“Absolutely, sir.”
“Good. So why don’t we both get a few hours of sleep? Good night, Major.”
“I can’t sleep, sir. The night isn’t over yet.” The major hung up, still chuckling, feeling that the razor had been removed from his throat. But Colonel Naqdi did not understand that his blade had two edges these days, for Shakuri knew all about the colonel’s backdoor ruse as being the Pharaoh, and his contacts in London and within the Egyptian military. In his time as chief of staff, he had burrowed quietly into everything he could find in the colonel’s private files and the office safe, and even had followed him to determine his contacts. He had enough to confirm, if the need ever arose, that the man was a traitor. The question was, who was using who? If Naqdi held a razor, Shakuri believed he held an ax.
He, aware of his growing independence and ability, had not told Naqdi about the attack on the motor pool, and now he had been handed this report that a Guards outpost was wiped out. This could not be the work of a few upset civilians, for the signature of upscale ferocity indicated military activity. He would call back in a few hours, hopefully interrupt the colonel’s sleep again, and warn him that based upon the latest information, there was a strong possibility that NATO special operation teams had been inserted.
Five thirty in the morning, with the bleak winter dawn only an hour away. Please, Allah, let the rest of the night remain quiet.
* * *
THE TWO JET SKIS were side by side, bobbing together some two hundred yards from the hulking mass of the Iranian freighter that separated them from the shoreline. Abdel was in the water, having unhooked the connecting chain and let it sink rather than chance having it make a sudden clatter if they tried to stow it in the compartment under the seat. He had other chains back at the shop.
Then his attention turned to Kyle’s ski. Tourists had a bad habit of thinking they were extreme sports athletes when they got a jet ski between their legs, and going too fast and making sharp turns was dangerous in a crowded water sports environment. Head-on collisions were not uncommon. Therefore, marina operators usually rigged governors to the jet ski throttles to limit the speeds, and El-Din was putting one in place on the accelerator that Kyle would use. It was a plastic wedge screwed onto the handlebar to prevent the throttle from being squeezed all the way back in an overenthusiastic grip. When he tightened the bolt, he swam back to his Yamaha and climbed aboard.
“Are you ready?” he whispered.
“Have to crank it up sometime,” Kyle responded. “Might as well be now.” While Abdel had dealt with the chain and the throttle, Kyle had used duct tape to secure both ends of the handlebar to keep the ski pointed straight ahead. “You go ahead and drive out of danger range. If something goes wrong, get the hell out of here. If not, come and get me.”
“Or whatever is left of you.”
“I’ll creep in to about thirty yards from the midsection, light the rags, then jack the throttle back all the way and tighten it in place with duct tape. I will roll into the water.”
El-Din nodded in agreement. “I will be right behind you. Just grab on tight as I pass and hold on until we get clear of the target and the blast. After that, you climb aboard and we leave in a hurry. Right?”
“Right. Let’s get this done.”
Abdel cranked his jet ski with a minimum throttle and little noise and scooted into a wide circle without creating a disturbing wake. Swanson took a deep breath and turned the key on his Honda. The engine spun to life without igniting the extremely flammable cargo, allowing him to exhale. He pressed the throttle slowly and the little ski slid forward, as if being summoned by the big boat, which loomed larger in his sight by the second. A hundred yards away, he could see a few figures moving around on board, but no alarm had been sounded.
Seventy-five yards, and he forced himself to concentrate on delivering the package perfectly, not on getting off of the homemade bomb as quickly as he could. Sixty yards, and the ski remained perfectly positioned, its nose aimed directly at the metal hull looming in front of him. Kyle revved it up, pulled the throttle back to its maximum position, and held on tight as the ski almost stood on its tail. When the bow hit the water again, he looped a turn of duct tape around the accelerator to hold it in place.
