Countdown in Cairo
Page 1
Also in the Russian Trilogy Series
Conspiracy in Kiev
Midnight in Madrid
ZONDERVAN
Countdown in Cairo
Copyright © 2009 by Noel Hynd
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ePub Edition November 2009 ISBN: 978-0-310-56101-9
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* * *
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Hynd, Noel.
Countdown in Cairo / Noel Hynd.
p. cm.—(The Russian trilogy ; 3)
ISBN 978-0-310-27873-3 (softcover)
1. United States. Federal Bureau of Investigation—Officials and employees—Fiction. 2. Americans—Egypt—Fiction. 3. Cairo (Egypt)—Fiction. 4. Conspiracies—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3558.Y54C68 2010
813’.54—dc22 2009026826
* * *
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All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or any other—except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without the prior permission of the publisher.
Cover design: Laura Maitner-Mason
Interior design: Christine Orejuela-Winkelman
For Andy Meisenheimer and Bob Hudson at Zondervan.
Thanks, guys. Let’s do three more.
Whoever does not miss the Soviet Union has no heart. Whoever wants it back has no brain.
Vladimir Putin
Beware: Some liars tell the truth!
Ancient Arab proverb
Contents
TITLE PAGE
COPYRIGHT PAGE
PART ONE
CHAPTER: ONE
CHAPTER: TWO
CHAPTER: THREE
CHAPTER: FOUR
CHAPTER: FIVE
CHAPTER: SIX
CHAPTER: SEVEN
CHAPTER: EIGHT
CHAPTER: NINE
CHAPTER: TEN
CHAPTER: ELEVEN
CHAPTER: TWELVE
CHAPTER: THIRTEEN
CHAPTER: FOURTEEN
CHAPTER: FIFTEEN
CHAPTER: SIXTEEN
CHAPTER: SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER: EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER: NINETEEN
CHAPTER: TWENTY
CHAPTER: TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER: TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER: TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER: TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER: TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER: TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER: TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER: TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER: TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER: THIRTY
PART TWO
CHAPTER: THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER: THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER: THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER: THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER: THIRTY-FIVE
CHAPTER: THIRTY-SIX
CHAPTER: THIRTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER: THIRTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER: THIRTY-NINE
CHAPTER: FORTY
CHAPTER: FORTY-ONE
CHAPTER: FORTY-TWO
CHAPTER: FORTY-THREE
CHAPTER: FORTY-FOUR
CHAPTER: FORTY-FIVE
CHAPTER: FORTY-SIX
CHAPTER: FORTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER: FORTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER: FORTY-NINE
CHAPTER: FIFTY
CHAPTER: FIFTY-ONE
CHAPTER: FIFTY-TWO
CHAPTER: FIFTY-THREE
PART THREE
CHAPTER: FIFTY-FOUR
CHAPTER: FIFTY-FIVE
CHAPTER: FIFTY-SIX
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT THE PUBLISHER
SHARE YOUR THOUGHTS
ONE
On a scorching afternoon, a few kilometers south of Cairo, a black bullet-resistant Land Rover pulled to an abrupt halt in front of the wide glass doors that marked the entrance to the Islamic morgue in the “new city” of Bahjat al-Jaafari. The morgue was a loathsome place, filled with the messy ugly detritus of death: foul stench and raw misery, oppressive heat and the sounds of unvarnished mourning; the cries of relatives and friends echoing down the narrow fetid corridors. It was in a separate wing of the pale redbrick medical center where the local police and doctors kept their records. So many dead bodies arrived here daily that piles of human remains were stacked on top of each other, separated by canvas wrappings or stained linen sheets. The morgue was located next to the hospital emergency room. The distinction was vague.
The vehicle was a relatively recent model, though not without its share of dents, and had a license plate that said it was on official business. It began and ended with robust, combative bumpers and spiked hubs that looked like weapons from a Bond film. Its windows were made of thick tinted glass, three radio antennas pierced the air, and there were enough red and blue lights on the dashboard to mark the runway of an airport.
Three men jumped out, almost before the vehicle had stopped rolling. One was Gian Antonio Rizzo, an Italian in a suit, reflective sunglasses, and a grim face. He carried his jacket over his arm, revealing an automatic pistol on his belt. Rizzo was on a black assignment from the Americans, though he would never admit that he worked for them. He still carried the documents of the Italian intelligence service, the Servizio per le Informazioni e la Sicurezza Militare, and actually did drop by their offices a few times a year.
The second man was a metropolitan Cairo policeman named Colonel Amjad, a pudgy but muscular man with a moustache and dark glasses. The third was an adjunct officer named Ghalid Nasri from the US Embassy in Cairo. Ghalid was acting as an intermediary—a diplomatic liaison and an interpreter for the haggard Rizzo—and was trying not to get shot while doing it. Both men carried pistols under their outer garments, as did their driver. They were all in that line of work.
