by Niv Kaplan
Lena nodded and reached for the door. Her entourage poured in to receive orders. Ten minutes later they were in the back seat of a black Sedan headed back to town, Detective Orlov and his driver sitting up front.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Ortega reached Eilat via Tel Aviv not twelve hours subsequent to being informed of the situation by Sam. There was an Iberia flight, via Barcelona, and from Tel Aviv a short Arkia flight to Eilat where he was met at the small airport by David Kessler who had arranged for a car and accommodation at the luxurious Princess Hotel on the North shore.
Flying over, low above the Arava plain, a vast desert prairie bordered by the Judas mountains of Israel to the West and the Edom, or Red mountains of Jordan to the East, Ortega could not stop admiring the magnificent views provided of the Dead Sea and just before landing, the Red Sea, encompassed by towering cliffs on both the Eilat and Aqaba sides.
A dry heat wave welcomed him as he stepped off the small turbo-prop plane, the hot wind stinging his face. Kessler met him at the gate, introduced himself as an acquaintance of Mai-Li and rushed him to an air-conditioned rental car he had secured. Kessler talked as they drove through the busy streets of the small tourist town, which represented Israel’s southernmost settlement and border to Egypt and Jordan.
“I’ve made some inquiries,” Kessler said in good English. “It appears your colleagues left Dahab in a hurry four days ago, but never made it to the Eilat border. There’s a wall of secrecy surrounding the affair which is peculiar even by Egyptian standards. Normally we can persuade a few of them to show good faith and talk, but not this time."
Ortega nodded to indicate he understood and Kessler went on.
"The next best source is to inquire with the Tarrabin, a large and mostly friendly Bedouin tribe in the area, but I’ll need a bit more time to recruit them.”
Though accustomed to hot Spanish weather, El Chino was just catching his breath from the extremely dry, hot climate he had just flown into.
“Could they be being held by Egyptian authorities?” he managed to blurt out.
“One possible scenario,” Kessler answered. “But if I may ask for the nature of their venture, it could help us determine their whereabouts and the kind of threats they may be facing.”
Ortega and Sam had already agreed to disclose everything to the Israelis who they felt would be in the best position to help. It was even less of an issue with Kessler who knew the nature of their business from his encounter with Mai-Li’s case in Thailand.
“They were after a Frenchwoman who was jailed trying to free her abducted son.” Ortega explained. “We were working the case for a while, but something drew her here in a hurry and she was caught. Our colleagues, Jack and Christine, flew in to try and resolve the matter and have now disappeared themselves. There was an attorney named Abdullah in Dahab Jack was intending to see. We know that much. We’ve tried phoning him but he doesn’t answer.”
“Is there a surname for this Abdullah?” Kessler asked, smiling ironically. “There are a million Abdullahs in Egypt.”
“He didn’t leave a last name,” Ortega confessed, “though I doubt there are a million attorneys in Dahab.”
“If he’s an attorney at all,” Kessler remarked. “In any case, I’ll do some more sniffing around while you get some rest. I’ll have to leave town tomorrow morning.”
He dropped Ortega off at the Princess’s reception and sped away in the rental. Ortega quickly found refuge in the vast, air-cooled, lobby area, a modern panorama with marble floors and biblical decorations. An exquisite, bronzed attendant named Odelia checked him in, upgrading his room to the Agamemnon suite on the top floor where he arranged his belongings, took a long look at the magnificent view of the Red Sea and the sun setting over Eilat, took a shower and went to sleep. It was just turning eight in the evening.
A loud bang woke him in the middle of the night. He checked his watch. It was two thirty. Someone was banging on his door. Disoriented, he opened the door to find a young bellboy looking up at him with a note in his hand. Ortega reached for it but the boy held back. Ortega understood and reached for some loose coins off the night table.
He tipped the boy and got the note. It read: “Pick you up in the lobby at half three. Bring passport and cash. Kessler”. The phone call had been received just a few minutes before the boy had appeared at his door.
Ortega showered again and dressed quickly. Kessler appeared in front of the lobby in the rental car at the appointed time.
“Is this the way you normally greet your guests in Israel?” Ortega remarked as he stepped into the car.
“Only the important ones,” Kessler replied humorously and sped away into the night.
“I’ve arranged for you to go to Dahab immediately but you must return no later than this time tomorrow night. Are you up to it?”
“Why at this time of night?” Ortega queried.
“We have a border control guy who’ll let you through without asking too many difficult questions. His shift ends at six. Then there’s a Bedouin who will escort you to Dahab and show you around. Did you bring passport and money?”
Ortega nodded. The narrow road curved past the port of Eilat on its way to Taba, the border crossing. They were there fifteen minutes later. Kessler escorted Ortega to the Israeli side where he was let through quickly. He approached the Egyptian side hesitantly stopping to fill in the customs and immigration forms. There were a few people present, mainly young adventurers and backpackers moving along lethargically at the ungodly early hour.
Ortega stepped up to the booth to find a scrawny border official with slit beady eyes dressed in beige colored uniform with unrecognized insignia, too big for his scrawny shoulders. He had an unsettling demeanor constantly looking over his shoulder as if someone was after him.
