The colonel unfolded the latest communiqué from his chief of staff, Major Mansoor Shakuri, down in Sharm. Four soldiers had been killed at a government office building, and the evidence indicated that it was the work of a sniper. Another brushstroke. The colonel added in the two murdered soldiers whose knifed bodies had been found in a ditch by the airfield, and the downed plane that had mysteriously exploded while landing, killing all of the troops who were aboard.
He had learned of the separate development in which soldiers of the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia were being moved into the general area. That hardly mattered, because Naqdi had no intention of fighting them. Still, the Saudis’ maneuvering was a sign that a great snake was beginning to stir.
This apparent sniper attack indicated that special forces, probably Americans or British, were being inserted and hiding. It was expected. Major Shakuri would just have to brace for more minor attacks, and the general in command at the airport would have to make the men extra vigilant. Just keep the lid on for a couple more days, he thought, and it should all be over.
He also was interested in Shakuri’s search for the CIA agent, Kyle Swanson, who had not yet been found. The sweep by intelligence officers had discovered that Swanson had been a guest at the Blue Neptune Hotel at the time of the attack and had a flight reservation on one of the passenger planes that never took off. He probably was still lurking around the area. They had also determined that Swanson had been traveling in the company of the well-known British Egyptologist Tianha Baily, who the colonel now believed was also a British spy. She, too, had disappeared.
SHARM EL-SHEIKH
After hitting the Iranians at Government House, Kyle Swanson drove the Renault carefully toward the waterfront. Help was on the way.
The intel weenies back in the States had been busy with their maps, overlays, look-down images, drones, and computer models, and the Shackle communication from the Lizard had instructed him to do an eyes-on confirmation of a proposed landing site for a small unit. Four operators and an Air Force Combat Controller would be fast-roping down from a stealth-modified Black Hawk helicopter at 0300 tomorrow morning to link up with Kyle and become the pathfinders for a large assault that almost everyone thought was inevitable, sooner or later. Along with the Combat Control Team communications suite, they would be bringing in a lot more toys, firepower, and talent. Importantly, he would no longer be alone.
The GPS coordinates took him away from the heart of the Red Sea Riviera and up the coast to a quiet point across from the two small islands that comprised the Ras Mohammad National Park a few miles offshore. Normally, it was a tourist playground that featured spectacular diving into underwater caves, but this area also had cleared out for safer surroundings. He kept driving around until he found a small coastal shelf that was rugged and bare around the land edges, impractical for earning a living by farming or fishing but ideal for a surprise special ops landing on the dominant jagged ridge. He parked and sat for thirty minutes, letting the fresh breeze sweep through the open windows, and he did not see another soul. Even the usual ferry service over to the islands had been suspended. It was too far from Sharm for roving Iranian land patrols, and they had nothing at sea. Barring an unforeseen development, this place should do just fine.
He headed back. The next job was to dump the car, since it had probably been seen at the shootings in the city, so he drove up the road for a few more miles and parked on a side path heading north, with the windows open. Still with a half tank of gas, it would be gone before nightfall. If Iranians found it, they would assume the driver was headed to the mountains to hide. If it were found by an ordinary enterprising Egyptian, which was much more likely, it would be stolen and taken elsewhere. With that bit of misdirection complete, Kyle policed up the brass in the trunk, disassembled the rifle, slung his black bag containing the gun over his shoulder, tucked the pistol in his belt, and began the long, slow trudge back to the safe house. It had been a good day so far.
* * *
Sharm glittered in the distance beneath the cool midday sun but was like a tarnished jewel needing a polish. Swanson had walked less than a mile when he heard the sound of an engine approaching from behind, the chug-chug of a tractor instead of the smoothness of an automobile, and he immediately pretended to be limping and slouched his shoulders, bending his back forward a bit, his face toward the ground in front of him. Sure enough, a farmer hauling bags of beans into the city pulled to a stop beside Swanson, but when he called out, Kyle retreated off the road and looked at the driver with suspicion, wrapping his package close to his chest, as if in fear. The bearded old man laughed at the thought he might be a thief preying on some unfortunate who was obviously sick in the head, for a good Muslim would not do such a thing. He made hand motions for Swanson to climb in the cart, and Kyle approached with great caution, face down as if humiliated, and climbed aboard to huddle in a corner. The tractor moved out.
