I rebooted the computer and installed the software, once again using a script Shunt had devised to automate the procedure. When the computer beeped to show that it was working, I retrieved my CD and shut it down. By 4 a.m. I was back at the hotel, enjoying a nightcap before turning in for a few winks before sunrise. But there is no rest for the wicked—my satellite phone began ringing before I could even slip between the sheets. (I’d say “jammies” but you all know I sleep in the raw just in case I get lucky.)
It was Danny with an update. They had a lead on Goatfuck and had worked out a plan to get him.
“He’s with a woman,” said Danny. “It’s not his wife.”
“Isn’t adultery punishable by death under Islamic law?”
Danny either didn’t see the humor or wasn’t in much of a joking mood. “We can take him tonight. It may be crowded.”
“Minimize the damage if you can, but we want the prize.”
“Agreed.”
If this had been a SEAL operation, I’d probably have to have consulted with a team of Department of Defense lawyers and babysitters to proceed with the mission. God help you if you cause “unnecessary” collateral damage in the course of an operation. Or if you do something without asking “Mommie, may I?” beforehand. At Red Cell International, we don’t believe in letting lawyers and babysitters make the final call. Nor do we concern ourselves with environmental impact studies imposed by the likes of the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers, a mandatory step for any military maneuver lasting long enough to take a whiz these days.
Heartbroken that the girlfriend of a murderer might get accidentally shot when we thumped her boyfriend? Tell it to the three-year-old daughter of my Afghan op Goatfuck had nearly killed. Or the relatives of all the people he had succeeded in killing. All but two or three were civilians going about their daily business, trying only to survive in a country wracked by decades of war. Who deserves more sympathy?
Rhetorical question. You don’t have to answer.
8
Snagging the bank accounts proved to be something less than the coup I’d thought. Shunt, working with the detective to track Saladin’s money trail, had hit a brick wall. Not because the bank’s computer systems were protected by state-of-the-art security, but because they didn’t have computers that accessed the outside world. In fact, examining the statement I had taken showed that it had probably been prepared on a typewriter.
It seems almost incomprehensible that a bank wouldn’t have a computer system, but many in Egypt don’t. Quaint—and also a very effective way of guarding against high-tech snoops.
The detective was now researching the boot distributor and its principals, trying to trace possible connections to known terror organizations. My CDs from the rug merchant were now on their way back to Shunt. The key logger had already checked in earlier; aside from learning about a few porn sites he’d never visited, Shunt had yet to get anything useful.
The appearance of the spies in the warehouse raised the question of how far I could trust Jamal. The answer depended on what his motives were—if he’d been doing it because, as an Egyptian who remembered Anwar Sadat, he was opposed to international terrorism, that was good and he could be trusted. If he was doing it to gather dirt on a well-connected political figure, that was less good and he couldn’t. Not that his intentions had to be completely honorable or that even dishonorable ones wouldn’t be useful. But it was a reminder that our agendas didn’t necessarily coincide.
I spent most of the morning catching up with old friends I thought might know something about the deputy naval minister, Bakr. A bit after lunchtime I checked with Trace. There had been no new attempts on the base. She reported that the Air Farcers were “tense but cute.” I’m not exactly sure how she would have translated that for a fitness report. Her meeting with Don Alberti had produced no new information, but had led to two marriage proposals. Neither had been from the Don, or she might have considered them. The boat that had disappeared out from under our noses remained MIA, but one of the terrorists’ bodies had washed up on the shore. So far, he hadn’t been identified. Trace had some leads of her own to check into about the supposed Libyan who had rented the castle; she hoped to have more information about him within a day or so.