Jump, you crazy fool, he thought as the ski lunged ahead like a Thoroughbred out of the gate. A cigarette lighter had been kept dry in the neck of his wet suit, and he thumbed it once with his left hand, then twice, and the little flame caught. He touched it to a gasoline-soaked cloth that snaked from the filled gas tank tied at the front, then to another rag that fed into the rear tank. Somewhat surprised that he was still alive, Kyle Swanson rolled easily off and smacked into the water, careful not to kick away hard, which might throw the jet ski off course.
In the old days of wooden ships, enemy fleets and blockades were often attacked by ships that had been sailed into them while burning fiercely, thus torching the sails, spars, and hull. Swanson popped to the surface just in time to see his own version of a fire ship crash into the Iranian freighter.
* * *
“OH, MY GOD. NOT another one!” Dr. Tianha Bialy had been awakened for the third time in a single night by a monstrous explosion, this new one sounding like it was just outside her hotel window that opened out onto scenic Naama Bay. She had been dozing in her wrinkled clothes, and her hair felt wild, her eyes were blurry, and a foul taste was in her mouth.
She staggered to the window as sirens and alarms began sounding around the harbor, where a ship was in obvious great distress. It took her only a moment to realize that the new blaze was engulfing the Iranian ship that had been so placidly rocking at anchor all day long, unloading supplies. A wave of flame from the starboard side was marching hungrily along the deck, fingers of fire licking around the wheelhouse superstructure while boxes and crates on deck started to ignite. There was another crash as one container of mortar shells blew apart.
Grabbing her binoculars from the night table, she focused tightly on the ship. Crewmen were unreeling hoses, and spotlights came to life from other nearby ships to give the scene an awful glow. A tugboat was already approaching, looping a line of spray from a middeck water cannon. There was a pounding at the door behind her, and Omar came in with his own key to join her and watch the fiery disaster. Another explosion, more muffled, rumbled through the ship.
“That one was belowdecks,” said Omar. “They have big trouble out there.”
“So do you think there is a guerrilla force at work in Sharm? Maybe a special ops team from outside that we don’t know about? I mean, all of these attacks tonight have been severe.” A sudden sheet of flame spouted from an open deck hatch, and two men with fire chewing at their clothes dove overboard, screaming. Then there came another thud below the waterline, but no accompanying flame, just a ball of smoke.
“No. I think our dangerous friend Kyle has been working hard all night long. That last explosion may have put a hole in the hull.”
Bialy sniffed. “Impossible. He’s only one man, and these attacks have been all over the place. The airport and the ocean? What do you think I should report to London, Omar?”
As he watched, the topside fire crawled swiftly across the deck, obviously out of control. A harbor firefighting boat arrived and started arcing water uselessly into the inferno, but the men on board had withdrawn in the face of the heat and the implacable moving fire and the danger of being blown to pieces.
“Don’t call them quite yet. Look. The ship is starting to list to starboard.” As the right side of the hull edged lower, the left side rose, pulling with it the platform on which unloaded supplies were waiting, and those boxes started to topple. More men leaped overboard and were picked up by circling small boats.
The tilt continued as water rushed unchecked into the ripped hull and all of the volatile material burned hard and fast, heating enough to burn the paint throughout the interior. The crew had not had time to block all of the watertight compartments, and tons of rushin
g seawater flooded through the open ports. The ship was not only tilted but was also going down by the stern.
“It’s going to sink right out there in the harbor, isn’t it?” Tianha’s voice was hushed.
“Yes, it is. The Iranians are not going to be happy. I think the time has come for us to leave, Tianha.”
“I’ll call London. Then we can go.” The telephone on the polished bedside table rang.
25
THE FOUR SEASONS
“HELLO?”
“Am I speaking with Dr. Tianha Bialy?” A man’s voice, rather deep, his accented English crisp. She snapped her fingers to Omar, motioning for something to write on.
“Yes, it is. Who is this?”
“My name is Major Mansoor Shakuri, and I am commandant of the Iranian peacekeeping forces in Sharm el-Sheikh. A thousand pardons for telephoning at such a terrible hour.”