Swanson kept his head on a swivel as the driver chugged along, talking loudly and constantly. If the farmer was hauling his beans in to market, then he anticipated customers for his crop. Commerce was returning to the city, which meant things were settling down. The ride lasted a few more slow and dusty miles, and a couple of automobiles passed, going both ways. Traffic was out and about, but the vehicles were not stacked with belongings, and there was no outflow of refugees.
The Iranians were playing this hand well, he thought. Calm the people, show them safety, be friends. He was sure that by now, international media companies had hired boats out of Hurghada and news crews were on the ground in carefully escorted groups to document the disciplined Iranian soldiers, happy Egyptian children, women shopping, men working, and no terrorists blowing up hotels: images from the noninvasion of Sharm el-Sheikh. They would not have been shown the wreckage at the airport, nor the slaughter at Government House.
He slid from the moving cart as they neared the city without a word to the driver, who was still talking and happily singing to himself, as if all were right in his own little world and he didn’t realize his passenger had departed. Within forty minutes, Kyle was back at the safe house, where Tianha Bialy and Omar Eissa were waiting.
They were at the small table in the kitchen, studying a city map and preparing notes from their journey through the streets. When Kyle unlocked the door and came in, they both looked up with relief. “We were getting a bit worried about you, mate. Are you all right?”
“I’m good. I went down by the waterfront for a while.” Swanson dropped his bag and went to the little fridge, where bottles of cool water and juice stood in ranks. He could smell fresh food, and the counters were stacked with vegetables, fruit, canned goods, and the leftovers of sandwiches made of eggs and cheese. Enough to feed an army, Kyle thought. At least to feed the recon team coming in tonight. He decided not to mention that before hearing what his partners had discovered.
“Did you find anything?”
“Some. Not much. The freighter that landed the beach force is still anchored out there and has started to unload supplies. With all of the men and equipment it carried, they can’t have much of a load, and I didn’t see any increase in the actual force. Two-man patrols are on the beaches, and some static positions are being built at the level of the berm. Strangest damned thing is that some asshole foreign tourists are actually down on the beach in their bathing suits, saying hello to the soldiers and acting like this is just an extra adventure on their holiday, and the destroyed hotels and casualties meant nothing to them.”
Omar spoke, his eyes on Kyle. “That’s yesterday’s news. Things are generally quiet all around the city, but there was a shooting downtown today. Four Iranians were killed.”
Kyle spun the top from a chilled water bottle and let the liquid gurgle down his parched throat, hydrating his insides.
“You didn’t know about it?” asked Bialy.
“Un-unh. You guys have any problems being out this morning?” He sat at the table with them.
“No. Like you,
we saw that the tourist crowd has calmed down quite a bit since the action. The bodies are gone, the wounded are in the hospital or being tended to, and the hotels are scrubbing away the blood, mending the glass, repairing the bullet holes, and painting everything. It’s like a construction bonanza, and every workman in town has a job. Even kids are pushing brooms.” Tianha got up. “Let me make you a sandwich. The marketplace was busy, everybody jammed in selling foodstuffs. Every stall open. Just as you saw on the beach, this has gone from a horrible disaster to just another day in paradise, if you can just ignore the bodies and the Iranians carrying weapons.”
“Sure. Thanks. I’m tired after my walk.” He pulled the long shirt over his head and tossed it over the back of his chair. His T-shirt was soaked with sweat.
She sliced two thick slices of bakery-fresh bread, smeared on butter, and put it in a frying pan to toast while she cooked a quick egg over easy and melted a chunk of cheese on top of it. “A million calories in one serving will do you good,” she said during the three-minute cooking drill. “Omar says you are too skinny.”
