It was if the colonel were no longer even listening. “I must spend some time this morning finding out why the Muslim Brotherhood has been unable to come to our rescue down there, as they had promised. And then I must talk with our leaders in Tehran about the situation, and what the diplomats are saying. That will not be pleasant. But I am definitely coming down today, Shakuri, and you had better have some adequate explanations by the time I arrive.”
Shakuri let the uncomfortable silence hang in the air, knowing the colonel would be feeling pressure from Tehran. Push him harder. “Sir, I recommend that you consider placing Sharm under martial law. General Khasrodad simply must get his soldiers out of their holes and into the streets.”
“I will be there this afternoon, Major. Carry on.” The colonel abruptly hung up his phone. No new orders. No asking about the spies. The Pharaoh was falling apart.
Major Shakuri snorted in disgust and brushed aside the call from his superior officer, who was too far away to change anything at all for a few more hours. Shakuri called aloud for the intelligence officer seated at his own desk outside of the main office and told him to bring in the lists, then ordered an aide to bring in a hearty breakfast. His intel officer spread out the sheets of names of candidates for the new round of public executions.
Yesterday, they had simply rounded up victims at random and treated them with respect before shooting them. The uneasy truce that followed evaporated with the overnight actions, so Shakuri wanted twenty more examples to be picked for death, men and women of substance, whose names would be recognized by the people of the coastal city.
The chief of police was the first on the list. A couple of large merchants, and a woman television reporter who had become too outspoken, fomenting resistance. A professor, a dockworker, a mother of three. The twenty would get their final visit to the park at nine o’clock that night after a day of severe questioning.
Having done all that he could for the moment, he instructed the intel officer to carry out the arrests. The spy business intrigued him. What would the rewards be if he could capture both a CIA agent and the MI6 woman? Meanwhile, the major had time for a nap before going to the Four Seasons at ten.
Once he had pried himself from beneath the thumb of the colonel, Shakuri had enjoyed the freedom of thinking for himself, and this whole spy business had intrigued him. All in all, this might turn out to be a fine day.
LONDON
“BAD BUSINESS, THIS.” THE normally placid face of Sir Gordon Fitzgerald, the chief of MI6, was wrinkled with lines of tension. The man had been protecting England from foreign threats since the bitter years of the Cold War, and his office was filled with glass cases containing rare weapons and souvenirs from his long career. Soft leather chairs, a big desk, and tall dark cases of books in several languages served to emphasize his old-school manner. He did not have, nor wish to have, a computer, for he had others to deal with details, and the material he wanted would never be on the Internet. Through the decades, he had learned to recognize both the unusual and the inevitable, and the quickening developments in Sharm el-Sheikh qualified on both counts. A small war was blazing within a bigger one. “How much do you trust your American?”
Sir Geoffrey Cornwell snorted. “He’s not ‘my American,’ he’s our son. And I’ve never met a better man. I have total trust in him, C. Total trust.”
“Forgive me, Jeff. I refer only to your evaluation of his rather unusual skill set.”
“There is no one better in these situations.”
Fitzgerald lifted a quizzical eyebrow. “There is always someone better.”
A deep voice joined in via speakerphone from across the Atlantic Ocean. General Brad Middleton, the commander of Task Force Trident, was on the horn from his Pentagon office. “Actually, with all due respect, sir, I agree with Sir Jeff. There isn’t anyone better at this sort of action. From what we’ve been able to piece together on this end, Gunny Swanson is raising hell in Sharm, and he is still on the loose.”
The MI6 man had come to the same conclusion, based on a different set of facts. C cleared his throat. “General, I must apologize for not letting you know directly that we have been using Swanson as an unsuspecting plant to draw the attention of a potentially valuable secret source of information. I had assumed wrongly that the CIA, which was involved all the way, was passing along the plan. It was a massive mistake on my part, but I thought that everybody was on the same page over there since 9/11. Sharing all information, you know?”
