by Niv Kaplan
The Israelis built a town called Ofira there with all amenities including high rise hotels and a hospital which the Egyptians inherited when they got the Sinai back in the eighties.
They traveled southeast along the Gulf of Suez. The unattended asphalt highway was a narrow road mostly unmarked, which hugged the coastline and had its share of pits and bumps. Jack held on tight praying they will not hit a ditch deep enough or a bump high enough to hurt his knee. The ambulance moved at its full speed, a mere 50 miles an hour, the driver disregarding the obstacles.
It was dark outside. Jack could only see the inside of the ambulance from where he was seated, facing back. The only window was a slit revealing the driver compartment, allowing communication between front and back. Now and then he heard a vehicle pass by but mostly he just sat there propped on the bed, drained, watching his guards doze off.
Hours later, the sun just over the horizon, they reached Sharm. The driver suddenly fired up the siren and tore in to the hospital’s emergency ward. The back door flew open and Jack was hurled out of the ambulance attached to the bed. He was wheeled through a swinging door, the officer in front following a male nurse, the two soldiers with a second male nurse guiding Jack’s bed along.
They stopped at a window and Jack watched as the officer handed in the paperwork. Then he was wheeled to a long room with several curtained stands that housed patients, their entourage waiting impatiently around. Jack noticed a group of foreigners, still in their wetsuits, talking excitedly in an unfamiliar language Jack suspected was Swedish. There were two women and a man and they seemed up in arms talking among themselves, pointing toward the cubicle where Jack assumed their comrade lay behind a curtain. Jack was wheeled to an empty cubicle himself to wait behind the curtain until the doctor on duty came in for the initial checkup. Jack heard a rustle of voices behind the curtain before the doctor came through, leaving the soldiers and officer behind.
The doctor looked beat. He was quite young, Jack estimated in his early thirties, with wavy black hair, kind eyes, and a natural worried expression. His skin color was light brown and his unshaven features indicated he was due for a break.
He studied some papers on a clipboard for a moment, eyeing Jack’s exposed knee intermittently, then released the belts.
“I’m Doctor Hafez,” he introduced himself. “Do you speak Arabic?”
Jack nodded, indicating with his fingers he knew little.
The doctor flashed a weary smile. “While you’re in here, you will be treated as all patients, regardless of your special status. The soldiers will keep an eye on you but will let us perform our job. Do not worry.”
Jack nodded that he understood.
“It is my responsibility,” the doctor went on, “to deliver you to the department, as I see fit. From the looks of it, and based on the recommendation from the prison doctor, you will need an operation. But first I need to take a look.”
Doctor Hafez examined the knee carefully, causing Jack some pain in the process. He then ordered x-rays which caused some additional discomfort to Jack’s entourage who escorted him to the x-ray room, sat around while he was being x-rayed, then had to wheel him back to the emergency room and fetch Dr. Hafez who, being the only doctor on duty, was being pulled in different directions.
Jack saw him come out of the Swedish stand with the Swedes all over him bickering and complaining. He walked into Jack’s stand, being handed the x-rays by a male nurse who had just arrived with them. Closing the curtain behind, Doctor Hafez raised them to the light and examined them carefully, nodding to himself.
Finally he looked at Jack.
“Looks like your trip is not wasted. You will need an operation. The meniscus is shot. There’s a lot of fluid we’ll need to take out.”
Jack closed his eyes not sure if he was to rejoice. The medical term was vaguely familiar. Athletes often suffered such injuries. On the positive side, if the operation was successful, he would walk again and it delayed his return to the cellblock. On the negative side, it was a risk being operated on in such a facility in a third world country. He had no information who would perform the operation, who would put him to sleep, and how safe and sterile the equipment was. What if he was given a blood transfusion?
Doctor Hafez opened the curtain and called in the officer explaining his decision and giving instructions on where they should go next. Armed with the documents and x-rays the party of three wheeled Jack from the emergency ward, up three flights in the elevator to the Orthopedic Department.
The nurse on duty was expecting them. As soon as Jack was wheeled into the check-in area, she took charge, asking them politely to wait and wheeled the bed herself to a white treatment room, which looked well-kept and quiet. The nurse left Jack there momentarily and rushed to call the doctor.
The doctor was a woman. She introduced herself as Doctor Fiad, and immediately connected Jack to an IV. She had black hair, fashionably cropped and wore trousers underneath her white apron. She looked efficient and professional, a permanent little smile plastered on her silky face.
“I’ll be your anesthesiologist,” she informed Jack. “Doctor El-Gaziz will perform the operation.”
“How long will I be under?” Jack asked lamely.
“Normally for this type of procedure – two hours, no more, unless there are complications. We normally can only tell once the procedure begins but not to worry, I’ll be by your side.”
Jack smiled weakly.
“Thank you,” he said. “I’m in your hands.”
