The Wrong Man (Complete 3-Book International Thriller Box Set)

by Fritz Galt

  It was the deadliest terrorist attack in Egypt’s history, perpetrated by a group trying to harm the Mubarak government. The group assuming responsibility claimed to be affiliated with al-Qaeda. The Egyptian government arrested suspects from a Bedouin group that had carried out a similar attack up the coast in Taba the previous year.

  He took a last sip of the drink, smacked his lips and dropped a generous tip on the table.

  It was time to meet Bruce.

  Chapter 52

  FBI Special Agent Greg Ferguson paced the length of his tiny cubicle in the Personnel Security offices of the CIA. Over the weekend, the police and FBI had failed to pick up Dean Wells.

  FBI agents had forced their way into his townhouse, but he wasn’t home. Nor had he shown up for work that morning. Police had searched for his car all weekend. A cop had stopped Wells heading to the airport and ticketed him for speeding, but hadn’t received the warrant for his arrest at that time. A check of the airport parking lot failed to produce his car.

  The FBI had run a trace on his credit cards. It didn’t take long to realize that Wells was a master at hiding his identity. His bank accounts were so small, he had to be using accounts under other names. His car might be registered under another name as well.

  Greg had visited José Gomez to find out what those identities might be, but had gotten nowhere. The agency didn’t keep track of assumed identities. Many operatives had multiple identities for various purposes. Those were up to the individuals to maintain.

  He got the impression that having and using false names was a routine security precaution. It certainly didn’t indicate guilt.

  Like many fledgling FBI agents, Greg was driven to succeed, and had been continually frustrated in the Wells case. Greg had only a few years to make a name for himself before he could dream of making the Senior Executive Service at the FBI. There was nothing in his past performance to indicate he would fall off the career ladder.

  He had been a college track star and could handle a firearm with deadly precision. He was a man of action, never comfortable behind a desk.

  In counterespionage work, he had to act and think like a spy. He had trained and proven himself at the FBI Academy at the Marine Corps base at Quantico, Virginia, just up the road from where CIA recruits sweated it out at Camp Perry. Like his CIA compatriots, he had combat and survival training and had taken surveillance and counterespionage classes.

  His conversation with Gomez did yield one nugget. When Greg had expressed frustration at not being able to find Wells, Gomez had said, “Have you tried Sharm el-Sheikh?”

  “What’s that?” Greg had said.

  “A sea resort in Egypt.”

  “Why don’t you people tell me these things?”

  “I didn’t know you were looking for him.”

  Greg had stood up and immediately left for his temporary office in Security.

  Now he wasn’t so sure that Dean had flown to Egypt. There was no car at the airport, no ticket sales in his name, no flight manifests bearing his name. He appeared to have simply vanished.

  Greg turned to his phone and dialed the Bureau anyway. “I’ve got a lead on Dean Wells,” he said. “He might be in Shamu Shaker.”

  “Repeat that name?”

  He tried to remember the name. “Shambu Elvira.”

  He rifled through his notes. He hadn’t written it down.

  “It’s in Egypt,” he said.

  “Do you mean Sharm el-Sheikh? Where the Arab League is meeting?”

  “Yes!”

  “We’ll send his name and description to the Egyptian Interior Ministry at once.”

  He hung up the phone, his face burning. Foreign names didn’t come easily to him.

  And what was that about the Arab League? It sounded like Wells was into heavy stuff.

  Just then Barry Wiseman walked into his office brandishing a flash drive.

  “Just in from Hebron,” Wiseman reported. “We’ve got Wells’ fingerprint on the knife.”

  “Excellent.” That sealed the case. At any moment, he would receive word that the Egyptians had caught Dean Wells.

  Chapter 53

  Dean headed for the souk. He had missed the opportunity to hit the Khan market in Cairo, and Old Sharm was a poor substitute. The only tourists were the backpacker variety, and Dean was perfectly fine with that.

  He enjoyed catching snippets of their conversations as young travelers compared notes on hostels, cool destinations and chicks.

