by Eric Meyer
I heard the words but didn't understand their meaning. I'd lost all sense of purpose, almost the ability to force myself to move. Winter solved the problem by hustling me along to the elevator. I didn't help her. I didn't resist. She just dragged me along, and I followed like a robot. I had a thousand questions, but I couldn't put a single one of them into words. It should have been me who killed Mukhtar, should have been me who took the brunt of the bullets from his guards. Instead, she'd proved herself braver than the toughest, most heroic warrior.
We reached the parking garage, and Isra was waiting for us, the Mercedes engine ticking over slowly. He looked at Winter, his sculpted eyebrows raised.
"Did you get him?"
"He's dead."
"Good, I hope the bastard rots in hell. Where are Niall and Sabrina?"
"They didn't make it."
I heard him sob, "Oh, God, no. No." Then he buried his face in his hands.
Winter pushed me into the rear seat and climbed in next to me. I heard her tell Isra to move out, and I was thrown back as the vehicle surged forward. In his anger, he didn't wait for the barrier to be raised, just smashed through, lurched out onto the street, and headed away.
"The crowds won't be aware he's dead yet," I heard Winter say, "but when they do find out, they'll tear the city apart. When that happens, we need to be a long way away."
Isra drove hard and fast, skidding around corners on two wheels, smashing through narrow alleyways and ripping down lines of washing that stretched across his path. It was a mad, crazy drive as we careered away from Tahrir Square. And it couldn't last.
"Checkpoint!" he shouted back to us.
It registered only faintly. I was still numb with shock. I heard Winter discussing with Isra about whether to go through it or around it.
"There's no way around it," he told her, "We either reverse out of the street, or go through it. When they stop us, they'll arrest us for sure. They'll have heard about the shootout at the Nile Hilton, and they'll be on the lookout for fugitives. We're driving a stolen vehicle and carrying illegal weapons."
"In that case, we won't allow them to stop us. Schaeffer!"
She gripped my arm and used the other hand to hold my shoulder. She shook me hard, real hard, but I still didn't get it, but then she planted her lips on mine. I felt her tongue go inside my mouth in a kiss so erotic it was enough to make a eunuch hard. She pulled away.
"Are you back with us? There's a checkpoint up ahead, and if they force us to stop, we’ll spend the rest of our lives rotting in an Egyptian cell."
I looked ahead and saw the armed men clustered around the barrier. I recognized them as military, not civilian cops, which meant they'd be well armed. Something clicked in my mind, and I started to return to sanity.
"What do we do about them?"
"Kill the fuckers!" she screamed at me, "Shoot from the sunroof."
The M-60 was empty but I carried a spare belt. My brain was on automatic pilot, but somewhere inside, programmed in a remote corner, was the knowledge of how to reload the machine gun. Etched for all time after a score of previous engagements, the neurons fired across my synapses, sending out the commands. I may as well have been a robot. My fingers ejected the spent belt, removed the new belt from my shoulders, and fed the end into the breech. I snapped it closed and cranked the first round, ready to fire. I looked at Winter. She saw the glance and pointed me like a bloodhound at the enemy. The soldiers manning the checkpoint were only twenty yards in front of us.
A man stepped out, his hand raised. Close by, two more soldiers were standing with their assault rifles readied. An officer sat in a jeep type vehicle, watching it all with a bored expression on his face. I stood, propped the M-60 on the roof, and took aim. Their relaxed expressions changed as they saw the machine gun pointed straight at them, and they started to raise their rifles, but they were too late, much too late. All of the rage, the agony, the anger, everything I felt was condensed into that single moment, as I pulled the trigger and kept it pulled. A hail of slugs smashed into them as I hosed them down, and one by one, they died.
I didn't see men. I didn't see soldiers through the red haze that still obscured my vision. Instead, I saw everything that had conspired to kill Sabrina; this shithole country of Egypt, the pox ridden, flyblown Islamic state of Afghanistan, and their stupid, cowardly, vicious war on women, and on natural justice. Mullah Mukhtar and his band of scum who planned to exacerbate the slaughter in Egypt and move it wholesale to Afghanistan, to kill more of our soldiers. The whole bunch of slimy gun-toting motherfuckers, they were all there, ranged in front of me. And I killed them, gunned them down in cold blood.
