by Niv Kaplan
Clair heard the soldiers before she saw them a few hundred meters away. They were seated under a palm tree drinking coffee and smoking, a vehicle parked on the road close by. She heard them talk loudly and when she stepped on the road, they stared at her with binoculars.
Her heart was in her mouth and for a moment she felt very weak. The Dahab prison treatment suddenly loomed threateningly intense. She stumbled a little but gained her balance and began crossing the road slowly looking sideways, as Ahmed had instructed.
Once across, she looked back at Ibrahim and motioned for him to follow. She continued a few paces beyond the road and sat, feeling her body shake.
Ibrahim sat on the other end and waited for the goats to cross. The soldiers kept watching through their binoculars but made no effort to move and inspect. Two of the goats wandered a little towards the soldiers. Ibrahim kept watch but did not dare move.
Suddenly a shot rang out. It made both Ibrahim and Clair jump to their feet. The two straying goats turned and began to hurry after the rest.
Then another shot boomed, and one of the goats hit the pavement, blood oozing from her neck. The soldiers were clapping and cheering.
Ibrahim hurriedly crossed the road, stumbling behind the herd. Clair took his hand and they hurried up the gorge, away from the danger, a goat short. A while later, with the crossing still in view, Clair looked back and saw the dying goat lying in the center of the road, with the army vehicle approaching. The soldiers were gearing up for a feast.
They were roasting the goat over a blazing fire when Black Jack and Faraj reached the top of the gorge that led to the crossing. The two began climbing down, careful not to tumble any rocks. Easing their way slowly and silently down the gorge, they kept a careful eye on the celebrating troop. At one point a vehicle passed by uphill, toward the soldiers, its headlights brushing the slopes. It stopped by the site, its passengers joining the party. Minutes later another vehicle rushed by uphill but did not stop by the lookout.
Jack reached the road with Faraj close behind. He squatted for a brief moment making sure no vehicles were approaching then he sprinted for the other side.
The trip wire set off the fireworks.
Jack lost his footing and collapsed hard to the ground hitting his knee on a boulder. He looked up to see several flares lighting up the sky. He tried to get up, to regain his footing, but his knee buckled and he winced in pain. Faraj was nervously squatting next to him.
“Go,” Jack whispered to him, pointing toward the ascending goat trail and safety. “Go, save yourself and get Clair out of here…”
Faraj hesitated a moment longer. He attempted raising Jack by his shoulders but could not hold the weight. Then he sprinted for the gorge.
Jack’s knee could not support him. He was scrambling, crawling for cover but there was nowhere to hide. The soldiers were on him like hunters on prey.
The two military vehicles screeched to a halt by the road, the soldiers jumping out on the run. The flares were still partially illuminating the area and Jack was easily spotted. Guns raised, they approached him carefully, shouting commands and obscenities in Arabic. He lay face down and felt the first kick barely miss his wounded knee. Then more kicks came and he was turned over to see six heavily armed soldiers staring at him, cursing and spitting, guns at the ready pointed at him.
A blinding flashlight inspected him carefully as he lay on the ground, hands over his head. Someone barked an order and Jack was lifted and shoved to one of the waiting vehicles. Three of the soldiers crammed in the back of the old command car with him. The apparent ranking officer sat next to the driver barking orders as they shot up the mountain, the second vehicle following close behind.
The command car rocked and skidded over the uneven road causing Jack great pain. He sat on the metal floor with the soldiers above him, his knee sensitive to every little bump and jolt. He worried it was broken knowing they could use it to inflict great pain in an interrogation, which he had no doubt, was coming.
He was in a jam. They would pin everything on him and probably lock him away for life. And they would do it before anyone had a chance to help him. It would be days before Sam would meet Clair and Ibrahim, if they ever made it out. Maybe he himself would talk under duress and give them away. The rendezvous point, the route.
It would take a while before anyone learned of his fate, even if Clair did make it out. The Egyptians would not make it easy. And even if he was found and assisted, he would not escape trial and most probably conviction. The Egyptians would see to that. They could not lose face. Jack would pay for the embarrassment.
They reached the Army base an hour later and were whisked to the local confinement quarters, a tin hut with a fence and two guards, on the perimeter of the base.
It was past midnight, but the commandant soon appeared with a curious entourage lagging behind. They all entered the hut and stood over Jack who was on the ground leaning against the tin wall.
A single light bulb dangling from the roof was all the illumination present.
“I need medical attention,” Jack said quickly in lame Arabic, as he spotted the high-ranking officer stepping in. He pointed to his knee making wrenching gestures.
The officer looked at the knee, concerned. It was swollen and there was a large bloodstain around the area where the pants were torn.
“Your name?” the officer said in good English.
“Jack Preston,” Jack answered. “I am a US citizen.”
“Your business?” the commandant continued, ignoring the reference.
“Official US business. I demand to see a representative from the US embassy here.”
“Does this business include kidnapping children?” the commandant queried.
“I did not kidnap anyone,” Jack said.
“Then what is your business?” the commandant pressed.
“Official business. I’m not at liberty to say.”
“Is it classified?” the commandant continued patiently. “Maybe you are a spy.”
