Swanson’s fingers ran a final check of his weapon, a familiar task that was built into his brain. Then he slowed his breathing and ticked off the seconds in his head as he waited for the C-4 to blow. It did, and he went to work. His first shot took out the sergeant by the Jeep to keep him from getting the big gun going. By the time the middle man turned toward the motor pool explosion, Kyle’s semiautomatic rifle had cycled in a new round, and he moved the scope just a hair, then pulled the trigger again. The man’s arms flew wide, his AK-47 spun away in slow motion, and his knees buckled. The bullet tore through his chest.
The third soldier, the guy out front in the road, had reacted to the close gunshots but was running back toward the Jeep instead of into the darkness, or at least falling flat or charging toward the shooter. Kyle slid the rifle back to the original aiming point, and the guy ran right into the scope and caught a bullet through the spinal cord. Three shots, three dead targets, less than three seconds.
Swanson was up instantly, jogging back to the waiting 4Runner, breathing steadily and not looking back. The work at the outpost was done, and he still had more mail to deliver.
* * *
He went out into the desert, where there were fewer roads, and angled away from the main highway before looping around wide to the east to avoid the communities that were out that far. He parked again and used his cell phone to contact Bialy, who answered on the second buzz. “Are you and Omar in the Blue Neptune now?” he asked.
“Yes. We’re good. Where are you?”
“Out shopping. Anything happening that I should know about?”
She almost laughed. “I should be asking that question, Swanson. We keep hearing these explosions, and the Iranians are running all around. Did you hear about the firing squad?”
“No.” His blood chilled. They were executing civilians because of his actions. “Anyone significant among the victims?”
“The mayor of Sharm,” she replied, reading the list of names. “Mohammed El-Din. The people aren’t going to accept that one very easily.”
“Who was he? Anything might help.”
“The head of a prosperous local family. Omar says he has been mayor for many years and was well liked. Owned a good-sized business called the Gold Sun Water Equipment marina, which served the big hotels. The other victims seemed to be just a cross-section of citizens. El-Din was the example the Iranians wanted.”
Kyle paused and thought for a moment. Most of civilization clung to the water, and the people of Sharm were no different, for water brought trade and money and success. He realized that he might have found the next step in his night’s work. The Gold Sun should have what he needed, and it most likely would be closed because the grieving family of the mayor, who ran it, would be huddled together at their home. “OK. You guys stay safe.”
“Kyle?” Tianha said, but he was gone.
Heading south again, he checked his position on the Toyota’s global positioning system and found a small track that led to the back road to the Gold Sun Water Equipment marina. The tourism trade of Sharm depended on watercraft, for this was a world-famous diving spot, but even divers needed a break from the reefs and caves and coral, and they rented everything from sailboats to windsurfer boards and played around the beaches when not lying around the hotel pools. All of that had collapsed, and now the storehouses of the fun toys stood empty and locked. Just outside the city, he entered a wide rectangular area in which a central road was flanked by storehouses. Upturned kayaks lay stacked alongside like pancakes. A few palm trees loitered around the buildings, beyond the reach of the sprinkler systems of the hotel grounds.
He parked one street over and made a careful circuit of the area on foot, checking the rear of the buildings, the rooftops, the windows, the yards, other parked vehicles, anywhere that danger might hide. He saw no inside lights, although a few bulbs glowed feebly above some front doors. The place was deserted. He went back to the 4Runner and took it almost to the water’s edge, parking behind a battered white pickup that bore the words GOLD SUN WATER EQUIPMENT in English.
The building extended out over the water, and a blunt pier outside extended inside, too, so watercraft could be sailed directly into the building. A metal roll-down gate sealed the opening. Kyle went to the glassed-in front, where the rental office could be seen. Colorful posters of underwater scenes hung behind a single desk and over a four-drawer filing cabinet. Two straight chairs were in front of the desk, with one cushy executive model behind it. Beside the front door, another passage led out to the waterside working area where all of the gear was stored. He kicked around at the decorative stone border until he found a heavy rock. In the middle of a night that was already filled with explosions and fires, nobody would even notice the shatter of the small glass window in the door. He threw it and was in.
The inner door opened into a wide space in which two concrete piers were separated by an open finger of water. Swanson switched on his flashlight and went directly to a rank of five jet skis that were cradled on lifts, and two more — a Yamaha and a Honda, both blue — were tied at the pier, ready to be taken out in the morning. He unscrewed the fuel caps and found that both had full gas tanks.
He went over to a broad piece of plywood that was used as a bench and table where wet suits were rented. Once again he was happy to be of average size, for he immediately found a full-length diver’s suit, a face mask and snorkel, and a pair of swimming flippers.
He had constantly been alert for noises but had heard nothing except the lapping of the water, and he peeled off the sagging Egyptian clothes. As he began putting on the wet suit, there was a movement in the shadows, and a young man stepped out, pointing a pistol at him. Kyle stopped, with one foot in the suit, one out, then slowly raised his hands. “Don’t shoot,” he said in English. “I am a friend.”
Merchants and businessmen throughout Egypt usually speak several languages, and he was betting this guy was one of those multilingual types who dealt with tourists from all over the world. Anyway, Kyle’s knowledge of the Egyptian language sucked.