Bialy turned and sat as Omar handed her a small tablet and a pen. “It is no problem at all, Major Shakuri. I doubt if many people in Sharm have gotten much sleep tonight. There has been so much going on.” It was a little jab at having so much trouble with his command.
“It has been rather noisy,” he admitted with a subdued chuckle, “which means I will be very busy today hunting terrorists to protect this beautiful city from further harm.”
So you can execute more civilians, you bloody monster? Instead of asking that question, she said, “Why are you calling?”
“Perhaps we can help each other,” he answered. “It has come to my attention that you are trying to contact an intelligence agent who goes by the name of the Pharaoh. I can help you with that.”
“Do you know who it is?”
“In fact, Dr. Bialy, I do. And I’m willing to share that information with your British intelligence service. Everyone knows you are with MI6.”
“And what do you want in return for this man’s name? You said we could help each other.”
“I want your friend Kyle Swanson, of the American CIA.”
“Kyle Swanson is no friend of mine, Major. We had to work together on a financial project for a few days, but afterward, he immediately left for England.”
The voice hardened. “He did not get on a plane before the airport was closed. Therefore, he is still around somewhere. I want to find him for a few questions.”
“Then I’m sorry, Major. As I said, we were not friends, and I have not seen him since dinner before the hotel was attacked. He told me good-bye. I told him the same thing. I cannot tell you something I do not know.”
“I am sorry, too. The Pharaoh will not be disclosed unless Swanson is available.”
Tianha let the moment of silence extend. “Major, give me a bit of time. Let me talk to some locals and make a few discreet inquiries back in London.”
He changed back to a command voice. “I will arrive at the Four Seasons Hotel at exactly ten o’clock this morning, Dr. Bialy. Whether our visit will be pleasant is entirely up to you. Don’t think of trying to escape, because I have men watching for you. Is that clear?”
“Very clear, Major. Thank you for the courtesy of your call. I will see if we can work something out.” She hung up, threw herself back onto the pillow, and rubbed her eyes with her palms. Her thoughts tumbled with images of explosions and treachery and an unknown future. One thing was clear: Her mission had always been to find the Pharaoh, and he was almost within her grasp. She explained the call to Omar, who lay beside her, keeping his pistol within reach on the table.
“He wants a straight swap,” she said, explaining the call. “Exchange Swanson to the Iranians for the Pharaoh.”
“Then the major believes he has you boxed in. If you don’t give Kyle up, then you will be arrested and never find the Pharaoh. It could be your death warrant, so in his view, you have no choice,” he said, nuzzling into her hair, and she reached out for him. They lay in silence for a while, thinking.
“Kyle’s still at the safe house?” she asked.
“He should be, but who knows what the man is up to?”
“Then suppose I let the major take me prisoner and force me to cooperate? That would buy time for you to get over there and warn Swanson.”
“That’s much too dangerous for you, Tianha. Once he has you, Shakuri won’t let you go. As an MI6 agent, you could be hauled off to Tehran for interrogation, then buried out in some Iranian desert. C would never approve, and I sure as hell don’t want you committing suicide.”
“I won’t ask C,” she said and gave him a soft kiss. “You, my dear, will let me do it because I want to and because I am ordering you to do so.”
“No.”
“Omar, the major is coming up here with armed security. You are a wonderful bodyguard, but the numbers and weaponry are on his side. I don’t want to see you killed, either.”
THE MARINA
KYLE SWANSON CLUNG TO the waist of Abdel El-Din as the young Egyptian piloted the jet ski in a mad zigzag dash back for the safety of the Gold Sun Water Equipment warehouse, careering wildly around buoys and boats to eat up the distance, finally slowing near the marina, where they scooted inside just as the darkness was giving way to another winter morning’s light. Kyle had kept looking back over his shoulder toward the ship, which had become a ferocious inferno within ten minutes. He had expected damage, but nothing like what was happening aboard that vessel; it had been filled with flammable material and was being gobbled by the fire.
