by Jack Hardin
The front area of the restaurant was small, with ten table pressed close to each other. Half of them were empty
The restaurant's was situated on Large plate glass windows looked out onto the street and nine tables were positioned on the concrete floor. Half of them were currently occupied and Gamal looked across the room and spotted a man and women near the door. They were both Anglo. He recognized the man immediately: tall, wide shoulders, and short hair. His beard had grown out in it was a few shades darker then the light brown color adorning his scalp. Gamal did not recognize the women standing next to him. And he would have remembered her. She was stunning. She wore jeans and a white blouse and her short black hair curved just beneath her jawline.
A large smile grew over his face as Gamal navigated the tables and made his way to the front. He threw out his hands. “Nick, my friend.” He stepped up to the man and gave him an endearing hug. He pulled back and assessed his guest. “You look good, my friend. How are you? It is been a long time. A couple of years, I think.”
“Yes,” Nick replied. “It’s been a while. It’s good to see you Gamal.”
Gamal looked to the lady who offered a courteous smile. “And who is this beautiful lady?” Your wife?”
Nick smiled. “No. This is Lisa, an associate of mine. Lisa, this is Gamal.”
“Ah,” Gamal said. Lisa offered her hand and Gamal took it gently into his like it was a baby bird. He leaned down and kissed the top of it. “Lovely to have you here Miss Lisa.”
“Thank you,” she said.
Gamal turned his attention back to his Nick. “So, my friend. What brings you here?”
“Can we talk, Gamal? In private.”
“Yes. Yes of course.” A waiter was passing by. Gamal snapped at him and barked something in Arabic. The man nodded quickly and disappeared into the kitchen. Gamal motioned towards the back of the room where a floor-to-ceiling curtain formed a barrier to the back of the restaurant. “Come with me.” They followed him to the curtain which he pulled back enough for them to pass through. “We use this area only for lunch,” he said, and slid the curtain back against the wall.
A dozen empty tables and chairs filled the floor and the back wall was lined with booths. The lighting was dim, provided by flush lights mounted along the wall. Their host directed them a corner booth. They slid in and he sat down across from them.
The curtain shuffled open and the waiter appeared with a tray. He stopped at the table and set three tea cups, a ceramic teapot, and a small bowl of pitted dates on the table. He dipped his head courteously before disappearing again behind the curtain.
Gamal grabbed the teapot and filled the cups, and pushed the dates into the center of the table. “Please,” he said. “Enjoy.”
Ask his guests sipped their tea he asked, “Are you still living in Dubai, Nick?”
“Yes.”
“And you are still doing consulting for governments?”
“I am. I see the restaurant business is still treating you well.”
Gamal nodded. “Yes. Very good. Long hours but it hard work is good. So, what is it that you need, my friend?”
Nick set his cup down. He reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a picture. He laid it on the table and turned it towards Gamal. “An American doctor has been in county for two weeks. He’s been volunteering at the Dunwharte refugee camp in El-Hara.”
“Ah, yes. I know the place.”
“He left the camp this morning and was headed here to Cairo to catch a flight home. He never made it to the airport and he hasn’t made contact with anyone.”
Gamal frowned and crossed his arms over his chest. “He couldn’t have changed plans?”
“No. He was last seen leaving the camp. A taxi driver picked him up and they were heading to Cairo. He doesn’t know the country. I need to find him.”
Gamal reached out and picked a date out of the bowl. He tossed it in his mouth and worked it between his teeth as he thought. This doctor,” he said, “he must be a very important man.”
Lisa spoke up. “It so happens that he is the son of a United States senator.”
Gamal arched an eyebrow. “Ah. I see. That is a big problem.” He shook his head. “The timing is very bad. You know that our country is on the verge of revolution. Mubarak had long promised constitutional reform. But we have seen nothing like that. An uprising has begun in Tunisia. Bahrain they say is soon to follow. Here, people are already starting to gather in Tahrir Square.” He tossed his hands out and waved them around. “You can felt the unrest in the air.”