Swanson took the sandwich. “You’re in a good mood today. What happened? You find a bottle of happy pills?”
“Not at all. It’s just that we’ve come up with a great idea. You go ahead and eat while we brief you on what we saw during our prowl, and then we’ll discuss the plan.”
Swanson took a bite. Delicious. He chewed slowly, and except for an occasional question, he let the others do the talking. They had actually done a good job of putting together an overview of the situation within the city, marking Iranian military concentrations and checkpoints to be avoided and reading off a rather wordy report they would transmit to London. The most remarkable comment was the accurate observation that nobody in Sharm was calling for help.
“That’s good work,” he offered. “What is your new idea, then?” Tianha almost had a gleam in her eye. She thought of this, whatever it is. Omar’s just along for the ride.
“All of the work going on to get Sharm back to almost normal can be used to our advantage. Because of the lack of transportation out of town, other than the few ferries being allowed to operate, there are a lot of tourists still in the hotels. The Blue Neptune took the brunt of the attack and sustained severe damage, but I have made a reservation to check into a suite at the Four Seasons.”
Swanson covered his surprise by taking another drink of water. “Why? You’re good right here.”
“But Kyle, the Pharaoh will never find us here. At the hotel, with my name in the register, I would be easy to track down.”
“Are MI6 and C cool with that?”
“I haven’t told them, but I don’t need permission. Omar can look out for me, and by being out in the open, I can move more freely and gather even better intel while we wait.” She smiled. Omar shrugged his shoulders.
“What’s your cover story?”
“That’s the best part. I’m a scholar, so I was en route to do some independent research in the fabulous library at St. Catherine’s Monastery near Mount Sinai. My academic credentials will support that. But I got scared and ran away when the attack hit the Blue Neptune and hid out overnight. Since calm has been restored, I am back in a big hotel, hoping to get on the list of people allowed to leave. It is best to act like an innocent abroad.”
Since Kyle did not give a damn about the Pharaoh and had no control over Bialy, he said, “OK. Sounds like a winner, as long as we keep in close touch. I will stay here for a while longer, and you call me if you need me.” The two British agents moving to the hotel had a huge plus side for Swanson, for he would be able to use the safe house as a hide for the incoming recon team. Tianha and Omar didn’t need to know about them at all.
“Omar, I’ll need a car for my own use. I can’t keep stealing them off the street, so can you arrange something before you guys leave? I would prefer some kind of 4x4 in case there is some rugged driving needed when this place goes to hell. Complete with good papers.”
“Sure. I have an SUV at my local office. I’ll park it in the underground garage here and leave the keys for you.”
“Well, good luck to you both. Tianha, you be careful in dealing with the Iranians and with your Pharaoh, and stay in close contact, OK? You know this isn’t over.”
“What are you going to do?” Bialy asked.
Swanson yawned and stretched. “I don’t know. Right now, I think I’ll take a nap.”
21
SHARM EL-SHEIKH
Major Mansoor Shakuri was feeling the pressure of command. Brigadier General Medhi Khasrodad of the Iranian Revolutionary Guard was in charge of the ground troops in the Egyptian peninsula, but Khasrodad was little more than a figurehead whose job was to be certain the men performed their duties. Shakuri held the actual power, and he answered only to Colonel Naqdi in Cairo, and Naqdi was the critical strong link in a chain that stretched all the way back to Tehran, where it was anchored in theology and politics. In this unusual case, the general answered to the major, so the pressure was eased somewhat by the pleasure of being in charge. Finally free of the colonel’s fearsome presence, the major could do as he pleased. He had learned much during the months of stern tutelage — much more than the colonel suspected, for Shakuri had used his position as chief of staff well. The colonel would be very surprised to know that the major was such a deep well of inside information.