The “new city” of Bahjat al-Jaafari had been built after the Six Day War of 1973, so it was now old enough to have fallen into decay. Gangs and death squads roamed its streets and the endless dunes of the desert beyond, areas that were supposed to be under the control of the central government in Cairo but were not. The area was in anarchy, and the anarchy went unnoticed until it touched upon Western visitors, who were frequent victims if they wandered off the tourist paths. Even then, however, as long as the bulk of the tourists kept coming, the dead did not count. An old Egyptian proverb has it that the dead have no voice, and this was never truer than here.
Rizzo bullied his way through the front doors of the medical complex, bumping shoulders with anyone who didn’t give way. The other two men accelerated their pace to stay with him. Then they entered the dilapidated lobby that was only marginally cooler than the broiling outdoors. Rizzo sp
otted a front desk that served as a registry and information booth. A middle-aged man in traditional Arab clothing looked up and greeted him politely. “Ahlan wa sahlan.”
“Ahlan bik,” Rizzo answered sharply. He was having none of the politeness.
“La ilaha illa Allah,” said the man.
“I’m here to see a Dr. Badawi,” Rizzo said, “your medical examiner.”
“For what purpose?” the man asked.
Rizzo looked as if he were about to explode. What did it matter to this fool why he was here? All that mattered was that he was there.
Amjad, the Cairo policeman, interposed himself. “We’re here to view a body,” he said in Arabic.
“View or identify?” the man asked.
Rizzo seethed. “Is there a bloody difference?”
“Both,” Amjad said, trying to sooth Rizzo. “And with extreme urgency.”
The Cairo detective flashed an array of police identifications. At first the Cairo police IDs flustered the man at the desk, but quickly they accelerated everything. The clerk wrote out a pass—Room 107—and indicated the direction. Rizzo snatched the pass from the clerk’s hand.
“There is no God but Allah, and Mohammed is his messenger,” the clerk said in Arabic. The Cairo cop gave him a nod. Rizzo snarled something profane and took off. He forged across the lobby and down a shabby overheated corridor, where two bodies were stacked up on a single gurney. It was so hot that there was condensation on the walls.
They passed a door. Rizzo glanced in. Two young doctors, both of them Western women, conversed in English with what Rizzo recognized to be British accents. They were frantically trying to resuscitate premature babies while other infants wailed in the background. There had been one of the frequent power cuts in this area earlier in the day, Rizzo knew. The Egyptian health care system was a national calamity, a system suffering from underfinancing, overpopulation, and a long history of mismanagement and corruption.
Rizzo strode toward Room 107. He had been in morgues in the Middle East before and they were all awful, much worse than the ones in Europe. Many times in the past Rizzo had been called to identify remains that had been ripped apart by gunfire or explosions, sometimes by suicide bombers. Other times he had come to identify victims who had been deliberately disfigured by their killers. He had never ceased to be appalled at the sadism inflicted on the dead. He had seen many who had obviously been tortured, mostly men, often with terrible burn marks on their faces, hands, feet, or other parts of their bodies.
Then there had been the executions, both political and gangland. Some of these victims had had their hands fastened behind their backs with handcuffs and their eyes had been bound with tape. They had been shot in the back of the head or in the face or in the temple. The cruelty in this part of the world, fanned by centuries of religious hatred, could be unspeakable.
Through his career in police work, crime reports—words on paper—had led him to understand intellectually what had happened. But visits to morgues were the images that haunted him, that sometimes caused him to bolt upright at night from sleep, howling.
Rizzo led Amjad and Ghalid into the room marked 107.
The room was plain and sterile, light green paint peeling off the walls. There were a few chairs, an empty space in the middle of the chamber, and a dented steel door that led somewhere else. Rizzo turned to Ghalid, his aide from the American embassy.
“Now what?” Rizzo snarled.
“We wait for the body,” Ghalid said, indicating the steel door.
“For how long?”
“Until it arrives,” said Ghalid.
“In this part of the world, Signor Rizzo,” Colonel Amjad began, “we must observe—”
“Go to hell!” Rizzo snapped. His eyes found Amjad’s gaze trying to penetrate his. He returned the gaze with a glare filled with dislike, bordering on hatred. “Your country is the hellhole I remember it to be. It suits you perfectly.”
“And I visited Italy once,” said Amjad, “and found it to be a filthy, degenerate place. A civilization that has fallen to ruin.”
“You? An Egyptian, are saying that to me? A Roman?” Rizzo said, turning fully toward him.
“Would you prefer that I say it again?” Amjad asked. “Slowly, so that you will better comprehend?”
“You do and I’ll see that you’re lying on your very own slab by the end of the day. How’s that?”
“Gentlemen …,” said Ghalid, attempting to defuse them. He clearly used the term loosely.