“Yes,” Nick said. “Which is why I need your help. If Mubarak’s government is overturned Ciario will be chaos.” He jammed his finger into the picture. “We need to find him and get him out of country. You have a son, don’t you Gamal?”
Gamal beamed proudly. “Yes. He is medical student at Ain Shams University.”
“And what would you be willing to do to get him back? What would you be willing to do if you had the authority of the United States government behind you?”
Nick’s hand disappeared into his pants pocket. When he brought it back it his fingers were clutching a small brown envelope. He placed it on the table and slid it across. Gamal smiled knowingly. “What is his name?”
“Ben Warner. He’s thirty-seven years old. His father is Dell Warner, a Colorado Senator.”
“Alright, my friend. Let me see what I can do. I will ask around. Leave me a number. I will call you tomorrow.”
“Tonight.”
“Ah, you are asking a hard thing.”
“Tonight, Gamal.” Nick’s eyes went towards the brown envelope. “Or I return for my deposit.”
Gamal held up his hands in a defensive posture. “Okay. Tonight, then.”
Lisa slid a business card across the table. “After the city code the number is written backwards.”
Gamal nodded and slipped out of the booth. He produced a large smile. “I will call you tonight.”
“Don’t bother unless you have what I need.”
Gamal’s eyes suddenly filled with tempered concern. “I will get your information, old friend. Please, finish your tea.” He slipped out of the booth. “Lisa, a delight to meet you.” And then he gave a slight bow of the head and quickly disappeared behind the curtain.
Chapter Four
The late afternoon sun pulsed over the the ancient city like a white hot laser, its merciless rays baking everything in its path. Ellie O’Conner followed Voltaire out of Gamal’s restaurant and into the busy Cairo street. Her blonde hair was sweltering beneath her black wig, but she paid it no mind. They each donned sunglasses and made their down Ali Abd Allah before turing east at the corner of Al Fostat and making their way back to their hotel.
Along the route men were hosing down areas of the street and dipping labels into buckets before flinging them out and sprinkling the area around them; a feeble effort to introduce some humidity into the air and bring down the blazing temperature a few degrees. A butcher shop was showing off leg of lamb that hung from a wire outside and whole fish were on display in wooden crates packed packed with shaved ice.
Ellie had been in Cairo once before, a year earlier, and she remembered the locals to be some of the most hospitable and friendly she had ever met. They would gather around her and offer to carry her things, ask her if she needed help to her destination or if they could buy her a meal. And it wasn’t just because she was an attractive Western lady or because they were trying to pull one over on her. The locals did not discriminate in their hospitality; they were gracious, considerate, and eager to assist in some way.
But this time around, Ellie noted that things were different. She and Voltaire were hardly noticed as they made their way towards their hotel on El-Amir Sarif. Everywhere they turned men and women were clustered together, speaking in animated fashion as they discussed the sudden surge of unity in the country’s political dissatisfaction. Most people looked excited, some fearful, and several shops were in the process of
closing early, many vendors now busy moving their products back inside. There was a charge of energy in the air; an excited optimism born out of a decades-long frustrain with the current president and his stifling regime. Revolution was in the air, as was the belief that some immanent change was on the horizon. Something was about to begin. Or end.
Revolution seemed imminent, and that made the four members of TEAM 99 who had come to rescue Ben Warner wanted to complete their mission as soon as possible and leave. In was in the very nature of wayward governments that they did not take well to uprisings; they did not accommodate their people rising up, exerting their voices, and making clear demands. Hosni Mubarak had oppressed his people for far too long. They had had enough. But no one knew how it would all shake out.
Ten minutes after leaving Gamal’s restaurant Ellie and Voltaire arrived at a non-descript two-story building. The first floor held a small meighbnrhod grocery store and above it, a small flat that looked over the street. They left the boisterous street behind and worked their way down the alley until they came to a metal staircase. They took it up the the next floor and walked down a short, dark hallway until they reached a door. Voltaire withdrew a key from his pocket, slipped it into the lock, and opened the door. Ellie stepped inside and she heard the door shut behind her. “God, this heat,” Voltaire said. “Can we open a window?”