“I will disclose this information only with an official representative from the US embassy present.” Jack said, hoping to somehow get the word out.
With sudden fervor, the commandant kicked Black Jack’s ailing knee. The pain was so sudden that Jack was instantly sickened, feeling faint, and he slid to the floor unable to speak. Two of the soldiers grabbed him and sat him straight making him face their commander.
“You were saying?” the commandant continued as if nothing happened.
Jack could not reply. He felt nausea engulfing him and he was suddenly vomiting on himself. The crowd of Egyptian soldiers looked on.
Jack began to feel the throbbing pain in his knee subside when another kick landed there sending him sprawling on the ground. The two soldiers sat him up again.
“Spies get executed in this country,” Jack heard the commandant saying through a haze of pain and nausea. “It’s better to be a child kidnapper.”
It took a few minutes before Jack could utter a word. The Egyptians waited patiently.
“I need a doctor,” Jack whispered.
“One will be provided as soon as you answer my questions,” the commandant replied.
“I am no spy and no kidnapper,” Jack whispered.
“Then state your business here,” the commandant retorted.
“I represent a US Government agency which represents parents in dispute over their children with foreign nationals.”
“Does this agency give you the right to kidnap?”
“No,” Jack said faintly.
“Then why are you wanted by the Dahab police for kidnapping a boy?”
“I don’t know,” Jack said.
“Do you know where the boy is?”
“No.”
“Then what are you doing in these parts?”
Jack remained silent, preparing for the next kick, which did not come. Instead, the commandant took out a flyer of some sort and flashed it in front of Jack’s face.
&
nbsp; “This was distributed to me by the police. It warrants your and your female partner’s arrest for kidnapping a boy. The description fits you so I will hand you over to them. This is a matter for the police, not the military. You will be tried.” With that, the commandant did an about-face, barked a few orders in Arabic and exited the hut, most of his entourage following suit.
Jack was left with the two guards positioned outside and two of his original captors from the lookout site.
“I need a doctor,” he whispered in Arabic in the direction of the soldiers but they ignored him.
He drifted in and out of consciousness through the night, the agonizing pain not letting up when finally morning came and he was again shoved on to the Command car with the three soldiers. No food, no drink, no doctor.
Mouth dry, body weakened, the knee painfully throbbing, he was finally given some water as the vehicle skidded and rocked its way down the Katarina ridge to police headquarters in A-Tur, a ride that would take the entire day.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Kessler waited for the crew at Ben Gurion airport, near Tel Aviv. He was there not only as an escort for the continued leg to the south, but primarily to make sure they were not stopped by customs and security and asked awkward questions. Including Mai-Li, seven passengers made up the group from Inverness. Harley had picked only a handful of his most trusted men for the operation. There was Devlin, Sergeant “Lizard” O’Leary, Jimmy the driver, Lieutenant Copeland who was to monitor things from afar, and Captain Malcolm Rolston who together with Devlin was a troop leader.
Harley had surprised Mai-Li by accepting the challenge without much dialog, barring the issue of payment and Israeli cooperation. He would be paid, in advance, a half million US dollars, direct to a Swiss bank account under some fabricated firm name.
Kessler briefed them on the way.
The Israelis would allow them out across the border fence, into Egyptian territory, then let them back in once they got back. The crew would flush out Black Jack and company from their hiding positions and escort them across the open terrain to Israeli territory. In case of engagement with Egyptian forces, they would shoot their way through using weapons supplied by the Israelis. Israel could claim a skirmish with terrorist factions or drug smugglers.
Capture of a single member of the team would mean disaster. Harley had not consulted anyone and was risking his own neck. Kessler provided Israeli cooperation. Sam had Metzger provide the money.
They had two days before the rendezvous with Jack. The Bedouin contact that had provided the information was going back to Nueba to fetch Christine and bring her across the border.
*****
They met again at the Tarrabin village where Christine had remained in hiding for the duration of Kasuma’s three-day trip to Israel.
Kasuma arrived late in the evening on the fourth day of her absence. She briefed Christine and laid down the plan of her escape from Egypt.
They were to wait until early the next morning then were to be driven in a taxi full of tourists to Taba, just across the border from Eilat. They would wait until nightfall at the Hilton Taba, then simply walk through the old Rafi Nelson village and swim around the fence to Israel where their colleagues would be waiting.
Christine realized Kasuma had never met and therefore did not know any of the Center’s operatives whom she hoped were the “colleagues” waiting for her.
Aside from swimming around the fence, which seemed dangerous but more reasonable than trying to pass border control, the one major problem was passing an Egyptian military check point just north of Nueba, on the main junction to Western Sinai and Cairo.
Kasuma figured they were quite safe in an ordinary taxi full of travelers but it remained a sticking point.
“Why not just walk to Taba?” Christine queried as the two sat on the sand dipping bare feet in Red Sea waters.
“It would be much more conspicuous for two women to be on foot in these parts,” Kasuma reasoned. “Past Nueba, the highway gets real close to the waters and it’s a very long walk that could take several days.”
“How do we swim around the fence?”
