Assaf, driving the police car, eased out of Wasim Hasan Street and on to Meret Basha.
‘Papa Charlie One Zero, sitrep on the museum, over.’
Assaf reached for the handset. Mindful that the duty officer in the command centre might pick up a change in voice modulation, he kept his response brief. ‘Papa Charlie, false alarm, back on patrol, over.’
‘Roger, out.’
Assaf breathed a sigh of relief, and headed on to the 6 October Bridge, named in honour of the Egyptian Army’s successful crossing of the Suez Canal during the 1973 Yom Kippur War against Israel.
A little over an hour later, he turned off at Wadi Nashat, a small collection of buildings on the desert road to El Alamein. ‘Park the van behind that small sand dune,’ he ordered Kassab.
Assaf rigged the van with plastic explosive, connected the old Nokia cell phone to the detonators, and poured petrol over the bodies of the policemen and the guard.
‘Why don’t we blow it now?’ Kassab asked. ‘What if someone finds it?’
‘What if this . . . what if that,’ Assaf muttered, getting back into the driver’s seat and slamming the police car into gear with a grinding crunch. Kassab was starting to get on his nerves. ‘Just get in the car.’
Assaf headed north-east across the desert toward El Hamam on the outskirts of Alexandria. The high beam on the headlights was blown, and Assaf peered into the pre-dawn darkness. ‘You’re such a worrywart, Abdul,’ he said. ‘If we blew the van now, you’d see it for miles around. We’ll blow it once we’ve handed the mask over and boarded our own jet. Even if they do find the van quickly, it’ll take them days to identify the bodies, and by that time we’ll be back in France. Provided we get rid of this heap of shit before it’s due back in the yard, they’ll never connect us.’
The three black Mercedes were waved straight through the VIP security gates at Alexandria’s Borg el Arab International Airport and on to the tarmac where the EVRAN corporate jet was waiting, pilots strapped in, and engines quietly turning. Crowley did not like to be delayed.
Leaving Rachel to organise the bags, Crowley strode up the short set of stairs at the front of the aircraft. ‘Cargo on board?’ he asked the chief steward.
‘Loaded and secured, sir.’
Crowley and Rachel settled into the plush, beige leather seats in the for’ard cabin as the steward appeared with two crystal glasses of 1995 Salon, one of the world’s rarest champagnes. It was made from the first pressings of a single variety, chardonnay, from a small vineyard in Le Mesnil-sur-Oger, south of Reims in northern France, but only from the very finest vintages. Such was the quality control of the fruit, the world had only seen this champagne on thirty-eight occasions in the past ninety years.
The Gulfstream tore down the runway, powered into the air, and crossed the desert coast, the dark blue-and-white livery and the stylised volcano logo of the EVRAN Corporation gleaming in the harsh morning sun. Climbing steeply, at over 3000 feet per minute, the Gulfstream quickly reached its cruising altitude and the steward reappeared with hot buttered croissants.
Crowley switched on the live news feed. All of EVRAN’s jets were equipped with the latest integrated systems that allowed reception of Ku-Band Direct Broadcast Satellite or DBS television signals and Crowley had access to the whole spectrum of programs available from the DBS satellites. News of the daring robbery was being carried to thousands of stations in nearly 200 countries, and Crowley flicked on the Al Jazeera English channel.
‘In what has been described as the most daring robbery this century, thieves broke into the Egyptian Museum of Antiquities in Cairo early this morning and made off with just two artifacts, the funerary mask of Tutankhamun and his priceless falcon pendant,’ the newsreader began. ‘We’re joined now by our political correspondent in Cairo, Muhammad el-Masri. Muhammad, do we know who discovered the theft, and if the police have any leads?’
The picture switched to the stocky, bald-headed el-Masri standing in front of the salmon-coloured museum, now roped off with police tape.
‘I think it’s fair to say that the Egyptian Tourism and Antiquities Police, who are responsible for the security of hundreds of ancient sites throughout Egypt, are astounded by the brazen nature of the robbery. Just after midnight, the thieves, posing as police responding to an alarm, turned up to the museum and tricked security staff into letting them in. I’m joined now by Colonel Halabi from the Tourism and Antiquities Police. Colonel Halabi, thanks for your time – can you explain what must be one of the biggest lapses in security in modern history?’