Naqdi actually had been quite effusive in praising his former chief of staff, allowing Shakuri to become the public face of the successful military action that had disguised the invasion. The major’s photograph in a crisp uniform had appeared in many newspapers, his televised appearance had been on screens around the world, and the social media was passing him around like a party favor: the savior who defeated the terrorists’ savage attack on the hotels of Sharm el-Sheikh! A promotion and a citation for his record were almost certainties. Nobody was talking about Colonel Naqdi.
General Khasrodad had his headquarters with the troops out at the airport, but Major Shakuri saw no need for austerity. He instead confiscated a cluster of apartments at one of the luxurious seaside hotels, from which he could watch the beach and the blue water from his desk, and where he could have refreshments served on shining silver platters by hotel waiters. The bad part of command was that each decision carried risk, and the commendations and promotion and bright future could vanish in an instant, leaving him in disgrace, if not in prison. Despite the new job and beautiful surroundings, Shakuri had not forgotten that his colonel had a low tolerance for failure.
As a silent acknowledgment of who was senior, Shakuri was at his big desk, listening to the report of General Khasrodad, in a chair opposite him. The takeover of Sharm was complete, but there was at least one viper in the nest, maybe more. Four soldiers dead at the Government House, two sentries gutted at the airport, and the troop-filled transport plane that crashed, although that was officially listed as an accident. The major knew better. To him, it had the look of a growing partisan movement. Khasrodad had argued that such guerrilla actions were to be expected during an occupation phase, that the casualties sustained by his force thus far were still well below the predicted parameters, and that security procedures had been tightened to prevent further losses. Shakuri considered that to be a passive response and one that would only invite further trouble. He wanted a more aggressive posture. If there was indeed an underground guerrilla movement afoot in the city, he intended to snuff out the danger before it could flame into rebellion. There had to be a show of retribution. What good was command if you did not exercise power?
Following the conference, the general had to slink away and reluctantly prepare to carry out his new orders to arrest half a dozen Egyptian men from different strata of society and different parts of the city and hold them in the local jail. Major Shakuri summoned his clerk and dictated an order that was to be broadcast promptly over the local broadcast stations, then repeated every thirty minutes.
ATTENTION ALL CITIZENS: Six peacekeeping sol
diers of Iran have been brutally murdered in this city while in the performance of their duties. Such cowardly attacks will not be tolerated. Iran was invited to Egypt by the government and the United Nations to help secure its safety against anti-Islamic terrorists, and we shall do so. The people of Sharm el-Sheikh are required to participate in their own defense, but some outlaw elements have engaged in rebellion and have killed members of the IRG without provocation. Those evil attacks require a response to ensure that rebels will not swim unmolested among the law-abiding citizenry. They must be denied all forms of shelter and assistance.
To underline our determination, a price must be paid for the terrorists who have spread mischief upon the land and are attempting to destabilize the society. The holy word of the all-merciful Prophet, praise be unto him, instructs us that punishment must be in proportion to the crime: “Life for life, eye for eye; nose for nose, ear for ear; tooth for tooth, and wounds equal for equal.”
Therefore, it is decreed that for every Iranian soldier killed, one citizen of Sharm el-Sheikh is to be executed. Six soldiers of Iran were slaughtered, so six Egyptians must bear the responsibility for those heinous acts with their own lives. These executions by firing squad will be carried out in the public square at nine o’clock tonight.
By order of Major Mansoor Shakuri,
Commandant of the Iranian Peacekeeping Mission
THE SAFE HOUSE
Kyle Swanson had not showered all day, because the dirtier he looked, the better his disguise as a common man on the street. The accompanying itchiness and filth did not matter. Tianha and Omar had already left for the Four Seasons, so he was alone to putter around the apartment, killing time and restraining the urge to get out there and do something, anything, to throw another wrench into the Iranian plans. You’re a sniper; you know how to wait. Here he was sitting on his ass during a sunny afternoon, with absolutely nothing worthwhile accomplished.
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