by Eric Meyer
"What transport guy? Who is he?"
She glared at me, as if it was rude to ask the name of the man who could get you killed if he screwed up. "He's a former pilot, Major Joel Turner, USAF, retired. He runs freight charters around the Mideast, mainly in and out of Egypt and Libya."
"He avoids the nasty places, then?"
She avoided the sarcasm. "He knows everything there is to know about this country, and he'll be flying us down to Aswan."
This was news to me. "Why Aswan?"
A pause. "We think Mullah Mukhtar may be going there in the next couple of days. He's doing a tour of the mosques all across Egypt."
Her face was as innocent as pure driven snow. It was the reason he knew she was lying. Winter Moss was as innocent as a drunk driver in a car crash. She hurried on before I could question her further.
"The call I took in the car, it was from the Embassy, to let me know he'd been sighted heading for that area. So we figured it would be a good place to start, and using Major Turner’s services will make us a lot more mobile. The last I heard, Mullah Mukhtar doesn't have his own aircraft, so we'll be a jump ahead of him."
Give it time. He'd doubtless be working his way to owning a fleet.
"When do we meet him?"
She turned as the door opened and a man strode through. "Right now, he's just arrived."
He was old school, one of those throwbacks to the old days when pilots in beat-up leather flight jackets flew rickety aircraft beyond the boundaries of civilization. Turner had the flight jacket, no question. It was battered and patched in places to hide the rips. I hoped he hadn't got the rickety aircraft to complete the image. He gave Winter a friendly peck on the cheek and swapped handshakes with the rest of us.
"It's good to meet you. Winter told me why you're here, so I guess you're not new to this kind of work."
That was great news. It meant the hired help knew everything.
Manuel replied to him, "We’ve fired a few shots."
He nodded. He was short, maybe five feet four inches, and scrawny. He had the physique of a tail gunner on a World War II B-17 bomber, a face that was lopsided beneath a short buzz cut, and mid-brown hair streaked with gray. Clearly his uneven face was the result of an accident. You didn't need to be a genius to work out at least one of his landings hadn't gone well. He was old to be working as a bush pilot, maybe mid fifties, with lined, leathery skin and piercing gray eyes.
"I'm fueled up and ready to fly you guys down to Aswan. What time can you get back to Cairo International? I know you've just arrived, but I know you're on a tight schedule to catch this Mukhtar character, so you'll want to get down there before he moves on somewhere else.”
It was all moving fast, too fast. I remembered Niall's take on the operation, back in Washington. It was the night before we left, and I realized it had only been last night. Niall suggested they needed a fat, juicy bait to reel him in and set him up for the slaughter. Maybe he was right. It sure looked that way. It also looked like Turner may be in on it. I looked at Winter.
“If you know where this character is going to be in the next couple of days, why do you need us? You could give the address and a loaded M-16 to a geriatric, and they'd take him down."
That Snow White smile again. "It’s complicated. We don’t have his exact location, only that he’ll be somewhere in the area of Aswan. If we’re already in town, you can track him down and take him out as soon as he comes out of hiding.”
I swapped glances with Niall. It sounded like his summation may have been correct. But even if it was true, what could we do? There was a lot riding on this operation, for all of us. It meant pulling out wasn’t an option. All we could do was go on and kill the bastard. There’s a difference between walking into an ambush, and making preparations to hit them first when you knew it was coming. But there was a very fine line between the two, very fine. Winter hurried on, maybe knowing how uneasy we felt.
“It’s all laid on. We have a safe house in the town, and the weapons are waiting for you on the aircraft.”
She gave Turner a warm smile, and I wondered for a moment if they’d slept together, probably, if my own experience was anything to go by. She was as picky about men as a drowning man choosing a lifejacket. “Joel, we can arrive at the field by 08:00, is that good with you?”
I checked my wristwatch. I was still reeling from the jetlag, and thirteen hours ahead of Andrews, it was already 02:00. She was allowing four hours sleep before we put our lives on the line and jumped into a 'locate and kill' operation. She was all heart; I’ll say that, a heart that could freeze oxygen and then some. We finished the meal and went to the adjoining rooms they'd allocated to us. As soon as I opened my door, Niall followed me in, pulling Manuel with him. I looked at them, surprised.
