He glanced at Ammon and Sefu. His look asked, “Can I?” They shrugged, clearly displeased by the situation. Paul beckoned Ava aboard. Reluctantly, she complied. Ava doubted Paul would actually kidnap her, but if he was mixed up in drugs, nothing was certain.
He crouched, removed the box from the hold, and, using his knife, cut through the thick transparent tape. With considerable effort, he ripped open a flap and dozens of Victoria’s Secret catalogs spilled onto the deck, along with old issues of Maxim, Vibe, Details, and Playboy. The boys leaped down and began stuffing glossy magazines back into the hold, looking over their shoulders to ensure that no one had seen.
“What the hell?” Ava asked, baffled.
“Pornography is forbidden by the Qur’an and by Egyptian law. So naturally the black market for racy magazines, VHS tapes, DVDs, and whatever else is thriving. It’s incredibly profitable to smuggle. Back home, people give away this stuff. In Cairo, dealers sell these magazines for six bucks apiece.”
“Isn’t it easier to download your filth from the Internet?”
“You’d think so, but since the Arab Spring, the authorities have cracked down. At Internet cafés users sign a form swearing they won’t access or download pornography. Private accounts are monitored and spot-checked by government censors. They even tried to ban YouTube, and if you break the law, you go to jail. Egyptian jail! Plus, most Egyptians aren’t hooked up to the Internet. They can’t download images or watch streaming video.”
“But, I mean, Victoria’s Secret? That’s illegal?”
“Have you seen the pictures? It would have been illegal in Boston in the fifties.”
Simon dialed the number for his Yemen headquarters. The receptionist answered.
“Connect me to crypto,” he ordered.
From his tone, she knew better than to speak. She directed his call to the computer center’s cryptologic unit, where the twenty-three-year-old manager picked up.
“Hello?”
He sounded as though he had food in his mouth.
“Fritz, I have Mr. DeMaj holding for you.”
“Huh! What does he want? I mean, put him through, please.”
“Where are they?” Simon demanded.
“Sir?”
“Our fugitives. I told you to drop everything and find them. So, where are they?”
“We know they’re in Egypt.”
Simon took a deep breath. Silently, he counted to three, allowing his frustration to dissipate sufficiently for the conversation to continue. Even so, a measure of anger leaked into his voice.
“Fritz, I know they’re in Egypt. I’m the one who told you they’re in Egypt. It’s a big country. I need you to be more specific.”
“Yes, sir. We tracked Paul’s phone. It was a dead end. Apparently, he gave it to a desert nomad. Ava’s phone hasn’t been used since she left Boston.”
“Credit cards?”
“We’re watching them. Bank accounts too. Nothing since the hit on Kamaran. They must be paying for everything in cash and using aliases.”
Simon had expected as much. Paul was hardly a master spy, but he’d worked for DeMaj long enough to learn some basic espionage.
“Have we picked them up on security video?”
“No. I think we can safely conclude they’re avoiding airports, train stations—any form of mass transit. We’re listening to the Egyptian military and police. They don’t have anything either.”
“What about text messages, e-mail?”
“We can read their mail, but we’re having trouble tracing the device. It might be piggybacking a signal over the national net, relayed off a LEO satellite. The transmitter doesn’t use standard GPS, and the software is hardened against reverse-search protocols. It’s actually a pretty cool hack—”
“Find them,” Simon interrupted, “and call the moment you do.”
Chapter 8
8
At four o’clock they reached Rosetta, which Ava insisted on calling Rasheed. Near the harbor dilapidated brick buildings had been colonized by squatters and repurposed into a vibrant, open-air market. While Ammon tended to the boat and Sefu went to purchase gasoline, Ava found a rest room and Paul found a payphone. Since ditching his mobile phone, he couldn’t remember any numbers, so he attempted to call information. This proved an exercise in futility, because the operator couldn’t understand a word he said. Eventually he relented and conscripted Ava. She pretended to be aggravated, but she was secretly pleased that he needed her help. It took her about ten seconds to obtain the number for the Hotel Salaam in Alexandria, plus the operator offered to connect her directly. She smiled at Paul. “For whom shall I ask?”
“Is it ringing? Just give me the damn phone.”