  Vendors were less pushy than in Cairo, but just as astute. “American?” they asked upon sizing up his suit and demeanor.

  He was happy to smell their spices and perfumes, but he wasn’t there to buy, and the vendors quickly gave up on him and looked for more promising quarry.

  “I took a waltz to Hebron once,” came a voice with a heavy Australian accent.

  Dean turned.

  It was a young man with a blond ponytail that protruded from an Aussie bush hat. He looked happy and enthusiastic in his coveralls and backpack. He was the very picture of a youthful vagabond.

  “On your junior year walkabout?” Dean asked.

  “Yeah, mate. I hadn’t made it to the Red Sea before, so I thought I’d give it a burl.”

  It was Bruce Johnson. Dean drew him toward empty stalls where they could talk.

  In the past few days, Bruce would have researched how and where they could create a compromising situation for Omar al-Farak and photograph him for blackmail purposes.

  “When should we run the operation?” Dean asked.

  “I’ve been looking over the agenda for the Arab League meeting,” Bruce said, his accent replaced by an easy Southern drawl. “The goal of the meeting is to endorse the direct talks between Palestinians and Israelis. Monday was all shaking hands and photo opportunities. Today, the real negotiations begin. There will be unscheduled bilateral talks all day, with ministers discussing the new proposal from Sudan.”

  “…which is?” Dean asked.

  “They’re calling for a global boycott of all Israeli products.”

  “Interesting. But that’ll only put Palestinians out of work.”

  “Ergo the negotiations. Omar al-Farak doesn’t seem too keen on the idea.”

  As they left the souk, Dean led Bruce down a commercial street that specialized in posters and paintings. “Okay, go on.”

  “Let’s see,” Bruce said. “Today is one-on-one meetings. Tomorrow is a day at the beach, an off day for relaxing and finalizing language for a joint declaration. As long as they reach some sort of consensus, tomorrow night will be party time. Finally, Thursday they’ll give a series of speeches in front of the other ministers and television cameras followed by a signing of a declaration approving the peace talks scheduled to resume in Jerusalem this weekend. That day will be highly scripted, and Omar is expected to deliver the final speech before the signing.”

  Dean was familiar with the Arab League summit process. “What I’m worried about,” he said, keeping his voice low, “is that Omar will use this occasion to undercut the peace talks and publicly embrace Hamas and terrorist groups, such as al-Qaeda.”

  Bruce’s eyebrows shot up. “What makes you suspect that?”

  “His nephew, whom I met in Hebron, told me Omar is considering that approach, but is open to other options. Our job is to close off the terrorist option once and for all.”

  “The other parties won’t be happy if Omar embraces al-Qaeda,” Bruce whispered back harshly. “The whole region is fighting a broad al-Qaeda-backed insurgency.”

  Dean knew all that. A return to militancy would isolate Palestinians and set their cause back another decade. “We’ll just have to reach Omar first.”

  “I’ve got a concealed camera and brought a burqa.”

  “Great.” Dean looked around to make sure nobody could overhear them. “So, when will we get a chance to co-opt Omar?”

  “Tomorrow night. Definitely. That’s when the carousing begins.”

  Dean win
ced. Twenty-four hours wasn’t much time to prepare. “Has Omar committed to being somewhere that night?”

  “Hard to say. It’s all private parties by invitation.”

  “We’ll just have to crash those parties.” Dean scratched the stubble on his chin. “As I recall, the Gulf states throw the hottest parties.”

  “Yeah. You can always count on them.” Bruce tipped his hat back. “This year, ministers with any sort of libido will line up for the United Arab Emirates bash.”

  “From what I gather, Omar has quite the libido.”

  “They shipped in dancers from Thailand.”

  “Male or female?” Dean asked.

  “Both.”

  He raised an eyebrow.

  Bruce went on. “Add to that transgender, transsexual and transvestite, and pretty soon you’ve got yourself a real party.”

  Dean came to a stop. “I believe we can work with that.”