"There's no need to share. We each have our own room."
Niall put his finger to his lips and pointed to the bathroom. I must've been tired not to think of it. He went into the bathroom and started running the taps. The water taps, not the Agency taps.
“What's the problem?"
"This looks more and more like a sucker mission," he whispered fiercely, "We need to talk about this."
Manuel nodded. "I didn't like it back at Andrews, and the more it goes on, the more it stinks."
I spread my hands wide. "So what do we do? You both know what's at stake."
Salazar pointed at Niall. "He's got an idea. He'll tell you."
I waited, as he seemed to be coming to grips with a problem. Finally, he spoke. "I've worked out the key to this business. Winter Moss. Out of the four of us, she's the only one who'll know when and where the sucker punch is coming. We stick to her like glue the moment our aircraft is wheels down in Aswan. As soon as she tries to split from us that's when it'll come. When it happens, we stay with her and don't let her out of sight."
"She won't like it if we tail her. And what then?"
He looked at Manuel. "You tell him."
"It goes like this, Schaeffer. The moment things get hot, and she tries to split, we kill her."
I nearly exploded; only remembering just in time the room was probably bugged. “Kill her! That's fucking insane." I stared at Niall, "How can you say that? You, I mean, you’re a Catholic priest!"
He gave me a wry grin. "That's true, except I’m on temporary leave, which cuts me some slack. I also want to stay alive long enough to collect my pay and put it to good use. Can't you see it? We're just the tasty cheese set in the trap. Mukhtar would give anything to kill us, so she'll bring them down on our heads, and there'll be another killteam on standby. The moment Mukhtar's people appear to hit us, that'll be the signal for the other guys to move in. But they won't start shooting as long as they think she's still with us."
I shook my head. "It's not going to happen. You'll have to come up with another plan. Winter Moss is many things, but stupid isn't one of them."
We couldn't agree, so we left it undecided and caught up on some Zs. It wasn't easy to sleep. It's even harder to contemplate killing a girl you've slept with, even the devil's sidekick. By the time I got to sleep, I'd worked it through enough to know they were right. When it came down to the point where she split from us, we'd only have minutes before we were sandwiched between Mullah Mukhtar's fanatics and the backup killteam. What was it Scarlet O'Hara said in Gone With the Wind? ‘I'll think about that tomorrow.’ I knew just how she felt.
Chapter Three
Cairo International Airport, Egypt.
Major Turner's aircraft was waiting for us. Amongst the Boeing and Airbus commercial jets, a mix of cargo and passenger configurations, there were a number of Egyptian military aircraft. A couple of F-16s, and a squadron F4 Phantoms parked nearby on the stand. In the distance, there were French and even Soviet designs, MIG 21s. And then there was Turner's machine. I was wrong about it being rickety. It was worse. A superb aircraft if you were thinking to start an aircraft museum, but flying in it was another matter. A Russian built, no, they were all frater
nal comrades back then, a Soviet built Antonov AN 32, a high wing twin-engine cargo plane.
It had advantages. The high placement of the engines above the wings allowed for larger diameter propellers. The big props gave it more power, and it had good take off abilities under tropical and mountainous conditions, including hot climates where hot or thin air lowers the power plant's capability; a fine piece of engineering design, without a doubt. The problem was these relics had a tendency to fall out of the sky. I could see where Turner acquired his lopsided face.
Turner’s Antonov had two rows of seats behind the cockpit, so we could travel in some comfort, as much as cracked Soviet-era plastic seats would allow. The rear of the cabin was packed with cargo, mainly wooden crates, a few sacks, labeled, ‘UNHCR Famine Relief - A Gift to the People of Somalia’.
I had a suspicion their contents wouldn’t feed the starving. The overpowering odor of hash hit you as soon as you got close. At best, the starving people of Somalia would get so high consuming the contents; they’d forget their misery for a little while. I reminded myself the Middle East was one of the major cannabis growing areas. Morocco, Lebanon, even Afghanistan, they'd be countries Turner flew in and out of on a regular basis.
