“There’s another Seth—the ancient Egyptian God of the desert, storms and foreigners. He’s often depicted as a creature with a human body and the head of some sort of undefined dog-like animal.
“Egyptologists along the years have tried but failed to decipher what his head represented. I think your suspect chose the name to reflect his own desire to remain...enigmatic.”
Wagner bit his lips and looked pointedly at Farag so they could get back to that small matter of handing over the two Jordanians.
Farag snapped his fingers at General Harby like a master would to prod a vicious dog to attack.
Mourad tensed up. With Harby at the helm, this wasn’t going to be pleasant or straightforward.
“Ambassador Wagner, I’d like to start by asking you a simple question to which I seek an honest answer.”
Wagner nodded.
“What if it was my daughter who was kidnapped? Would your government release convicted terrorists to save her life? Terrorists who had only committed the worst attack on your country’s soil in the last ten years?”
“We’d do everything in our capacity to ensure her safety. The lives of our kids are no more valuable than yours, General Harby. Despite a bumpy last few months, we still value our friendship and alliance.” Wagner’s response was quick and slick. Mourad wouldn’t have expected any less of him.
“And how easy would it be to release two terrorists from a maximum security prison in your country, within a few hours after the request being made?”
“That’s a question I am not qualified to answer, General. It would be at the discretion of the US president at the time.”
Wagner was a fox of a diplomat who wasn’t about to be cornered by Harby’s rigid military mind.
“You must understand the revolution has changed the game for good. We can no longer ignore the rule of law just because you ask us to. President Mubarak would have approved your request in a heartbeat, but look at how quickly his friends have abandoned him. Look at how America has left him out to dry.”
The fire in Harby’s eyes raised the temperature in the room a few degrees.
“For years you pressured us for democracy and human rights. You threw gas on the flames of dissent through illegal funding of suspicious organizations. You empowered the Islamist cancer running through our country. Well now you got what you asked for—Egypt is no longer a lawless state. We can’t just check out two terrorists on death row without the rebels, the Muslim Brotherhood and the media on our backs.”
A large clock on the wall behind the generals was ticking. This cockfight couldn’t keep escalating forever, more so because it wasn’t going to get anywhere fast. Mourad had to step in.
“Blake—General Harby’s assessment of the new pressures we face is accurate. We can barely think of a policy, let alone implement it before we’re shredded apart. Remember, however, he speaks in the spirit of friendship binding our two countries.”
“I understand, Farid.” Wagner licked his lips and folded his arms across his chest. It was time for Mourad to lead the way and do what he does best.
“We all agree time is of the essence and we need to work fast. Blake, let’s say General Farag approves a scenario under which the prisoners are released immediately into US custody. Is there anything you can do for us to justify the potential backlash we’ll face as a result? Something in our national interest we can use to defend ourselves if word gets out about what happened?”
Mourad was certain this is what the generals wanted to hear, but would have taken at least another hour dancing around the issue. It would have been unbecoming and out of character for a vintage Egyptian army general—let alone a troupe of four—to blatantly ask for a quid-pro-quo from the outset.
On their part, it would have been brash and insulting for Wagner and Finn to walk in with a bribe in hand. With diplomatic finesse, Mourad had just released the pressure valve off both parties.
Wagner jumped right in. “General—may I speak off the record?”
Farag nodded, his eyes expressionless.
“Let’s face it, our president needs a miracle to get reelected in 2012. Senator Price is one of the brightest and most reliable names on the Republican front. Regardless of who nabs the GOP’s presidential nomination for 2012, all odds are on Price as the running mate.”
Mourad observed the four generals. He wasn’t sure if they were intrigued or shocked a civilian like Wagner could speak in such defeatist terms about his commander in chief.
“Save his daughter now and he’ll owe you forever. He’s loyal and keeps his word. One day he’ll be president, mark my word. He’s the friend to have in Washington, sir.”
Mourad looked to General Elwy, who’d been quiet all morning. He cocked his head toward the table to ask him to jump in the boxing ring and throw a few counterpunches against the venom Harby had spewed.
Elwy cleared his throat. “I met Senator Price during one of his trips to Egypt a few years ago and he was a gracious and respectful guest.”
Pathetic. Not even worth the free snacks and drinks you’re getting.
General Farag clenched his jaw and he too folded his arms against his chest. He opened his mouth to snap at Elwy, clearly not interested in his assessment of Price’s character, but stopped short and focused his gaze once again on the American ambassador.
“With all due respect to your electoral forecasts, Ambassador Wagner, we are military men and prefer to deal in tangible realities. General Harby listens to the pulse of the Egyptian people and knows the vicious repercussions we could face if we release two terrorists without justification.”
Farag stopped, his eyes scanning the Americans back and forth as the tension gradually escalated.
“That being said, we’re willing to take the heat for it—only if we can reach an arrangement in the best interest of my country.” General Farag was the bluntest he’d been all morning and Wagner grabbed his cue.