The strain was showing on the swarthy face of the deputy commander. ‘As a result of the protestors, our security had recently been upgraded, but when thieves are dressed in police uniforms, the lapse, although regrettable, is understandable.’
‘You say regrettable, but we’re talking about one of the world’s best-known icons here, along with a priceless pendant. Who would want to steal them? Either would be almost impossible to sell?’
Colonel Halabi nodded. ‘This is not the work of amateurs,’ he said. ‘Over three billion dollars worth of art and artifacts are stolen every year from collections around the world, and many of those finish up on the black market, or are sold to museums by using false provenance documents. But the Tutankhamun mask and the falcon pendant would be very difficult to sell, even on the black market, so we suspect that this has been done to fill a contract for a private buyer.’
‘Was anyone injured in the robbery?’
‘We are not sure. One of the guards is missing, and two policemen are also missing. We found the police vehicle near the airport at Alexandria, but there is no sign of the officers.’
‘Could they be involved?’
Colonel Halabi shrugged, well aware that the bulk of the Egyptian police force was poorly paid, albeit some of the ‘lucky’ ones. Since the overthrow of the Morsi Government, tourism had all but ceased and over half the population, more than forty million Egyptians, were living on or below the poverty line, many on less than US $2 a day. ‘We hope not,’ said Halabi, ‘but we are not ruling anything out.’
‘Do you think the Tutankhamun mask and the pendant could already be out the country?’
‘Again, we’re not ruling that out, and we’ve put out an alert to airports around the world.’
‘Colonel Halabi, thanks very much for joining us.’
The image faded back to the newsreader in the studio. ‘And that was our political correspondent, Muhammad el-Masri, reporting from Cairo. Not only a loss for the Egyptian Museum,’ said the newsreader, ‘but the world at large. Tutankhamun assumed the throne of ancient Egypt in 1332 BC when he was just ten. He was arguably the best known of the Egyptian pharaohs, largely because his tomb was discovered intact. Hundreds of artifacts remain in the Cairo Museum, but the best known of all, the funerary mask, containing over eleven kilograms of solid gold, is now missing. Heaven forbid that it would ever be melted down,’ the newsreader said, turning toward camera two. ‘Now to news in the United States. In a surprise move in Chicago, where notorious gangster Elias D. Ruger has been on trial for murder, Judge O’Reilly has dismissed the charges on the basis there was insufficient evidence to convict. And in another surprise move, furious Cook County District Attorney Glenda B. Mitchell has spoken out against what she has termed inequities in the United States justice system.’ The vision faded to Chicago where Attorney Mitchell was addressing a large contingent of media on the courthouse steps: ‘We are surprised, and more than a little disappointed with this acquittal. In our view, the case against Ruger was very strong, and in any other country, there would be an immediate appeal, but in the United States, that avenue is denied us.’
‘Turning to politics, the Republican Party is deeply split over its nominees for the presidential primaries, with the Tea Party seemingly moving further to the right —’
Crowley flicked off the broadcast.
‘Pretty brazen, that theft,’ Rachel observed, puzzled by the lack
of reaction from her boss.
‘It happens. Security at some of these museums in developing countries is pretty minimal,’ he said, opening an online copy of the Daily News Egypt. The headline ‘STOLEN!’ took up half the front page.
Beneath it, a huge picture of the Tutankhamun mask, along with the falcon pendant, took up the rest of the page.
Thousands of feet below, near the desert wadi of El Alamein, a mobile phone rang and a battered white van exploded, burning the bodies inside to ash.
19 Korengal Valley, Afghanistan
O’Connor kept his head down as the Taliban peppered the old Korengal outpost with machine gun fire. Puffs of dirt and rock kicked up as the red tracer rounds ricocheted and arced gracefully into the night. Then came a heavier sound: crump . . . crump . . . crump. From an initial impact point further down the ridge, high explosive rounds were creeping toward the Americans’ position.
‘Mortars!’ O’Connor’s number two, the lanky chief petty officer Rudy Kennedy, engaged the Taliban with a burst of fire from his MK11 sniper rifle. ‘We better get those fucking base plates before they zero in on us!’ the CPO yelled to O’Connor.