Turner nodded a terse greeting as he strode into the cabin and went through to the cockpit. He left a trail of alcohol fumes in his wake, another odor I knew well. Niall winced, Manuel looked angry, and I guess we all hoped it was from the night before and not a liquid breakfast. The Russians found out a long time ago that taking off in an Antonov on a belly full of vodka was no problem. It was keeping it in the air that was difficult.
Winter went forward to the cockpit, and I wondered what her business was with Turner. My thoughts were interrupted as the engines started with a roar, spewing clouds of avgas smoke and fumes through the cabin. Another couple of minutes, as he warmed up and got clearance, then he taxied out to the runway and we took off. Winter came into the cabin once we were at cruising altitude.
"Your weapons are in that crate," she informed us, pointing toward an unmarked wooden box, separate from the other cargo.
Niall and Manuel unsnapped the fastenings on the lid and began removing the contents. The weapons were familiar to us, four M-16 A4s fitted with suppressors, Colt .45 automatic pistols, and a suppressed .22 Sig Sauer 1911. An assassin's gun, one I was familiar with. We helped ourselves to an M-16 A4 apiece. Niall and Manuel took the Colt .45s, and I picked up the .22 Sig Sauer. It was familiar, almost an old friend, a gun I'd used many times in the past, silent and deadly accurate. I'd manage to hang on to my Ruger .44, hidden under my coat. Winter picked up the fourth M-16 and checked it over in a series of rapid movements, making it clear she was as at home with the weapon as she was with the cosmetics in her purse, quite a feat for someone supposedly a backroom analyst. She didn't take a handgun, but I knew from past experience that she always carried the 9mm Mini Glock.
* * *
Aswan, Egypt
The stink of avgas fuel stayed with us the whole journey, a reminder of the transatlantic refueling we'd endured on the flight over; so it was with a sense of relief that we landed intact at Aswan. It was a mix of new and old, modern and derelict. The terminal looked like an oil sheikh’s palace, apart from the air traffic controllers’ tower mounted on top. The place was heavily guarded, armed Egyptian cops and soldiers patrolling everywhere. Winter had a closed truck laid on to transport us to the safe house, so we said our goodbyes to Major Turner and exchanged cell numbers.
“They’ve paid me to stay on the ground all the time you’re here, so if you run into trouble, I'll be on hand. Right now, I have things to attend to here, cargo to unload, paperwork, you know how it is."
Sure, I knew. A major drug courier's day never ends, so many consignments to organize and officials to bribe. People to kill.
I nodded.
"I'll see you at the safe house," he added as he began to walk away.
I wasn’t too happy about him knowing where the safe house was.
“How many people know where we’ll be staying?”
Winter moved across to intercept. So she'd been listening.
“You needn’t worry, Schaeffer. Major Turner is an important part of this operation. He has to know our whereabouts.”
I regarded her for a moment. “Understood, but it doesn’t answer my question. Who else knows?”
She sighed with exasperation. “Only Mr. Smith, and he’s back at Cairo. Satisfied?”
I didn't know Smith was coming to Egypt, but I nodded and walked to the truck. We rode in back. There was no need to attract undue attention to our arrival. Soldiers or mercenaries have a certain look to them. A look that policemen the world over were familiar with. Like back in the old Wild West, they wouldn't welcome gunslingers in their town.
Winter rode next to the driver, a surly looking Egyptian. The rear of the truck was covered with canvas roof and sides, with plenty of tears where we could see the streets as we passed by. It was obvious the troubles had reached Aswan. Men in soiled robes, some of them armed, everything from ancient scatterguns to modern assault rifles. Most were Kalashnikov variants. Women, most of them hidden beneath black veiled robes, peered out through the slots in their veils. Could they breathe through those veils covering their mouths? Would their menfolk give a shit if they struggled? A few young females wore less severe dress, more Western, but they attracted nasty looks from some of the men. Children, ragged, unkempt, and filthy were playing in garbage-strewn streets.