“The president has authorized me to reach a mutually beneficial arrangement. We’ll entertain all suggestions laid on the table, generals. I am all ears, but we need to move fast on this.”
Farag leaned forward and rubbed his hands together.
“We do need some help with a certain matter, which could be the basis of a deal between us. General Harby will explain.”
Harby smacked his lips and smirked. He pulled out a printed memo from a black leather folder embossed with the golden emblem of the Mokhabarat, the Egyptian spy agency.
“We have strong evidence to suggest a close member of the Mubarak family has hidden most of the money they laundered from illegal transactions in Egypt. They did it through a dozen shelf corporations in the Caribbean, Cyprus, the UK and America.”
“Who is it?”
“Let’s just say a very close family member, Ambassador Wagner, and leave it at that. There’s pending legal action against them, but I think you know who I am talking about.”
Mourad knew exactly who Harby was referring to, and judging by their nodding heads, Wagner and Simmer were also in the know.
“We traced one of those companies to Delaware. Balmoral Westwood, LLC. We estimate its net worth at about six hundred million dollars in stocks, mutuals, bonds and time deposits.”
Mourad recalled a standing request from the Egyptian Prosecutor General to the US government to freeze all Mubarak’s assets.
“Didn’t we already ask for all the money to be repatriated?”
“We did, but the US government has been dragging its feet.” Harby’s face tightened and he bared his teeth at Wagner, as if he was the one who had personally blocked the request on the American side.
Wagner was quick to fire back.
“Our federal laws require our financial institutions to scrutinize for evidence or suspicion of corruption or other illegal payments. The real onus of proving illegality falls on thos
e who ask. My understanding, General Harby, is that your own prosecutor general, a Mubarak appointee, is the one dragging his feet on the matter.”
The back and forth and the lack of sleep were dulling Mourad’s brain, but he was the only one in the room who could move things along.
“Blake, let’s assume General Harby provides you with the necessary evidence to tie Balmoral Westwood to Mubarak’s relative—would the Justice Department and the Treasury be able to fast-track the seizure of these assets and eventual repatriation back to us?”
“Consider it done. Show us the evidence and we’ll show you the money.”
Farag grinned and put his hands behind his head. “Thank you, Ambassador Wagner.”
There was an awkward but meaningful chunk of silence hanging over the room. Harby’s memo remained in his hands and there were lots of pages still left to read.
“Was there anything else?” Wagner asked.
The generals exchanged somber glances and then all eyes fell on Harby.
“There is a second shelf corporation formed in your country, held by the same relative of Mubarak. Possibly in Nevada or Wyoming. Unlike Balmoral Westwood, the assets of this one are locked up in residential and commercial real estate.”
Simmer jumped in. “Do you know the name of the company?”
“I am afraid we don’t. We believe this corporation purchased thousands of foreclosed homes and commercial properties across America at a fraction of the price during your subprime mortgage crisis. They used money laundered from the Egyptian national coffers.”
Simmer removed his glasses and bit into the tip of the frame. “What did they buy?”
“Anything they could get their hands on for a bargain—commercial buildings, condos, houses, warehouses, shops, industrial plots and even farmland. Their intention was to sit on it for four or five years and sell when the market recovers.”
“How much are we talking about?”
“No less than three billion dollars. Maybe as high as seven.”
Mourad wanted to ask Harby to repeat the figures he had just thrown out casually because he was certain he had misheard. His thoughts scrambled to understand how any of this was possible, his mind unable to wrap itself around the blatant transgression of the former regime. Or why it had taken his impoverished, marginalized compatriots more than thirty years to rise up and revolt.
“Provide us with the evidence and we’ll take them down, I promise you that.”
“It’s not that simple, Your Excellency.”
“What exactly do you mean, General Harby?”
“They developed a complex scheme to separate each property from the mother corporation, using every sort of ownership structure you can imagine.”
“Such as?”
“Trusts, partnerships and even phantom individual owners like real Egyptian citizens who were dead, detained or worse.”
“How were they purchased?” Wagner said.
“Through different lawyers, law firms or realtors—never using the same one twice. We believe they created this monster structure without a head, comprised of disconnected cells, which makes it impossible to trace.”
Ingenious, Mourad thought, but then again, criminals usually are.
“We know this from an insider who’s seeking immunity.” Harby flipped through his memo to get to the last page, his big reveal, no doubt.
“This informer also gave us a copy of a complex software application called Leviathan that can unlock this entire thing. It’s highly sophisticated and like nothing we’ve ever seen before. Definitely not developed in this country.
“Not only does it provide the details of each purchase, but information on how to liquidate each property and cash in anonymously. Unfortunately it’s protected and highly encrypted.”
Ambassador Wagner tapped his fingernails on the table. His eyes narrowed to an intense focus that betrayed his growing frustration with the Egyptians.
“Let me guess—you want us to help you crack this Leviathan thing?”
Harby’s eyes glimmered as he traded knowing looks with General Farag before turning to address the Americans.
“Do you by any chance happen to know a man called Danny Zimmerman?”
