Vengeance: A Derek Stillwater Novel (Derek Stillwater Thrillers Book 8)

by Mark Terry

  “Fuck you, Stillwater. I’d sit up and kick your ass if I could sit up. Did you get him back?”

  “No. We lost them.”

  He waved at the paramedic. “I need to talk to these people. Alone.”

  Sholes repeated what he said in Arabic and the paramedics shrugged and walked away.

  Leaning down over Moore, who looked even grayer and older up close, Derek said, “What?”

  “Go find him. Now. You and Shoshan, if she’s willing. We’ll get the Egyptians and Lynn’s people on this, but you’re here and now.”

  “I’m not sure I have any resources here.”

  Sholes said, “Whatever you need, ask.”

  “We’ve got people here,” Noa said. “But we need a vehicle.”

  “Keep the motorcycle. I’ll deal with the driver. If you check in at the embassy, we can get you something then.”

  Derek nodded. He looked at Noa. “Know where Cairo University is?”

  She nodded.

  “Who do I report to?” Derek asked. “Joe?”

  “I’m probably going to be in surgery soon.” He grimaced.

  “Me,” Sholes said. She rattled off her number and he and Noa entered it into their phones. “Now get going. The clock is ticking.”

  It always is, Derek thought.

  They retrieved some odds and ends from their luggage in the overturned SUV. Derek threw his tablet computer, a first aid kit and an extra magazine for his gun into a shoulder back and flung it around his neck. Noa kicked the motorcycle to life and Derek swung on behind her.

  The Egyptian Army officers keeping away spectators waved them past. As soon as they were free of the scene, Noa jammed the throttle and roared down the road.

  Twenty minutes later, she parked the bike in a restaurant parking lot and pocketed the keys. “We need to walk a little bit from here.”

  “This is Cairo University?”

  “No. Housing. A lot of apartments and quite a few houses.”

  “So … ”

  “My people.” She used her phone to text a message. They started walking. Periodically she stopped him and touched his shoulder and smiled. He said, “Watching our six?”

  “I don’t know what that means.”

  “Looking to see if anyone’s following us?”

  “Exactly.”

  “This is a safe house?”

  “Something like that.” They started walking again. “I understand why Moore and Sholes wanted us to start, sort of.”

  “Misplaced faith in me, maybe.”

  “Probably not misplaced, Derek. But they didn’t give us many resources.”

  “They didn’t give us any. But they probably figured my going directly to the embassy would take too long.”

  She turned and walked to the front gate of an older, elegant home made of sandstone brick. It was surrounded by a wrought-iron fence. She pushed the button on the gate.

  It clicked and they pushed through, walking up the cobblestone walkway beneath palm trees. After the June sun, Derek appreciated the sudden shade. His sweat-soaked shirt clung to his skin and already he felt the skin on his face tightening from sun exposure.

  Derek noted that the main door was heavy wood with no glass. He suspected it was steel reinforced as well. The door swung open and they stepped into the cool interior.

  Standing on a granite-paved foyer, two Israeli men awaited them. Noa embraced one of them, a spare older man with close-cropped white hair and piercing dark eyes.

  “This is Derek Stillwater. We’ve been tasked with trying to find Mandalevo. Derek, this is Eli Gretz.” He shook hands with the older man.

  “And Aaron Kadish.”

  Kadish was younger and looked like a thug. His shoulders were broad, his waist narrow, his hands big and calloused. The knuckles looked as if they had been in contact with hard objects like skulls and jaw bones. His nose had been busted more than once. Derek shook his hand as well. Kadish’s grip was crushing, probably a macho test. Derek went with it, despite it being his bad arm.

  “We need supplies and a vehicle. We’ve got a borrowed motorcycle a couple blocks from here, but I think a car would be better.”

  Gretz said, “How about a pickup with a ramp? You could toss the motorcycle in the back.”

  “That would be great,” Derek said. “And some ammo.”

  Gretz asked him what caliber.

  “.45. Although I wouldn’t mind an extra gun. I’ve got a blade.”

  “What kind?”

