by Eric Meyer
"Welcome to Aswan, Gentlemen."
The Egyptian cop spoke perfect English. He smiled at us, like a hungry man about to eat his lunch.
"My name is Hosni Azer. Colonel Hosni Azer, of the Mukhabarat."
The General Intelligence Service, the Mukhabarat, was the Egyptian secret police force responsible for national security intelligence, as well as counter-terrorism. They were the sledgehammer used to bring down President Mubarak, and then President Morsi. Their reputation preceded them. They were an outfit that excelled at a single medium, fear. In order to achieve that fear, their brutality was legendary, in a land where brutality was the norm.
"What do you want with us? We've done nothing wrong."
His smile was cold and cruel. "You are wrong, Mr. Schaeffer. We had a report from our colleagues in Luxor that you were involved in the killing of a local businessman, Mr. Ghani Khan." He turned to his men, "Arrest them. We'll take them to the Aswan Police Headquarters and have a quiet discussion in the basement interrogation room."
Someone grabbed my arms and clicked on handcuffs. As they led us away, I could see Winter and Turner outside on the tarmac, staring at our demise. I could have sworn the CIA Agent had a slight smile on her lips. It explained how the Mukhabarat had got onto us, but why? Why did they drop the dime on us? What was there to gain? I saw no more. One of the cops punched me in the stomach, and I doubled over. He punched me again, and I almost went down, but the other men dragged me forward.
As they threw us into the back of a closed truck, I was still trying to work out the extent of our betrayal. Winter and Turner had used us to hit Ghani Khan, and then sold us out. Why? There was no way out of this one, and that was for sure. Turner even had our weapons stashed on the aircraft. It would be child's play for forensics to link them to the killings. I managed to turn as Niall called softly," What's going on?"
"They used us," I replied, "Turner and Moss. Used us and screwed us."
"Is there any way out of this?"
There was no point in pretending. "No. We're fucked. There's no way out of a Mukhabarat cellar. None."
Chapter Five
The Mukhabarat were determined to get some practice on me. They put me in a small cell separate from the others and went to work. Colonel Azer may have been an officer, but he was no gentleman. He led them in a ferocious kicking that left me seriously bruised, but there was nothing broken, apart from the three teeth I spat out. I was reminded of the MPs back at Fort Drum. Maybe they compared notes.
They left me without food or water for several hours, and then they returned to continue the process. By the following morning, I was in a bad way. I'd lost a few teeth, and it felt like something was bleeding from inside. They'd broken a couple of my fingers, and my right eye was almost closed from repeated blows. It was the same format as back at Drum. No questions, no attempts at interrogation or forcing me to make a statement of guilt. It was a game to them, plain and simple. They were just sadists, out to have some fun, and they had plenty.
I estimated it was midday when a guard unlocked the cell door and brought in a bucket of water, and a plastic plate with a few slices of stale bread and rancid meat. He gave me a sneer, then left and relocked the door. I wolfed down the food and drank the water. There was a good chance it would be all they'd give me until the following day. Then I lay down and tried to get some sleep before the next beating started.
It was like déjà vu, when a couple of hours later the cell door opened. Mr. Smith entered the cell and looked down at me.
"You seem to be in some trouble, Schaeffer. They say you killed a man."
I stayed dumb and looked at the floor, but I was thinking fast. What was the CIA's involvement with the Egyptian secret police? Moss and Turner, now Smith.
He sighed. "Did you know the man you killed was passing intelligence, both to us, and the Mukhabarat?"
That's when the penny dropped, and I worked it all out. Winter and Turner had mixed truth and lies to con us into going after Khan. They needed to kill Khan. The fact he was supplying the Agency and the Mukhabarat with information was of no consequence. He had to die to eliminate the competition, but they knew the shit would hit the fan when the deed was done. So they recruited some suckers to do the job for them and take the fall. I looked up at Smith.
"Winter Moss and Joel Turner were in business with Khan, did you know that? And they needed Khan dead?"
He gaped at me. "Moss and Turner? I don't believe it. She knew Khan was feeding the Agency information, why would she want him dead?"
