The man had a well-trimmed beard and was wearing a tan djellaba and sandals. He was holding the hand of a woman dressed in black from head to toe, her face hidden by a niqab with just a slit for her eyes. A vertical strip of cloth over her nose connected the two parts of the niqab. It was a strange couple to encounter in this modern tourist hotel, but they seemed quite at ease.
Malko started at the sound of a woman’s voice.
“Didn’t you wait for me?”
He turned around. Cynthia Mulligan was standing behind him, her eyes hidden behind dark glasses. She was wearing a miniskirt that ended well above her knees, and high heels.
Drop-dead gorgeous.
Malko noticed the shimmer of stockings on her legs. That was unexpected, and a good sign. A well-behaved woman wore stockings only for funerals.
“I’d forgotten all about you,” he pretended. “Would you like a drink?”
“With pleasure.”
Her skirt slid up when she sat on the bench facing him, revealing most of her thighs.
Cynthia caught Malko’s look and said with a laugh, “Are you wondering why I wear stockings in this heat? It’s because of the mosquitoes. They’re everywhere and they’ve been dive-bombing my legs.”
“I wasn’t thinking of mosquitoes. They look very good on you.”
“Thank you. I often wear stockings in London, and not because of mosquitoes.”
“How were the Pyramids?”
“Dusty. And it was beastly hot. I had the feeling that I’d already seen them, because they show up on TV and in newspapers so often. Also, I thought the guide was going to attack me. His eyes were popping out of his head. When he helped me onto a camel, I thought he’d never take his hand off my bum.”
Malko laughed heartily. “See that woman with the bearded man over there? That’s what men here are used to. Obviously when a creature like you shows up, it’s heaven on earth.”
“They’re mad,” Cynthia said with a sigh. “Can I have a mojito?”
Nasser was trailing al-Senussi’s Cherokee from a safe distance. They had just passed El Alamein, and the green Toyota that had followed the Cherokee on the way to Marsa Matruh was still behind it. A protective cordon. Nasser hoped the Toyota hadn’t noticed him. It could just be someone guarding al-Senussi, but Nasser knew it wasn’t the Mukhabarat. He had to find out who and why. They would reach Cairo at nightfall, he figured, if traffic wasn’t too bad. Jerry Tombstone and his superiors would be glad to learn more about al-Senussi’s escapade in Marsa Matruh.
Cynthia was drinking a second mojito when her cell rang. The conversation was very short, and the young woman lit a cigarette. She seemed relaxed, so Malko ventured a suggestion:
“Would you like to have dinner somewhere?”
She smiled at him apologetically.
“Sorry, no. My boyfriend just rang; he’s coming back this evening. Maybe some other time.”
“I’d like that very much,” said Malko, giving her a long look.
Cynthia smiled before standing up.
“So would I. We’ll see.”
She walked away and Malko’s eyes followed her swaying gait. She really was beautiful, he thought. He would have taken an interest in her even without his CIA orders. The way she moved, smiled, and looked at him all suggested she was a free woman.
Before entering the hotel, she turned and gave him a little wave.
Karim Akhdar had barely glanced at Ibrahim al-Senussi’s companion. Partly because she was an infidel, an impure creature who dressed like a whore, but mainly because that wasn’t the reason he was there.
His target was the blond foreigner she was drinking with. Akhdar belonged to Al-Tanzim al-Asasi, the Muslim Brotherhood’s clandestine branch. His superior had told him to observe the Libyan and his girlfriend to find out whom they met with, and he was doing his job. Akhdar’s wife, who accompanied him, didn’t know this—and never would.
Akhdar took a sip of soda and decided to find out more about the foreigner with the blond hair.
The man was signing his check, which meant he was staying at the hotel. Akhdar strolled over to the bar, reaching the cash register at the same time as the waiter. He casually took the check from the tray and glanced at it, noting two pieces of information: the unknown man’s name and his room number, 2621.
The waiter looked at Akhdar with surprise but merely smiled. You didn’t cross bearded men these days. The Muslim Brothers might be ruling Egypt in a few months’ time, and they had long memories.