Doc arrived at the airport on schedule that evening. Two of our shooters were trailing him: a former Army Ranger we called Grape because of a large purple blotch on his black cheek, and Big Foot, a SEAL veteran who despite his nickname comes up to my chest. These two guys are a real Mutt & Jeff combination physically—Grape goes six-four and looks like he could eat a truck for breakfast—and they’re a mismatch personality-wise as well. Big Foot is ornery by nature and will cut your balls off as say hello. Grape is cut more from Doc’s mold, a talker and wheeler-dealer whom people trust even when they have no clue what the hell it is he’s saying. I don’t think the two men would have been friends if it weren’t for the fact that they were members of Red Cell International, and had me as the common enemy, so to speak. But they were friends, and more important, they worked together extremely well. Their basic skill sets complemented each other’s. Despite the fact that he has Native American blood in him, Big Foot looks like an A-raab and can speak the language well enough to get himself thrown out of a brothel. He’s very, very good with explosives and the things that make them go boom. Grape took two years of electrical engineering before wandering into the Army. One of his specialties is rewiring kids’ toys for grown-up uses, like detonators and spycams. As you’d expect, both are excellent weapons handlers and versatile thinkers, adaptable to any situation.
I briefed them on the way to a restaurant Doc claimed was the best in the city. While it was tempting to think that Abu Bakr might be Saladin, we needed to gather more information about him before jumping to that conclusion. I wanted especially to find out about the submarine—where exactly had it been that night, who was aboard, that sort of thing. The best place to get answers to some of our questions was Alexandria, the sub’s homeport and the location of Bakr’s office.
Cairo is easily the most famous city in Egypt, the country’s capital and business center, as well as one of the world’s great tourist attractions. But Alexandria has a charm all of its own, and not just if you’re a navy man. Just ask the man for whom it’s named, Alexander the Great. Or Caesar, or Napoleon. All of the great figures of world conquest and a lot of the minor ones have lusted over the place. Ignore the traffic, the car horns, the pollution, the bugs, the smell of sweat rising from pavement in the shimmering heat. Alexandria is an exotic place, where East and West mingle and anything is possible.
Doc and I exchanged glances as we drove around Midan Tahrir near the center of town the next morning. Traffic was fierce, but it was nowhere near as difficult as the last time we’d been here, four or five years before. Then, the city had looked like a parking lot, and we were sweating the transport of a terrorist who was due for his own private interview back in the States. Coincidentally, a rug had been involved then, too—though it happened to be around the terrorist at the time.*
We headed over to Egyptian Naval HQ, Doc to chat up the uniforms there about submarines, and moi to gather information on Abu Bakr via a few backgrounders with acquaintances and acquaintances of acquaintances. Big Foot and his grumpy frown went with me as I made the rounds, starting in a trailer that served as temporary intelligence headquarters for the Egyptian fleet. (I’ve always thought of intel types as trailer trash, and this proved it.) From there I worked my way over to the operational center for the navy’s special operations group, where I looked up a few men I’d met as an observer and consultant during the original Bright Star joint exercises during the 1990s. Then I moved on to the real onshore home of the navy—the coffeehouses and smoking bars in the city.
I looked up a number of officers I’d met years ago as lieutenants who were now…still lieutenants. Despite the fact that the navy had been expanded and modernized under President Mubarak, there was a logjam in the upper ran
ks. That meant that promotions took eons for anyone without family connections, even if a man had proven his ability and worth. No one I met complained, but I could see how a junior officer could easily become discouraged, and worse.
None of the men I spoke to knew Bakr very well. Their take was that he was a typical politician, intent on using the post as a stepping stone to bigger and better things. He wasn’t seen around Alexandria much, nor was he particularly identified with the submarine fleet. My informants didn’t think he was on the fast track to higher office, however. Traditionally the smallest (and least prestigious) service in the Egyptian military, the navy had lately fallen in esteem because of a scandal over the procurement of new destroyers. That fallout hadn’t touched Bakr, but it hadn’t helped him either.
Doc’s information was more promising. The submarine that had been on maneuvers the night I went for a swim off Sicily was commanded by a man considered close to Bakr, and a bit of rebel by the rest of the navy. He was devout, and clearly so; he had gotten rid of a housekeeper because her son was rumored to be dating a Christian. Still, he would not have been entrusted with the command if he was considered a religious extremist.
