by Fritz Galt
She checked out a queue for taxis and took her place in line. She was hoping not to get the yellow Hummer with fog lights on the roof, but as the line shortened, she realized that their two fates were intertwined.
“Hi, madam,” the young man said. He wore wraparound sunglasses and ear buds. “Where to?”
She jumped in. “The Asia Star.”
“Cool.”
She glanced at the registration clipped to his sun visor. He seemed legitimate. Was he really Egyptian?
Soon she was checked into a room at the end of a long hotel. Her balcony overlooked the beach. Hers was one of dozens of hotels along the shore.
It would take some effort to find Dean.
Chapter 55
As commandant of the Sharm el-Sheikh police force, Captain Malek was a nervous man.
Foreign ministers from twenty countries were in town. It was a security nightmare. Sure, most diplomats brought their own security details and stayed in one of two hotels, but such meetings were lightning rods for extremists and insurgents.
Malek was on edge before they arrived, when they arrived, and every minute they were there.
That Tuesday had proven easy for his force. All meetings were held in private conference rooms. He didn’t worry about what happened inside the hotels. That was for personal bodyguards to handle.
Short bursts of radio transmissions between his men confirmed that all was secure around the perimeters. He was just congratulating himself with a cigarette when the phone rang.
He stubbed out the cigarette and grabbed the phone. “Aloo. Captain Malek here.”
It was a stuffy voice on the phone, not his superior at the South Sinai Governorate. It was Cairo. “Interpol has just released an arrest warrant for a man called Dean Wells, posing as an American diplomat in Sharm el-Sheikh. Find him and take him into custody.”
Malek hung up with dread. How could he launch a manhunt when he was stretched so thin?
He had received requests to track down foreigners in Sharm before. Sometimes it was criminal figures, sometimes personal business. So he had instituted a strict policy of hotels keeping electronic records of foreigners’ passports. Granted there was a turnover of several thousand foreigners a day, but the system would pay off that night.
He got on his computer and logged into the security database. A quick search found that the man in question had yet to check into a hotel.
That was fine with him. It gave him more time to prepare.
“Summon a car,” he told his lieutenant. “And line up three more foot patrols. We’re going to apprehend an American tonight.”
Then he sat back and watched the computer as, one by one, foreigners checked into hotels in Sharm el-Sheikh.
Chapter 56
Dean entered the Sharm el-Sheikh Hilton as the sun rapidly sank into the desert. He glanced around the lobby. It had a casual opulence that frequent hotel guests had come to expect. Its low, whitewashed style and lush gardens gave the sense of a desert oasis.
It wasn’t the splashiest of the three Hilton properties on the horseshoe-shaped Naama Bay. It wasn’t a theme-oriented hotel like those that had gambling. It served tourists looking for a relaxing rather than a high-energy getaway. It would serve him well.
Throughout the lobby, many languages were being spoken loudly and crudely.
Sharm el-Sheikh seemed to cater to a certain class of European traveler: the cheap Brits, the Italians who were always looking for an inexpensive holiday, and Russians just trying to get anywhere warm.
There was a mixture of Arabic spoken by groups of men who relaxed in short sleeves and open collars. Sharm catered to business meetings and those on a weekend getaway. Since it was a short flight from many cities in the region, one could fly there without asking a relative to watch the women back home and without necessitating hugely expensive gifts upon return.
He pulled out his credit card and proceeded to check in.
One of two female receptionists asked for his passport. She took a moment to write the number down, and he took the opportunity to study her appearance. She was light-skinned with large eyes and a regal air worthy of the Pharaohs. She looked pretty in her hotel uniform and wore no hijab to cover her hair. The other receptionist was smaller and darker with an intimate smile.
“There you go, sir.” The first receptionist handed him back his credit card and passport along with a magnetic key card. “We reserved room 111 for you, which is on ground level with a lovely patio. You’ll find your room in that wing.” She pointed across the lobby.
“I’m going to bed early. Please hold all calls.”
“Certainly, sir. We’ll make sure we turn down your covers.”
He entered his wing of the hotel, dug Bruce’s key out of his pocket and entered the room directly across from 111.
His fellow operative was already inside, having ordered room service. “Tonight, we dine on sayadeya fish tagen,” Bruce said.
“Baked sea bass?”
“With chopped onion, fresh tomatoes, coriander, dill, green peppers and, of course, garlic.”
“After we eat, I’ll turn in. It’s been a long day.” He stared at the bed. Bruce had already turned the covers down on both sides.
During dinner, they hammered out details for the following night. The United Arab Emirates bash promised more good times than most foreign ministers enjoyed in a lifetime. Hosted in a casino, it would be the perfect mixture of professional musicians, erotic dancers and alcohol with easy access to hashish, gambling and prostitutes.
Bruce showed him a miniature camera, standard issue at all CIA stations. Dean could affix it to his suit coat and photograph events without using his hands.
Dean was just reaching for his apricot mousse when he heard a loud crash in the hallway.
Men began barking commands at the top of their lungs.
He wiped his lips with his linen napkin and stepped over to the door. Through the peephole, he saw police storm his room directly across the hall.
They stopped and looked around the room.
Then as a group, they charged the interior door to the adjoining room. The door was locked and he listened as they tried brute force to enter. The metal door acted as a firewall between the two rooms, and they could not break in. They ran back into the hallway and he could hear them smash the door to enter.
