THE WAVE: A John Decker Thriller

by J. G. Sandom

  The Mameluke General Zahir Baybars had always been a hero to Al-Hakim, ever since childhood. Baybars had been born in Mongol Russia, in the town of Kipchak, and was later sold into slavery in Damascus as a boy – at a very reasonable price, since a cataract covered his left eye. But Allah had granted him a penetrating voice, insatiable energy and ambition, and a brilliant military mind. Ruling Cairo for seventeen years, his court had been notorious for its riches.

  Baybars was also responsible for rebuilding the canals, fortifications and shipyards throughout Egypt, things essential to the public works. Using both the subtlest of diplomacy as well as raw belligerence, he neutralized the crusading Christians along the Mediterranean coast. He installed the Abbasid Prince al-Mustansir as khalif at Cairo, thereby moving the Sunni religious center to Egypt, effectively gaining control of the Hajj and Mecca. A deeply religious man, Baybars even ordered all the taverns and brothels of the city closed.

  But his piety failed to save him. He perished when he was fifty, the unwitting victim of his own hand. It was a fairy tale Al-Hakim’s mother used to tell him before bedtime. He remembered it with fondness, with the nostalgic warmth of a soft blanket. The Sultan had intended to poison Malik Kaher, a rival prince, but – unbeknownst to him – Kaher had switched their goblets when Baybars wasn’t looking. It took thirteen days for him to die an agonizing death. Baybars’ sons were soon deposed and, eventually, General Qalawun was elected Sultan.

  Like Baybars, Qalawun was from Kipchak. And, like the previous Sultan, he too had been a slave. He kept the Mongols and the Christians both at bay, and made treaties with Emperor Rudolph of Hapsburg, as well as other European princes. He even continued the building programs initiated by Baybars, sponsoring both a hospital and the mosque that Al-Hakim could see outside the window, across the carpet of multi-colored rugs and tapestries that darkened the narrow passageways of the Khalili Khan.

  The nearer mosque, the el-Hakim, was Auwal’s namesake. El-Hakim bi-Amr Allah, literally Ruler by God's Command, was infamous in Egyptian history for his eccentric dictatorial decrees. At one point, like the Egyptian pharaohs of old, he had even declared himself divine.

  Al-Hakim remembered the afternoon that he had spent with El Aqrab, wandering through this sector of the city two years earlier. Despite the fact that he was Lebanese, El Aqrab knew an inordinate amount about the mosques of Cairo, taught to him – apparently – by some childhood friend. According to El Aqrab, over its lifetime, the el-Hakim mosque had served as a prison for captive Crusaders, Napoleon's warehouse, Salah al-Din's stables, a lamp factory, and a boys elementary school under Nasser.

  As they walked together south, El Aqrab pointed out features of the mosque that Al-Hakim had never noticed before, although he’d been born and raised in Cairo. The mosque was constructed of brick with stone facades and minarets, and featured an irregular rectangular plan with a rectangular central courtyard, surrounded by arcades, supported by compound piers, with a prayer hall whose arcades were similarly perched on top of compound piers. It also boasted the oldest surviving minarets in Cairo, although the tops were replaced in 1303, after an earthquake destroyed the upper tiers.

  They strolled together toward the northeast corner of the mosque, and came upon the Bab al-Futuh, the Gate of Conquest, and the Northern walls. The east side of the street was lined with garlic and onion vendors. Until about 1850, this was the last slave market in Egypt, Al-Hakim told El Aqrab, trying to sound knowledgeable about his natal city. “But that was long ago, thanks be to Allah.”

  El Aqrab laughed. “Is that what you think?” he said. "But you are right, of course, my friend. We no longer buy and sell each other. Now, we are made slaves by the West.”

  Then they had headed through the Gate of Conquest, into the Northern Cemetery. Known as the City of the Dead, the cemetery was as much a city of the living as a final resting place for the deceased. Cairo's original rulers had selected this location for their tombs because it was outside the crowded metropolis, in an area that was predominantly desert. But even in early pharaonic times, the Egyptians had never thought of cemeteries as places of the dead; they were, instead, birthplaces of rejuvenation. Hence, mausoleums were exploited for personal entertainment, and guest facilities were appended to large tombs. As early as the fourteenth century, squatters took up residence in the catacombs, cohabitating with the dead. Moving through the narrow streets and alleyways, Al-Hakim noticed cenotaphs used as tables, clotheslines strung between tall headstones.