Doctor Fiad called the nurse and gave her instructions. Several more doctors came and went and a few patients strolled in for a look.
Then Doctor Fiad came back in and administered the anesthetic.
It was the last thing Jack recalled.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
David Kessler walked into the Hilton Eilat searching for his rendezvous. He spotted her in the corner table by the espresso bar. The Hilton was a perfect meeting place, swarming with vacationers of all colors and types.
Kasuma sat by herself, sipping a cappuccino, watching the crowds swirl. She wondered how much more grace she had, before they caught on to what she was up to.
Spying for the Israelis was certain death.
She did it for revenge, plain and simple. Before the wars of ‘67 and ‘73, the Bedouins, particularly her tribe, the Tarrabin, were considered bottom of the pile. They were simple fishermen and herders oppressed by the Egyptians for generations until the Israelis came along and taught them the art of business.
The Israelis, always viewing matters with a sense of making a profit, collaborated with the desert natives, rather than use them, and created an entirely new thought process of using the desert with its vast natural habitat, to encourage tourism.
All along the Gulf of Aqaba from Eilat to Sharm el Sheikh, and in the high mountains, opportunities began presenting themselves in the form of guided tours, accommodation, restaurants and diving. Tourist attractions such as sunbathing, camel riding, snorkeling, authentic cuisine, and shopping for Sinai souvenirs became popular overnight and the Israelis were more than happy to hand the Bedouins their fair share. It took them a while, but the Bedouins learned the art and began exploiting the opportunities themselves, making a fortune never before familiar to these simple people.
Kasuma’s faction of the Tarrabin were located in a prime location called Nueba known for its endless flat beaches and beautiful diving attractions. It was also the closest settlement to the main road leading to the high mountains and the Katarina Monastery and many would stop there before going on up. The Israelis built a Jewish settlement there called Neviot, and together they thrived. They were even exempt from paying taxes due to an Israeli law exempting settlements in the occupied areas from paying income tax.
Kasuma was born in 1974 so was a little young to appreciate that time. She remembered a carefree childhood playing with the Israeli children on the beach and having everything she ever wanted.
&n
bsp; What she vividly recalled, an event so traumatic it marked her adult life, was the return of the Egyptians who took reign back in 1982. The good life was over. The Israeli settlement was burned down and most of the tribe’s possessions were confiscated. What was left was charged with very high taxes, so that it choked the business and for years the Tarrabin did not recover.
She recalled standing by her father, Abu-Kadim, who was Nueba’s head chief, and watching him being humiliated by a company of Egyptians soldiers whose orders were to “put the Bedouins back in their place”. She remembered following her father as he stumbled after the soldiers trying to save the little that was left standing.
In the early years, the Egyptians did not acknowledge tourism and the business died down. Advertising, travel packages, facilities and ease of access were all taken away and people stopped coming. There were some die-hard Israelis who religiously came by but the Egyptians only made matters more complicated. Going through the Taba border point took so long and cost so much, it was no longer beneficial and people went elsewhere.
It was in those years, as she grew into a striking teenager, that Kasuma decided she would seek revenge. Her father, though still prominent, had lost his fortune, his pride, and as a result of constant haggling by the Egyptians, lost his good health as well. He became bitter and sick and spent many days in bed, emotionally paralyzed.
It was only in the later years, when the Egyptians realized the income they could collect from tourism, that her father became a focal point again and regained some of his lost pride.
By then it had been too late. Kasuma had volunteered to spy for the Israelis; to provide information across the lines. They would use her sporadically particularly to track possible terrorist infiltrations which were rare, and warn of threats to Israeli tourists who frequented the Sinai beaches in the tens of thousands every year.
The level of her success was never revealed to her but she knew the Israelis appreciated her work from the paychecks and dedication they showed her.
Kessler sat down across from her sweating heavily, a long glass of Sprite in his hand.
Kasuma smiled. She was wearing her hair long, with a silk white top, a blue mini dress and beach slippers, as if she was just back from the pool.
“Heat never lets up here, does it?” he observed.
“It does in here,” Kasuma remarked, smiling.
“Give me a minute to cool down. I’ve been running around like crazy all day.”
They sat in silence for a few minutes as Kessler sucked on his Sprite, then began to discuss the subject at hand.
“What can you tell me of Jack Preston’s whereabouts?” Kessler cut to the chase.
“Best kept secret in the Sinai,” Kasuma said. “Most people don’t know and the ones who do won’t talk about it.”
“Why?” Kessler asked.
“From what I can gather, they want to make sure and nail him. Make an example.”
“Why are they so offended all of a sudden?”
“They were hoping to make big money out of it and he ruined their plans.”
“I figured as much. So what happens now?”
“Rumor has it Jack was taken to A-Tur then sent to Sharm for treatment. He apparently was injured and needed a hospital.”
“Where is he now?”
“Most likely in Sharm.”
“Where is he going from there?”
“Back to A-Tur.”