“You swim. I’ll take you to the spot. There are normally a couple of soldiers and a small boat guarding the pass but they’ll be drunk or drugged when we get there, so you won’t have much to swim. I got you a bathing suit in Eilat for the task. You won’t have more than two, three hundred meters to swim. Your friends will be waiting on the other side with Israeli seamen.”
Christine sighed. She worried about the plan but had to admit there was not too much choice. Trying border control was out of the question and there was nowhere else close enough to cross the border.
It was risky but risk was part of the trade. It was risky business trying to release a mother from prison and extract her boy from his father in a Third World country. A price had to be paid. Their organization was paying dearly and the end of it was not in sight.
The two women went back to the huts. A half-moon was illuminating the Gulf, the waves gently caressing its shores. It seemed incredibly peaceful. Christine lay on the large rug among the cushions and pillows hoping to get a little rest before she embarked on her precarious escape. Kasuma disappeared, promising to come wake her when it was time.
She noticed how tense she was, her belly tight, her mind full of gloomy thoughts, eager to escape and get to safety. Then she could grieve over Ortega and whoever else.
She wondered about Jack, Clair and the boy and how they were doing. In two days they would need to make the rendezvous point. Then she thought of Sam and how worried and full of guilt he must be now that he knew El Chino’s fate. And she thought of her mother, praying she had gotten the word that she was OK. She had to see her, touch her, and relieve her of the terrible worry.
The sun was just over the Red mountains to the east when Christine felt someone tugging at her shoulder. Realizing she had fallen asleep, she sat up, shivering, the enormity of what lay ahead striking her instantly.
Ahmed handed her a cup of coffee. Crouching, he gave her an encouraging smile. Christine nodded thankfully and sipped the hot sweet black liquid then on impulse decided to go for a dip. She signaled Ahmed to turn around, took off her clothes and ran, diving into the chilly salt water of the Gulf, splashing around to ease the chill shock.
Kasuma was on the edge of the water with a towel when Christine got out. Her body was trembling but she felt refreshed. Wrapping the towel around her shimmering naked frame, she ran to the bath hut and thankfully dipped in hot water and soap. After she got out and dressed, she felt ready to face the difficult day.
They crowded in the old Peugeot station wagon with four other Israeli backpackers returning home. Kasuma sat in front and Chris blended in in the back. She had given up her Bedouin attire and was now a French tourist on her way to catch a charter flight to Paris from Eilat.
They reached the checkpoint a half hour out of Nueba and were stopped for inspection by Egyptian military personnel. An armed soldier poked his head into the taxi and looked around, his eyes stopping briefly on each of its passengers. Christine forced herself to look him in the eye. Any hesitation or sign of apprehension could give her away. Her heart was beating fast and she felt her face redden but the soldier remained oblivious.
Seemingly satisfied, he muttered a few words in Arabic to the driver and slowly walked toward the gate. He entered the small hut by the gate and came back out with another soldier; now both were approaching the cab.
Christine was now profusely sweating and notably concerned. She looked around but saw no escape. Afraid the soldier might have recognized something, she did the only thing she could do to avoid giving him a second look. She grabbed the Israeli chap next to her and kissed him square on the lips. Caught unawares, the man backed away for a brief moment then returned her kiss, sticking his tongue in her mouth. Christine grabbed his hand and put it to her face hiding a substantial part of it.
The two soldiers were now re-inspect
ing the passengers, talking among themselves, enthusiastically gesturing at the couple kissing. Christine would not let go until the soldiers backed away. The Israeli already had his hands on her breasts but it did not matter. After short deliberation, the soldiers moved to the gate and opened it, allowing the taxi to move on. Relieved, Christine disengaged herself from the man, smiled at him thankfully, and ignored him the rest of the way. In the front seat, Kasuma breathed a sigh of relief.
The late Rafi Nelson was an Israeli entrepreneur, who in the late sixties built himself a tourist village just across the Israeli border after Israel annexed the Sinai following the Six Day war, claiming it his own. To this day its legal procedures remain unclear, but the fact of the matter remained that he was owner of the land and reaped its profits. In the early eighties when Israel was preparing to return the Sinai, Rafi Nelson’s village and the Taba area remained a bone of contention for a long while before it was resolved and given to the Egyptians. The village was now in Egyptian territory but still mostly populated by Israeli tourists, mostly high society movers and shakers, musicians, playwrights, authors, actors, ball players and suchlike. Situated on the water, it bordered right on the fence separating Egypt and Israel.
Christine and Kasuma moved slowly among the crowd of die-hard sunbathers, as the evening shadows grew longer. Few people were in the water at that time of day. Settling under a shade by the far corner of the resort, closest to the border, they signaled a tanned waitress to come take their order.
The two banana smoothies tasted heavenly after the demanding day. They had reached Taba past midday. Following the checkpoint affair, they got stuck in a traffic jam across from Corral Island. A bus skidded, blocking the entire road and cars had to wait almost three hours for it to be towed.
They spent time in the Hilton at Taba, keeping as far away from Egyptian officials as possible, the casino providing most of their cover. They gambled some coins and mostly moved around the tables. Later they took a walk on the beach and ended up at the village. Throughout the day, a few glances were thrown their way but nothing alarming.