  “It is good you are Egyptian,” El Aqrab had told him. “There is so little distance here between the living and the dead. You’re but a step away.”

  Auwal Al-Hakim climbed to his feet. He could hear a host of people shouting in the Khalili Khan below. And with the street noise came the scent of lamb, of barbecued baby goat, of hummus and grape leaves and freshly baked falafel. He couldn’t stand it any longer. He strode across the room to the front door. He slipped his boots on, tied his laces. No matter what the risks, he thought, no matter what the dangers, he was getting something to eat.

  Al-Hakim clambered down the stairs, weaved through the rushing crowd, his head down, covered with a Bedouin veil, and entered the Khalili Khan. The narrow canvas-covered passageways of the old Byzantine Bazaar were choked with gold and silver merchants, with brass and copper smiths, with hawkers of leather goods and oils and glass and water pipes and pastry shops. His stomach gurgled like a crocodile. Al-Hakim reached into his pocket for some coins. He saw a gyro vendor just across the street. He smelled the marinated meat, saw it sizzling on the spit. He pulled his hand out and the stun gun struck him just below the shoulder blade, on the right side. Al-Hakim contorted and toppled over. He continued to shake and roll across the ground, like an epileptic. A man in an aba over gray twill trousers kneeled beside him. A syringe was already in his hand. It entered Al-Hakim’s right arm above the elbow. It hung there, like a greedy insect, for a few more seconds, then vanished and Al-Hakim just stopped. He stopped shaking. He stopped frothing at the mouth. He stopped dreaming even, as he slipped into a darkness deeper and more profoundly empty than any he had ever known.

  When he awoke, Al-Hakim found himself lying on a massive wooden workbench. The outer edges of the workbench were lined with ancient swivel-base bench vises, the surface littered with wood shavings. Al-Hakim tried to sit up but his hands were lashed behind him, over his head, and a pain shot through his leg. He looked down. His left leg was pinned between two vises.

  Just then, a small man with a black mustache and beard dressed in a Western suit approached the workbench from across the room. Al-Hakim hadn’t noticed him before. He was 777, Al-Hakim was sure of it, a member of the Counter-Terrorist Group of the Egyptian Secret Police. Al-Hakim had seen his kind of face before.

  The man leaned across the workbench and picked up a tool. It was a wood drill, hand-powered, practically antique. The man placed the pointed silver tip directly on top of Al-Hakim’s left knee, the one pinned by the vises. Then he began to turn it slowly, swiveling the arm around, and around, and around as Al-Hakim watched. The material of his trouser leg wound up into the metal bit as he felt it pierce his skin. A moment later, the drill began to pull apart the flesh, then bone. Al-Hakim screamed. The pain was blinding in its intensity. He watched as blood boiled up out of the wound, as the bit kept twisting, turning up flakes of ivory-colored bone. He writhed and moaned and heaved until the pain enveloped him in a bubble of warm blood, and he drowned.

  * * *

  Acting Chief Seiden sat in the nondescript office, waiting. He had already been there for over an hour and his patience was beginning to wear thin. He felt distressed, on edge, prickly. In fact, he had felt that way ever since landing at Cairo International Airport in Heliopolis that afternoon. This was the land of the enemy, despite the Camp David Peace Accords. It had been since the days of the pharaohs. And, in all probability, it always would be. He crossed his legs, examined the room for the umpteenth time: the same Arabic calendar
; the same Egyptian flag; the same obligatory photographs of President Ali Baruk. Why, for God’s sake, Seiden thought, had they sent him? He was no diplomat, no negotiator. He writhed in his cracked plastic seat. But his experience with El Aqrab in Tel Aviv, and his knowledge of the incident in Beersheba made him invaluable, unique, Deputy Director Cohen had insisted. He was the perfect man for the job. Besides, everyone else was busy.

  The door opened, and a scruffy little man with a black mustache and beard dressed in a Western suit stepped cautiously into the room. “My apologies for keeping you waiting,” he said. “My name’s Aswad Talhouni.” He scurried into the room, stretching out a bony hand.