"Because he was a threat to their business."
He wasn't having any of it. "What business? She's an Agency career officer. There's no way she'd betray one of our own people. I don't believe it."
I smiled to myself. He obviously didn't know her. She'd sell her own kids for science experiments in return for a handful of Walmart coupons. Although I had to give her one thing, she was damned good at hiding the real Winter Moss from her superiors.
"Believe it or not, that's what happened," I insisted.
"For fuck's sake, Schaeffer, why didn't you just go after Mullah Mukhtar? That was your assignment. Hell, it was all set up for you."
I knew I was wasting my time. I explained about Turner's deal; the location of Mukhtar in return for killing a man who had the blood of a great number of American soldiers on his hands. He still shook his head.
"I know he should have faced justice for what he did, but the information he's been giving us has saved hundreds more American lives. Now you're telling me Winter wanted him dead over a business deal? It's a crock of shit."
I shrugged. "It's the truth."
I wondered if it was time to play my trump card. The document I'd extracted when we escaped from Khan's compound, which was tucked safely under my shirt. It was the only evidence I had, although I hadn't known when I kept hold of it how important it may be. The problem with any trump card was when to show it. Too soon, and Winter or Turner could find out I had it and arrange to take it off me. Too late, and we could be imprisoned in an Egyptian dungeon for the next fifty years.
He agreed to think about it and went away. He returned a couple of hours later.
"I've given it a lot of thought, and there may be something in what you say. Winter brought in the weapons you used to kill Khan and his people, and arranged for forensics to examine them. She acted mighty fast. She seemed damn keen to prove you guilty. It could fit together too well. It's very convenient. But I'm in a difficult situation. No, not difficult, impossible. Like it or not, you killed one of the Agency's own, and now you tell me Winter is selling us out. If it's true, there'll be enough of a scandal to blow our Egyptian operations out of the water. And there's still the larger picture. Mullah Mukhtar. If he succeeds, and they send Egyptian weapons to the Taliban and Al Qaeda, we're looking at a major war."
I could sense he was ready to deal. Time to play my trump.
"What if I can prove it? Prove that Moss and Turner were in business together? And with Khan as well."
"You can do that?"
Jesus Christ, how much did he want? Winter Moss was one of his own people, and yet he wanted me to provide the evidence to bring her down. I thought they were in the intel business. Were they the Central Intelligence Agency or the Langley Public Library? But I had no choice. My Mukhabarat pals were off duty, and I'd have signed a contract in blood with the devil to get out of this cell before they put in another appearance.
"Yes."
"And what about Mukhtar?"
"Get us out of here, and we'll give you Mullah Mukhtar."
He was silent as he mulled it all over in his mind. Finally, he nodded.
"I guess I can get you out of here. In return, I want two things. First, give me the evidence, something I can show my bosses, something cast-iron. Second, and most of all, I want Mukhtar's head. No fucking around, no arguments, no discussions. I want him dead." I went to reply, but he held up a hand to stop me.
"I'll get you weap
ons and give you five days to do it, no more. I'll hold your passports, just in case you get any ideas about leaving the country. If you haven't nailed him in five days, you'll go on the Mukhabarat's most wanted list, and every soldier and secret policeman in Egypt will be gunning for you. Clear?"
There was no point in discussing it with Niall and Manuel. We had a list of options that amounted to one. I reached inside my shirt and handed over the document. It was an agreement signed between Ghani Khan on the one part, and Winter Moss and Joel Turner on the other. The deal assigned different regions of Egypt for the purpose of cultivating and distributing drugs, mainly but not exclusively cannabis. It was no wonder the Wicked Witch of the East had been so keen to get into that office and grab the evidence. He read through the text and nodded.
"How do I know this is genuine?"
I smiled. "You reckon I ran this up during the flight back from Luxor, just in case the Mukhabarat were waiting at Aswan to arrest us?"
He returned the smile. "Point taken. I'll keep hold of this for now. The next move is to persuade the cops to release you. I'll put through a call to Cairo and get somebody with some clout to lean on these people to release you."
He stood up and called for the guard to open the door. Before he left, he turned back to me.