He scanned the Spanish passport, comparing Ortega’s face with the photo, reached for an official seal and firmly stamped the passport, the metallic noise echoing in the near empty chamber.
Ortega moved along, stepping into the darkness, out of the lighted customs and immigration hall, to the somewhat cooler but still oppressive atmosphere, where a line of government offices in beat-up old caravans waited. Various fees were collected before he was allowed to walk another mile and physically pass the fence into Egypt, where a line of weather-beaten European-made vehicles offered taxi services.
Ortega stood a minute, hesitating, studying the line of cars. The sun was just coming up over the cliffs to the east, spreading majestic light over the Gulf. A young Arab in Galabia and a Kafiya approached him first followed by few of the taxi drivers. Before anyone was close enough to hear, the young Arab mentioned Kessler’s name. Ortega relaxed, nodded in concurrence and followed the young man. The band of taxi drivers, hoping for a fare, stopped in their tracks and quietly watched them go through to an old Peugeot station wagon already running.
The ride to Dahab took four hours. Jamal, the young Arab, had explained in very lame English, that he was a Bedouin with the Tarrabin tribe, asked by some friends to show the Spaniard around and return him back to the border at night for a flat fee of three hundred Egyptian liras. Ortega paid all of it up front in US dollars with promise of an extra incentive of fifty dollars for Jamal if they actually managed to locate his friends. They stopped for gas and passed an Egyptian military check point, thirty kilometers out of Taba at which time Jamal invited Ortega for morning tea at a Bedouin Shack by the water. They sat and watched the peaceful Red Sea emerge into the stillness of the morning.
Dahab was hot and dry, the market relatively quiet when they reached it. Most tourists were still in their beds or having breakfast at such early hour. Those who were up before eight that morning opted for the beaches. The locals were just setting up their stands.
They walked around for a while getting the feel of the place, stopping here and there to inquire and chat then drove to the Katarina Inn where Ortega hoped he could find an end of a rope.
The reception manager bec
ame suspicious and worried at Ortega’s request to collect whatever belongings Jack and Christine may have left behind. He called the shift manager who was forced to wake up the hotel manager who had stashed some items under lock and key.
“They left in a hurry,” the hotel manager told Ortega as he led him to a small storage room in the basement. “They left in the middle of the night without even checking out leaving cash on the night table to pay for their stay.”
“Why would they do that?” Ortega asked.
“They may have been trying to flee with that woman who was with them.”
“The Frenchwoman?” Ortega put in as casually as he could, secretly praying for a break.
“She may have been French. They had released her from the local jail.”
“Why flee?” Ortega pressed. “Were they in danger?”
“She was ordered to leave Egypt three days after the trial. Your friends volunteered to escort her.”
“So how many days passed before they left.”
“That is what’s strange. They disappeared a day later leaving all this behind.”
He opened the storeroom and pointed at a bundle on the ground. The suitcases had obviously been stripped of any valuables and taken. What was left were some undergarments, a few clothes, shoes, some books and two empty shower bags.
Ortega went through the pile finding nothing significant. The hotel manager refused to allow him to take the possessions arguing he had no real proof he, Ortega, was legally connected to the departed party.
They continued their search for clues in Dahab finding Abdullah, the attorney, apparently certified and well-known, in his coffee shack by the beach, playing backgammon or Shesh-Besh as its known in the region, with the proprietor, who sprang to his feet and disappeared as they entered.
Abdullah, seemingly not surprised by the intrusion, offered them a place opposite him on an array of Persian rugs and cushions surrounding a low coffee table.
The two men acknowledged the Egyptian, thankful of finding solace from the heat, and dropped to the floor facing him. The café owner reappeared with a tray of mud coffee in small china cups and a bottle of water. They all helped themselves and settled back on the cushions.
“I hear you are looking for the black American and his friends,” Abdullah opened ceremoniously showing off his clout in his domain.
“What can you tell me about their visit here?” Ortega asked.
“I was hoping you might enlighten me,” the attorney retorted angrily in surprisingly fluent English, “and explain their insulting disappearing act!”
“Señor, we know less than you. We’ve lost contact with them. I know Jack contacted you before he left. Can you help me find them?”
“I provided them with legal services and got the Frenchwoman out. My reward was to find out they disappeared without paying my fees.”
“Señor, there must be a logical explanation. I work with Jack and I’ve never known him to stand anyone up. Something must have happened to scare him away or he would have paid you your money.”
“You are Spanish?” Abdullah half stated, half asked suddenly, changing the subject.
Ortega nodded his head.
“You trust the American?”
“Si Señor. With my life,” Ortega replied.
Abdullah reached for another cigarette and took a sip from his coffee eyeing both Ortega and Jamal.
“Why are you helping him?” he blurted out at Jamal in Arabic.
“He pays,” Jamal answered without hesitation.
“His Majesty won’t like it,” Abdullah said, referring to the judge.
“He is Egyptian,” Jamal stated simply, referring to the fact the Tarrabin Bedouins did not much respect Egyptian law or follow Egyptian ways.
