by Noel Hynd
Boris, not having much choice in the matter, took the pad in his hands, which were still shackled together. For a full minute not a word was spoken in the room.
Then, “Read it to us,” Voltaire asked.
Boris drew a breath and began.
“Direct message from Department of Interior Management, Moscow, for Ambidextrous,” said Boris. “Superiors require further final visible samples of product before meeting your price. Second meeting in Cairo with representative is essential before completion of transaction.”
“Now send it,” Voltaire said.
Mimi turned the computer around and pushed it to the Russian.
“He’ll never fall for it,” Boris said. “You would need me present, and you would need to set a place.”
“You will be present,” Voltaire said, “and we’ll set a place when he responds. Now send it.”
Boris gave everyone in the room a final glare. He leaned over the keyboard and tapped out the message. It took less than a minute, and then he hit SEND.
He leaned back.
“Good,” Voltaire said. “That was the easy part.”
FORTY-SIX
The highway that led south from Cairo to the morgue at the “new city” of Bahjat al-Jaafari was four lanes, two in each direction, and as gray as the sandstone buildings that were visible beyond the highway’s edge. High walls ominously enclosed the roadway. To Alex’s mind the walls gave the road a claustrophobic air, even though the desert beyond was long and flat and stretched into the hazy sky. Traffic was intermittently either very fast or very slow. The road was cratered with cracks and potholes.
Alex had traveled this road once before, the day she went to see the pyramids and the Sphinx, but that had been a pleasant day and this one was not. The best she could ask for was to get through it and survive.
Operations I have known, she thought to herself. Lulls before storms. Somewhere almost all of them blew dangerously off course. The chainsawed car in Lagos. The RPG attack in Kiev. The near-death in a subterranean tunnel in Madrid.
And today?
Alex’s driver was an American Marine named Len, a twentysomething and one of the usual guards from the embassy in the capital. He was not in uniform but instead wore a gray shirt and black slacks with a military sidearm on his right hip. His foot tended to be heavy on the floorboards, and he didn’t miss a bump.
As Len drove, he spoke with a deep-Dixie accent and took an immediate liking to her, much as a man would take a liking to a woman who reminded him of an older sister. Man of the world that he was, he boasted about the German girlfriend he had in Munich whom he visited a few times a year.
“My fraw-leen,” he called her. Alex listened indulgently.
They rode together in a black Hummer with deeply tinted windows and doubly reinforced panels and windows. There was a third person in the vehicle too, another Marine, also in plainclothes, which in his case was a white polo shirt and jeans. He went by his last name, which was McWhorter. He was a lieutenant from Virginia, and he sat with an automatic submachine gun across his lap.
They drove on the highway that went out toward the pyramids, then exited the main road and accessed a tributary road that led east over tougher terrain. Alex felt her anxieties heighten. About two miles behind them, another vehicle followed, this one an unmarked van with three more Marine bodyguards, all disguised as laborers.
McWhorter spoke little the whole ride but chipped in when a settlement came into view down the road. “That’s Bahjat al-Jaafari,” he said. “The tallest building in the settlement is the hospital. The morgue is attached to it.”
“I recognize it from the pictures,” Alex said. She felt her heart race. Her sweat glands started to misbehave. What if this operation somehow had been compromised? Was she at greater risk here than she had previously imagined? Would there be a final irony that attempting to play dead would end with her being dead for real?
As she did in such circumstances, she spoke a small silent prayer. It had never hurt before. She was sure it would do no harm now.
The SUV turned from the tributary road onto an uneven, bumpy stretch of sand and gravel. The roadway passed for the access route to the hospital and the morgue. Len cut the speed out of self-preservation.
Alex was dressed in the garb of a middle-class Egyptian woman, in an ankle-length linen dress. She wore a beige hijab on her head. She had a veil but it was not yet in place.
She pulled out a cell phone and hit Rizzo’s number. They had fresh phones but had worked up this charade for whoever might be listening. One never knew. She spoke in Italian.