"One more thing, Schaeffer. Moss and Turner, you leave them to me. I'll take care of them."
"Roger that."
He met my gaze and then walked away. There was as much chance of me leaving them alone as there was of the Muslim Brotherhood converting to Judaism. There was no argument from me. Right now, I'd concentrate on Mullah Mukhtar. Wasn't it some Chinese philosopher who said revenge is a dish best taken cold? Besides, I didn't want revenge. I wanted to kill them both.
* * *
Aswan, Egypt
It took time for the formalities to be completed. Although Smith hurried things along to get us out of there, before Colonel Azer and his merry men returned. By 21:00 we were free, and a soldier drove us to an apartment he'd found for us, close to the center of Aswan. It had the stink of 'Agency safe house' all over it. Bland furniture, wipe clean surfaces if anything got bloody, and plenty of exits.
Manuel checked over the guns Smith had supplied us with, a bunch of replacement M-16 A4s, and four Sig Sauer 9mm P226s.
There was plenty of ammo, and he'd arranged to return our cellphones, so we were back in business. We had something else, too. Ten minutes after we arrived in the apartment, there was a knock on the door. Islam's sole surviving cross-dresser, Isra Farhi. He'd changed his silk dress for a smart, dark blue skirt and jacket. We all considered it an improvement on the hooker dress and thigh high fuck-me boots. He explained how he’d got away at the airport.
"I saw them taking you in, so I kept away. There was a Vietnamese businessman behind me, and I hung out with him as if we were a couple." He chuckled, remembering the scene, "The poor bastard. He thought it was his lucky day."
"Until you stripped off," Manuel said sourly.
Isra looked hurt. "Not at all. You'd be surprised how many Asian men are prepared to overlook the minor details. And plenty of them swing that way." He thought for a moment, "Or both ways. Anyway, he paid well, and I bought some new clothes."
He meant he'd lifted the poor guy's wallet. A lesson for him when you're looking for a girlfriend; make sure you know what you're getting. I put a stop to it.
"How did you find us here?"
He simpered, "That was easy. I came to police headquarters looking for you. I saw and Egyptian driver leave with you, so I waited for him to return. He gave me the address."
"In return for what?"
He looked at me boldly. "You shouldn't ask. A girl has to have some secrets."
That soldier too, obviously. I nodded.
"We get the picture. Isra, we're on a very short leash, and we have to nail Mullah Mukhtar inside of five days. Otherwise, every cop and soldier in Egypt will come after us."
"You want me to help you?" he asked.
Manuel glared at him. "Why would you want to help us? What are you after?"
It was a fair point. So far, it had almost got him killed. Even so, he seemed to thrive on danger. Maybe it was something in his genes, like his clothes sense.
"A visa."
That explained it all. If he stayed inside any Islamic country, eventually there'd only be one outcome; the Muslim solution to life's little problems, from the common cold to speaking out of turn, death. In his case a very nasty and painful death. At that moment, I felt sorry for him. I think even Manuel felt sympathy too, provided he could keep him at arm's length. His Hispanic temperament didn't include too much tolerance for Isra's peculiarity.
"I'll try, but there are no guarantees," I replied, "I guess you'd want to go to San Francisco, somewhere like that."
"Is that in the States?"
"Yes, it is."
He nodded eagerly. "I want somewhere I can be myself. Somewhere a person like me can walk without fear of being attacked."
"I'd avoid some of the Southern States if I were you," Manuel murmured.
Isra looked puzzled, but I didn't explain. I still found the Bible Belt something of a mystery. He agreed to wear his robe and veil, and prowl around to see what he could pick up. His robe had been shredded during the attack on Khan's compound, and Niall agreed to go with him and pay for a new one. Even though it was late at night, Isra said he knew where he could pick one up, so they left the apartment together. It was enough to give a religious fundamentalist a severe heart attack. A Catholic priest turned killer, walking with a cross-dresser, and on their way to purchase an Islamic robe. It couldn't have been much more complicated.
