Tracks

by Niv Kaplan

  Christine felt great anguish seize her. Jose Luis Ortega, a comrade she had gotten to know, like, and depend upon for sound advice, had lost his life trying to protect the innocent. She had never once considered she and her Center colleagues were seriously risking their lives for those poor souls they vowed to protect. Yes, they had gotten into a few sticky situations, but always with suitable agencies to assist them. This was the first time they had ever gone it alone, and they failed miserably. El Chino, the short, stocky resourceful Spanish police sergeant, who left the comforts of his tenured job in Madrid, to try to alter some fortunes for the better in the world, had made the ultimate sacrifice. Like her own father, he had sacrificed his life and Christine was suddenly at odds with whether it was worth it. She realized they had crossed a point where there was no turning back. El Chino’s death put them all in a new dimension, no longer protected from the elements. They would all have to answer for this tragedy: to themselves; to Ortega’s family and friends; to their sponsors; to any politicians seeking to benefit from the fiasco; and worst of all, to the media. The story would not go unnoticed for long.

  Tears were welling up in her eyes and her vision blurred. She felt a hand around her shoulders. It was Kasuma comforting her in French. Christine, the weight of the last three weeks becoming too heavy to bear, suddenly dropped her head between her knees and began to sob, silently at first, then in short gasps.

  The men were not there when she came to, only Kasuma. An hour had passed. “I need to get going,” Kasuma whispered. “I’ve got an Israeli contact over in Eilat. I believe he could help. Would you like to send word?”

  Christine considered the offer. Could she trust her? She thought she could and there was not much choice.

  “We are an organization trying to assist children in peril,” she said. “We released a mother of French nationality from prison in Dahab, then took her boy from his father and fled for the mountains.”

  Kasuma eyed Christine attentively.

  “A French court had ruled custody for the mother, but the father, Hussni El Shara, kidnapped him and brought him here. She came here hoping to get him back and they threw her in jail.”

  “We don’t normally operate in this way, but circumstances forced us into it. Now we’ve got a comrade killed and a group of people fleeing the Egyptians up in those mountains,” Christine grumbled, pointing westward toward where she had come from.

  “I know the father,” Kasuma said. “He’s a load of trouble. The entire police force is on his payroll down there. She was most likely lured there with the promise that they’d let her have the boy but instead they threw her in jail figuring they’d attract someone who’d pay a ransom. And that someone is you,” Kasuma offered.

  “You got it,” Christine retorted.

  “But how did they know you’d be coming?” Kasuma questioned.

  “We have been dealing with this case for quite a while,” Christine explained. “Me personally.” She took a deep breath.

  “I warned Clair not to mess with these people on her own but she didn’t listen. Now there’s trouble.”

  “What would you like me to do?” Kasuma asked.

  “I need to get word to one Sam Baker in New York. He could be lurking around here somewhere as well but I wouldn’t know.”

  “Who’s Sam?”

  “He’s sort of our leader. He founded the Center and recruited the members. He’s been missing a son for ten years now.”

  There were questions Kasuma wanted to ask but it was not the time. She got up to leave. Christine stood up and took out the map plastered to her stomach.

  “Clair and the boy are up in the mountains with the Tarrabin and Black Jack who’s another member of our team. There’s a rendezvous point marked on this map which we estimated will take them another eight days to make. I need Sam to arrange for their extraction from this point. It’s still in Egyptian territory but it’s a safe place for them to hide and wait.”

  Kasuma took the map and slipped it under her clothes.

  “Phone number of our office in New York is written on the map,” Christine added. “Finally there’s me and Ortega. I need to get out of this place with his body so we can give him a proper burial in Spain.”

  “You, I can probably get out to Eilat but your friend’s body will be an entirely different matter,” Kasuma said sadly. “We’ll have to find him first then make arrangements to ship the body out and it will not be easy. They’ll want to seal it up tightly.”