Two rings. A third.
That’s right. He’s waiting, she thought to herself. No need to sound as if he were waiting for a call. He’d pick up after three but before-
“Allo?” he answered.
“Signor Rizzo?”
“Si.”
Alex assumed the role of a clerk calling from a Fiat dealership back in Rome. She cheerfully conveyed the bad news that Rizzo’s 1987 Spider needed a new gearbox. Rizzo responded with a graphic obscenity, designed to sully the ears of anyone eavesdropping.
“How long will a repair take?” he asked in a vexed tone.
“Maybe three weeks,” she said. “The part needs to be special-ordered from Torino and the inventory is already backordered.”
Another salty profanity. Then, “How much?”
“About three hundred Euros. I could call back with a specific sum if we place it on order.”
“ Si, si. Go ahead,” he said with exasperation. “Do the blasted overpriced work.”
“Grazie, signor.”
She rang off. The call meant they were safely accessing the hospital. The three meant she expected to be there in three minutes. Her two solders listened in like a couple of terriers, but if they understood Italian, she wasn’t aware of it.
Next, they were driving on sand, then fine gravel. They arrived at a semicircle in front of the hospital at Bahjat al-Jaafari. Alex scanned for trouble. So did her soldiers. Did she see any or not?
She couldn’t tell. Their vehicle slowed but didn’t stop. No one in the Hummer spoke. Alex moved her hand under her dress to grip her pistol. It was awkward. She had to pull the window side of the dress all the way up to where the gun lay on her lap. But the Beretta was her final line of security.
Near the entrance was a solitary man leaning against the building. He was in Arab garb, moustache, soul patch, and dark glasses. Six-two maybe, she guessed. Unusual height, potentially one of their thugs. He was smoking and he carried a small canvas bag. A weapon within or overnight clothing? A bomb or his dinner?
Not far away was a small van. No one in the driver’s seat. Were there gunmen in the back, assassins waiting?
Then again, they thought she was dead, didn’t they? They had announced her missing and then her body found. So why would the opposition be here? Or then again, why wouldn’t they be here? And why didn’t the thuggish man glance their way? If he were waiting for arrivals, would he be curious?
Why was he now walking away the way he was? Shouldn’t a black Hummer have attracted his attention, his curiosity? There was also a gaggle of women sitting by the bus station. No problem there-they looked fat and middle-aged-unless they weren’t women, had weapons stashed and were going to spray the vehicle as soon as a door opened. They had bags with them. Big bags. Ominous. The tall Arab threw his cigarette away. A sign?
There were two other small knots of Arabs, all men. Alex took a quick census. Four in one group, three in the other. Good Lord, if she was walking into a trap and there were five to eight guns out there, she didn’t stand a chance. They wanted her dead, and they wanted to make sure, so, again, why wouldn’t they be here?
“Our instructions are to take you to the rear entrance,” Len said. “The morgue, not the hospital.”
“I know. Follow the instructions. Do everything by the book.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said.
The SUV rolled t
hrough the semicircle. No one paid them much notice. She heaved a long breath, then assumed-or hoped-they were clean.
McWhorter turned in his seat and looked at a vehicle behind them. He smiled.
“Our backup is on our tail,” he said. He raised a hand and gave a slight wave.
Alex pulled the veil up onto her face. It felt strange, like a mask she would use to examine toxic evidence. She wished she were back on the friendly beaches of Spain, wearing almost nothing. Or maybe back in Washington at her desk. Or anywhere but here right now-not that there was any turning back.
“I thought they were two minutes behind us,” Alex said.
“He must have hauled ass and caught up,” McWhorter said. “Anyway, he’s here. That’s good.”
“We’re going around back,” Len said.
“Good thing,” she said.
On the side of the building, at the base of the wall, a man was lying down. Dead? Rotting in the sunlight and heat? Sleeping? Faking? She didn’t know.