“Hotel Salaam,” the receptionist said.
“Bonjour,” said Paul, with the worst French accent Ava had ever heard. “Je voudrais parler à Monsieur Nick.”
“Qui?”
“Nick. Mr. Nick. Señor Nico. Il est Americain.”
“Ah, oui. Monsieur Nick,” the receptionist repeated. “Un moment, s’il vous plaît.”
Ava said, “I don’t know what game you’re playing, but no one will ever believe you’re French. Not with that accent.”
“True. My French is terrible, but I know the receptionist. She’s Portuguese. I’m hoping that despite my awful French, she won’t flag me as an American. I mean, sure, she’ll know I’m not French, but I could be a moron from anywhere.”
Ava laughed. Then a masculine voice spoke over the phone.
“This is Nick. How may I help you?”
Paul switched to English. “Hello. I’m a regular customer in town on a confidential matter. Can a room be arranged?”
“I’ll be happy to check with reception, sir, but we have very few suites, and rooms are often reserved quite a bit in advance. May I ask who is calling, please?”
“I’m afraid I’d rather not say. You see, I’m traveling with a woman who’s not my wife. She’s a business associate.”
“Of course,” said Nick politely.
“And I don’t want scurrilous rumors started. No stories in tomorrow’s papers. You understand.”
“Indeed, sir. Did you say you’re a regular customer?”
“Yes, but I must insist my name not be used. Why don’t I use the name of a friend we have in common: Mr. Francona. I believe an associate of yours introduced us some years ago in Boston.”
There was a long pause. “I dined with Mr. Francona—”
“At the Parker House. You ordered your steak purple.”
Another pause. “Okay, Mr. Francona. I’ll see about your room. Are you here in town?”
“We expect to arrive tonight, Nick.”
“I’ll give you my direct number. Call me when you arrive.”
Paul hung up and wrote down the number.
“What the hell was that?”
Paul explained. “An old teammate of mine works as a casino manager in Alexandria. He’s a huge Red Sox fan. Back in 2008, I introduced him to Terry Francona.”
“Does he know it’s you?”
“I think so. There were only three of us at dinner.”
“Can he get us a room?”
“Sure. They always keep a few open for celebs. He’ll sneak us in the back, no credit-card swipe, no passport checks.”
Just then, Sefu came running. He looked terrified. “Paul, go now, okay? We go now!”
As they departed, Ava sought an explanation. Sefu would say only that friends suggested they leave immediately. She assumed these friends to be fellow smugglers. Through a labyrinth of alleyways and back passages, Sefu guided them toward the harbor. Before long they entered the busy town square, which surrounded a battery of cannons dating from the Napoleonic era.
Sefu froze. Across the courtyard, two obese policemen were staring at them. The cops drew their pistols. With fear in his voice, Sefu cried, “Follow! Hurry!” and broke into a sprint. Paul grabbed Ava’s arm and took off after him, trying despera
tely to keep pace with the Egyptian. Their overweight pursuers struggled through the crowd, shouting “Qeff! Qeff!” and brandishing their guns. Sefu, hurdling a picnic table, demolished a chess game as he raced toward the riverfront. Paul followed, bulldozing through the astonished players, creating a path for Ava.
Running at top speed, they gained ground on the slower police. One had fallen far behind; the other had dropped from sight completely. The harbor was less than a kilometer distant. They’d reach the dock in moments. Paul felt sure Ammon would be ready with the engine running, but as they rounded the final corner, Paul realized what had become of the second policeman. He’d taken a shortcut and was now going to intercept them! He stood on the pier, blocking their escape. Just a few meters beyond, Ammon waited aboard the skiff. They were so close! Paul slowed, but Sefu did not: He intended to run for it.
“Wait!” Paul shouted a warning. Sefu didn’t seem to hear.
The policeman raised his weapon, smiling. When Sefu closed to within a few feet, the cop fired twice. One bullet whizzed by the boy’s ear. The second found its mark, blasting a fist-size hole into Sefu’s chest.