Abdullah switched back to English to address Ortega: “Your friends disappeared one day after the Frenchwoman was released into their custody. Chief of Police Halil is investigating the matter. That’s all I know.”
The Spaniard studied him carefully. He did not believe him.
“I’ll pay your fees if you give me more information.”
Abdullah grinned mischievously. “My price is high.”
“Name it, Señor,” Ortega challenged him.
“One thousand American dollars!”
“That depends on the information,” Ortega said, reaching for some bills stashed in his pocket, money he had exchanged in advance in Spain before leaving Barajas airport.
Catching a glimpse of the cash, Abdullah’s attitude seemed to transform. Ortega counted ten hundred-dollar bills and spread them on the table in front of him, out of the attorney’s reach.
Abdullah sat up, seemingly much more alert.
“Give me half before I talk,” he said, his voice now quite hoarse, his gaze intense on the money.
“Talk first, Señor,” Ortega said just as the door to the café burst open and a squad of policemen appeared in the entrance.
“Chief Halil,” Abdullah murmured guiltily, springing to his feet.
The chief, eyeing the cash on the table, motioned for Abdullah to approach him while his men kept watch on the visitors. They conferred in low voices in the corner, then approached the table.
Ortega sat motionless not displaying concern.
“Your friends have broken the law,” the chief declared without preamble.
Ortega remained silent.
“They will pay dearly when we find them.”
“Where are they? What did they do?” Ortega asked.
“They are somewhere in the mountains with the Frenchwoman and her boy.”
Ortega perked up. This was vital information. It was suddenly becoming clear why his colleagues took off.
“What business do you have with them?” the chief continued.
“We work together,” Ortega answered figuring the truth was his best ally for the moment.
“Then you are part of this conspiracy,” the chief stated.
“I don’t know what conspiracy you mean, Señor.”
“To kidnap El-Shara’s boy!” the chief retorted angrily.
“Señor, we work for a respectable and well-known American organization which assists in child kidnapping cases. We do not kidnap children! We help bring them back to their parents.”
“Then why don’t we meet the boy’s father and maybe you can explain why your colleagues stole his boy.”
“Will you please explain to me what happened here?” Ortega continued in a pacifying manner.
“I will let the father and the judge do that,” the chief said. “Come with me.”
Two policemen at his side, Ortega was escorted from the café through the market to an aging open-top police Jeep and placed in the back.
Jamal, Ortega noticed, did not accompany him.
They met the judge and Hussni El-Shara at the judge’s quarters in the old prison building where Clair had been held.
The bearded judge sat behind his large desk, dressed in his customary brown suit and pink tie, with El-Shara, Clair’s ex-husband, by his side. He was a neat looking person casually dressed in designer slacks and a Lacoste shirt, bony and tall with straight black hair fashionably cut and oiled, dark scrutinizing eyes under heavy eyebrows, conspicuous cheekbones, a long curved nose, and thin lips almost totally concealed under a bushy mustache.
Ortega was made to stand in front of the judge, Chief Halil and Abdullah confining him on both sides.
Chief Halil spoke in Arabic to the judge. Abdullah translated to English:
“The police are quite distraught by what has happened and are considering charging this man with conspiracy to kidnap the boy. We would like to hold this man responsible until his friends show up.”
Ortega, beginning to feel a noose tighten around his neck, spoke evenly to the judge: “Holding me hostage here will not solve your problem. If it’s the boy you want, I may be able to help find him.”
Abdullah translated into Arabic and Chief Halil continued: “We have reason to bel
ieve this man is withholding information which can help us find the boy.”
The judge looked at Ortega expectantly. Ortega, trying to avoid being drawn into taking a defensive position, reasoned: “Señor, I came here to try and help solve the situation. My organization has the means to assist you in straightening this out.”
Hussni El-Shara spoke for the first time. “It is your organization who have been after my son ever since I divorced the woman and moved to Cairo.”
Ortega was about to argue that El-Shara was the one who took the boy from his mother against French court ruling, but stopped himself short, realizing the people in the room had already imprisoned Clair for trying to bring back her boy.
He was trapped and he knew it. He had walked straight into it, miscalculating Egyptian motives and thinking he could count on fair play.
They were all there, just waiting for him to show up so they can further exploit whatever it was they wanted from Black Jack and company who had obviously promptly escaped.
“You will be tried,” the judge announced, then turned his back to the Spaniard and conferred in Arabic with Hussni El-Shara.
One of Chief Halil’s men approached Ortega with handcuffs. But the Spaniard was quick. Startling everyone in the room he jumped over the judge’s table, dodging over the judge and threw himself out the open window landing with a thump on the ground two floors below. Dazed, he got up and began to limp away feeling a terrible pain to his right leg. Then he heard shots and noticed a stray of bullets tugging at his heels and all around him. He kept limping toward a line of palm trees in the distance when a bullet caught him in the back of the neck and knocked him down.
A troop of policemen burst out of the prison building to give chase to the fleeing prisoner who had already fallen from bullets fired upon him from the second floor windows.
They found him sprawled on the ground, blood oozing from his neck and knee, and stood around looking at the dying man until he took his last breath.