Sir Jeff gripped the arms of his wheelchair. “You dangled him on the hook without knowing he was bait. That was inexcusable, C.”
“I have extended my apologies to you both. Now we must move on.”
“Not until Kyle is alerted to the situation.” Jeff was showing his stubborn streak. “Just in the past night, he has caused extraordinary damage to the Iranians. If they think he is a CIA agent, they are definitely coming after him.”
“That is probably happening even as we speak, which is why we must depend on his ability to react quickly and correctly to totally unexpected situations. I told our agent, Dr. Bialy, to give him a full brief, but she said it may be too late. They are not in regular contact. She hasn’t heard from him in hours.” The MI6 chief put both palms flat on his desk and rubbed the old wood as if giving it a good polish. To those who knew him, it was a habit that expressed great alarm. “After last night’s exploits, he must be holed up somewhere alone, thinking he is safe. He is most assuredly not.”
Middleton joined in. “An operator like Swanson is only as good as his last fight, sir. If I was talking directly to him as his commanding officer, I would ask, ‘Gunny, what have you done for me lately?’ Swanson may be holed up for a few hours, out of ammo, with no fresh intelligence about what we are thinking, and tired beyond normal endurance, but he will be ready for whatever comes his way.”
“Let us hope so, General. The plan was thrown together rapidly, it is complex, and the time is short. At this point, our governments are protesting to the United Nations and threatening military options if the Iranians do not withdraw from Egypt. Only his continued success in this one-man war is holding back the decision to send in special ops teams. We’re willing to give it another twenty-four hours.”
26
SHARM EL-SHEIKH
Swanson made it back to the safe house, locked the door, went to the bedroom and fell backward onto the mattress, fully clothed. He fell asleep with his hand on the Colt .45 that rested on his stomach, and the nightmare snatched him so hard that his body shuddered in physical response. An endless ghostly line of dead men shuffled toward the small pier at the jet ski marina and were being packed into a narrow black boat that could only seat perhaps a maximum of ten, but somehow there was always room for one more. Leaning on the steering oar at the stern was the Boatman, who grinned with stumps of rotten teeth in oozing black gums.
“You are doing well. I knew you would. I told you this would be your largest harvest ever. I can always count on you, Gunny Swanson,” said the spectral image, spreading an arm to help another zombielike passenger lurch aboard.
“Go away,” Kyle replied in his dream.
“I cannot. You are killing too many to ignore. Hundreds.”
“They are not men. They are my enemies. If I don’t kill them, they could kill my fellow Marines.”
The Boatman hissed a cackle of amused laughter. “A dissembling response. They posed no threat to your fellow Marines, who were not even here, and you killed them anyway. Fellow humans are dead or dying by your hand. Men who happen to wear a different uniform, that’s all.”
“Each is my enemy, you evil bastard. You know that. Quit busting my balls.”
Behind the fluttering sheer silhouette of the Boatman was an entire sea of licking, low fire. “I think this is enough for me to transport for one load now. You keep up your good work, and we will visit again later.” There was the cackle of a bodiless laugh, and the long, low craft nosed away into the flames.
> Swanson cried out at the departing figure. “I didn’t want to kill any of them! They were my country’s enemies. And I don’t want to kill any more…”
The final answer echoed back from a hole in the fire. “But you will. You have to, for more are coming.”
* * *
SWANSON JERKED AWAKE TO a full sitting position, the .45 locked in a two-handed firing grip, as he heard the scratch of a key in the lock of the safe house’s front door. He swung his feet to the floor and slipped prone at the bedroom doorway, with a clear firing lane to the front.
A light triple-rap knock, and the door opened about two inches and stopped. “Swanson? It’s me. Omar. I’m alone.”
“Step in backward and slow, keep your hands where I can see them, and close the door.” Swanson’s pistol did not waver from its line, and his eyes were intense and on the target.