Then they were back at the little pier, tied up, and Abdel lowered the outer door. Both men sat on the waterside pier in silence for a few minutes, just catching their breath after the tension-filled past hour. The strain of the continuing action during the night had left Kyle drained of energy, and he thought about how he far he had pushed his luck by breaking almost every rule in the book on clandestine warfare. With daylight coming, he could get back to the safe house, get some food, and take a break.
“I’ve got to go,” he told his new accomplice. “You did great tonight, kid, and you sure as hell drive a mean jet ski. Your family will be proud that you exacted such a vengeance on those who murdered your brother.”
“Do you have a place to stay? You can stay here, if you wish.” El-Din had not moved from his place on the pier.
Kyle stripped off the dive suit and toweled down hard to restore some warmth to his skin before putting his dirty local clothes on again. “I’m good. I can’t tell you where I’m staying. You understand?”
“Of course. What do you want me to do?”
“You go to the police in about an hour. Report that your dive shop was broken into last night by thieves and two jet skis were stolen.” He thumbed back at the office, where the broken window attested to forced entry. “I left plenty of evidence to back up the claim. You found one ski drifting and abandoned about a hundred yards away, but no sign of the other one. You took a quick look around and went for the cops.”
Abdel shook his head in amusement. “That is almost the truth. So are you going to leave me out of any further action? I don’t want to be left out.”
Kyle stared at the earnest youngster, then picked up a loose business card from a rack on the counter. “I need all of the friends and assets I can get, Abdel, so it is likely I will be asking for more of your help. Meanwhile, stay in the background, and don’t tell anyone what really happened last night, not even your family. Just continue working here. I’ll find you. This thing is not over.”
El-Din watched the strange American leave, heard the SUV engine boom to life, and saw the 4Runner drive away. His thoughts turned to food, and for some reason, he wanted an enormous breakfast. After that, he would contact the police. He was just full of energy.
* * *
MAJOR SHAKURI BELIEVED HIS overall situation was good. While being the on-site commander in Sharm, he could blame the army general at the airport for the military mishaps, and now he saw a unique opportunity born of that rising confidence.
Instead of being the whipping boy of Colonel Yahya Ali Naqdi, the majo
r sensed that there might be a chance here to topple his vile boss, take his place, and leap forward in rank and privilege, maybe even become a general. All he had to do was inform Tehran that their man was selling secrets, almost on the open market, and the colonel would be gone forever. He was weary, but this entire operation was playing out much better than he could have imagined.
Already, he had the colonel dangling, and Naqdi’s normally confident voice was sounding strained. He had told his senior to get some sleep; then he had awakened the colonel a short time later with really bad news.
“The transport ship! The ship was sunk?”
“Yes, sir. At present, we do not know if it was a torpedo or a missile from the infidel fleet, but nothing is being ruled out. It certainly had the look of a decisive military attack, and resultant heavy loss of life. I have asked General Khasrodad for his explanation for still another military failure.” And what do you care, you old dog? You had one of our ships sunk with a missile strike without giving the crew any warning.
The colonel had grown agitated. “I sent you down there to run this operation, Major Shakuri, and most of the reports I receive are of new disasters.” The voice was rising, and Shakuri could detect a little fear from the colonel at the sudden loss of control. Someone else was pulling the strings in Sharm el-Sheikh while he was in Cairo trying to oversee the entire operation to put Egypt into Iran’s military grasp.
“Even after the earlier attacks, our army commander failed to take adequate precautions, sir. Apparently no one on the ship even saw the attack coming. The captain and his first officer are among the dead, lucky for them, for I would otherwise have them shot for their negligence. I regretfully recommend that after his dismal performance of the past twenty-four hours, you consider relieving General Khasrodad of his post.” And replace him with me.
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