The boat was not due back in Alexandria for several more days. Using his silver tongue, Doc obtained a list of the crew members who’d boarded the submarine when it left port; if one or more turned up missing, then we’d have pretty good proof that there was a connection with the Sicilian operation.
We needed more, though. And so, just after 7 p.m., we piled into our rented car and headed south for a visit to Bakr’s palatial estate thirty miles south of Cairo on the Nile. (Take the road to al-Lisht and hang a left. Drive until a large cement wall blocks your view of the muddy blue water beyond. It’s on the other side of the wall.)
Stymied by the traffic out of Alexandria, we didn’t arrive until after four. Under other circumstances I might have considered our timing exquisite, but from the moment I saw the compound from a sand dune a mile away I knew we’d need a little more prep time before going in. Even at two in the morning in the middle of nowhere, twelve guards were watching the grounds. Video cameras covered every inch of the surrounding terrain as well as the nearby river. There were two ways in—a long, narrow road from the highway, and a small dock on a man-made lagoon from the Nile. Both were patrolled as well as studded with cameras. There was no way to sneak in without being seen.
So we’d have to be obvious about it.
While Grape and I scouted the surrounding area for a convenient base of operations, Doc and Big Foot hung around long enough to follow some of the guards as they went off duty just before dawn. One of the men headed to the mosque for morning prayers; they followed. Big Foot looks like an Arab, but it was Doc who did most of the talking in the nearby café after prayers. Before you could say the words caffeine buzz, he had learned that Bakr was having a party of assorted foreign navy types the next night. From there, coming up with a plan was as easy as haggling at the market. (Say “La’a, da ghaali awy”—No, that’s very expensive—over and over until the price drops.)
Danny called in the next morning and left a one-word message on my voice mail: “Done.”
It was a few days before I was able to get the entire story about the operation. Ali Goatfuck had come to town to meet with several Pakistanis who were supportive of his cause—and a conduit for his funds. Danny and his boys followed Goatfuck to the meeting but couldn’t get close enough to listen in. After the session, Goatfuck went to a safe house on the outskirts of Islamabad—not the hotel where he had stayed the two previous nights. Our guys got past the two guards outside the building, slitting their throats with the sharp snap that’s become so popular of late among jihad wannabes. But Goatfuck apparently had some sort of premonition that his time was up; when Danny got inside he found the bastard kneeling in prayer at the foot of his bed.
“Up, motherfucker,” Danny told him, extending his gun toward his head.
Goatfuck flinched just enough for Danny to realize that he had a grenade in his hand. He pressed the trigger on his MP5 and simultaneously dove out of the room, yelling to the others to take cover. When the grenade exploded a second or two later, Goatfuck’s midsection took most of the blow.
Real pity, that. I’m crying just thinking about it.
None of our guys were hurt, but even though the explosion had been muffled, it was loud enough to raise alarms in the neighboring hovels. Danny and team exfiltrated from the area. He turned his attention to the Paks whom Goatfuck had met with, figuring that they might lead us back to Saladin.
I didn’t have these details at the time, but I knew that Danny had accomplished his mission without taking casualties. The message had been sent: If you screw with Dick Marcinko’s people, they’re coming back at you three times as hard. But we were only just beginning.
Back in Egypt, Bakr’s party was in full swing by ten o’clock that night. Music blared over the walls, wafting on the breeze as a captain from the Brazilian navy drove up to the gate and was waved inside.
The captain wasn’t me; it was Doc. We’d decided that my face might be just a little too familiar right now, given all of the adventures in Italy. Besides, I wanted to do the fun stuff myself.
Grape was chauffeur and lookout. He dropped Doc and his sidekick, Ensign Big Foot, near the door, then pulled the car to the far side of the compound, nudging between the other Mercedes. As soon as he cleared his throat, I slipped out the back door in my dress black BDUs. Crawling on my hands and knees, I proceeded to the other side of the lot, avoiding the surveillance cameras. From there I ran like hell to a set of French doors on the wing of the house that housed Bakr’s office. I had a little trouble with the lock, but within a few minutes I was inside in a hallway, heading for the room at the far end. I was just about to reach for the doorknob when I heard a sound inside.