Paul saw Sefu fall and was overcome with rage. Like a man possessed, he roared and charged directly at the butcher. For a millisecond, their eyes met. Then the policeman’s face blanched with fear. In Paul he beheld a frenzied spirit. The cop hesitated, and an instant too late tried to bring his pistol to bear against the charging man. Paul launched himself through the air, driving his brawny shoulder into the fat man’s gut. The cop gasped as his sternum fractured with an audible snap. He fell back against a stone column, and when he exhaled, a mist of blood sprayed from his mouth. Paul’s left hook slammed into the cop’s face, shattering his nose. Blinded by tears and blood, the policeman managed to get off one wild shot before Paul’s colossal uppercut connected. The cop staggered farther backward. Momentum propelled him over the low wall, and he toppled into the river.
Paul turned to Ava. “Run!” he barked at her. She obeyed instantly. Behind her, Paul bent low and gathered the teenager’s body into his arms. As gently as he could, he carried Sefu onto the boat. The moment they were aboard, Ammon kicked the throttle wide open. Ava could see tears dripping down Ammon’s cheeks as he whispered a prayer for his baby brother’s life. They shot away from the pier, just seconds ahead of the other policeman. Over the engine’s whine, Ava heard three staccato cracks. Two shots flew wide to their left; the third struck the skiff amidships, just inches from her body.
Then the air erupted with the sound of a heavy machine gun. “Get down!” Paul yelled, gesturing for Ava to hide behind the canisters. He poked his head up, scanning the horizon. Charging toward them from the north was an Egyptian Coast Guard patrol vessel, with thick, bulletproof armor, a deep V-hull, a government insignia, and a fifty-caliber deck cannon. Instantly Ammon yanked the skiff into a tight hundred-and-eighty-degree turn. Surprised by the maneuver, Ava slipped and fell. Her backside slammed against the rail. Frantically she sought a handhold. By hooking her fingers under the seat’s fiberglass lip, she somehow kept herself aboard until Ammon helped her regain equilibrium. The patrol boat had throttled up and was gaining. At top speed, Ammon rocketed them across the water, jumping the shallow-hulled skiff from wake to wake. As they passed Rasheed, he veered away from shore. They heard more gunshots. The remaining cop was firing away.
The panga raced upriver. Quickly Ammon ducked into a narrow channel that cut around an island. The government boat followed, still gaining. As the larger craft neared, Paul focused on the bow cannon. In seconds they’d be within its accurate range. He envisioned deadly fifty-caliber shells shredding the fragile skiff, destroying everything and everyone aboard. At that moment he detected a familiar stench. Ammon had driven them straight into an algal bloom! Their speed slowed dramatically, and Paul’s heart sank. The supercharged Evinrude motor screamed as it fought through the thick, stinking muck. He reached for Ava and took her hand. Paul struggled to find the words to apologize, to show his feelings. If he hadn’t wanted to see her again, she’d never be in this mess. It was so stupid. He should have known about Simon. How could he have missed it? Instead, he’d made a horrific botch of things. Now he’d be responsible for Ava’s death as well as the deaths of two innocent kids. He looked up at her. Voice cracking with shame, he said, “I’m so sorry.”
Ava, however, was smiling. Confused, Paul followed her gaze astern, where he saw Ammon beaming in triumph. The patrol boat was fading into the distance. Rushing to follow them through the swampy shallows, the pursuer had run aground.
There was not a moment to lose. Paul knelt on the deck, eased open Sefu’s shirt, and attempted to check his vitals. Over the engine’s roar, Paul couldn’t hear a heartbeat. He felt for a pulse, but his own still pounded too strongly. Finally, he put his cheek to Sefu’s lips, forcing himself to remain perfectly still. He waited.
After what seemed a lifetime, Paul felt a shallow exhale. Despite the gushing blood and the sucking wound, Sefu’s chest slowly expanded and contracted.
“He’s alive!” Paul yelled. Ammon’s head shot up. His face burst into a hopeful smile. Ava began to sob. “Get us to a doctor,” Paul commanded. He no longer cared about the jars. He didn’t care if he went to jail, or worse. He would not let this boy die.
As the sun set, they regained the main channel, and Ammon opened the throttle wide. Squinting in the dim light, Paul dug through the pilgrims’ first-aid kit, found some gauze bandages, and tried to stanch Sefu’s wounds. He was losing blood much too rapidly.