The young man stepped forward, but not too close. He was in his early twenties, wore an oil-stained T-shirt over baggy cargo shorts, and had a stubble of beard above penetrating eyes rimmed in red, as if he had been crying. The pistol remained steady. “You are an American?”
“Yes.”
“The Americans are coming here?”
“Maybe. Who are you?”
The man walked to the left, not even looking down as he stepped through and around the gear, indicating that he knew where everything was. “Who are you?”
“I’m a tourist who was caught here by the attacks, and I am just trying to get out.”
“So you were going to steal my jet ski?”
“Yes.” A grain of truth helps the total lie. “Try to make my way to an American ship.”
“You would never make it out alive through all the boats out there. You really are not an Iranian?”
In answer, hands still raised, Kyle spat into the water. To his surprise, the young man did the same and slowly lowered his weapon. “Those bastards executed my brother last night. Had you been Iranian, I would have killed you on the spot. You can lower your hands.”
Whoa, thought Kyle. This might be better than I expected. “Your brother was Mayor Mohammad El-Din?”
“Yes.” He said it with a grim face. “My name is Abdel El-Din. Now who are you, and why are you here?”
“First, I’m sorry about your brother, Abdel. I would have stopped it if I could.”
Abdel pushed himself up to sit on the counter. A wall clock behind him showed the time to be just a minute or two after five o’clock in the morning. “Really? Just you?”
“My name is Kyle Swanson, and I am a United States Marine.” Kyle nodded his head toward the outside, where explosions were still being heard. “I’ve been doing what I can.”
“My brother was a good man, Mr. Swanson. We do not know why he was put among those people the Iran
ians decided to murder, for they were just picked up at random. He went to his death with his head held high, scornful of the executioners. My family made me hide out here to avoid also being picked up in some future sweep. I was asleep until I heard you break the glass out front.”
“So I will tell you the truth, Abdel. I’m not really trying to escape. I’ve been fighting them on my own, but even my own government doesn’t know I am here and what I’m doing. I really was here on a business trip, had a room at the Blue Neptune and everything. Now I just cannot let the Iranians take Sharm without a fight.”
“I want to fight back, too.” El-Din’s face twisted with emotion. “Nobody asked those soldiers to come to our city.”
“Fighting is dangerous work,” Kyle said. “I’m trained to do this kind of thing. You aren’t.”
“Those Iranian pigs have come to our home and took my brother and shot him in cold blood. They are not wanted in the city. A lot of people feel just as I do. We were stunned by the suddenness of it all, but now we are getting angry.”
“Do you think there will be an uprising?” Kyle believed he was witnessing the first spark on a sputtering fuse of rebellion.
El-Din gave that rueful smile again. “Maybe. Only Allah knows the future. I only know that I must do something to avenge my brother.” He paused, took a breath. “So let me help you. You want a jet ski, I’ll let you have it. And I know these waters well and can be of help out in the channels.”
While he thought, Kyle finished wiggling into the wet suit. Another local asset in addition to Omar would be a definite advantage, and this job would be a good test to determine if the kid had any guts or if it was just bravado coming from grief doing the talking. Zipped up, Swanson said, “OK. You’re on, Abdel. Here’s what we’re going to do.”
24
Abdel El-Din listened wide-eyed to the audacious idea, then immediately proved his merit by turning on all of the lights in the boathouse. Should anyone stop by to question why, he could say he was simply getting ready for tomorrow’s business. In minutes, he was suited up like Swanson.
“We have to tow these things around frequently, so hooking them together is no problem,” he explained. Tie-off rings were installed fore and aft, and Abdel pulled down a twelve-pound coil of steel links sheathed in tough plastic, with snaps welded to the ends. It took only a moment to hook the Honda so it would trail behind the Yamaha.
A small roll of duct tape was on a worktable, and he pocketed it, then walked to the big roll-up door and hit the red button to open it. The clanking of chains retracting on the pulleys sounded like a warning siren as the door was ratcheted back, and before it was fully open, Abdel already had mounted the lead jet ski and was puttering to the fuel station at the end of the pier. The second machine slid along behind, with Kyle in the saddle, thinking how having Abdel as an ally had already saved him a lot of work.
They tied off at the gas pump. El-Din opened the lock with his keys, and the two of them filled a group of red plastic five-gallon containers and lashed them all with loops of duct tape along the sides, front, and low back of the trailing jet ski. When the cans were secure, the men released the moorings and both skis drifted free. The Yamaha started with the first twist of the key, but Swanson made no attempt to start the Honda, for he was sitting in a giant improvised explosive device, and any spark could be spectacularly fatal. The lead ski hummed slowly to take up the slack in the chain, and Abdel sidled them out into the calm waters of Naama Bay, burbling along at a minimum speed, about three hundred yards from the beach.
Around the harbor, red and green navigation lights pierced the darkness. Swanson wryly noted the absence of the usual huge sleek yachts; the monied people who could leave had already left. Farther inland, the sky was still being chewed by the bonfire at the motor pool and the unrelenting flames at the ammo dump. That reflected brightness, plus the running lights of the big ships, made it easy for Abdel to thread a familiar path out to deeper water, and he put on a little more speed.
