agents. He also claimed to be some kind of big intelligence dog. Was it that long ago? Jesus, I can’t remember. So much has been going on. Anyway, Major Shakuri is currently the property of MI6 and the Saudi Arabian government. I’m going to shower again to wake up and will meet you there in fifteen.”
Colonel Naqdi had been in the intelligence service for many years and had learned that a good agent always has a back-door emergency plan for himself. His ambitious operation to plant Iranian troops in Egypt had failed due to that incompetent general and the spineless weasels of the Muslim Brotherhood, so it was time to save his own hide. The idea of getting out through Cairo had vanished when his airplane was destroyed, so he was into his secondary scheme of trading information for safety. It was time for the Pharaoh to step forward and start revealing actual state secrets, which meant he could never return to Iran. Too bad, but the world was a big place, he had a number of bank accounts abroad, and if he could get beneath the protective wing of the United States and the British, the colonel could look forward to a long, comfortable life.
This was the payoff moment from planting those seeds over the past months with MI6, which certainly shared the information with the CIA. They liked what he had given them so much that a pair of agents had been dispatched to work closely with him. He had always stayed just beyond their reach, always one step ahead, always tantalizing his would-be masters with what he might reveal about what was happening in Tehran and about the workings of the minds of the fanatic mullahs and that crazy president. He could even discuss the nuclear program with enough authenticity that his questioners would accept the information as being fresh, although it was not. In fact, a lot of the material he passed along was common knowledge in Iran’s intelligence circles. With his rank and reputation, he could spin his cooperation to be dependent upon how well he was treated. He was thinking more in terms of Miami than Guantánamo, or Ireland instead of Romania.
That was his frame of mind when the office door swung open and the chief of police came in with a slim man wearing a dark business suit, shined custom-made shoes, and a silk tie over a light blue shirt. He was about five feet nine and weighed probably about 150 pounds, with sun-bleached brown hair and piercing gray-green eyes. The colonel could not stand up because he was handcuffed to his chair, but he went on the offensive immediately. “You are Kyle Swanson of the Central Intelligence Agency,” he announced with authority in his voice.
“Wrong,” the man replied, taking a chair.
The policeman stood behind him. The last time the chief had seen Swanson, he was dirty, sweaty, and in Egyptian clothes; now he was in the neat clothes of a successful, cold-as-ice business executive.
“I don’t know where your information comes from, but I don’t work for the CIA. You did get the name right.”
“Then some other American intelligence agency. Rumors are often inaccurate on details. Which group you work for is unimportant.”
The man slid a leather billfold from his inside jacket pocket and pushed a business card across the table separating them. “I’m a businessman who just happened to get caught in the middle of your stupid invasion of Egypt. That was some kind of fucked-up fight from the start, huh? It must have been planned by idiots.”
The card identified Kyle as vice president of Excalibur Enterprises, based in London. The colonel read the card and twirled it on a corner while he thought. “It has been no secret that you and Dr. Tianha Bialy of the MI6 were sent to Egypt to find the Pharaoh. Well, here I am, ready to accommodate your questions on a matter of vital importance.”
Kyle turned in his seat and looked up at the chief. “Is this guy for real?” The chief shrugged. “Bialy was looking for you, but she and I were together only for a few days, working on a project for my company because she is a recognized expert in Egyptian affairs. She had some local guys helping her out with the spy stuff, and they worked hard to keep me in the dark. That was how I preferred it.”