  “Yarborough.”

  “For real?”

  “I’ve had it a long time.”

  “Green Beret?”

  Derek grinned. “Once upon a time.”

  Gretz grunted. “Come with me. I think Noa needs to make a phone call or two.”

  When Derek glanced at her, she nodded. He followed Gretz through the house, which was larger than it looked from the street. There were a few other people around. They glanced at him with curiosity in their gazes, but didn’t comment. Gretz led him into an interior room. It was full of weapons and ammunition.

  Gretz tossed him a duffel bag. “In this city, you might as well load up.”

  Derek took several magazines for his Colt, selected a Beretta PX4 and 9mm ammo for it. Then he tossed an MP5, a tactical shotgun and an Uzi machine pistol, complete with appropriate clips, into the bag.

  “I could use a hat.”

  “And sunglasses. Come on.”

  “Would a galabiya and turban help? I’ve never been to Egypt before.”

  Gretz shrugged. “Not really. A generic baseball hat will do. What’s in your bag?”

  “Jeans, running shoes and a couple shirts. This suit isn’t what I want to wear.”

  “Down the hall. And maybe some bottles of water.”

  Fifteen minutes later, dressed in jeans and a loose-fitting shirt that hung long enough to hide the Colt in its holster, he found Noa in the kitchen drinking coffee and eating a sandwich. She said, “I’ve got a file on Imam Yusuf Effat.”

  “That’s fast.”

  “We’ve got an eye on him. He’s a professor at the university, but he also runs a charity that we believe funnels money to terror groups and Islamist organizations.”

  “Let’s go talk to him. But I want to make a couple calls while I’ve still got charge on my phone.”

  She led him to a small room. He didn’t know if it was bugged or not, but it didn’t really matter. He called Jim Johnston back in the states.

  “I just got pinged,” Johnston said. “You okay?”

  “I got lucky. I’m working with Noa and her pals. Remember her?”

  “Uh, yeah,” Johnston said slowly.

  “We’re ahead of the pack in terms of looking for Bob. Think you can help me out?”

  “Of course. What do you need?”

  “Any resources you can pull in Egypt. Any chances you’ve got some pals in the NRO that can get me some satellite images of Cairo before and after he was kidnapped?”

  “Hmmm. Maybe. I imagine they’re on it.”

  “You’ve got my email. I’ve got my tablet.”

  “I’ll get on it. Anything else?”

  “That’s it for now.”

  He clicked off with Jim and called Konstantin and told him what was going on.

  “How can I help?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t have many resources here in Egypt, although Noa’s helping me. I’m going after this imam, but that might not get us anywhere.”

  “I’ll see what I can do. Need some backup? I’ve got a friend or two there.”

  “Keep ’em on standby.”

  “Good luck.”

  Derek walked out to see Noa slipping a small gun into an ankle holster. She handed him a necklace and an ear bud. “Sync this with your phone. It’s similar to what the Secret Service uses.”

  He hung the necklace around his neck, which contained a sensitive microphone and Bluetooth transmitter. He tested it, calling Konstantin back. “I’m wired up. Just cal
l.”

  Another voice joined Konstantin’s. “This is Irina. I’m working the computer. Whatever you need, just say.”

  He couldn’t say how relieved he felt. Derek was accustomed to working alone, but this time he had a team. “Thanks guys. Can you patch in more people?”

  “I can handle that,” Irina said.

  He gave her the numbers for Sholes and Johnston and Noa. “I’m on it, Derek. Take care of yourself.”

  Noa said, “Ready?”

  “Let’s rock and roll.”

  26

  Robert Mandalevo woke up to find himself sitting bound to a chair. It looked like a bedroom in an apartment. There was no furniture except the chair. Blinds covered a single window. The floor was bare wood, the walls unadorned.

  In front of him the unblinking eye of a camera on a tripod glared at him.

  “You’re awake. Good.” Sheikh Hussein Nazif checked the video camera, which Mandalevo now saw was attached to a laptop computer. There were two other men in the room, although they wore scarves over their faces. They both carried AK47s. Nazif, however, wore a black skullcap, a taqiyah, with white embroidery. Otherwise he wore military-style boots, khaki trousers and a khaki shirt cut in a vaguely military style.