Feeling pleased, Akhdar went back to his table. All he had to do now was pass on his information. How it would be used wasn’t his concern.
The guard manning the checkpoint at the entrance to the Sofitel yanked at his dog’s leash. The old Labrador hauled itself upright, sniffed vaguely around the taxi, and went back to its nap.
Not much of a line of defense against a possible car bomb.
The soldier responsible for stopping terrorist attacks against the hotel paused for a few seconds, captivated by the long blond hair he could glimpse in the back of the taxi. Tourism had dried up in Cairo, and the few visitors still around were aged retirees who had come to die at the foot of the Pyramids.
The taxi took the ramp to the Sofitel tower entrance. Located at the northern point of Roda Island, the hotel was hideous by day and spangled with green neon lights by night, but it did have one attraction: you could eat at an outdoor terrace overlooking the Nile.
Al-Senussi waited until a porter opened the taxi door before taking his hand off Cynthia’s thigh. When she stepped out of the car, the bell captain caught his breath. Her black dress was so short, it was practically a belt, and she had sheathed her legs in dark stockings again because of mosquitoes.
When she and al-Senussi were settled on the terrace near the river and he’d ordered Cynthia a mojito—he knew her tastes—he raised his glass.
“Here’s to our vacation. Are you enjoying Egypt?”
The young woman pouted.
“It’s kind of grubby, but at least it’s warm. And the people are nice.”
Al-Senussi wondered how to break the news that he would be leaving her alone in Cairo for a couple of days. As it turned out, she raised the subject herself.
“Did your meeting go well?” she asked.
She wasn’t especially interested in his project, but she had good manners. Al-Senussi jumped at the opening.
“It went very, very well,” he boasted. “In fact, I think I’ll be traveling to Libya.”
“That’s great,” said Cynthia. “It’ll be a change from Cairo. I hear there are nice beaches there.”
Al-Senussi ducked his head, seeking refuge in his mojito. He and Cynthia were clearly on different wavelengths.
“Libya’s a pretty lousy place, you know,” he said carefully. “The food’s bad, and there’s still fighting going on. And the hotels—”
Cynthia didn’t give up so easily.
“That’s great! I’ll be able to send my girlfriends postcards. Everybody’s talking about Libya these days.”
“There’s no mail service. Phones, either. It’s very hard—”
“No problem, we’ll tour the countryside.”
“It’s just desert; there’s nothing to see. And it’s still dangerous.”
By now, al-Senussi’s reluctance was starting to get to her.
“What’s this all about?” she demanded. “Don’t you want to take me with you? Do you have another woman there?”
Stung, the Libyan was forced to show his hand.
“Of course not!” he protested indignantly. “It’s just that Libya is a very conservative country. I’m going to be meeting with religious people. You can’t come with me. And besides, there are no pyramids there.”
“I don’t mind. It’ll be fun.”
When Cynthia looked up, she caught al-Senussi’s look of alarm and realized he really did have a problem.
“Oh well,” she said with a sigh. “No matter. When you take off fo
r your crappy country, I’ll fly back to London. There are lots of great parties right now. It’s Fashion Week.”
This stopped al-Senussi in his tracks. He had no illusions about Cynthia’s true feelings for him and could already see her in the arms of some husky photographer.
He put his hand on hers.
“All right, I’ll take you to Libya. I just hope you won’t be disappointed.”
Malko ate dinner in his room. Going down to the restaurant alone felt depressing, and he didn’t want to be seen with Jerry Tombstone too much.
Besides, the image of Cynthia Mulligan was dancing in his head. Now he really wanted to seduce her. With her cat’s eyes and statuesque body, she was wildly attractive.
Unfortunately, al-Senussi had returned from Marsa Matruh, which wasn’t going to make things easy.
A tourist boat cruised down the Nile past the Sofitel dining terrace in a glare of neon light and the boom of Arab music being played for its three passengers.
“Let’s go back to the hotel!” said Cynthia.
Al-Senussi was eager to capitalize on his promise, especially since Cynthia seemed more desirable than ever this evening.