  “What about diplomatic means?” Christine suggested. “We can contact the Spanish embassy in Cairo and let them handle it.”

  “That will make a big stink between Egypt and Spain but we may not have a choice,” Kasuma reflected. “It may be the only way. But better you clear out of here before we take such action.”

  “When can you get me to Eilat?

  “I’ll be smarter tomorrow once I’m there. My contact will help. You must keep a very low profile for a couple of days until we figure out what to do.”

  Christine flashed a grateful smile and the two women hugged.

  “I should be back in two days,” Kasuma said as she picked up her bag and set off across the sand, among the huts, toward the black asphalt road that would take her to the border.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Mai-Li received the call in the Intelligence bunker.

  It was Elena who introduced herself and gave her Sam’s hotel and cell phone numbers in Israel. She got through to Sam an hour later.

  “Who’s Elena?” she blurted nervously.

  “Sorry Mai-Li,” he apologized for not informing her of Elena, “but things down here have turned ugly.”

  Mai-Li remained suspicious and uncertain.

  “Sam, we can’t have unknown people call this place.”

  “My mistake, Mai-Li. I wasn’t thinking.”

  “We can’t compromise Harley. He’ll never help us again.”

  “Mai-Li, you’re right but what’s done I can’t change. Now you have to listen.”

  “Go on,” she finally said after long contemplation.

  “El Chino’s dead,” Sam said and drew a muffled cry from Mai-Li.

  “He went looking for Chris and Jack in the Sinai, and the Egyptians killed him.”

  “Why, how?” Mai-Li managed to squeal, shuddering.

  “The Frenchwoman, Clair, was put in jail there. Her boy was held by the father. Chris and Jack went after her, released her then took the boy and had to flee the raging father and the Egyptians.

  “When they didn’t show up, I sent Ortega in after them. He was caught and charged with assisting in the kidnapping of the boy. He tried to escape and they shot him. Now it’s all being covered up.”

  “My God,” Mai-Li whispered, tears welling up in her eyes.

  Sam went on.

  “Now we have Jack escaping up in the treacherous mountains with Clair and the boy and Chris down in Nueba by the Red Sea. She managed to send word to us.”

  “What do we do?” Mai-Li beseeched.

  “We can probably get Chris out to Eilat with a little help from the Bedouins and the Israelis. Ortega’s remains will have to be extracted diplomatically. The major hurdle is getting Jack, Clair, and the boy out.”

  Mai-Li remained silent, unbelieving. Sam went on.

  “We can’t do it diplomatically because the Egyptians will claim kidnapping and want to try Jack and Chris. The Israelis will help only on their side of the fence. They need to be extremely careful not to start up a war.”

  “The only qualified people I can think of who can help us in real time are Harley’s.”

  “You want me to have Harley’s crew extract Black Jack, Clair and her boy from Egypt? Am I getting this right?” Mai-Li asked, suddenly alert.

  “What other choices do we have?” Sam argued.

  “I don’t know,” Mai-Li retorted, nervously. “What do I tell Harley? He’s all fired up getting ready for Kashmir.”

  “Ask for his help. It’s a
ll we can do. We have six days.”

  “And if he refuses? He could get his employers, his own government in diplomatic trouble, you know. And he’ll want to be paid.”

  “He’ll have to risk it. It will have to be covert. We’ve got money to pay him if that’s his problem.”

  “Oh, God,” Mai-Li sighed, realizing the load that has been put on her shoulders. “It may compromise Kashmir.”

  “We must get them out, Mai-Li. We can’t desert Jack.”

  There was silence on the line. Mai-Li looked around the Intelligence bunker as if for the first time. It was empty except for Corporal “Long-John” Evans who was plastered to the monitors adjusting the tapes from the successful exercise of the previous night.

  Mike Devlin had led “Scorpion” with additional men and managed to seize the camp and free the prisoners without any hiccups.

  Harley was pleased. Now she would ruin it for him. Put him on the spot.