The steel door swung open with a sharp rattle. An attending clinician in whites and a sterile mask pushed a gurney into the room. The apparatus was old; the wheels squeaked. On the gurney was a body bag in dark beige canvas.
Rizzo’s eyes darted to the gurney as it arrived in the center of the room. A long zipper ran the length of the bag. He searched it for little details. There was a section unzipped near the head of the body within.
Dr. Muhammad Badawi followed the gurney. Badawi was small and thin. He had sad brown eyes, a hooked nose, and a face like a ferret.
Rizzo looked at him.
The clinician stepped back and kept his distance.
The doctor spoke in English. “Which of you is—?” he began.
“I’m Rizzo.”
The interpreter from the embassy explained who everyone else was. He said his piece in Arabic and English so there would be no confusion.
“Who will do the identification?” Dr. Badawi asked.
“I will,” said Rizzo. “So let’s get it done.”
“As you wish.”
The doctor gently pulled down the zipper and revealed a female body. He stopped just past the breasts and lifted a thin gauzy fabric away from the face. Rizzo gasped and felt the eyes of the other men in the room upon him. He steadied himself by placing a hand on the edge of the gurney.
“Oh, my dear Lord,” he muttered in Italian. “Oh, no …”
His hand went to his own face. He looked upward, his eyes trying to beseech heaven but instead finding a ceiling with peeling paint. He shook his head.
“This is the woman you were working with?” the doctor asked. “The American woman who was missing?”
Rizzo nodded. Finally, he spoke. “Yes, it is,” he said, fighting back real emotions. “I’m certain.”
The face was so familiar to Rizzo. And yet now the face was so whitened, still, and lifeless. The woman for whom he had so much affection and admiration now looked so ghostly in the artificial light. Rizzo shook his head.
“Cause of death?” Rizzo added.
“Poisoning,” the physician said. “Lethal dose of an industrial chemical. Radioactive. She never had a chance once the poison was absorbed.”
Rizzo cursed violently.
The doctor replaced the filmy gauze that covered the woman in the body bag. Colonel Amjad, the irritating Egyptian cop, reached toward the body as if to feel the coldness of the corpse, or to see if the body flinched to his touch.
Rizzo intercepted the grasp. He yanked Amjad’s arm upward and thrust it back toward the policeman so fast that Amjad was propelled several paces in reverse.
“Have some small amount of decency, would you, you pig,” Rizzo said. “Keep your filthy hands to yourself or I’ll rip your arms out of their sockets.” He followed this with a withering torrent of obscenities. Amjad looked frightened enough to keep his distance but was secretly pleased at the same time.
“I was only making sure,” Amjad said.
“What more do you want? A severed head? A bullet hole you can stick your fist in?”
Rizzo looked as if he were about to take out his rage violently on Amjad. Again Ghalid interposed himself, this time physically stepping between the two men. Rizzo was five inches taller than Amjad and half again as wide at the shoulders. He could have torn the smaller man apart if he’d felt like it, and everyone in the room knew it.
“All right,” Amjad finally said.
“Too bloody true, ‘all right,’ ” Ri
zzo said. “Let’s get out of here.”
The clinician rezipped the bag.
“I’m afraid there is some paperwork,” Dr. Badawi said to his visitors.
Rizzo spoke softly. “Of course,” he said. “Paperwork. Always. The world could come to an end, but there would be paperwork, even if no one were left to complete it.”
The doctor turned to his assistant. “I’ll take it from here,” he said in Arabic, dismissing the technician.
“You’ve done a good thing by coming out here,” Dr. Badawi said, handing Rizzo a file while Amjad continued to keep a distance and stare at the body bag. “A quarter of the deceased out here are never identified. The medical authorities tell me they had to bury six hundred unknowns since January of this year, unidentified and unclaimed. Eventually they’re buried in the desert without a marker.”
“Typical,” Rizzo mumbled, along with something obscene. He opened the folder and began to sign. There were a dozen pages and more than one place to sign on each page.
“The United States Embassy in Cairo has started procedures to retrieve her body,” Ghalid explained softly. “However, it might take several days. So—”
“We’re taking the body with us today,” Rizzo said. “I’m not leaving without it.”
“That would be quite impossible, sir,” the doctor said.
Rizzo signed a final page. “Nothing is impossible,” he said. “Walk on water if you have to. I’m acting on behalf of the Italian government and the government of the United States. I’m not leaving without her,” he said again. “So let’s get this done. Mr. Ghalid here from the American Embassy has brought the proper paperwork.”
Dr. Badawi glanced to Ghalid. “True?” he asked.
Ghalid handed him an envelope containing several official documents. “True,” he answered.
The doctor glanced quickly at the documents and nodded.
“All right,” he said softly. “This would seem to be in order. Will you call for the proper van to transport her?” the doctor asked.