There was just one hitch: how would Abu Bukatalla react when he showed up at Marsa Matruh with Cynthia? Even if she were bundled up from head to toe, any devout Muslim would see her as demonic. And Bukatalla was a lot more than devout. He’d have a woman like Cynthia stoned.
The moment they were in the elevator, al-Senussi couldn’t resist grabbing the young woman’s breasts. He pinched her nipples so hard that she complained.
“Hey, take it easy! You don’t have to twist them like doorknobs.”
“But you said your breasts were very sensitive.”
“That’s true,” she snapped, “but not when you try and rip them off.”
Annoyed, al-Senussi went for her dress instead and managed to tear off Cynthia’s panties before they reached the twenty-seventh floor. His prick was so stiff, he could have cracked nuts with it.
Azuz Gait drove his little red motorbike up Maketton Street, a two-way road with a grass median. Lined with new villas, modern apartment buildings, and vacant lots, it ran through an outlying suburb that twenty years earlier had been nothing but desert. All the buildings were new, and some of the bright shops looked inviting. But though the construction was just twenty years old, it looked a hundred.
Gait turned right into Number 9 Street and gunned his bike to power up the hill, swerving to avoid a bicyclist zigzagging in front of him with a tray of cakes balanced on his head. Number 9 climbed steeply to an overlook from which you could see all of Cairo, though today it was almost invisible in the heat haze.
The neighborhood was so new, nobody had bothered giving the streets names. Most just had numbers.
Gait stopped and leaned his motorbike against a spindly palm tree across from an impressive new nine-story building. Its windows were covered with green sunshades that made them look fortified. A logo adorned the facade: two crossed sabers on a green background, vaguely suggesting the Saudi flag, above an inscription in English and Arabic: “Muslim Brotherhood Headquarters.” It had been inaugurated just a few months earlier.
Where they were once pursued by the authorities, the Brothers were now riding high. Hosni Mubarak was out of the way, and they hoped to be sharing power with the Egyptian Army after the coming elections. Polls suggested they would win at least 40 percent of the votes.
But behind the respectable facade of a peaceful and almost moderate political party lay an organization whose very existence the Brothers denied. Al-Tanzim al-Asasi was in charge of clandestine operations, partnering with radical Muslim movements in the neighboring countries, from Hamas to the Gaza radicals to the veterans of the Libyan Islamic Fighting Group. They venerated the name of Dr. Ayman al-Zawahiri, member of the Brotherhood, Egyptian agitator, once Osama bin Laden’s right-hand man, and, since bin Laden’s death, the head of al-Qaeda.
Gait entered a lobby guarded by a burly, bearded man in a sport shirt who greeted him with a respectful smile.
“Blessings upon you, brother. The others are waiting in Room 206.”
Gait headed up the marble staircase, passing the portraits of the nine late leaders of the Brotherhood: austere bearded men, some of them wearing a fez.
The sign outside Room 206 read, “Islamic Social Services Bureau.”
This was Al-Tanzim al-Asasi’s cover. It did in fact deliver social services, but mainly as a way to gain new recruits. Inside, three men were seated at a table. Gait was offered a glass of mint tea. He played an important role in the organization, handling the Mukhabarat agents who fed information to the Brotherhood. They hoped that their favoring the Islamists would soon be rewarded. Besides, the Brothers were generous, padding the miserable pay of the officers who did their dirty work.
A man who went by the name Habib had the floor and gave Gait a broad smile.
“Did you get the information, brother?” he asked.
Gait nodded.
“Yes, thanks be to God. The man in Room 2621 of the Four Seasons Hotel is called Malko Linge. He is known to the Mukhabarat as an American agent working closely with the head of the CIA in Cairo. He arrived five days ago, but we don’t know what he’s doing here.”
“Bravo!” said Habib. “You’ve done very well. Allah will reward you.”
This meant that his services were no longer needed, and Gait left. Within minutes, he’d climbed on the little motorbike and headed downtown to his job in a shawarma restaurant.
This time, Malko wasn’t even able to approach Cynthia. She was indeed at the hotel pool, but she was accompanied by her dark-skinned “shadow.” They were sitting in folding chairs by their pool cabana, chatting and reading.