  “I’ll talk to him,” she finally said. “Wait for my call.”

  “I will,” Sam said, anxiously. “Please hurry.”

  Mai-Li hung up the phone.

  *****

  The goat path off the cliff had proved quite a challenge. It was a narrow path on which Faraj could barely balance himself. Jack, Clair and Ibrahim had all watched as the Bedouin guide strained to get a grip.

  They had all filled their leather water packs and taken last sips from trickles of spring water that were coming down the rock face into the secluded pool of the enclosed alcove among the granite walls they had slept in, high above the desert ground below.

  Then they followed Faraj.

  At a certain point, to maintain their balance, they had to spread their legs wide on the narrow ledge, straddle the rock face and proceed with hundreds of meters of empty space below. They had to climb invisible steps only Faraj could discern and crawl up three narrow chutes before they reached the safety of the plateau.

  Once there, they worried about their pursuers but none seem to materialize. They waited for nightfall among the rocky outer edge of the plateau and dared proceed only then.

  They travelled for two nights not seeing a soul. Jack’s tongue was quite swollen still and he barely uttered a word, until on the third night they reached an oasis high in the mountains. It was a Tarrabin site nestled amongst palm trees, grapevines, date and banana trees flanked by a deep flowing stream that made a welcome noise they heard quite a ways away.

  The head tribesman, a wrinkled old Bedouin whose wives and children kept fussing about, invited them to his tent and offered food and drink. Exhausted, they fell upon the straw mats, drank thirstily and gulped down whatever food they were offered. The fresh spring water, pita bread, goat’s cheese and an assortment of fruits seemed items made in heaven and after a half day of rest they slowly recovered.

  Jack allowed the tribe’s woman healer to tend to his wounds. She boiled some plants and bushes in a teapot and forced him to drink, then produced a brown ointment with a pungent odor and carefully smeared it on his ailing tongue. It might have been the healer’s medicine, the elapsed time, or both that had made the difference, but Black Jack was able to talk soon after.

  After some discussion with the chief and two of his sons, Faraj explained they needed to cross close to an Egyptian military facility with fenced roads and patrols. It was an air traffic radar facility built high up on the mountains. The road leading to it was fenced on both sides with military vehicles patrolling it intermittently.

  The few places where the road was fenceless bordered sheer rock face canyons quite difficult to climb. The Bedouins had two primary places where they would normally cross the road but the Egyptians were aware of them and would keep a watchful eye. The Bedouins who would normally cross were goatherds with their flocks so a group of more than two people could very well alert someone.

  The Egyptians were presumably still looking for them and if they were expecting them to be heading this way, the road would be an ideal place to spot them and trap them.

  With Clair and Ibrahim translating, they queried the Bedouins trying to determine the best possible action.

  “Could we bypass the road?” Black Jack asked.

  “That would mean descending east for two days, approaching the lower areas nearer the sea where it would be harder to hide and more Egyptian patrols,” Faraj explained. “Then we would have to climb back up for at least another two days.”

  Black Jack nodded his head. That option was out of the question. They could not afford to take four days and expect to make it in time to the rendezvous location they had established with Christine.

  “We can try and cross it one or two at a time in the two locations,” Clair suggested.

  The head tribesman added something and nodded at her. Faraj explained.

  “He says you are smart. He thought the same and that we should take along some goats for show.”

  “I might be too big to pass for a Bedouin,” Black Jack offered.

  Faraj nodded.

  “Ibrahim should have no problem and Clair could hide her feminine features. They could pass together with some goats during daytime. You and I will need to follow at night and avoid the patrols.”

  Jack looked at his two companions. “Is it agreed?”

  They both nodded. He looked at Faraj. “We pass at the same point or at the two different ones?”

  “They are too far apart,” Faraj said.

  “Ahmed could go,” the chief said, referring to one of his sons.

  “You are very generous,” Faraj addressed the chief, “but it will be an extra day.”