Across the room Cicero was seated at a small desk positioned against the wall. He was clicking away on his laptop and beads of sweat were gather across his forehead. Without taking his eyes off his screen he said, “Can’t. Looks like some bozo decided to screw a clamp on the outside of all the windows. They’re all like that.” Above, an old tired fan oscillated slowly, stirring the musty heat but doing nothing to cool the air.
There were two double beds in the room. Both were strewn with semi-automatic weapons, loaded magazines, night vision goggles, load-bearing vests, and additional gear. A hardshell case sat next to a pillow, its contents a dozen fragmentation grenades.
The American operatives had been at their compound in Brussels, Belgium just six hours ago. Their mission was clear: find Ben Warner and bring him home.
Ellie walked to the corner of the room and sat into a small armchair. “Have you heard from Virgil?” she asked Cicero. Virgil was four streets over, on Ibn Mansour, inquiring with a local florist who, like Gamal, maintained deep connections with the local criminal underworld.
“Nope. Not yet.” The team’s technology operative didn’t take his attention of his computer screen. “I just got off the phone with the palace,” he said. The palace was code for Langley. “Satellite feeds shows a white Toyota Corolla leaving the refugee camp at oh-eight-twenty-eight this morning. Three witness at the camp confirm Ben was in the car when it left. The car took the Al Wahat Al Baharia Highway on route to Cairo for an hour before the satellite moved on.
Voltaire was in the bathroom, splashing cool water on his face. He turned the water off and grabbed a towel, ran it down his face. “License plate?” he asked.
“No. The palace has already tried cleaning the images. The sat wasn’t focused in on the car so there isn’t enough to get the plate number.”
A distinct knock came at the door. Voltaire tossed the towel over the shower bar and went to the door. There was no peep hole. “Yes?” he said.
“I have three suitcases and a pizza,” the strong voice said. Hearing the code phrase Voltaire slid the lock back and opened the door. Virgil walked through shaking his head. “Man, pizza sounds so good right now. Anybody else hungry?”
Everyone shook their heads. Virgil was always hungry. Someone once quipped that he was the only person who could spend an hour at Golden Corral and still leave hungry.
“What did you find out?” Voltaire asked him.
“Well, I don’t know if you heard or not but about half this city wants to get their hands around Mubarak’s throat. The florist wasn’t there. His shop is locked up, as is nearly every other storefront down his street. Everyone's on their way to the Square.” Virgil slipped a large hand across his forehead. “Why couldn’t Mortimer put us up in a joint were the air actually circulates?” His t-shirt had a large wet spot slowly blooming in the center of his chest.
Ellie looked at Voltaire. “So what now?”
“Now we wait. We wait and hope that Gamal comes through or the palace gets us more more intel.”
They waited for nearly three hours, spending the time watching local television while Voltaire translated much of the commentary. He was the only one among them who knew Arabic. Nearly every channel was covering the throngs of people continuing to gather in Tahrir Square. Estimates had the figure at twenty thousand, with more pouring in each minute. Tents had been erected and a stage set up. The protestors had no plans to leave until their demands were met. The Egyptian political scene was a bomb ready to explode. With each passing hour the streets grew louder and threatened to erupt into all-out revolution.
It was the worst possible time for the American’s operatives to be in the city.
Outside their window, down in the street came a steady chant that grew louder with each passing second. Ellie pulled back the sheer curtains and looked down into the street. The sunlight had nearly faded and the sky was lit by a dim orange glow out of the west. A large group of young adults were moving briskly down the street, yelling in unison and raising homemade signs that their discontents. Voltaire stepped up to the window and followed Ellie’s gaze. “What are they saying?” she asked.
“No Mubarak. End the corruption.” He continued listening. “No Mubarak. No more injustice.” The voices faded as the crowd continued to move on.