  Nazif again held up the photograph of Derek Stillwater. “His name?”

  “I don’t know him.”

  “You lie. I can see it in your eyes. Very well. First, we will send a message to your government.” He took a sheet of paper, read through it silently, then held it in front of Mandalevo so he could read it.

  “I’m not reading this.”

  “I thought you might say something like that.” Nazif walked back to the video camera. He flicked a switch and nodded to his two men. They walked over to flank Mandalevo.

  From behind the camera, Nazif said, “We are the Nazif Brigade. We are freedom fighters for all Muslims around the world. We have the U.S. Secretary of State, Robert Mandalevo. His actions on behalf of The Great Satan, the United States of America, make him a war criminal. He will be treated accordingly.”

  He nodded at his men. Using the butt of his AK47, one of the man slammed it into Mandalevo’s stomach. Leaning forward as far as he could, Mandalevo groaned, gasping for air.

  Then the other man punched him in the face. His head snapped sideways. Pain ripped through his head.

  “We demand that the Egyptian military leaders, who are the lapdogs of the U.S. government, step down immediately and cede all control of the military to President Morsi. If this does not happen within twenty-four hours, we will kill Mandalevo.”

  Mandalevo said, “That will never happen.”

  “Then you will die. But that is only our final demand.”

  Nazif tapped a key on the computer. “My first demand. You see before you an image of this man. He is a U.S. government agent, possibly with the U.S. State Department. He must be turned over to me within one hour. This man is a war criminal and murderer. He falls under Qasas and must be delivered to me within one hour or Robert Mandalevo will pay the price.”

  He pushed another button on the computer.

  Mandalevo said, “I am not familiar with Qasas.”

  From his pocket Nazif took a scarf, which he wrapped around his face. From a sheath on his belt he drew a knife.

  “In your law it is referred to as lex talionis.”

  Fear clenched Mandalevo’s heart like cold claws.

  “It is based,” Nazif said, stepping toward him, “on what you know better as an eye for an eye.”

  One of the men gripped Mandalevo’s head in both hands, one on his forehead, the other under his jaw. Mandalevo started to squirm and thrash.

  Turning to the camera and holding up the glittering blade, Nazif said, “This will only be the beginning.” He turned back to Mandalevo and raised the blade.

  27

  With the motorcycle in the back of a dusty red Toyota pickup truck, Noa and Derek drove through the city toward Cairo University. He was charging his phone using the cigarette lighter. Suddenly a voice echoed in his earbud.

  “Stillwater? This is Sholes.”

  “I’m here.”

  “The Nazif Brigade just alerted us to a live feed.”

  He waved at Noa and she pulled the truck to a curb. “I’ve got my tablet. All I need is an address.”

  Sholes read it off and Derek typed it in. “Have you got the NSA on this?”

  “We’re not idiots.”

  “Glad to hear it. I’m going to alert my team.” He texted Johnston and Konstantin the information.

  A few minutes later the video started. The video ended with the one of the terrorists cutting out Mandalevo’s left eye. It abruptly ended.

  Derek sat there for a moment, hands in fists, stomach tied in knots. Something burned deep in his gut, something red and hot and angry. Fury. In his ear came Irina’s voice. “I’m setting up a conference connection for the five of us.”

  “Five?”

  “You, Noa, Johnston, myself and Konstantin.”

  “Go ahead.”

  Everyone checked in a moment later. Derek said, “The NSA is going to go after the feed.”

  Johnston: NRO won’t work with me, but I’ve got a friend that owns a commercial satellite company. He’ll have high-res images of the area in a matter of minutes.

  Irina: I’ll work on the website feed. In the meantime, I can load a map for you, track things as we go. Konstantin is coordinating. Where to next?

  Noa: Cairo University.

  Derek: I need anything you can pull on Imam Yusuf Effat. He’s faculty at Cairo University. I was working on his background when we took off for Russia.