  “It’s your decision. I will send Ahmed with you to show you the best way.”

  If they split up, Faraj later explained, they would have to take different routes, one being quite longer than the other, then they would need to converge and if something happened to either, neither would be able to know.

  They spent the rest of the day relaxing. Clair went to bathe in the lower part of the stream where a small hidden pool with a small waterfall provided a natural shower and bath. Ignoring the young children who were splashing about, she stripped naked and immersed in the cool lucid water. She had her eyes shut for a while as she floated underneath the waterfall, then she looked around and thought she could live there. The mixture of brownish yellow arid landscape with blue sparkling spring water and desert vegetation seemed godly to her.

  Such contrast, she thought. It was down to day and night, hot and cold, dry and wet. Water meant life; the rest was ancillary. She marveled at the quiet, relaxed way of the inhabitants. They were part of nature with no reason to hurry. Time lost all meaning in a place like this.

  She splashed about, like the children, who had gathered on the banks to watch her, noticing her pale body with tanned arms and legs. She thought of Jack, and what it would be like if he joined her, naked in the pool. What would it be like if the two of them decided to stay there together? Jack was her age, thirty-six, and unmarried. She wondered why he never married. She liked him, even fancied him a little. He had told her little about himself but what she heard, she liked.

  Then she recalled Hussni, her husband who she met in university in Paris. How romantic he had been then. The trips he had taken her on. The Alps, Annecy, Nice, Marseilles. Dinners at the finest restaurants; picnics in the country. For a student, he was well off and it blinded her. Before she knew it, they were married, on the steps of Hotel de Ville. Then she had Ibrahim and had to quit school. Hussni would not have her study, work or do anything a woman was not “supposed” to do. Suddenly his religious beliefs, Islam, the Koran, and his Arabic chauvinist habits took precedence. Romance was out the door. Hussni went on to complete his degree in Political Science then demanded they move to Egypt.

  That was when she had had enough. She stood her ground and it ended in a bitter divorce.

  What followed was fate, and it brought her to this magical pool, together with her son, chased by her husband. The prominent setting and
ambience gave a rare aura to the place near where man proclaimed to see God. She did not believe in God, not through her ordeal, but from that vantage point, nature sure looked powerful.

  She climbed out of the pool on to the slippery bank and sat for a while to dry. The children had lost interest and were diving into the pool again, all of them naked as she was.

  She put on a fresh Galabia offered to her by one of the chief’s wives, washed the rest of her clothes and spread them out to dry. Then she fetched Ibrahim, made him take a bath and washed his clothes. Jack eventually lumbered to the pool and washed himself and his clothes. Clair watched him from afar, soaking his large athletic body in the pool, but kept her distance, respecting his privacy.

  They all gathered in the chief’s tent for a farewell supper as the sun disappeared behind the cliffs to the west. When they left, they had only a quarter moon and an array of stars to guide their way as they carefully treaded in the dark among the rocks.

  It took the entire night to reach the road crossing. Ahmed led the way with Faraj in the back. The ten goats they had taken along were now herded in a narrow niche of rocks feeding on some weeds. They waited until the sun emerged then Clair and Ibrahim led the goats down a narrow gorge and across the road.

  “They will be watching,” Ahmed had said, referring to the Egyptian soldiers.

  “Do not be in a hurry,” he warned, whispering, looking at Clair who was wearing Bedouin male clothing with a Kafiya around her head.

  He instructed Clair to cross the road very slowly, and to look sideways as if making sure no traffic was coming. Ibrahim should indifferently sit on the side of the road while the goats came down the gorge and crossed in front of him.

  “They will be watching you carefully and you must act as Bedouin goat herders,” Ahmed explained.

  “Once across the road, let the goats lead you,” Faraj interjected. “You must climb as high as you can and disappear from view. When you have found a safe place to hide, let the goats wander and wait for us. We’ll cross at dark.”