  Seiden stood up and shook it. Then he noticed a series of dark red spots along the Egyptian’s shirtfront. “You might have washed up a little first,” he said, pulling his hand away.

  Talhouni looked down. “Pomegranates,” he said. Then he smiled, revealing shattered brown teeth. “Sweet tooth.”

  “Where is he?”

  The small man wagged a finger at Seiden and smiled. “A man after my own heart. Straight to the point. I like that. I’m afraid it’s rare to find men who go straight to the point of anything in Egypt. Except their wives, of course.” He began to cackle. “Would you like some coffee, Chief Seiden? Some tea?”

  Seiden shook his head and Talhouni took a seat behind his desk. He leaned forward on his elbows, arching his fingers as if in prayer. “I’m afraid my government will not be able to release Auwal Al-Hakim into your charge, as we had hoped,” he said.

  “As you promised, you mean. Why not? It’s either us or the Americans.”

  “Al-Hakim was an Egyptian national. My government doesn’t look upon this matter precisely as you do. But, on a more positive note, our government is not nearly as restrictive when it comes to issues of interrogation. We are the Mecca of extraordinary rendition.”

  “What do you mean, was an Egyptian national? Be careful, Mr. Talhouni. Should I interpret the noises that I heard earlier as the screams of a dying man; should I learn that certain interrogation techniques, that specific protocols which are – how should I put it? – unorthodox are being used by my Egyptian counterparts; should I be placed into a position of foreknowledge, I would be in violation of International law, not to mention several UN Human Rights directives. Article four of the ’94 Convention Against Torture obligates all state parties to ensure that all acts of torture are criminal offenses under domestic legislation.”

  “You have a remarkable memory, Chief Seiden. Did you study the law?”

  “Psychology, actually,” said Seiden. Then he added, “You’d be surprised how useful it can be in our profession. Over time, for example, I’ve developed an uncanny ability to know when someone is lying.” He stared at Talhouni and frowned. “You might think this a gift. It’s not. It isn’t always pleasant lifting off the skullcap, looking in. Where was the suspect apprehended?”

  Talhouni stroked his greasy mustaches. “Not far from here,” he said. “In the Khalili Khan. It is ironic, no? The Khalili market was a venue for the spice cartel controlled by the Mameluke in the Middle Ages, a monopoly which eventually encouraged the Europeans to search for new routes to the East, which prompted Columbus to discover America, without which, of course, Israel would not exist. Amusing, is it not?”

  “You live in the past, Mr. Talhouni. Your whole country does.”

  “When the past is so much more glorious than the present, Chief Seiden, it is easy to fall out of time. But do not think me an ignorant man. I have traveled. I have been to Hangelar and Bonn. I was trained there by the German Grenzscutzgruppe Nine. I am sure you’ve heard–”

  “Did he say anything important, before his unfortunate . . . ”

  “ . . . demise? I’m afraid so.”

  “Well? Well, what did he say?”

  “He believed his device was active. ‘Armed and active.’ Those were his very words. They all did.”

  “They?”

  “All three of them,” answered Talhouni. “Three mules dispatched by Gulzhan Baqrah. Al-Hakim, who admitted to planting the bomb in the sewers of Beersheba. A man called Ziad, shot while crossing the border from Lebanon into Israel. I’m sure you know about him.”

  Seiden nodded.

  “And an Algerian named Ali Hammel. Only Hammel is still at large.”

  “Where’s he going?” asked Seiden.

  “Well, that’s the bad news, I’m afraid. That’s why Al-Hakim was being so . . . recalcitrant. He just didn’t want to let it go.”

  “Where, Mr. Talhouni? I haven’t got all day.”

  Talhouni sighed and looked down at the red spots on his shirt. “To New York,” he answered, picking at the stains. “The Empire State building.”

  Chapter 27

  Tuesday, February 1 – 7:53 AM

  New York City

  Seamus Gallagher of WKXY-TV had only planned to drop by his office for a few minutes en route to a story in the Bronx when he noticed the little brown shipping box in the tray outside his cubicle. It looked like a videotape cassette. Gallagher hesitated for a moment, put down his cup of coffee and examined the label. Nothing. No return address. But the stamps and postmark were from Lebanon. He unwrapped the box and removed the plastic holder. As he’d suspected, it was a tape, but of what, he had no way of knowing.