  Johnston: I’m on it.

  Konstantin: I’ll have my people check as well. Do you need anything else?

  Derek: Satellite feeds on where that van might have gone ASAP.

  Johnston: Should be soon.

  Derek: We’re off then.

  Noa pulled the truck back into traffic and they headed to Cairo University.

  Halfway to the university, Konstantin said in his ear: I’ve uploaded a file on Yusuf Effat. But he’s no longer teaching at the university. He took a leave two years ago. He’s running a charity out of an office building.

  “Give me a synopsis.”

  Konstantin: Bachelor’s degree in political science, Cairo University. Four years in the Army, overlapping Nazif. Then a doctorate in political science at Cambridge, where he may or may not have become radicalized. Runs a charity. Al-Muhammadiya, which means Muhammad’s Way, more or less.

  Derek pulled up the file on his tablet and looked at the photo of Yusuf Effat. Middle-aged, bearded, Egyptian. A round face and round wire-rimmed eyeglasses, so throw in a turban, he might look like a bearded Egyptian Gandhi.

  Noa said, “What does it do?”

  “Runs mosques,” Konstantin said. “Delivers sermons. Directs money to some orphanages and to poor people. It’s affiliated with The Egyptian Brotherhood, like most of the Islamic charities

  in Egypt.”

  “Is it legitimate?” Derek asked.

  “That’s a hard call,” Konstantin said.

  Johnston’s voice came over the channel. “Our people say yes and no. They wash a lot of money through the charity and some of it does go to orphans and poor people, but a lot of it seems to go to schools that train Islamists.”

  “Got an address, people?”

  Irina: I’ve uploaded a map for you.

  Derek pulled it up and showed it to Noa, who studied the map and nodded. She did a U-turn and headed back several blocks, then took a left, heading away from the university and toward the city center.

  Al-Muhammadiya was located in a three-story office building. The charity was on half the main floor, the other half belonging to something Noa translated to be White Star Website Development Corporation.

  They stepped into Al-Muhammadiya and found themselves in the entryway to what looked like a cubicle farm, with dozens of people talking on phones in fro
nt of computer screens. It was all in Arabic, but Derek noticed Noa’s expression change subtly.

  A young woman in a black slacks, a tan and black long-sleeved blouse wearing a blue hijab, sat at the front counter. Her face was visible and her eyes were large and brown with long lashes and a pretty smile. She and Noa exchanged comments in Arabic.

  The receptionist picked up a phone, punched a number and spoke briefly to someone. Noa’s eyes narrowed.

  Feeling uneasy, Derek moved his hand closer to the gun at his back. Noa saw the motion and shook her head slightly.

  A moment later Imam Yusuf Effat appeared wearing robes and a keffiyah. He looked at Noa with distaste, turned toward Derek and in excellent English said, “How may I help you? You are American, correct?”

  “I’d like to speak with you about Sheikh Hussein Nazif.”

  “What about him?”

  “Where can we find him?”

  “I’m sure I don’t know. Now leave.”

  “I understand that you are a friend and advisor to Mr. Nazif.”

  “Who are you? Why are you here?”

  “I’m with the U.S. State Department,” Derek said.

  “You have no jurisdiction here. I do not have to speak with you.”

  “That is true. But you really should.”

  Effat snapped his fingers. “Credentials. Let me see your credentials.”

  Derek handed over his State Department ID. Effat read it. “Dr. Derek Stillwater.” He studied Derek for a moment. “What do you do for the State Department, Doctor?”

  “Special Investigator. Are you aware that the Nazif Brigade has kidnapped Secretary of State Mandalevo?”

  “I know nothing about this.”

  “How can we get in touch with Nazif?”

  “How should I know? I knew this man years ago when we served in the military together.”

  “And you haven’t been in touch with him since?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Not in the last couple weeks?”

  “No. Absolutely not.” He turned to glare at Noa. “And who are you? You are not American.”

  “I’m with Dr. Stillwater,” Noa said.

  “You are Israeli.”

  “You have a problem with that?” Derek asked.