Kyle was glad to get a bit of breeze across his face, for the cloud of gasoline fumes made breathing difficult. The skis drove farther out into the harbor at a minimum pace, sliding over small swells, with Abdel ready to rack up the pace if they were discovered or challenged. About three miles from the beach sat the target, the brightest ship in the harbor, the Iranian freighter that had brought in the original waves of troops and had since been off-loading supplies onto a barge anchored alongside. Hired laborers and soldiers moved the material into smaller boats that hauled them to shore. The ship was alight from stem to stern, but only colored warning bulbs were at the corners of the transfer platform. About a half-dozen boats were tied to it, for work had been shut down for the night.
Abdel looked back to check on Kyle, and Swanson motioned with a hand to head out even deeper, then circle back and come in from the blind side. The young Egyptian understood. They motored on unseen.
* * *
Major Shakuri answered the telephone in his office at the disgusting hour of five o’clock in the morning with an impatient response but immediately settled into a respectful tone when he heard that it was Colonel Naqdi. He sighed to himself. This had been expected.
“I have received a rather interesting call from General Khasrodad at the airport,” the colonel said. He was still on his bed in Cairo, pushing away frustration and anger. “The ammunition dump has been blown? Why didn’t you alert me immediately?” The voice betrayed only curiosity, not anger.
“The general had the responsibility of guarding those vital supplies, sir. He failed.” Shakuri was at his desk and looking at his notes. It was depressing. “It seems that about twenty are dead out there as of right now. Maybe … probably … more. Another one of the big planes was destroyed.”
“You did not think that I needed to be informed?”
Careful, Shakuri said to himself. Unstable ground here. “Of course not, sir. I did not call for several reasons. There was nothing you could do, and you need your sleep. Allah, praise be unto him, knows how much I need sleep, too, and you work harder and longer than I do. I was planning to call you after daybreak, when we will have more facts, and possibly even have captured the saboteurs.”
“I know, Major. General Khasrodad is given to panic when under stress. As you say, he had several thousand top soldiers at his disposal and should have prevented that attack. Is it still going on?”
“Yes, sir. It’s quite a show.” The grumble of explosions could still be heard downtown.
Naqdi steered the subject away from the airport. “Then you are actively hunting saboteurs?”
“Correct, sir. I have been forced to implement stern measures and requisition some soldiers from the general, who is resisting giving me any. He wants to pull his protection perimeter in tighter, while I want active patrols in the streets.”
“What was this firing squad the general told me about? Something else of which I had been unaware.” The voice had switched back to cold. “It seems you are very busy with things of which I know nothing. Are you keeping things from me, Major Shakuri? Am I going to have to come down there?”
“If you wish to come, of course, Colonel, but there is really no need. After the initial problems — again, the general’s soldiers — I had six examples, including the mayor, shot in the public square to discourage any public uprising. We must be firm with this population. As the Americans said, ‘When you have them by the balls, their hearts and minds will follow.’”
The colonel stopped himself before laughing. Shakuri was really getting a grip on leadership. “I agree, but please be careful with reprisals, Major, for killing somebody’s husband or cousin might breed enemies.”
“Absolutely, sir. Already, obviously, the one-for-one idea will no longer work. With more than twenty of our soldiers already dead tonight, we would have to execute twenty more residents of Sharm. Will the unarmed people of Sharm be willing to make such an exchange?”
“You know the path around that.” It w
as a declaration straight out of the occupation rules established in Tehran before the invasion. Mercy went only to a certain point; then the iron glove was needed.
“Yes, sir. We must ruthlessly kill more, enough to instill fear and suppress their opposition. After the twenty, I will increase the ratio to two of them for every one of us. Women and children will be included.”
“Very well.” There was a momentary stiff pause. “I’ll probably be down later today to see how things are going after all, but you seem to be doing the job as well as possible.”
The major felt the pleasure of the compliment override the lash of reprimand. He was doing a good job. “Thank you, sir. Your visit might be the best way to settle the nerves of our general out at the airport. Now let me give you some good news. I was saving it for the morning report, along with the other material, but you will like this. That British woman you wanted, Bialy, has been located. Should we wait until you arrive to pick her up?”
“A good point, Major. Go ahead and arrest her, so when I come down, she will be waiting for me. I will let you know my travel plan. Anything on the American, Kyle Swanson?”
“Not yet, sir, but we will get him. Can I ask what your interest is in them?”
“They are spies, major. CIA and MI6. I want to personally interrogate them both.”
Shakuri decided to push a step further. “Our intelligence people report she has been asking about someone with the code name of Pharaoh. Can you tell me what that is about, sir?”
A deep pause while the colonel thought it over. Shakuri had done well so far, but he did not need to know this. The Pharaoh was a one-man show, the colonel’s mask as a valuable counterintelligence source and his ticket to freedom. “That sounds like another enemy for us to track down, Major. Find Swanson, and if you uncover the Pharaoh, arrest him, too.”
“Absolutely, sir.”
“Good. So why don’t we both get a few hours of sleep? Good night, Major.”
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