“I’ve heard of him. Never met him though. Jordanian by birth, a naturalized American. Tough as a rusty screw. A take no bull type of guy.” Abdul’s four years of study in the US in the late nineties came back in the form of typical American expressions.
“I noticed that much when I talked to him.”
Abdul’s hands fiddled with the steering wheel.
“What’s the CIS got to do with these car bombings if there were no Canadian casualties? Americans have their own resources and they’re not shy about flexing their muscles to get what they want.”
“I don’t want to lie to you Abdul, but I can’t tell you the entire truth.”
“What a shocking surprise.” Abdul grinned, his left lip curling up.
“Trust me. I wish I could let you into all I know.”
“I thought you never said that word.”
“I do trust you, Abdul, but you also have to trust me. Some of these things are state secrets. All I can tell you is that Americans want to get to the bottom of this matter. They want Libya to be as stable and as safe as possible.”
“Of course, so they can suck out our oil and gas.”
“Yes, that and other things, which are not relevant to our mission. I’ll help the Americans for a few days, we’ll wrap this thing up, and I’ll be out of your hair.”
Abdul sighed.
“I wish I could believe it was that simple.”
“Simpletown is just a mirage, Abdul. Life is complicated.”
“Yes, sometimes more than ever.”
Abdul pushed on a button, popping up the Nissan’s trunk.
“I forgot the bulletproof vest, but there’s a bag with some clothes and a satphone in the back. Unregistered number, extremely difficult to find. As with the Glock, take it apart and get rid of the pieces when you’re done.”
“Thanks, Abdul. I appreciate your help.”
“Don’t mention it. Hopefully, you won’t need anything else, but knowing you, I’m sure you will.”
“Again, thank you.”
“Good luck.”
Justin shook Abdul’s hand before getting out of the police car and retrieving the black duffel bag. He watched his contact speed out of the parking lot. As soon as he turned the right corner, in front of a small mosque, he disappeared into the dark of the night.
Justin walked to the edge of street and looked around. A few young men were standing in front of a grocery store about a hundred feet away. He could hear their loud shouts. Soccer fans replaying recent victories of British clubs.
He proceeded in the opposite direction. When he was sure no one was within eavesdropping distance, he took out the Thuraya satellite phone and placed a call to Anna. The cold electronic voice of the answering machine startled him and he stuttered while leaving a short message. Anna was probably running errands or perhaps had gone out for supper with her girlfriends.
The next call he placed went unanswered as well. This time he heard only the continuous beep of the phone ringing, but no one picked it up. Did the operation go wrong? Justin paced back and forth in the parking lot. Carrie, answer the freaking phone. He began having second thoughts about leaving her behind in Cairo to face the men of the Mossad without him. There was not much he could do now. He dismissed the option of checking with the CIS station in Cairo. Carrie would frown at what she would certainly interpret as a lack of trust in her. I don’t need a babysitter to remind me of bedtime, she would blurt out. I’ll try her again in half an hour or so. He turned around and headed toward the Four Seasons Hotel. He would not fall asleep until he had talked to Carrie.
Chapter Thirteen
Carrie knew the Mossad’s agents were never late. Without a reason, that is. It was a different matter if they were playing a cruel game of patience with Carrie’s nerves. When employed efficiently, the famous tactic of “lying in wait” produced surprising results. As time trickled away, agents grew nervous and began making rookie mistakes. The extended state of alert wore out even the most weathered marksmen. Inaction and fatigue killed even the most skillfully planned mission.
She could not allow her operation to meet the same fate. Her meeting with Eliakim Ben-David, the liaison sent by the Israeli Embassy in Cairo, was set for 9:30 p.m. Forty-five minutes later, Carrie still held hopes the liaison would arrive sooner or later. “Something is holding him up,” she repeated more than once to agitated CIS agents. “This meeting is too important for him to be a no-show.”
However, she harbored her own doubts. Were the Israelis willing to negotiate the return of their man, if he was indeed one of their own? Were they planning an ambush as she withdrew? Carrie knew her team was most vulnerable while leaving or arriving at a location. Cairo’s crooked alleys and clogged roads offered endless opportunities for executing a hostage-taking mission. “An eye for an eye” was the Golden Rule of the Hebrew nation. Their long wars with neighboring Arab countries had proven this beyond any doubt.
The reason Carrie had chosen the Museum of Egyptian Antiquities as the meeting place was security. The museum exhibited and stored over 100,000 priceless relics — world treasures from Pharaohs’ tombs, such as the Statue of Khafre and the solid gold mask of Pharaoh Tutankhamen, the Boy King — therefore, the security cocooning the complex was comparable to that of the White House or Fort Knox.
The security measures consisted of metal detector checkpoints at entrances to the fenced area surrounding the museum buildings. A second perimeter of protection was provided by security booths inside the main entrance, manned by local guards brandishing AK-47s. The crowds of history junkies were an added protective measure. The evening was the busiest time for the museum, as tourists squeezed a few hours of sightseeing before leaving Egypt earlier the next day. The doors of the museum stayed open until 10:30 p.m.
Carrie chose a quiet room on the ground level. Away from most of the flow of visitors, it still had sufficient tourist presence to deter any violent outburst of the Israeli team. Fire exit doors, leading to the back of the museum, were at hand, in case a quick exit became necessary.
Carrie glanced at her wristwatch. Five more minutes and the bell would toll the signal for the closing, giving visitors ten minutes to clear the halls. Still no sign of Eliakim or anyone else looking for her. She held the eyes of an agent stationed by the entrance to the room. He responded with a swift headshake. Carrie sighed and stood up from the small, uncomfortable leather chair. She began pacing around the room, looking at a showcase of poison dart blowpipes. The air was cool, thanks to powerful air conditioning systems, in place mostly for the preservation of relics, rather than the benefit of visitors, and it carried a musty smell that reminded Carrie of thrifty bookstores.
“Carrie, we got something.” The strong voice of one of the agents positioned at the end of the hall pierced her left ear.
“What is it?” She adjusted her earpiece volume and walked to the entrance of the room.
“Tall, muscular man. Blue blazer, khaki pants. Late thirties. Coming to you from the left, at nine o’clock. He’s staring at you, Mike.”
“Yeah, I see him,” replied Mike, the agent by the entrance to the room. He had spotted the man among the thinning tourist crowd.
Carrie could see him as well. The man had sharp facial features, a chiseled nose, dark penetrating eyes, and a well-trimmed anchor beard.
“I got him.” Mike took a few steps forward, blocking most of the narrow hall with his three hundred pounds body.