Len turned the corner. The back of the building was void of people and vehicles. A good sign. She scanned. Nowhere to take a shot from either.
No trees, just sand.
She looked carefully, keeping the Beretta in her palm.
She checked her veil to make sure it was secure.
Len came in close to the building. Then they rolled to a halt. She flicked a glance through the car’s rear window. The backup vehicle came around the corner and stopped about twelve feet away. She glanced at it carefully, then turned to McWhorter.
“Are the right people in that car?” she asked.
He looked, squinting. The driver gave a thumbs-up signal.
“Yeah. We’re cool,” he said.
McWhorter put a hand of support and caution on her shoulder.
“I know it’s not in the plan, but do you want me to go through that door first?” he asked.
“That would give us away, wouldn’t it?”
“It might, but-”
“I’ll be okay,” she said, hand on the door.
“Good luck,” Len said.
“Yeah,” McWhorter added.
She gave him a nod. Then she was out the door, prim and proper, like a middle-class Arab woman calling on a medical facility.
For some reason, her feet felt strange on the sand. Must have been her slippers. The heat radiated upward. She carried her bag. A change of clothes. The gun remained in her palm. The steel door was a few feet away. Somehow she felt more vulnerable out in the open, even though if this operation were tainted, a volley of bullets might lurk on the other side of the door.
She moved quickly. The Egyptian sun pounded down. Ra the sun god wasn’t a benign spirit.
The service entrance was unlocked, a dull steel door that could have been pulled off its hinges by any strong man or woman. She pulled it open and glanced back. The Marines gave her a final wave.
Suddenly, she liked them a lot and missed them. They weren’t hillbilly tourists with guns anymore. They were big brothers-in-arms.
She entered the morgue. Stench assaulted her nostrils. Formaldehyde, disinfectant, rotting flesh. The aroma of ugly death.
She hadn’t been ready for it. She gagged.
Okay, memory. Don’t fail on me.
She steadied herself. She had memorized the directions to the office of Dr. Badawi.
End of the corridor, turn left. Follow that corridor about ten feet, turn right. Ignore everyone. If spoken to, don’t talk. What the heck could I say, anyway? “Loved your pyramids? Hated your radioactive crystals.”
She traveled through a warren of dingy corridors. She picked up signs that would lead her to the medical examiner’s station. There were voices and sounds from adjoining rooms. Mostly in Arabic. Nothing good. Some wailing. Some fool was playing music.
Supplies were stacked up in the corridor. There were two body bags, both looked full. Cadavers on top of each other. Small. Probably children. She shuddered. It was hot. Humid. Fetid.
She passed two nurses who eyed her strangely but didn’t speak. Proper ID? She noticed quickly. No one had anything. What was proper ID in a place like this? A scalpel? Bloodstains? A pulse?
Then she arrived. An office, door opened, just where it was supposed to be. Cluttered. Much noise from adjoining chambers. Some piece of heavy equipment was rumbling.
A heavy saw? Were they cutting a body? She cringed again. She couldn’t wait to get out of here.
She found Dr. Muhammad Badawi at the desk in his office. He looked up when she arrived at the door but said nothing for a moment. Then, “Yes?” he asked in English, suspicious.
“I’m Signora Ijerra from Rome,” she said. “I believe you know my brother.”
“I believe I do,” he said. A long pause. “You’re alone?” he asked.
She glanced over her shoulder up and down the corridor.
No one.
“I’m alone,” she said.
He made a motion with his head, indicating that he would follow and she should lead. He passed her and entered the corridor, bringing her along.
“I believe your brother is en route,” he said. American educated, she could tell instantly from his accent. Her feverish nerves eased slightly. He spoke good English and, even better, spoke it softly.
“I believe so. Brother Gian Antonio.”
“Yes,” he said.