Malko had had no word from Jerry Tombstone, who said he would contact him in case anything new came up.
He watched as Cynthia stood up and dove into the pool, all eyes on her. She was wearing a black bathing suit whose top was so low it was almost indecent. Though of course at the Four Seasons they were practically in Europe.
The Brother who called himself Habib entered the Costa Café in Zamalek, the northern part of Gezira Island and one of Cairo’s most expensive neighborhoods. There were several Costa Cafés in the city, and this one, at the corner of al-Maraashli and Taha Hussein Streets, was the most in vogue. With its skimpily dressed women patrons, it was the last place you would expect to see an Islamist.
Habib walked around a vendor reclining by a wall with a stack of oranges for sale, ignored a poster for iced coffees, and sat down at a table occupied by a man alone. Bearded, about thirty, wearing a shirt and jeans, he looked like an aging student.
The man greeted Habib warmly: “May the blessings of Allah be upon you, brother.”
Habib respectfully returned the greeting to a man he knew only as “Shalubi.” This was the head of Al-Tanzim al-Asasi for the Cairo region, and someone the Mukhabarat had never managed to identify. He worked as a secretary in a law firm, spoke perfect English, and led a quiet life with his four children and a cloistered wife, who of course never set foot outside the house.
He listened to Habib’s story carefully, weighing it against what he already knew. Shalubi was the man who had set up the security cordon around Ibrahim al-Senussi, at Abu Bukatalla’s request. Al-Tanzim al-Asasi couldn’t say no to the Libyan Islamist, who had been furnishing the organization and its friends in Gaza with weapons since the start of the Libyan revolution. These included surface-to-air missiles, which had been impossible to obtain before.
So when Bukatalla asked Al-Tanzim al-Asasi to use one of the missiles they’d been given to shoot down a British Airways plane, no one raised any objection. And from the moment al-Senussi arrived in Cairo, Al-Tanzim al-Asasi agents had been observing his every action and passing the information to Libya.
Shalubi finished his ice cream and paid for it.
“I’ll leave you now, brother,” he said to Habib. “Your information is valu
able. May Allah protect you.”
The two men left the Café Costa and Shalubi headed off on foot. He distrusted taxis, preferring to use only public transit, as bus drivers rarely belonged to the Mukhabarat. He walked as far as Abu el Feda Street on the west side of the island before hailing a cab and giving the driver an address in Giza.
As the taxi slowly made its way across the 6th October Bridge, an east-west overpass above the island, Shalubi prayed to God for help in making the right decision. Oddly enough, he never felt a twinge of fear, yet any Mukhabarat agent would have ripped out all of a prisoner’s fingernails just to learn his name.
When Shalubi reached the al-Sharabi neighborhood, he got out half a mile from his final destination, a tire-retreading shop at the rear of a courtyard. He crossed the workshop, ignored by the men laboring over their bald tires, and entered a small glassed-in office in the back. Its occupant hugged him, and they stepped into the next room. The workshop boss carefully rolled back a carpet, revealing a trapdoor in the floor, and opened it.
A metal ladder led to a huge cellar filled with a dense jumble of bric-a-brac and lit by neon lights.
At the sight of the two visitors, a thin man busy at a workbench straightened up. This was Abdul Gabal al-Afghani, who had fired the SAM at the British Airways plane.
He was using an electronic test bed to check a partly disassembled Strela. He embraced Shalubi, whom he deeply respected.
“Do you have a lot of work on your hands?” asked the Al-Tanzim al-Asasi chieftain.
“Yes, I do. Those are going to Gaza, and I want to make sure they’re working properly.”
Shalubi nodded.
“You’re going to have to put that worthy task aside for a while,” he said with a smile. “I have a job for you.”
“If such is the will of God.”
“It’s dangerous.”
“I’ll do it,” said al-Afghani, eager to make up for his failure in the attack on the British Airways 777.
“We must eliminate an enemy of God,” Shalubi said solemnly.
The Madmen of Benghazi Page 5