‘I’m on it,’ O’Connor acknowledged, reaching for his radio handset. ‘Welcome to the Korengal Valley!’ he added. The pair grinned at each other as the bullets ricocheted around them. They’d been in tighter spots than this together.
‘Gangster One, this is Hopi One Four. We’re taking small arms fire from halfway up the ridge to the east of our position. Mortar fire from the same direction, over.’
Black shapes tumbled down the ropes suspended from the second Black Hawk, until the rest of the team had hit the ground. But as Alley Cat Four lifted off sharply, the starboard engine exploded.
‘This is Alley Cat Four, we’ve been hit!’ The pilot struggled to control the crippled machine, crash landing heavily on top of a pile of timber further up the mountain.
O’Connor reached for his handset again as he broke cover and sprinted toward the stricken chopper. ‘Black Hawk down!’
‘Alley Cat Seven, copied.’ The lead Black Hawk banked sharply and took up a position behind the ridgeline, ready for a hot extraction.
‘Gangster One, copied, out to you. Gangster Two, copy?’
‘Roger, infrared has located the mortar base plate, over.’
‘Roger, you take the base plate, we’ll deal with the small arms . . . I’m starting my run now.’ The pilot of the first Apache dived toward the machine gun flashes on the ridge. The gunner in the forward cockpit calmly tracked the Taliban with the night-vision system on his helmet, a forward-looking infrared system that was slaved to the sights on the aircraft’s chain gun. Wherever the gunner pointed the crosshairs, the chain gun automatically locked on to the target. The Apache shuddered slightly as the huge thirty-millimetre rounds ripped into the first of the Taliban machine-gun positions. The gunner tracked his sights on to the machine-gun flashes further up the ridge and blasted the Taliban insurgents with another burst. The Apache was barely 300 metres out when he silenced the third position.
‘Gangster Two, this is Gangster One, all yours, over,’ the pilot radioed, peeling away to give the second attack helicopter a clear run on the mortar base plate.
The gunner in the second Apache was already tracking the muzzle flashes from the Taliban’s 81-millimetre mortar tube, a single weapon being fired from a small clearing near some stone huts halfway up the ridge. Seconds later, the Hellfire missile found its mark. The mortar barrel and baseplate, along with the dismembered bodies of two insurgents, arced into the night. The ridge fell silent.
O’Connor and CPO Kennedy reached the burning Black Hawk in time to help the pilot extract the wounded co-pilot from his harness. ‘Alley Cat Seven, this is Hopi One Four,’ O’Connor radioed, ‘we’re going to blow this bird.’ This was no ordinary Black Hawk. It was one of two used in the raid on Osama bin Laden, and the gear on board was ‘above’ top secret.
‘Alley Cat Seven, roger, standing by for extraction.’
‘Hopi One Four . . . co-pilot has serious stomach wounds, out.’
As soon as the Black Hawk crew had cleared the crash site, carrying their wounded brother-in-arms, O’Connor and CPO Kennedy rigged the downed aircraft with explosives and O’Connor set the timer.
‘Timer on, let’s get out of here.’ The pair doubled down the ridge line, and thirty seconds later, Alley Cat Four exploded in a ball of fire. The aircraft burned fiercely and O’Connor gave Kennedy the thumbs up. The highly classified gear would soon be reduced to ash.
‘Hopi One Four, this is Gangster One,’ the lead Apache radioed. ‘We’re getting low on fuel. Will you be requiring any further assistance this evening, over?’
O’Connor grinned to himself. ‘This is Hopi One Four . . . not unless you can whistle up a regiment of tanks. Have a Budweiser when you get back.’
The three aircraft headed north back down the river, and an eerie silence settled over the valley.
Ten kilometres to the south, Tayeb Jamal and Omar Yousef were high in the mountains, and deep in conversation. Reports of the fiery clash had already reached their remote village.
‘We lost another ten men tonight, Tayeb. The Infidel is going to pay for that.’ The flickering light from the oil lamp caught the hatred on Yousef’s young face. Seated at the rough-hewn table where they had planned so many attacks on the Americans, Yousef turned and spat on the ground. ‘Do you think he’s back to stay?’
Jamal shook his head. ‘No. He’ll be trying to recover the bodies of those in the Chinook we shot down, although it’s a little odd that he’s back in this valley. I’ve had a report of more of them to the east, which is where the bodies are more likely to be.’