Ever since Smith agreed to release us, I'd been working on the question of how to run Mukhtar to earth. Isra was just an outside possibility. But I had one solid lead to his whereabouts, the El Tabia mosque. I put it to Manuel and he agreed.
"We're running low on time. Now would be a good time to pay that place a visit. Maybe I could light a candle."
"I don't believe they do that in mosques, Manuel."
"I didn't mean a votive candle. I meant to burn the place down and flush him out."
"It may be better to locate someone inside and persuade them to talk."
He nodded his agreement. "Okay. As soon as Niall gets back, we'll pay them a visit."
"I don't think it'd be a good idea to include Niall."
He looked at me shocked, until I explained to him Niall's horror at the body count after he'd thrown the briefcase bomb; his crossing himself, the prayers for the dead and wounded, and his attack of conscience afterward.
"You don't think he'd let us down?" he asked, horrified.
"He wouldn't let us down, not Niall. But it could slow him up, and besides, it would only bring back the guilt and the memories. We'll just take a quiet look at the place, and see what we see."
He nodded uncertainly. "Okay, we'll do it your way. Let's go nail the fucker."
Chapter Six
It was already midnight. The night air was chilly, for which we were grateful. It meant we could wear our coats. An M-16 A4 is not the easiest weapon to conceal, but with a loose coat, it was possible to hide it from a casual gaze. After many years hunting a variety of targets, we always carried such a coat when we went into the field. We didn't use a cab. I remembered the previous ambush when we went after Mukhtar. This time, we'd be more careful. We walked through the echoing streets, glad of the exercise after the confinement of the cell, even if the stench was something to be believed.
Many people disposed of their household waste late in the evening, in the hope someone may clean the rank streets during the hours of darkness. It was a forlorn hope. This was Aswan, not Manhattan. The Muslim Brotherhood demonstrators had packed up and gone home, but there were still people around, hawkers, beggars, prostitutes, and the occasional cop. They all had one thing in common. At this time of the night, they were out to screw as much money out of every gullible individual they c
ould con.
They avoided us. These people were experienced and good at what they did. They could distinguish between a mark and a threat in a split second glance. And when they looked at our way, they didn't need to see the weapons we carried under our coats to know we were no mark. We came to the street where the mosque was situated. The bus they'd used to block our vehicle was still there, burned-out and shoved out of the way half onto the sidewalk. It was a shame. As mosques go, the building was quite impressive. The wrecked bus somehow detracted from the view when you approached, making it a cross between post-industrial Detroit and Beirut at the height of the Civil War.
"Schaeffer," Manuel murmured.
"I see them."
A line of vehicles parked along the street. Nothing remarkable about that, except in this case, we could see smoke from the exhausts; the engines were idling. Drivers and armed men were standing nearby, waiting. Waiting for what? Somewhat incongruously, a truck was parked behind them, but there was no exhaust smoke, so it wasn't about to leave.
"It can't be this easy," Manuel whispered.
"No, it can't, but we have to take a look. He could be there. I suggest we go in the back way this time."
He nodded, and we kept to the shadows and out of sight of the vehicles, as we worked our way through the rancid alleyways to come up behind the building. I looked up. A light was burning in an upstairs window. And as I watched, a shadow passed across. Someone was up there. Probably working, maybe finishing up on some paperwork before they slipped away. Manuel nodded. He'd seen the movement. He pointed to a first-floor window, and I signaled my agreement. The frame was rotten and broken, a metaphor for the rest of the city. Inside of a minute, he had it open and slipped through.
"Do you think we should take our shoes off?" Manuel murmured.
I smiled to myself. I doubted there'd be much of a problem if they discovered the sacrilege. On the other hand, if they found out what we really wanted, they'd tear us into little pieces. The building was dark and silent. The first floor lights were all out, and no illumination filtered in from outside in the street. There were no streetlights in Aswan, but we could see a faint glow coming from the far corner of the prayer room. The kind of glow you get from a second floor lamp lighting up the staircase. We crept silently across the vast empty space. It smelt musty and faintly rank, the odor of the thousands of men who worshipped here several times a day. I made a note not to hold any stocks in Egyptian deodorant suppliers.