  He confirmed that Bruce had booked the room across the hall from him at the Hilton. “Don’t take this wrong,” Dean said. “But mind if we share your room tonight?”

  “Here’s a spare key.” Bruce slipped him a small envelope with a room number written on it. Inside was a magnetic key.

  “Thanks, mate,” Dean said, and the two split up.

  While Bruce perused postcards, Dean attended to one last detail. Now that he was in a city, he could check his cell phone for messages.

  He reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. He leaned against a wall out of the sun and looked over the tiny screen.

  There was one text message, from a sender whose number he didn’t recognize. But when he read the message, he knew who had sent it. It read, “I am bringing the pages tomorrow.”

  That made his life a whole lot easier. Rachel was bringing the codex pages to Sharm el-Sheikh. Soon he’d be able to hand them over to Israel. For the first time, he could visualize events going his way.

  So he searched his list of contacts and placed a call to Israel.

  Chapter 54

  Carla’s flight landed without incident in Cairo. The same plane would continue on to Sharm el-Sheikh, so there was no reason to disembark. It was midday, and harsh sunlight made it difficult to see outside. Instead, she concentrated on the onboard drama.

  Nearly all the passengers in the wide-body plane gathered their belongings and left. Warm air quickly filled the cabin, and she waved her customs form like a fan to stay cool. She kept an eye on Rachel, who stood up with the others and fussed with her portfolio, but remained onboard. She was flying to Sharm el-Sheikh.

  Carla’s suspicion was confirmed. Rachel was going there to see Dean.

  Could she avoid Rachel forever?

  Earlier in the flight when Carla needed to use the lavatory, she went to the rear section to avoid being seen. When Rachel had stood up to stretch her legs, Carla had buried her head in her duty-free magazine.

  Now Rachel looked perfect standing in the morning light reading an Arabic newspaper that the cabin crew had handed out. For a moment, Carla’s anger was replaced with another sensation, that of envy.

  Carla lowered her eyes. The duty-free magazine was selling liqueur. How was it that EgyptAir sold alcohol? She thought that the Middle East was dry.

  There was so little she understood about the larger world and so much she wanted to learn.

  At the moment, a new batch of passengers was entering the cabin. They were a raucous bunch, dressed for the beaches of Sharm el-Sheikh. Egyptians could sure live it up, based on how relaxed they acted. They called across the cabin and waved at each other and exchanged a friendly handshake with those in the seats beside them.

  It felt like one big neighborhood had descended on the aircraft.

  The plane took off, and Carla tried to compose her thoughts.

  She put the duty-free magazine away. Most of her expectations about the Middle East hadn’t matched reality. Judging from the view out the window, Cairo seemed like a perfectly modern city. To better adapt, maybe she had to put her expectations away and live a little.

  She turned to the young man who had just taken the seat beside her. He was absorbed in his diving magazine.

  “Are you a diver?” she inquired.

  He looked at her with surprise. Perhaps he wasn’t used to a woman initiating a conversation.

  “Yes,” he said. “I love to dive.”

  She involuntarily checked his left hand for a wedding ring. There was none, only dark, slender fingers.

  “You live in Cairo?”

  “I do,” he said. “May I introduce myself? My name is Hani Salem.”

  “Car—” she stopped herself. “Karen.”

  They shook hands. His palms felt soft and supple.

  “Do you dive?” he asked.

  She smiled. “No, but I’m eager to learn.”

  “Oh, miss, this is the place for you.”

  He flipped back through the magazine and showed her a bearded Westerner with a snorkel. “You must understand,” he said. “Dr. Hans Hass discovered the Red Sea and brought it to the rest of the world.”

  Hass must have been an early Jacques Cousteau.

  “There is no place like the Red Sea anywhere in the world.” There was pride and certainty in his voice.

  She glanced ahead to Rachel’s row. Had she overheard their conversation?

  Carla continued in a lower tone. “Why is it called the Red Sea? Is that the color of the water?”