  Gallagher sat down behind his desk. There was no label on the box, nor on the tape itself. It was anonymous. He plopped it into his old VHS machine. Then he leaned back in his seat, pulled the lid up from his coffee cup, and took a sip. It was light and sweet, just as he liked it. He watched the TV screen. It seemed to be working but he couldn’t see a thing. The screen was blank. No, black, he realized, as it came to life, as fire blossomed in a corner of the screen, crawling from right to left. Then he saw two people in the shadows, two men. One was in his forties, with sloping shoulders and a close-cropped beard. The other was a fat youth in his mid- to upper-twenties. He said something, and then more lights appeared, descending from the ceiling; they swung down in a kind of cape, a fishing net of flames.

  Gallagher parked his coffee on his desk. He nuzzled closer to the TV screen. The bodies of the men were suddenly illuminated. He heard them start to scream. He watched them writhe and wiggle, even as a pale green line snaked in across their chests, bright floriated text, from right to left. Gallagher couldn’t read Arabic but he knew it when he saw it. And then they simply melted, live and in color, the men, like in some cheesy horror flick. Their hair caught fire and their eyes and noses dripped like melted wax, blackened and fell away. The recording ended. The videotape went blank, then exploded into static. Gallagher hit the “rewind” button.

  He watched the clip over and over again, editing it in his mind. There was only so much you could show on television. It wasn’t the FCC that worried him, although Homeland Security would have a field day with this clip. It was the sponsors. Management didn’t give a rat’s ass about the audience – not really – as long as it was big enough. It was the ad dollars that concerned them.

  Let the chips fall where they may, he told himself. The tape was clearly the Beersheba terrorist attack. Someone was feeding him this story, was handing it to him on a platter. He didn’t know who, and he didn’t particularly care. It was making his career.

  He examined the packing box more carefully. Something was stuck on the inside, glued to the paper. He plucked it out. It was a kind of postcard, he realized, the photo of some dome, looking up from within. He turned it over. The legend was in several languages, including English: The muqarnas featured in the dome of the Shaykh Lutfallah Mosque, Isfahan. It bore a postmark from Iran. He read the card. It was an invitation to some kind of event at midnight on Wednesday, the very next evening in New York. And it was signed by El Aqrab.

  Gallagher put the card down on his desk. He stared down at the dome of the Iranian mosque. He looked at the ornate paneling and thought that this would probably topple Prime Minister Garron. News of his freeing El Aqrab i
n exchange for a fake nuclear device wouldn’t go over very well in Israel. The Israeli press had recently reported that a number of PLO detainees had been released in exchange for a couple of Israeli businessmen and the remains of several soldiers – but certainly not the infamous El Aqrab. El Aqrab must have anticipated this event prior to mailing him the tape. That’s why he’d sent it to an American, as opposed to an Israeli journalist. And to help cultivate suspense, no doubt, in the hearts of all New Yorkers.

  What’s going to happen tomorrow at midnight? he thought. Gallagher sipped his coffee, pondering. One thing for sure: My ratings are going up. He parked his coffee on his desk, picked up the phone, and dialed the FBI.

  * * *

  Long after his watch was over and most of the crew had already drifted off to sleep, the Algerian mule Hammel lingered in number two hold. The chamber had the density of a commercial garage. And it was but one of three holds, on top of one another, separated by a pair of giant metal hatches. It was dark in the hold. It was dark and cold and smelled of rotting fish. A reefer on the starboard side had sprung a leak. He’d have to report it to the Chief Mate in the morning. Hammel felt a wave of nausea hit him. He wretched and toppled over. He had been sick since early morning, ever since the Rêve de Chantal had steamed out of the port of Arrecife, away from Lanzarote and the Canaries, heading toward New York. Hammel was from Tamanrasset, in the heart of the Algerian Sahara. Whoever had called camels the “ships of the desert” had lied.

  He was about to give up in disgust when he heard the sound of a heavy hatch creak open, then shut against the bulkhead. He struggled to his feet. The lights flicked on. It was the Gambian, Momodou. He was standing by the hatchway with a large knife in his hand. When he saw Hammel, he hesitated. Then he came forward, brandishing the knife.