And then, astonishingly, I saw an attractive girl dressed in a tight, short silk dress in a rich red color; slim long legs tucked into fashionable high boots, the kind they call ‘fuck-me’ boots. She was perfectly made up, her pretty face topped by a glamorous Western hairstyle. Just as I recognized her, an Imam strutted up to her. He delivered a hard blow to her head with a long, thin cane he carried. He was dressed severely in a long gray robe and black turban, complete with a foot long gray-black beard. The girl fell to the sidewalk, but it wasn’t enough to assuage his religious wrath. Presumably, this was the face of the Muslim Brotherhood. He stood over her and hit her again and again.
Except I knew it was no ‘her’. I'd last seen the girl in Afghanistan. How the hell she'd turned up in a place like this was beyond me. She was a boy, Isra Farhi, lone survivor of Islam’s savage repression of cross-dressers; a boy who’d done a great deal to help my team when we were in Afghanistan. I didn’t even stop to think. I just vaulted out of the moving vehicle and tumbled into the dust, narrowly avoiding a motorcycle that was following close behind. In a second, I was up on my feet and running. Isra was already bloody and cowering from the blows that kept coming.
I reached them, and as the Imam raised the cane yet again, I jerked it out of his hand. His head turned, and he glared at me, astonished that anyone had dared to interfere. I met his glare and moved to stand over him. He was almost a foot shorter than me.
“Buddy, you try that again, and I’ll break your fucking arm.”
He looked puzzled. Obviously, English wasn’t on the curriculum at his particular Madrassa. Or maybe there were too many lessons in beating up innocent people to find the time. Then he gabbled a torrent of Arabic. The meaning wasn’t difficult to work out. I ignored him and reached down to help Isra to his feet. His dress was muddy and torn at the neck, and he'd lost the heel from one of his fancy boots. Right then I felt like returning some of the Imam's medicine, but I managed to desist. He stared back at me in total astonishment as he saw the face of his rescuer.
"Schaeffer! What...what are you doing here?"
"Never mind about that. We need to get you out of here."
He was staring over my shoulder. "That may not be so easy."
I turned, in time to see a crowd of men gathering. Some of them carried weapons. They had bearded faces and wore traditional robes. The Brotherhood. I'd left my assault rifle in the truck, so I put my hand on the butt of my pistol and withdrew it. I carried a .22. There were maybe fif
ty men, and at least a dozen of them carried AK-47s. I gripped Isra's arm.
"We need to back away slowly. If we don't threaten the guy that attacked you, they may leave us alone."
I saw him nod, and we edged away from the angry crowd. It would have ended then, but for the Imam. It wasn't enough for him, and he wanted blood. He started to harangue the crowd, and they began edging forward. We would have been overwhelmed, but my partners had seen the problem and were coming to our aid. Niall, Manuel, and even Winter Moss. They carried assault rifles, M-16s, and there was no mistaking their intentions. I was a Westerner. They were Westerners, and the men threatening us were Arabs. The crowd slowed and then stopped. At least the ones in the front stopped. The men behind cannoned into them, and a few in the front rank tripped. It should have ended there, but the Imam couldn't let it go. He worked himself up into a paroxysm of fury, pointing at the armed men still on their feet and then at us. They looked. They hesitated. They thought about it. And then they charged.
All this time, I'd been pulling Isra away from them, and we'd linked up with the team. They pulled him behind them, and he gave Winter a surprised look. Then he cowered away from her and huddled out of sight of the Brotherhood. She darted him a quick glance, her lips parted in a small grin, and then she ignored him. We turned and walked away, doing our best to ease the tension, but the unhappy Imam wasn't having any of it. We could hear his voice ranting and spitting fury as we moved further away. And then Niall tossed me my weapon and murmured, "They're coming at us."
I turned, in time to see the crowd running toward us, urged on by the ranting bearded priest. Even more had produced weapons, and they were armed with a variety of assault rifles, knives, and even long curved swords. Their intention was obvious. They wanted to kill us, for some reason, or no reason. I'd never known a Muslim need a reason for a bloodletting. We were out of options, and the truck was blocked by the mass of people crowding the street, making a fast getaway impossible. I gave the only possible order.