It was a sound I’ve heard before, many times: the sort a woman makes when she is in a very, very good mood.
I did the only polite thing: I knocked.
Then I scrambled back to the nearest doorway, sliding back into the shadows to see what happened. About sixty seconds later, a good-looking European woman in a black cocktail dress hurried down the hallway, working on her makeup as she went.
Abu Bakr followed a half minute behind. Unlike the woman, his steps were confident, measured; I didn’t get a good look, of course, but I imagine he was smiling the smile of a man who’d just grabbed a good piece of ass. I raised my estimate of the Egyptian navy and proceeded into the room, where I unpacked my gear and began draining the hard drive of information. Bakr had spent decent bucks on a top-of-the-line Dell PC; the unit came with a DVD-
RW drive, which made my job even easier than it had been at the rug joint.
Brazil, God bless them, doesn’t have much of a navy, and what they do have stays miles and miles from the Mediterranean. This suited Doc’s purpose pretty well, since it made it unlikely anyone else at the party had met someone who might be able to contradict his cover story. To explain his presence in Egypt, Doc constructed a cock-and-bull tale about a worldwide tour to see how other navies handled shallow-water tactics. His appearance on the guest list was legit: he’d called up the assistant minister’s office to arrange a tour, and one thing led to another (with some prodding on his part). His Portuguese consisted of two phrases he’d memorized from the Internet, along with an array of mispronounced Spanish; he wouldn’t need more than a grunt or two before turning to heavily accented English. Ensign Big Foot had only to stand nearby and nod. Hell, one look at the frown on his mug and everyone would run the other way.
The cover would have been perfect, had not one, not two, but four Portuguese officers, ranging from captain to admiral, been invited to the party. All had recently returned from a trip to Brazil where they had advised the navy. And they all spoke pretty good Portuguese.
Silver-tongued Al Tremblay had finally met his match. But like any good master chief, he did not panic.
He fain
ted instead.
It was a perfect two-point landing in the hors d’oeuvres. Doc had spotted trouble as the officers approached. Thinking quickly, he whispered a warning to Big Foot and then initiated his diversion. Big Foot fell right into the act, yelling for a doctor in a pidgin patois that included every known language but Portuguese.
All I knew about this was the screams at the far end of the hall. I checked the computer; only about half of the hard drive’s contents had been copied onto the first of two double-layer DVDs Shunt’s program said were needed. It would take eight more minutes at least to get the rest of the data, and then I had to install the key logger system.
The screams faded a bit, and I decided they weren’t worth worrying about. I turned my attention to planting a pair of eavesdropping devices—aka “bugs.” These were custom-designed “Rogue bugs,” engineered with a little help from my friends after a recent foray behind what used to be the Iron Curtain.
Remember the old Polaroid camera? Remember the film? It turns out that the old film had a material in it that has an eight-year battery life. Cut into small strips, it’s just the thing to run a bug for an extended period. (They also use it commercially as a cell phone booster. A three-dollar strip buys you two hours of transmit time.)
Back at the party, the Portuguese naval officers were extremely helpful when they saw that their comrade in arms and tongue had gone down. One ran outside to find the Brazilian’s car and driver. (Snow is more likely to arrive in Egypt than an ambulance.) Grape nodded meaningfully, started the car, and made his way around to the front—looking out the rearview mirror all the time, wondering where the hell I was and what the asshole screaming at him was saying. Big Foot and one of the security people appeared at the front door with Doc slumped between them; there were two or three guests and two security people as well. Grape got out of the car, opened the door, and nodded as the Portuguese officer explained what had happened and began translating the directions to the nearest hospital from Arabic to Portuguese. The security men volunteered to go with them—it’s likely that Abu Bakr told them to—but Big Foot told him it wasn’t necessary. Doc was faced with a difficult decision: if he didn’t leave right then, he’d blow the mission. And if he did leave right then, he’d be leaving me up shit’s creek without a paddle.
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