Wagner ran his hand through his hair and shrugged his shoulders. Simmer clasped a hand to his chest and bit his lips before shaking his head in a totally unconvincing manner.
“He’s an American-Israeli hacker turned code breaker. He consulted for the Mossad in the nineties before he was lured by the NSA to work full-time for them. Our information technology experts tell me if there is anyone in the world who can break into Leviathan, it’s that man. Because of his value as one of the world’s top code breakers, the NSA keeps Zimmerman on a tight leash and doesn’t like to share him much.”
Mourad’s stomach hardened and his throat tightened at the sight of Harby’s mouth moving and the neat memo. These generals had no clue how strategic alliances were nurtured. They must have a whole catalog of favors they wanted to extort from Uncle Sam, ready for an opportunity like today when the Americans were desperate and ready to barter. Highway robbers in uniform is what they really are.
Farag puffed out his chest and smiled with approval at Harby, then waved his hand to indicate he was taking over.
“Ambassador Wagner, I need to consult with the Field Marshal first. Let’s say I am able to convince him to authorize the immediate release of these two Jordanian terrorists, can you give us your word your government will loan us Danny Zimmerman to help unlock this software? Would you promise you’ll not interfere with our liquidation and repatriation of those assets?”
Wagner rolled up his sleeves and dug out his phone from his pocket.
“General, is there a private room nearby I can use for a few minutes to discuss this with my superiors? The director of national security runs the NSA but he serves at the pleasure of the president. I can’t imagine why this would be a problem, but I don’t know how the NSA operates. As for what happens if and when Leviathan is cracked—if as you say liquidation can happen invisibly and behind the scenes—then I see no reason for the Justice Department or the Treasury to interfere with this.”
Wagner and Farag got up and disappeared to adjacent private rooms to report to their respective masters. Mourad needed another cup of sweet coffee to help him digest what he had just heard. His thoughts were focused on William Price. How does a Republican Senator command so much influence amidst one of the most acrimonious political seasons between the two major parties in that country?
Finn Simmer was standing right behind him as the remaining three generals in the room broke out in a side conversation in Arabic.
“It’s Benny Marino—our deputy director, in case you’re wondering.”
“Wondering about what?” Mourad said.
“The level of traction this whole thing is attracting. He’s a lifelong friend of Senator Price and his influence extends beyond the FBI. He will most likely run the Bureau one day.”
Simmer must have read his mind.
“Benny is a good friend to have, it seems. But is he powerful enough to mobilize the president and the secretary of state to do all of this? To get the US to bargain with terrorists?”
Simmer shrugged.
“I wonder what other excellent cards Senator Price is holding close to his chest to make him such a valued customer.”
“You’re a clever man, Mourad. Let’s just say he and the White House see eye-to-eye on a number of strategic interests. Don’t quote me on this, but I would say Senator Price has a few other tentacles playing to his advantage, besides his friendship with our deputy director.”
Wagner and Farag returned to the room at the same time, both smiling. They must have exchanged notes outside before coming in. Their respective bosses had just green-lighted the plan they had hatched. As a result of these brief te
lephone conversations, two convicted terrorists would soon walk free.
Mourad took his first deep breath all morning, not entirely sure how he felt about what he had just enabled.
FOURTEEN
Sunday, November 6, 2011—6:03 a.m.
Qena, Egypt
Jamie Smythe looked down from the Knighthawk helicopter at the godforsaken prison below. Located sixty-two miles northwest of the Upper Egyptian city of Qena, the Zor el Shaytan maximum security facility couldn’t have been named anything more suitable: The Devil’s Throat.
Sitting next to Smythe in the chopper and in stark contrast to his red baseball cap, white linen shirt and faded jeans, four Delta Force operators were in generic camouflaged fatigues with no badges or names to identify them. Also in the Knighthawk, the crew operating the helicopter.
Smythe, an FBI agent, had been in the Sinai for the last two weeks tracking an escaped New Jersey mobster sighted in one of the resort city’s casinos.
Other than a terrific tan, he’d made little progress. He was ready to pack up and return to DC when he was abruptly reassigned this morning to extract two Jordanians convicted for a 2005 terrorist attack on the very town he was in. His mission was to escort them to Naples and exchange them for Julia Price, the kidnapped daughter of a heavyweight American senator. Makes the Jersey mobster gig seem like fun.
Special Agent Liam Nishimura in New York and Smythe’s boss in Cairo, Finn Simmer, had bombarded him with a torrent of photographs, intelligence briefings and a slew of endless instructions.
Smythe was quite familiar with the prison, at least on paper. Some of the most dangerous Arab terrorists the FBI had helped ensnare now called it home. Studying up on the prison was standard curriculum for any field agent covering Egypt. When he first saw the satellite imagery of the penitentiary a few years ago, it had seemed like a cruel Photoshop hoax. Lodged between a merciless desert and parched, inhospitable hills where life didn’t dare grow, the prison’s fundamental feature of impenetrability was its impossible geographic placement.
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