I should have felt remorse. They were just men doing their jobs, carrying out their duties. Although they were trying to kill me, so I had no choice if we were to get out of there. I killed them but for the wrong reasons. Did that make a difference? Not to them, dead is dead. To me, I'd need to work it through. To decide whether it was some kind of catharsis or the beginning of a huge guilt trip. But it wouldn't bring her back.
Isra banged his foot on the gas. I had to grab the edge of the sunroof to stop myself being thrown out of the vehicle, and we lurched forward, the front wheels bouncing over the shattered bodies. We were heading out of Cairo. I heard Isra ask Winter which direction to take when we reached an intersection, and she told him to head north. He turned onto the tarmac highway. It led to the coast that was about a hundred and fifty miles away. We were fortunate. The road was probably one of the few decent ones in the country, and we made good time, leaving shit city back in our dust.
I was still numbed, still in shock, still clutching the M-60. Eventually, Winter prized it from my grasp, and I sat on the seat, staring at nothing. There was nothing. My entire future and my past had ended a few miles back in a luxury hotel room.
"I'll get onto Smith, and see if he can arrange an exfil from Alexandria."
She was talking to me, so I nodded. What did it matter? I dimly recalled that Alexandria was the second largest city in Egypt. Big deal. It was also a huge seaport, so there were bound to be any number of crooked skippers willing to take us on board in return for CIA gold. She got through to Smith, spoke for a short time, and then clicked off. Ten minutes later, her cellphone rang, and she answered it. Smith. Another short conversation, and she ended the call.
"It's all organized. When we reach Alexandria, we need to ditch the Mercedes and head for the docks. There's a ship due to leave tomorrow morning, a Liberian registered mixed cargo vessel called the Adriatic Ocean. Smith says to go on board after dark. The watchman will be expecting us, and the captain has a cabin for us to use. His name is Captain Nakos, by the way. He's done plenty of work for CIA, so we can rely on him to be discreet."
"Where is the ship headed?" Isra asked her.
"Marseille, southern France. We'll be able to get to the local airport from there and fly back to the States." She looked at me, "He'll have documents ready for us at the Marseille airport. There'll be a messenger waiting for us when we get there. "
"Does that include me?"
Isra's voice was plaintive and sad. Something stirred in my numbed brain, and I grasped what it was. We'd come through enough shit to sink a supertanker, and now there were only us three left. Winter would be okay; she was Agency. I'd be okay because they wouldn't want to leave a loose cannon like me lying around the Mediterranean. But I noted she didn't answer him, and I turned to her.
"When we go, we all go."
"You have to comprehend the way it is," she objected, "I mean, I know how much he's done, and there have been issues in the past, but I can't swing documents for him, not right now. Maybe when we get back stateside, there's something I can do. Until then…" She shrugged.
"Stop the car, Isra."
He jammed on the brakes, and we came to a stop on the sandy verge of the road. I fixed Winter with a hard stare.
"No, you have to get how it is. Isra is one of us. Okay, maybe he's a bit different, but
we couldn't have done it, got this far, without him. Don't you think we've left enough of our people lying dead in this godforsaken place? We don't leave any more. If you like, you can take it as some kind of a memorial to the ones who didn't make it, but either you get back on that phone and fix up documents for him, or you can get out of the car now and walk to Alexandria."
We locked stares for a few moments and then she nodded. "Okay, I guess you're right. Give me a few moments."
We sat on the open road with the sun beating down on us. The engine ticked over, keeping the air con going full blast. She got back to Smith, and I gathered enough from what she said to understand it wasn't a pleasant conversation. The minutes dragged on, and her voice became louder and fiercer, until in the end she got what she wanted. She clicked off and turned to me.
"You got it. There'll be identification documents and a US visa waiting for Isra when we get to Marseille."
