by Jack Hardin
Virgil shook his head. “You’re ridiculous.” He and Ellie followed Voltaire to the door. “You three stay out of trouble.” Cicero called after them.
And then they were gone.
Chapter Five
After leaving the room the three operatives made their way back down Al Fostat. Halfway down the street Ellie and Virgil hung back while Voltaire went the rest of the way himself. They listened through their ear mics as their team leader handed over the cash to the restaurant owner, exchanged a few more pleasantries, and left. He was back in five minutes and they followed him back up the street, where they turned onto and taking Hassan El Anware north towards the square.
And all around them protestors were marching, yelling, and chanting slogans intended to set their disillusionment and impatience on full display. The Nile River was fifty yards to their left, the Great Pyramid ten kilometers to the west. Ellie couldn’t help but feel like she was spinning inside some great vortex of history. Thousands of years of history rested here in the cradle of civilization. Pharaohs and myth and legend, and her she was walking alongside protestors looking to bring down yet another incarnation of Egyptian government.
A young man approached and tore her from her contemplations. He pointed at Ellie’s shirt and looked her over. She didn’t stop walking and her teammates tensed as they The young man He did a double take and then took note of her T-shirt. “Hey! You American?”
“Yes,” Ellie said, and continued walking.
“Crazy night to be in Cairo, yes? You will tell your grandchildren about this one day!”
Don’t I know it.
And with a final, excited whoop the man darted down the street, disappearing into the thickening crowd.
Voltaire maintained a brisk pace as they passed up the Ministry of Internal Trading and the massive, white-domed building that was home to the Egyptian Parliament. As they reached the Scientific Academy a roar rose into the night and filled the air: the voices of twenty thousand disgruntled people chanting for Hosni Mubarak to step down and relinquish his steely grip on the nation.
They were approaching the square.
People, it seemed now, were pouring out of the cracks; stepping from doorways and side streets, all of them converging to create a river of people all heading in the same northerly direction. The American operatives moved to the far left side and stayed along the edge of the buildings.
And suddenly they were there. All three Americans stopped in their tracks as the scene opened up before them. Tall apartment buildings formed the perimeter of the east side of the square and Egyptian Museum, the Folklore Arts House, and buildings belonging to Cairo University. But there were no cars whipping around the massive turnabout. There were no blarings cars horns or the squeal of brakes. The plaza, unusual traffic-choked with vehicles, was now a sea of people.
All across Tahrir Square makeshift tents formed from tarps and blankets were strewn across the entire area: revolutionary hopefuls prepared for a sit-in of unknown duration. Among the sea of tents and people men and women were grasping their country’s flag and singing as fireworks shot into the air and explode over a massive crowd whose premature celebrations were nearly contagious.
“Unbeelievable,” Virgil said. “Good for them.”
Ellie smiled as she watched a group of men laughing together. “Yeah,” she said. “Good for them.”
Voltaire starting moving again, keeping to the outer edge of the square a fresh-faced college student took to a makeshift stage and began leading his fellow revolutionaries in a new antham. As nearly fifty thousand people lifted their voices in unison the square sounded like something taken from the pages of dystopian fiction or old footage of Hitler’s Nuremberg Rallies. It was the voice of tens of thousands speaking as one.
Voltaire drew up next to the base of Omar Makram’s statue, and listened. He spoke loudly so his operatives could hear through their mics. “The people demand the fall of the regime. Will will be heard. The people demand the fall of the regime.”
As they listened a middle-aged man noticed the foreigners and pointed at Virgil. “You journalist?” The Americans smiled curtly, asid nothing, and continued on. “You journalist?” he called after them. “Tell the world that democracy has come to Egypt!” He continued yelling but his voice was drowned out in the din of voices.