Omar did as instructed, keeping his hands high, which pulled up his shirt high enough in back for Kyle to see the butt of a pistol in the back of his belt. “Pull out the weapon with two fingers, left hand, drop it, and kick it beneath the sofa.” Omar did as he was told.
“Keep moving back toward my voice.” Kyle got up and took a few silent steps. “Turn around, slow.”
Omar did so and found the big hole at the end of the .45’s barrel pointing right between his eyes. “Hurry up with your search or inspection or whatever this is, Kyle. We don’t have much time. They’re coming.”
* * *
TIANHA BIALY WAS AT a big mirror in the bedroom of her suite, carefully applying the final touches to her makeup, deciding to pass on the lip gloss. A girl had to be careful around Muslim men, she thought. They would appreciate beauty in a woman and then just as easily treat her like a dog. Love, she had found over the years, had little to do with such a relationship. Anyway, she was not here to please anyone, for she already had a fiancé back in London as well as a lover, Omar, in Egypt. Satisfied with her understated look, she gave her clothes a final adjustment, then took a chair in the living room and calmed herself to await the knock on the door. It was almost ten o’clock.
* * *
MAJOR SHAKURI HAD BEEN extremely busy all morning, imposing his version of logic and order on the situation that seemed to change every few minutes. He studied the updated damage reports from the overnight attacks and had a brief, unpleasant telephone conversation with General Khasrodad out at the airport. The man had no fighting spirit and very reluctantly gave Shakuri the soldiers needed for the evening’s executions.
The major had approved the final list of the latest examples, but the overnight casualties to the Iranians had been high, and Shakuri had to keep his retaliation formula in some sort of perspective. Even at one-for-one, it would mean several hundred executions, which was an impossible number. The lesson, not the executions, was the important thing. So he would do twenty today, then declare the lesson learned before it turned into a general massacre. With the extra soldiers, he would then use martial law to restore calm in the beachfront city. The bodies this time would be left to rot in the park for a few days before being taken away by grieving relatives. Examples.
With those arrangements in place, he sifted through the news reports. The Muslim Brotherhood had promised to spark a spontaneous uprising of the people across the land, but that had not yet happened. Since winning political power through elections, the Brotherhood had to deal with all of the problems of any government, both in its own country and abroad. They had wanted power, and found it an uncomfortable fit. There were problems in Gaza, where militants wanted to secede from Egypt and form an Islamic emirate on the Israeli border. The Bedouins would not cooperate because they never cooperated with anybody. The old players in Hamas would not bow to the wishes of the new government, and al Qaeda despised the elected officials for not being radical enough. There were dozens of serious fracture lines within the Brotherhood, and powerful rival political parties. So when it came to stitching together a unified front with a separate rebel army, everyone wanted a slice of the pie. The idea that the Brotherhood would launch demonstrations against itself defied logic. That left the Supreme Council of the Armed Forces still intact, and the last thing the generals would allow was a competing army on Egyptian soil. The major wondered why the colonel could possibly have believed any differently.
While Brotherhood spokesmen on the streets were still forecasting victory, they had not come close to marching south to relieve the Iranians in Sharm. At best, it might be viewed as stalemate; at worst, it was the quiet before a storm, for the Egyptian military had not yet truly intervened.
Shakuri enjoyed this new ability to overwatch the entire situation, the feeling of control. It had a sweet taste, and he was reluctant to return that magic bottle of power to his boss when Naqdi arrived this afternoon. Shakuri was now absolutely confident that he could replace the general at the airport, for sheer incompetence if nothing else. Then he could turn his full attention to ousting his superior officer. To think that only a week ago, he had trembled in fear of the influential, magical Naqdi. Things change quickly.
First, he had to deal with these spies among them. He slid a pistol into the polished leather holster on his belt and stepped into the chill and pure morning light. Two uniformed soldiers, each with an AK-47, stood at attention beside his car. Major Shakuri believed that at that moment he was the most important man in Sharm el-Sheikh, if not in all of Egypt.