I told Isra he could get going again. We didn't know how wide the hue and cry had reached for us, or whether they even understood the people involved in the hotel shootout had escaped from Cairo. What we did know was every second we stopped, sitting on the open highway, increased the chances of someone happening along to check us out.
We reached Alexandria in the early evening, abandoned the Mercedes with the M-60 and submachine guns locked inside, and took a cab to the docks area. We kept our handguns, which were easy to conceal. In a place like Alexandria, walking through the streets at night unarmed was like crossing Times Square without your pants on, inviting a heap of trouble and grief.
There was still a couple of hours before dark, and we were all starving hungry, so we found a small restaurant and sat down for a meal. When it arrived, it was local fare, a huge bowl of rice with vegetables and chunks of evil smelling meat arranged around the top. The powerful odor of garlic made a brave attempt to kill the stench of unknown meat. It wasn't completely successful.
"It's goat," Isra explained to us, "I imagine it's been boiled to get rid of the bacteria. They don't always keep meat refrigerated."
I needed strength, and so I plowed through the food, but I made a mental note to contact the Michelin Guide with an honest review. It was the only way to save the world.
When they brought round the dessert, which looked like frogspawn floating in a sea of vomit, I found myself forced to decline. There is a thin line between starvation and food poisoning, and I had no intention of crossing it. We finished off with coffees and a couple of brandies each. Normally, we would have touched glasses in celebration.
We left the restaurant as the light was starting to fade and made our way toward the docks. It was a balmy, pleasant evening, at least, as far as the weather was concerned. Inside, I felt frozen with grief. Maybe it was the brandy. It was the first decent drink I’d had since I'd left Rockport, and the taste and the smell as it slid down my throat was a reminder of how booze helped to erase the memory, at least a little. Maybe I could get back to my shack near the beach and continue drinking myself stupid, until I'd drunk enough to walk out into the waves and finally surrender to the bodies that waited out there to greet me.
We hit trouble even before we reached the ship, and it was from a most unexpected quarter, a posse of Islamic Brotherhood vigilantes out looking for trouble. There were twenty of them at least, and at first we did our best to humor them.
"Show us your papers!"
He was short, scrawny and mean looking, with a face scarred by childhood pox. I guess anyone would have been mean with a face like that. His buddies backed him up. Some looked like they worked out and would like to work out some more, on us. The problem was, Isra and I didn't have any papers.
"We'll show them to the police," I told Scarface.
"You show them to us."
His tone was implacable. He didn't make any threats; he didn't need to. His pals bunched closer to us, and the message was unmistakable. 'Show us your documents, or we beat the shit out of you'.
There was no way around them. I could see Winter calculating angles and psyching herself up to pull the Mini Glock. My hand itched to make a grab for the handgun under my shirt, but I knew the second I made my move, they’d be all over us. A couple of gomers on the flanks carried AKs. The guys either side of Scarface sported hard lumps of wood, like baseball bats. I was pretty sure there were a couple of handguns not too far from where I stood. Standoff!
We stared at each other for long minutes, and no one moved. Winter looked sideways at me, and I could swear her hand trembled, longing for the feel of the hard butt of the Glock, for its reassuring weight; the confidence of gunning down any fucker who stood in front of you. It would be a short-lived victory. Of all the threats we’d faced, this was the most dangerous. We’d almost reached our ride home, the target was deader than Adolf Hitler, and we were faced with a menacing crowed of Islamists who were baying for our blood. And there wasn’t a damn thing we could do about it.
I noticed more people approaching, more Brotherhood, by the look of them. In a few seconds it would be too late, as no matter what we did, they’d overwhelm us. What we needed was a machine gun. The M-60 would have been perfect for the job, if it wasn’t locked inside the Mercedes, abandoned a mile or so down the road. But we did have something, something unexpected. We had Isra.
I don’t know what made him do it, some feeling deep inside that he wanted to make one last, heroic sacrifice. I guess he felt a deep bond with us. We’d been through so much together, and he knew I’d been prepared to go to war with the Agency to get him the longed-for visa for the US. Maybe it was something else; a need to prove himself, to show that no matter what people thought of his mode of dress, he was a human being, an incredibly brave human being. He kicked off his heels and ran, heading away from us, back the way we’d come.