The team navigated a cluster of towering doum palms and kept to the perimeter as they tried to keep a low profile and move ahead unnoticed. Voltaire turned down a nearly empty side street lines with small shops; all but of of them closed. Further down a blue and white sign advertised Cafe Beggat. Ellie and Virgil stopped just before the cafe’s plate glass windows. Virgil continued walking. When he arrived at the end of the block he circled back behind the cafe. Ellie and Volatie’s ear mics lit up with the sound of rusty hinges creaking open as Virgil opened the rear door in the alley. Then they heard the sound of dishes clanking as he passed through the kitchen. Someone yelled to him. Ellie looked to Voatire for a translation but Virgil whispered, “I don’t think they appreciate other people in their kitchen.” A few moments later Virgil gave them the all clear: the location was secure. “Contact is sitting at the third table as you come in. Otherwise the place is empty.” Voltaire opened the front door and went inside. Ellie remained outside the front door, keeping watch.
At a small table near the sidewall sat a clean-shaven man looking to be in his late twenties. He was wearing a plain green baseball hat and looking down, pecking at his phone. He was smoking. His body language said he was nervous; tight jaw, wide eyes, and a foot that would not stop bouncing his knee beneath the table. “Excuse me,” Voltaire said.
The man’s head snapped up and as soon as he saw Voltaire he came to his feet. “Hello,” he said. He extended a hand and Voltaire took it and gave a brief shake before letting it go. Both men took a seat and Voltaire got right to business. “I understand you know where Ben Warner is?”
“Yes,” the man said, but offered nothing more.
“Gamal got back in touch with you? He has your money.”
“Yes. He texted me.”
Voltaire nodded slightly. “Now what do you have for me?”
The man looked nervously around the cafe and then leaned in and lowered his voice. “Your American friend, he is not in the city. But he is still in Egypt, west of Cairo.” He paused, as if choosing his next words. “You Americans, you have a saying, I think. You call it remaining off the…” he searched for the right word. “The grill.”
Voltaire frowned slightly as he fished for understanding. “You mean the grid? Staying off the grid?”
The man leaned back and snapped his fingers. “Yes. Off of the grid. That is what they are doing.” He shrugged. “They have electricity, but they are far away from everyone. I do not know who they are but they are not from Egypt. Saudi Arabia maybe. Or Pakistan. I do not know.”
“Do you know why he was abducted?” Voltaire asked.
He shook his head. “No. But I don’t think it is for money. Not terrorist. I think they needed doctor. With this revolution in Cairo right now many doctors have left until things settle down. Those that have stayed are overworked because of the protesters clashes with the police. Many people have been hurt. Some have been killed.” The young man’s features suddenly bristled with anger. He took another drag off his cigarette before jamming it angrily it into the ashtray. “Mubarak. He needs to go. We are done with him.” His eyes lifted and he paused as he listened to the chants flowing down the street from the square.. “Freedom, freedom, freedom.” he smiled. “It is beautiful. So beautiful to my ears. You are American, are you not?”
“I’m an expat. I live in Dubai,” Voltaire lied.
“Ah, but you were American.”
“Yes.”
“So you know what freedom is.” He leaned across the table and slapped his chest with an open palm. “We do not know freedom. Only a leader who has taken and kept his foot on our necks for three generations.”
�
�I hope you get that freedom,” Voltaire said. “Right now I’m trying to get an Dr. Warner his freedom.”
The man slipped his fingers into his jacket pocket. He produced a small scrap of paper and set it in front of Voltaire. An address was scribbled on it, along with a crude handwritten map. “He is there. That is where your American is. El Sadat City. Do you know where that is?”
“No.”
“It is”—he shook his hand—”about one hundred kilometers to the west.”
“Who took him?” Voltaire asked.
“I cannot say.” He shook his head forcefully, as if trying to convince himself. “It is not for me to say.”
“But you know.”
“Have I given you what you asked.”
“I need to know—”
The man’s body straightened. “I will not say! You want to know where he is.” He spread his hands. “I have told you this. But I am done.” Chair legs scraped against the floor as he pushed it back and stood up. He looked into the direction of the square. “I have a revolution to get back to. Good evening and good luck.” And with that he stepped out into the street and was gone.