Yousef smiled, a slow, sinister smile. ‘Alhamdulillah, thanks be to Allah, the Infidel’s new missiles are being turned against him. When do we get more?’ he asked eagerly.
‘General Khan is working on it,’ Jamal replied. ‘In the meantime, while the Infidel is in this valley, we need to make sure the ones we have are well hidden.’
‘I’ve sent messages to the villages. They are all hidden below ground.’
‘Good. We need to save them for the big targets, which brings us to tomorrow. Our sentries have the Infidel under observation. It looks as if there are eight of them, and they’re spending the night at their old observation post.’
‘Then why not attack them while they’re sleeping! We can annihilate them!’
‘Patience, Omar. The Infidel has a lot more firepower in the air than we do, and attacking that stronghold at night when each of them has night-vision goggles puts us at a disadvantage, and we can’t afford to get into a long firefight. We need to use the one thing we know better than he does . . . we know these mountains like the backs of our hands. The Infidel has to rely on his technology. So we’ll observe. He won’t move until morning, and we’ll be waiting for him.’
The dawn came quickly, far too quickly for O’Connor and his men. To the east, the mists enveloping the peaks of the mountains were tinged with pink. Breakfast was a sparse affair from the ‘first strike ration’ – a high-energy cereal bar and an instant coffee. For lunch, there was a choice of either a long-life barbecue beef or a bacon-cheddar sandwich, designed to deliver 2900 calories, witha pouch of tuna or chicken chunks for dinner, supplemented by beef jerky and peanut butter and crackers. From the reception the team had received on their arrival, and with secrecy and surprise now lost, O’Connor knew calories would likely be in deficit by the end of the day.
‘Okay,’ he said, ‘listen up. Our job’s just got that much harder. Latest intel?’ he asked, turning to the team’s intelligence operator, Alejandro ‘Chico’ Ramirez, an oval-faced twenty-six-year-old Latino from Arizona.
‘JSOC are reporting more movement to the south,’ Chico confirmed, his satellite laptop open on his knees. The Joint Special Operations Centre commanded some of the most sensitive US Special Forces operations. ‘They’re not sure how many are
in the group. I’m trying to get some confirmation and I’ve asked for a drone to be assigned. The enemy seem to be concentrating near the village of Laniyal, a couple of clicks to the south of here.’
‘Should make life interesting,’ O’Connor observed dryly. ‘Air support?’ O’Connor had insisted on the inclusion of an air force combat air controller, and not just any combat controller. The lanky Hank Ventura was one of the best. He and his number two, twenty-two-year-old Milton Rayburn, a two-tour veteran from New Jersey, were equipped with satellite radios and a SOFLAM, a Special Operations Forces Laser Acquisition Marker. The classified kit looked like a very large pair of binoculars mounted on a tripod. In what was known as ‘painting the target’, the number two would fire a laser beam directly at the target. Once the target was located, Ventura would call in whatever air support was available, and with the help of a global positioning system, laser guided bombs would be linked to the SOFLAM from thousands of feet above. The Taliban would have no idea they were being ‘painted’.
‘Hens’ teeth and air support around here have got a lot in common,’ Hank replied, in his slow, southern drawl, ‘but we should be able to count on a couple of F-16 Vipers and the drone Chico’s asked for, and if we’re really in the clag, we may be able to prioritise a Ghostrider.’ The C-130 Hercules gunships – massive flying weapons-delivery platforms – were armed with the most fearsome array of cannons and missiles known to modern warfare. They had been in use in various forms since the Vietnam War, but the latest C-130H version was equipped with massive 30-millimetre cannons capable of firing at 200 rounds per minute; 140-millimetre rocket-powered Griffin missiles; Hellfire missiles; huge 250-pound GBU-39 bombs; and the smaller Viper laser-guided glide bombs.
‘We may need all of that and more. We’ll stick to the high ridgelines above the river until we get near Laniyal. Stay spread out, and cover your arcs of fire.’ O’Connor positioned himself just behind the lead scout and the patrol moved out, heading toward the next village, a group of stone huts perched halfway up the steep, rocky mountain slope.
The Alexandria Connection Page 14