When the Brotherhood hesitated, he drew the Mini Glock he’d concealed in his purse and opened fire. Another reason for what he did, these sons of bitches were the same faces who’d persecuted him his whole life. He fired, once, twice, three shots. Two men fell, one dead, one wounded and in agony. Then he fled, running for his life, his silk dress fluttering in the night breeze. They were too stunned to move at first, and he stopped, looked at them, and fired two more shots. Another man fell, drilled through the forehead, a perfect shot. Way to go, Isra!
I was counting the rounds. If he had a full load, that was five gone, five left. The Islamists still hesitated; shocked to the core. Two of them unmistakably dead, and another wounded, lying on the ground and screaming in agony. They looked at each other, searching for something, confidence possibly, the guts to go after a mere girl who was shooting at them. Then the dam broke, and they went after him.
It was horrific, like a baying pack of hounds chasing the hare. A bunch of full-grown armed men, chasing after what they assumed was a slip of a girl. Isra rounded a corner, and they gave full chase, shouting and screaming what I assumed were Arabic threats and curses. One thing I'd found out, there was no shortage of threats and curses in Arabic. I started after them, pulling out my pistol, but Winter took my arm in a grip that was strong enough to take me by surprise.
"No! We have to make it to the ship."
"If they catch up with him, they'll shred him," I shouted at her, trying to free myself, but she was resolute.
"Don't you understand? He's doing it to give us a chance to get away. He knows the job isn't done, and he wants the score to be settled just as much as you do."
"Isra? What do you mean?"
She shook her head wearily. "We must keep going, and I'll explain while are we heading for a ship. Believe me, this is what Isra wanted."
I allowed her to pull me along toward the dock area. As the ships came into view, I turned to her.
"You'd better explain. I'm not taking another step toward that ship until I know what you're talking about."
There were things here I didn't understand, wheels within wheels. I felt stupid, like a cog in a machine being driven along by other cogs. I had a
ssumed that with Mukhtar dead, the operation was concluded, albeit at a price that was monstrous. What was she suggesting?
She sighed. "Okay, if it's the only way I'm going to get you aboard, I guess I'll have to explain."
"Damn right."
I looked back up the street, as if at any moment I might see a girl in a short silk dress racing toward us, although I knew in my head it wasn't going to happen. Best case was Isra would find somewhere to hide out of sight of the vengeful mob. Which may be difficult, as there were times when the entire Arab world could be described as a vengeful mob. Worst case, was the troubled cross-dresser had turned on his pursuers and sold his life dearly.
I fervently hoped not. The Afghan kid had more guts and bravery in his little finger than many men I'd known. Just being him took unbelievable courage. I heard Winter say something about Jeffs.
"Roll it back, what's that about Jeffs?"
"I was talking to Smith earlier, fixing up our transport out of Egypt. He said Jeffs has been doing a lot of the backroom stuff for him, so he would have been the man to fix up passage on the Adriatic Ocean."
"Jeffs! You're telling me he's been in on this operation from the start?"
She looked puzzled. "I would imagine so. You know they're good friends, Smith and Jeffs?"
"Yeah, I gather that."
"No, you don't get it, do you, Schaeffer? I mean they're real good friends."
"I get it. So they're both gay."
"That's it in a nutshell."
"They were lovers?"
"For a while, yes. I understand they're still good buddies. How good, I don't know."
I thought through the entire operation, the way it had all happened, from the very start when they recruited Brad Olsen. There was Mukhtar's astonishing revelation that he had been responsible for Brad's murder, but he couldn't have known how to find Brad or even his full name. Unless… I looked at Winter.
"Jeffs? You think he sold us out?"
A pause. "I'm certain of it. That Muslim Brotherhood crowd that ambushed us. It was no accident. How many other Muslim Brotherhood gangs did you see as we drove through Alexandria?"