As Voltaire pulled out his phone and took a picture of the address Virgil came over and stood silently. Voltaire sent the photo to an encrypted cell phone. It would go straight to Moritmeter, who would gather any and all intelligence on the location.
They would be there in three hours.
Chapter Six
It was eerily quiet, and the full moon set the craggy, barren landscape in a silvery glow that threatened to reveal any movement disrupting the desert stillness.
All four members of TEAM 99 were in full gear, clutching their Heckler & Koch 417 rifles as they moved forward and slipped into a shallow ravine full of sand and rocks. The ravine was at the bottom of a gently sloping hill where, at the top, sat the object of their focus. Satellite photos reviewed on the way here showed a single-unit structure—a cinder block compound with five rooms, a kitchen, two bathrooms, and small courtyard that opened up to a driveway currently absent of any vehicles.
Langley had been unable to uncover any information on the property; so sales or ownership details. It wasn’t surprising. The land out here, west of the Nile delta, was ancient. There was nothing; only gritty sand and sunbaked rocks that stretched on as far as the eye could see, the landscape virtually unchanging over the next forty-five hundred miles as it stretched into a half dozen desserts before finally reaching the edge of the continent and giving way to the Atlantic Ocean.
The CIA had no way of knowing who was inside the compound, and the only confirmation that the man might be telling the truth came from reconnicense images taken just an hour ago showing the perimeter being guarded by three armed men.
What, or who, they were guarding remained to be seen. TEAM 99’s only intelligence for this mission had originated from a chain-smoking Egyptian wearing a green ball cap and crying for revolution. But they had gotten to him through Gamal. Over the years Gamal had become a trusted source of information. There was no reason to start doubting him now.
In the distance a pair of headlights roamed the Al Dabba Corridor, a lonely vehicle heading to an unknown destination in the earliest hours of the morning. The sound of its tires running across asphalt whispered across the desert until it faded altogether as the car faded into the darkness.
The Americans surveyed the compound through their night vision goggles, a green monochrome film coloring everything. Their rules of engagement were clear: fire only if fired upon.
Cicero swiped two fingers across the horizon and then curled his fingers to form a zero: no cameras detected. Voltaire stepped up out of the ravine and Ellie, Virgil, and Cicero followed, crouching low as they worked their way up the easy hill and approached the south side of the compound, the one with no windows.
Stealthily, they moved down the length of the exterior wall and stopped at the corner. With his weapon on his shoulder Voltaire peered around it. A man was seated in a plastic chair near the open entrance to the courtyard. The front two legs of the chair were up and he was leaning against the wall, a rifle laying across his lap. He was asleep.
Voltaire skirted the corner and silently made his way to the inept watchman. Ellie was directly behind her team leader and as he slipped a gloved hand over the guard's mouth she grabbed the man’s his weapon and jerked it off his lap. The man jerked awake and his cry went no further than Voltaire hand. Voltaire jerked the man up and got in behind him. Reaching around with his free arm he wrapped it around the man’s neck and put him in a choke hold. The man fought, bucking and trying to reach back with eager hands. But as the blood flow was to his brain was inhibited his entire body relaxed, finally sagging altogether as he dove into unconsciousness.
Voltaire laid him on the ground and Ellie quickly zip-tied his hands behind his back and gagged him. Voltaire checked the man’s pockets for a key; all he found was a half-empty pack of cigarettes and a lighter.
Cicero drug the man into the courtyard and stepped back outside, keeping watch as the others turned their focus to entering the building.
Virgil wrapped his fingers around the door handle and turned. It was locked. Moving quickly, he placed a knee on the ground and swung off his pack. Removing a breaching charge he peeled off the adhesive backing and pressed it next to the lock plate. He turned the dial to activate the charge and moved five meters down the wall, Ellie and Voltaire following. “Four, team,” he whispered. “ Explosives hot in three,” he whispered.