“Then what?”
“They’ll keep him there until the trial.”
“How long will that be?”
“Not long; a week or two. I hear they are making preparations in Dahab. They want to finish it quick before the world wakes up.”
“Does he have representation?” Kessler inquired, shifting uncomfortably in his seat.
“They will appoint him an attorney but…”
“It’s all for show,” Kessler pitched in. “He doesn’t stand a chance.”
“I don’t believe so,” Kasuma remarked sadly. “He’s looking at a minimum of ten years.”
“What are our options?” Kessler asked.
“If we can pinpoint his transfer to Dahab, you might want to grab him en route.”
“Can we?”
“For an appropriate sum we probably could.”
“How much we are talking?”
“Half a million Egyptian up front, and I can guarantee a twenty-four hour warning.”
“I’ll need at least forty-eight,” Kessler persevered.
“That’ll mean one hundred thousand more.”
“You’re stretching the rope,” Kessler cautioned.
“It’s a dangerous assignment,” Kasuma pointed out. “We can lose everything.”
“How so?”
“We have got to use people on the inside, unlike most times when we can observe from a distance. This affair is being closely scrutinized and everyone is very tight-lipped about it. Unless we work the inside we will not know.”
“Who are you working?” Kessler asked, severely violating the laws of compartmentalization.
“I can’t say,” Kasuma said stubbornly. “But my people could get you the information, in time, with that kind of cash.”
“I’ll need real time information on his escort,” Kessler maintained. “It’ll be critical.”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
Kessler gulped down the rest of his Sprite and sat silent for a while, contemplating the odds. He could intercept the convoy on its way to Dahab attacking from the water. The Navy frogmen could do it but the IDF would never rubber-stamp it. It could start a war. He could approach the Americans to save one of their own but by the time it got through the system, Jack would be sentenced.
That left Harley, which caused Kessler butterflies in his belly. Harley was good, there was no doubt, but his mercenary ways frightened Kessler. If anything went wrong, he wouldn’t hesitate to shoot his way out and save his people. The mission would only come second.
He wondered what kind of deep pockets Sam had to afford such an expense. And he further wondered who needed convincing to have the IDF insert Harley such a long way into Egyptian territory.
“Meet me at the Dan tomorrow,” he said to Kasuma. “I’ll need to check whether we can spring it.”
Kasuma nodded. Kessler got up and walked to the bar. He stood there a while, sipping more Sprite, watching Kasuma make her way out, ensuring she was not being followed.
*****
They were having lunch at Pier 17, when Peka walked in. Natasha produced a weak shrill of surprise and got up to greet him.
Introductions complete, Peka ordered a salad and coffee and faced the girls with a solemn stare.
“Can we talk?” he asked Natasha, gesturing at Elena.
Natasha looked unsure.
“You don’t have a clearance, do you?” she asked Elena.
“I was trusted only with the unclassified stuff,” Elena acknowledged.
Peka and Natasha exchanged glances.
“I’ll go back to the office,” Elena volunteered. “You two can stay here and talk.”
“Finish your lunch first,” Natasha offered, feeling uneasy. She and Elena had become quite close since their night out and in the few days they had been working together. It felt odd to suddenly shut her out.
There was an uneasy silence as Elena hurried to finish her gyro. She wiped her lips, quickly sipped her espresso and got up to leave.
“I’ll wait for you in the office,” she said to Natasha, as she put on her coat. “It was nice meeting you.” She nodded to Peka and slipped out the door.
“Likewise,” Peka called after her and turned to Natasha.
“We lost their tracks,” he admitted dejectedly. “Whoever was supposed to track them in Athens screwed up. The girls disappeared.”
“Who told you this?” Natasha asked.
“Word came back a few days after you left. Lena Taler informed me.”
“Where were you?” Natasha demanded, so
unding harsher than she intended.
“I stayed in Bucharest hoping to learn something.”
“Did you verify what Lena told you?” Natasha persisted, sounding upset.
“Orlov told me the same story.”
“So you took their word,” Natasha sighed. “These people never had their hearts in this.”
“No, I flew to London and used my UN credentials to get an interview at MI6.”
“What did they say?”
“That they lost them. I spoke to one of the agents who stalked them in Athens. They were only two, and lost them in traffic on the first day. The girls switched vans three times. They kept driving them around in rush hour traffic until they lost them.”
“Sounds like elementary evasive procedure,” Natasha commented. “Anyone working Athens should be able to anticipate such hazards.”
“They were both new to the post. They never had a chance,” Peka remarked indignantly.
“So what are the Romanians going to do about it?” Natasha queried.
“Back to business as usual. This was supposed to be a model bust to use with the media. Now they can renege.”
Natasha shook her head in disappointment. Peka looked away, beleaguered. After a moment of uneasy silence, Natasha took his hand.
“I know where some of these girls are taken,” she told him.
Peka looked surprised.