“Is the satphone charged?” he asked. Ava said yes, but reminded him that DeMaj might be monitoring the number.
“I don’t give a damn. Without proper care, he’ll be dead in two hours, maybe sooner.”
He handed the phone to Ammon. “Call ahead to the next town. Make sure they have a decent hospital. Tell them to send an ambulance, paramedics, and whatever else they have to meet us on the docks. Tell them money is no object.”
Ava shot Paul a questioning look. In response, he grabbed his wallet, flipped it open, and withdrew a handful of elite credit cards.
“Take them all. Simon won’t have frozen my accounts. He’d hope to track us by our purchases. Just spend whatever it takes.”
Ammon locked eyes with Paul. For a moment, neither moved or spoke. Something profound passed between them. Then Ammon nodded. He took the credit cards and began dialing.
Twenty minutes later, they reached the docks of Mutubis. Two nondescript vans awaited them. Neither was an ambulance, and Ava didn’t see any paramedics, but the tough-looking men driving the vans had experience transporting wounded passengers. Ammon gave instructions and displayed the credit cards, proving this wasn’t a charity case. The drivers didn’t work risky jobs for free. As they loaded Sefu onto the gurney, he briefly regained consciousness. He coughed blood, gagged, and reached out blindly. Paul caught his hand and held it steady.
“Hey, kid,” said Paul, “you’ll be fine. We told the doctors you’d give them free Playboy subscriptions.”
Sefu tried to laugh. Instead, a hideous wheeze escaped his chest.
“Here,” Paul said, handing the teen a filthy baseball cap, “take this for luck. It’s just a loan, okay? I want it back in a few days, when you’re feeling better.”
Sefu smiled and nodded. The driver shut the van’s doors and departed for the hospital.
The travelers watched the van until it faded out of sight. Ammon returned the satphone.
Ava turned to Ammon. “What’s your plan?” she said.
“Go south and hide the boat. Then sneak back to the hospital.”
He helped Paul transfer the cargo and luggage from the boat to the remaining van. As they slid the twin canisters inside, Paul tried to pass Ammon a wad of banknotes, but the young Egyptian refused. Instead he patted his pocket, which held the credit cards. “I will repay,” he vowed solemnly. He and Paul shook hands.
Ammon nodded respectfully to Ava, who rushed forward
and kissed his cheek, causing him to blush a rich scarlet. The man watching from the van smiled in amusement. Glaring at him, Ammon retreated to his boat and disengaged it from the pier. With a wave, he started the engine and motored south.
As the Egyptian sun slipped below the horizon, Paul and Ava climbed into the second van and hid themselves under a thick blanket while the driver piled a load of heavy woven carpets atop the canisters. Its foreign passengers and cargo thus concealed, the van began the sixty-five-kilometer trek to Alexandria.
Chapter 9
9
SOUTH OF TRGOVIŞTE,
ROMANIA, JUNE 1462
Sultan Mehmed II sat in his tent, contemplating strategy. His method was to think three or four moves ahead of his adversary, anticipating and then neutralizing any foreseeable response. In just seven days, he’d led his army into the heart of Wallachia. Despite the enemy’s unconventional maneuvers, guerrilla warfare, and scorched-earth tactics, only the walled city of Bucharest and the Snagov Fortress remained between Mehmed and the capital.
It had been a difficult, costly campaign. Destroyed bridges, traps, concealed pits, and other obstacles impeded the Turks’ progress. Most peasants had evacuated to the mountains, taking along their invaluable harvests and livestock. As a consequence, the Turkish army suffered from fatigue, paranoia, and starvation. The coming days promised to be worse. Reconnaissance by trusted scouts indicated that the countryside offered no man or any significant animal, and nothing to eat or drink.
A messenger appeared at Mehmed’s door. Once admitted by the bodyguards, he reported that the Ottoman navy had taken the Bulgarian ports of Brăila and Chilia, denying the enemy any hope of reinforcement by sea. “So,” the sultan thought, “we can attack at dawn.”
Mehmed ordered his guards to bring in a captured Wallachian soldier.
“Tell me your name,” the sultan demanded.
The Cana Mystery Page 10