A phone rang in Voltaire's pocket. He pulled it out and slid his finger across the glass before setting it to his ear.
“Hello.”
“Nick, my friend.”
“Gamal. I hope you have good news.”
“Yes, my friend. Good news. I made calls. Many calls. There are whispers about your American doctor who went missing. Someone said they know where he is.”
Voltaire did not reply. He knew there was more then simply asking who the source was or asking were Ben was located. “This man,” Gamal continued, “I do not know him, he is a friend of someone else. But h is willing to meet with you.” Gamal paused. “For a fee, of course.”
“I’ll meet with him,” Voltaire said. “I’ll bring you the money and you can confirm receipt with him. After we’ve met he can come to you and get it.”
“Yes. Okay. I will tell him.”
“Where does he want to meet?”
“There is an old cafe. Cafe Beggat, near the Scientific Academy. In one hour he will be there.”
“Okay.”
“He will be wearing a green hat. I think you call it a...baseball hat.”
“I’ll be back at your place in fifteen minutes with the money, “Voltaire said.
“Very good, my friend.”
They disconnected and Voltaire pocketed the phone, then looked at Cicero. “Cafe Beggat, near the Scientific Academy.”
Cicero’s fingers clicked over the keys and a map appeared on the screen. He zoomed in. Ellie stood up and she looked over his shoulder. Cicero pinched at the bridge of his nose. “Oh, man. You’re not going to like this,” he said. “This cafe, it’s like right off Tahrir Square.”
Voltaire's face darkened. He cursed. The room was silent. Tonight, Tahrir Square was the last place on the planet any of them wanted to be. The incumbent government had the military on their side. Violence could erupt at any second. Entire squadrons of police were already in the streets, dressed in full riot gear and blocking the way to Heliopolis Palace—the presidential palace—and The Mogamma, the fifteen-story government building at the south end of the square.
“You could dictate a different location,” Cicero said.
“No. I don’t want to stir the pot and have to wait on another lead to surface.” Voltaire looked to Ellie. “Pascal, you and Virgil are with me. Cicero, what’s the t
ime on foot?”
Cicero leaned into the screen. “On foot...just over half an hour. “But,” he piped up, “It’s only a quarter mile east of the U.S. Embassy. Worst case is you get chased by a crazed mob and don’t have to foot it very far.
Voltaire nodded thoughtfully. He looked at his watch. “Two minutes.”
Ellie stood and went to the bed, grabbed a small black bag, and went into the bathroom. She changed quickly, swapping her close-fitting jeans for a pair with more give at the waist. She removed her blouse and slipped on a New York Yankees T-shirt. The articles of clothing were provided by Langley. Personally, Ellie had a healthy distaste for the Yankees; her team was the Tampa Bay Rays. She slipped on a pair of socks and then put on a pair of sneakers. After tying the laces she stood up, placed her former articles of clothing in the bag, and then made a couple last second adjustments to her wig before puckering her lips and applying a thin layer of lipstick. She set the small tube back on the sink and looked at herself. She was hardly recognizable. Her eye-shadow was dark, and she wore thick lashes. She stepped back into the room to see Voltaire unzipping a side pocket on one of the duffle bags on the bed. He withdrew another envelope of cash and slipped it into his pants pocket. Ellie set the bag down and grabbed up a concealed carry holster from the bed. She slipped the hook over the band of her jeans and lowered it against her skin. Surveying the small armory before her she selected a SIG Sauer P238 from the bed, then checked the loads and slid the weapon into the holster and flipping her T-shirt over it.
Voltaire adjusted the hidden mic in his ear and checked it against Ellie’s and Virgil’s. “One, check.”
“Three, check,” Virgil said.
“Two, clear,” Ellie replied.
Voltaire looked to Cicero. “Four, I’m good,” Cicero replied, and then kicked his feet up on the desk and laced his fingers behind his head as he leaned back in the chair. “I’ll just be right right here watching reruns of Egyptian soaps. Virgil hand me that remote.”