  Hani chuckled. “Not at all. The water is crystal clear. The name comes from your Bible. I think it means the Sea of Reeds. But I have another theory.”

  “Tell me.”

  Hani opened the in-flight magazine to the back page. A world map showed all of EgyptAir’s destinations.

  “You see, these are the directions of the compass. South is red.” He pointed to the long estuary between the Indian Ocean and the Mediterranean Sea. “West is black.” For this, he pointed to the Black Sea between Bulgaria and Russia. “The Yellow Sea is to the east.” His finger slid over to China. “And the White Sea is to the north.” He sketched out an area between Russia and Finland. “As for the Green Sea…”

  “Where’s the Green Sea?”

  He laughed. “We have no Green Sea.”

  The corners of her mouth dropped. “You’re joking with me.”

  His shoulders shook, but he contained his laughter well.

  She appreciated his sense of humor and the fact that he was not trying to embarrass her.

  Less than an hour later, their flight was close enough to their destination to make out details on the shoreline. Hani pointed out various landmarks, and by the time they landed, they were fast friends. She had almost forgotten why she was there.

  But one glance at the light blue jacket ahead of her, and the whole aim of reaching Dean and warning him came rushing back. She remained seated until Rachel and her precious portfolio were out of the plane.

  She turned to Hani who was joining the stream of passengers up the aisle. “You didn’t tell me where you were staying.”

  “I’m at the Movenpick.”

  She submitted the name to memory. She had no reservations, and didn’t even know what hotels were there. “Is that a good hotel?”

  “The best!” he said. He looked ready to ask her where she was staying, but was nudged from behind. “Nice meeting you, Karen.”

  “Nice to meet you, Hani.”

  He flashed a smile that emphasized his white teeth. She had him figured for twenty-five, probably in the IT field. He was socially awkward, but could carry on a conversation. Knowledgeable and handsome, he could turn out to be useful, a sort of Middle Eastern “Chuck,” that she could use and discard as the need arose.

  But she had no appetite for taking advantage of people. In fact, she was feeling a bit used herself.

  At the Sharm el-Sheikh airport terminal, formalities were surprisingly rigid. Carla remained out of Rachel’s view while having her passport and visa checked.

  After collectin
g her suitcase, she followed the crowd through a sliding glass door. She was completely unprepared for the horde of drivers bearing signs with the names of passengers.

  She had always wanted to be met by a driver, but it would not happen that day. She eased into the crowded terminal and let Rachel get away.

  Carla was no linguist and couldn’t distinguish what languages people were speaking, much less what they were saying.

  The arrivals board showed flights landing from Luxor and Cairo and all over the Middle East. Out the window, she spotted charter planes from London, Italy and Eastern Europe. For such a small place, Sharm el-Sheikh certainly had international cachet.

  After giving Rachel time to disappear in the afternoon traffic, Carla changed dollars for Egyptian pounds. She didn’t know her way around or where anything was, but needed to book a hotel room.

  She walked over to a hotel reservation board.

  She wasn’t the only traveler there. College kids on break and young couples gathered around the board that listed over two hundred hotels. A telephone was available for their convenience.

  She could see the advantage of a package tour, but she liked to wing it. She overheard some kids comparing Naama Bay with Shark’s Bay. That sounded cool.

  But where was the hotel that Hani had mentioned? She found Movenpick on the board. She grabbed the phone and dialed the hotel’s number.

  A receptionist answered with a pleasant European accent. “Willkommen. Mövenpick.”

  “Uh, hi. Do you have a room available?”

  “I’m sorry. We are fully booked for the night. However, I can book you a room at our sister hotel, the Asia Star.”

  “That would be fine.” She went ahead and reserved a room for three nights with eating privileges at the Movenpick. It wasn’t the best way to track down Dean and warn him about the vultures circling in DC. But, it was a start.

  Outside, she checked out the transportation options. A hot, dry breeze felt comforting after spending half a day in a climate-controlled tube. Even the smell of plants was a relief.