Dr. Badawi led her to an adjoining chamber two doors down. They went through a door and entered the room together. It was an examining room of sorts, combined with storage. Supplies and a sink, a couple of guttered tables in a disgraceful state of nonhygiene. On a shelf above a side table were three jars with bodies of stillborn human infants floating in amber liquid. She gagged and tried to keep her thoughts on the task at hand.
There was a gurney in the middle of the room and a beige body bag on it. There were also two sheets, white and folded.
He closed the door. “You know what to do?” he said.
“I know.”
“You’re very brave.”
“I just look that way. I’m terrified.”
“That’s how I feel every day,” he said. “You prepare yourself. I’m going to leave to give you privacy. When I come back in, I’ll apply some fine powder to your face and then some wax. I apologize but it will be necessary.”
“I understand,” she said.
He nodded. Then he turned and left the room. She drew a breath, then pulled off her dress. She stepped out of her slippers and removed her bra. Why, oh why in instances like this did she always absurdly think of her mother’s advice from twenty-five years ago:
Always wear clean underwear in case you’re in an accident…
She grabbed the first sheet and wrapped it around herself. She kept it snug, but not so tight that she couldn’t keep her gun in her palm.
She pulled herself up onto the table and slid into the body bag the way she had slid into a sleeping bag as a twelve-year-old kid at camp. She lay back. She heard voices in the hall and then a hand on the doorknob. She heard the door open but couldn’t see it.
Someone said something nasty-sounding in Arabic, and then the door closed. She hoped it was Dr. Badawi.
More footsteps. They approached the gurney where Alex lay flat and motionless, her eyes closed.
A hand settled on her shoulder. She was careful not to flinch.
“It’s all right, Josephine,” an Arab voice said. “Open your eyes.”
She opened her eyes a third of the way, then the rest. Dr. Badawi stood over her. “Your friends, Rizzo and his two cohorts, they’ve arrived. They will be viewing your body in a few minutes. You’re calm?”
“As much as possible under the circumstances,” she said.
“I’m going to dress your face slightly now,” he said.
“Go ahead,” she said.
“Keep your eyes closed, breath evenly and lightly.”
She closed her eyes. She tried to ease into almost a light trance. The doctor ran a brush with powder a
cross all parts of her face, from the hairline down across the neck. He adjusted the sheet to shroud her neckline, then readjusted it.
“I’m going to put a piece of gauze in here also. That’s standard.”
He pulled it over her face.
“You can breathe?” he asked.
She gave a slight nod.
“Good,” he said. He pulled it away.
Then, distantly, she heard voices in the next room. She recognized Rizzo’s. It sounded as if he were arguing with someone. Not unusual. Dr. Badawi told her he was going to get an attendant to wheel the gurney. The attendant, he said, was a technician who was not in on the ruse. Alex would have to keep still.
She remained silent. The doctor zipped the bag. Alex felt the zipper slide over her face and head. She opened her eyes just enough to see a crack of light from a six-inch gap where he had left the bag open.
A wave of claustrophobia was upon her, almost as bad as the time she had been trapped in old tunnels under Madrid. She fought the feeling. She suppressed the deep desire to push her way out of this bag. Yet she had disrobed, wrapped herself in sheets, and climbed in voluntarily. And if everything went right, this would be over in ten minutes.
And if it doesn’t go right? she asked herself.
Don’t go there! she answered.
She heard Dr. Badawi walk away, leave the room, and then return a few moments later with a second pair of footsteps. She heard them talking. The doctor was with a woman and they spoke Arabic. Alex guessed that the woman was a nurse, maybe one of the suspicious ones she had passed in the corridors. Alex felt deeply vulnerable. She was in darkness but kept still.
Then the gurney began to move. She knew that she was going on display before Rizzo and two other men in the next room. She tried to steady her minimal breathing. At the same time she felt that her heart was kicking so loudly that they could probably hear it in Cairo, even above the din of traffic.
Then her gurney was moving on the uneven floor.