The ride up Hotel Row from the Blue Neptune to the Four Seasons was short, and he and the two escorts marched inside as knots of people parted before them. Scars of the fighting from the first night were still plentiful but were rapidly disappearing beneath the reconstruction by work crews. The smell of fresh paint was strong, and drills, saws, and hammers were busy.
They went up on the elevator to one of the higher floors and found the room number. He knocked with short, impatient raps, then importantly went to a rigid parade rest position, chin up, hands behind his back, pistol on his hip.
Tianha Bialy opened the door and gave him a quick once-over, thinking he looked somewhat silly with the military posturing. She stepped aside as the men entered, with the guards walking through the suite in a brief search. Shakuri sat down, uninvited. Showing who is boss, like a little dog peeing on a lamppost, she thought.
“Thank you for seeing me, Dr. Bialy,” he said as his eyes roamed over her. The soldier who had searched the bedroom returned, nodded to the major, and joined his partner at the door.
“Since this is a business meeting, Major, let’s get right to it. Are you the Pharaoh?”
“Yes, I am,” he lied, turning up his palms in a gesture of innocence.
“Can you prove that?”
“Give me Kyle Swanson, and I will give you everything you want.”
“This was to be a fair and mutual exchange, Major Shakuri. My orders are not to proceed without proof of identity. A substantial sum of money is to be delivered to the Pharaoh, and we must be sure of the person with whom we are dealing.”
“I do not carry an identification card bearing that name. I am sure you can understand.” His eyes gleamed with quiet excitement.
“Then answer a question for me,” she said, pushing the conversation. “Why should I, or anyone in British intelligence, trust what you say?”
“Because it is very dangerous for you not to do so.” In a lightning move, the major reached forward and backhanded Tianha across the face, knocking her from the chair. “I did not come here to bargain with a British spy. I came because you have something I want.” He lunged across and wrapped her hair tight around his fist, then slapped her again, and blood spilled from her lower lip. “Do you know where Swanson is?”
She wiped away the blood with her fingers, feeling the sting of the cut. She did not scream and did not seem frightened, which puzzled him. Instead, she watched him with her dark eyes. She had known the ruse she was running was dangerous, but she would stick to the plan. “I want the real Pharaoh! It is obviously not you. You’re just an
errand boy.”
It was Shakuri’s turn to be shocked. His word was not to be insulted and challenged by a woman. “And I plan to deliver you to him later today. First, I ask again, do you know the location of this CIA spy?” He gave the hair a vicious jerk and was pleased to see her wince in pain. “Do you?”
Tianha coughed, then gave a sarcastic smile. “Better than that, Major. I can take you to him.” They should be ready by now.
He pushed her away and bent over with his hands on knees, his face close to hers. “Then let’s go. My car is waiting.”
* * *
SWANSON PATIENTLY WAITED IN an apartment two doors down the hallway from the entrance to the safe house, his eye pressed against the peephole, again feeling the familiar warmth of his blood flowing through him before a fight, his heart thumping in a steady beat to make the machine that was his body ready for sudden, maximum performance.
A woman and her child lived in the place, but they had been paid well by Omar after a brief negotiation to leave for the rest of the afternoon to avoid some possible trouble. After the previous night of flames and fire, it did not take much persuasion for the handsome Omar to convince them to vacate for a few hours.
When it was clear, Kyle walked quickly down the hall from the safe house and into the apartment, where Omar was already clearing the area around the door of toys and furniture to allow more freedom of movement. Neither man spoke, for the time was past for talking. Omar hurried back to the safe house rooms but did not lock the door. Kyle also left his unlocked, with a small piece of duct tape over the latch to keep it from engaging. It would open with a simple pull. The big pistol carrying the sound suppressor was in his right hand. It shouldn’t be long now. Why had Bialy put herself in harm’s way? She had hatched this risky plan and was now firmly snared in the hunter’s net.
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