The explosion rattled through the courtyard, sending chunks of wood and concrete in every direction. Cicero’s voice came through everyone’s comms loud and clear. “Ding-dong. Anybody home?” The dust was minimal and Voltaire stepped back and dropped to a knee as he trained his weapon where the door had been. He was now looking down a long hallway lit by a weary bulb. At the far end a bright fluorescent glow spilled from an adjoining room. The operatives flipped up their NVGs and Voltaire motioned for Ellie and Virgil to proceed.
Men’s frantic voices were heard coming from the back of the building as Virgil led the way across the threshold. There was an open doorway on the right and the room it gave access to was dark. Virgil stepped back and shined his rifle light into the room, clearing it section by section before stepping in and quickly turning to survey the entire room. Except for a couple cardboard boxes and a small table the room was empty. He stepped back into the hallway and continued leading the way forward.
The next open point was the bright area at the end of the hallway. On approach, Virgil slid to the left and began clearing the room, finally clearing the corner before stepping into room. Ellie was on his heels and save for a small kitchen—a refrigerator, stove, and a square table that sat four—it was empty. The team moved through the kitchen and into the next part of the house, where they heard soft whispers coming from a room on the left. Another hallway was up ahead and Virgil motioned for Ellie to take it while he and Voltaire continued clearing the rest of the house.
Ellie slipped past, her turn to momentary take the lead. She stop at an open doorway on her left. It was dark and she
Ellie approached the corner and heard someone breathing down the hall on her left in loud, nervous breathes. Whoever was there was nervous, waiting for someone to skirt the corner so they could shoot. Ellie plucked an M84 stun grenade into from her gear vest, pulled the pin she flung it around the corner. The grenade clattered along the concrete and exploded a second later, emitting a loud bang of 170 decibels and a blinding flash of more than one million candela within a five foot radius radius. Ellie moved around the corner with her gun ready to fire. A man was on his knees squinting painfully with both eyes and his hands over his ears, temporarily blinded and deaf. His rifle was on the floor behind him.
Ellie quickly approached him, grabbed a handful of his hair and sent his head in the concrete wall. The man’s body went limp and crimped to the floor.
From the back of the house came the chatter of semi-autom
atic weapons, frantic yells as commands were given. Then came the distinct response from Virgil and VOltaire's HK’s as they fired off short bursts.
A woman screamed.
Then, everything went silent.
Ellie dropped to a knee and reached out and grabbed the door handle. It would open to her left. With her rifle leveled in front of her she flung it open and scanned for threats.
A hospital bed lay against the far wall. A man in khakis and a blue button down shirt was leaned over it, as if protecting someone. Ellie rose and entered the room as the man yelled over his shoulder. “Don’t shoot! Don’t shoot!” He was English.
“Hand’s up!” Ellie barked. “Hands up now!” She quickly cleared the her sectors. There was no one else in the room. Now windows and no other access points.
The man at the bed man stood erect and raised his hands. His torso lifted away from the bed to reveal a young girl laying there. Her eyes were closed and her skin a yellowish gray. Ellie’s first thought was that she was dying. Ellie looked to the man and blanched. His face was haggard and full of stubble. She recognized him.
It was Ben Warner.
Voltaire’s voice came through her earpiece. “Location secure. Two, report.”
“Dr. Warner is secure,” she replied. “At the end of the second hall. Tango lights out at doorway.”
“Have a tango,” Voltaire said. “Coming to you. She’s riding in front.”
Ellie moved towards the bed while keeping her weapon trained on the open doorway. “Dr. Warner. Are you okay?”
He looked dazed. “Y—yes. You’re American?”
“Yes sir. We’re here to get you out.”
“How did you find me?”
“We can discuss that later. Let’s go.”
Ben straighned, his eyes suddenly darkening. He shook his head. “No,” he said. “No, I’m not leaving.”