It was a shameful waste of wood. He wasn’t sure what they wanted, but he was glad to have been cautious.
A moment after entering that room, they emerged empty-handed and frustrated.
“Any other Americans on this wing?” an officer asked in Arabic.
The bewildered hotel manager was pushed forward. He fumbled through a printout. “Saudi, Ethiopian, Sudanese, Australian, Italian… Sorry, no more Americans.”
The officer let out a curse that Dean didn’t bother to translate.
Kicking the splintered wood aside, the policemen shuffled down the hallway and out of sight.
“Dessert?” Dean offered.
Chapter 57
The next morning, Captain Malek, commandant of Sharm el-Sheikh’s municipal police force, was still furious. How had Dean Wells slipped through his fingers the evening before? It was as if Mr. Wells had expected the raid.
Wells hadn’t officially checked out of the hotel, but Malek didn’t expect him to return. Where had he spent the night?
The Interior Ministry in Cairo had directed Malek to find Dean Wells and take him into custody, and Malek would do so. He didn’t know the reason for the arrest warrant, but clearly Wells was a slippery fellow.
Meanwhile, the new morning was turning into a logistical nightmare. He had posted men at every door to follow dignitaries on every swimming and diving excursion. He could tell by the number of requests over the radio, that it would prove impossible.
The patrolmen had also been issued photos of Dean Wells. They were not allowed to rest until they apprehended him.
It was useful to remember how the family of Egypt’
s former president had direct personal investment in Sharm. The government had pumped significant sums of money into security to prevent any loss of their income.
But money could only go so far. What he lacked was sufficient manpower. Malek had even hired Bedouins to build up the force. Some policemen had to share uniforms and shoes, but they were living, breathing men with the authority to stop and question whomever they chose.
By the end of the day, they would have Dean Wells.
Chapter 58
Carla Martino woke up early in Sharm el-Sheikh and stepped out onto her hotel room balcony. She watched beach lovers claim lounge chairs on the strip of sand.
Many of the women were topless, which seemed like an affront in the Muslim country.
She’d certainly cover up. She slipped into her bikini and checked herself out in the full-length mirror. The black-and-white polka dots only emphasized her curves.
She couldn’t go to breakfast dressed like that, so she wrapped a gauzy teal sarong around her waist.
Her feet slapped across cool tiles of the path to the Asia Star’s sister hotel, the Movenpick. There, tables were arranged indoors and out. Why waste a sunny day? She selected a basket of croissants, butter and jam from the buffet table and turned around. Lo and behold, Hani Salem, her flying companion, was already sipping coffee on the terrace.
“Mind if I join you?” She set the basket in the middle of the table.
“Good morning, Miss Karen.” He folded his copy of the Egyptian Gazette and made room for her.
“I’ll bet by tomorrow,” she said, “you’ll be so relaxed you won’t bother reading the paper.”
He smiled, but not because he agreed. “I’m reading about the League of Arab States meeting here in Sharm. It’s taking place at the Savoy Hotel.”
That was the first she had heard about a summit. Was that why Dean was there? “What are they discussing?”
“Palestine,” he said as if it were some immutable obstacle to his happiness.
She selected the largest croissant from her basket and began lathering it with butter. She pointed her knife at the newspaper. “So, who’s in town?”
“Who isn’t? All the foreign ministers from the region are here. Sudan has a proposal for Arab countries to boycott all products made in Israel.”
“What are the chances of the countries agreeing?”
“Slim, I hope. It’s meant to counter Israel’s announcement of new construction plans in East Jerusalem. Both actions would undermine trust and effectively shut down the peace talks this weekend in Jerusalem.”
She stuffed the first bite of pastry into her mouth. “Oh, man. This is scrumptious.”
“One advantage of living in Egypt,” he said. “French food.”
“So what are the Palestinians proposing?”
Hani pointed to the picture on the front page. “Omar al-Farak has proposed an uprising, similar to the rockets from Gaza. He wants more arms.”
She took a closer look at the picture. The handsome man was taller than the other foreign ministers. He had a black-and-white checkered cloth folded over his head, wore a flattering business suit and bore a friendly smile. “He certainly doesn’t look like a terrorist.”
Hani shrugged. “Of course terrorism is a bad thing.”
She paused a moment in her chewing and watched the sun shimmer on the water. How could one even consider terrorism in such a beautiful setting? She leaned back and inhaled the salty air. “I forgot that this is a sea. I was expecting fresh water.”
Hani tore his attention away from her bikini. “Are you planning to take dive lessons today?”
“No. I’ve got work to do.”
“Well, remember it’s far too dangerous to undertake without lessons.”
“Are you offering to teach me?”
“Actually, I’m going to take a dive boat out to Ras Mohammed National Park today. I want to check out the coral and a sunken ship there.”
“Well, have fun. You wouldn’t catch me out there. I get seasick.”
“What a pity.”
Just then, she spotted a familiar figure walking along the promenade. He approached the dive boats. It was Dean!
He was carrying flippers and a mask and a dangerous-looking harpoon.
“On second thought…” she said.
Moments later, she was dragging Hani by the hand down a long flight of stone steps to the beach.
“I haven’t finished my coffee,” he protested.
“We’re going on that boat.”
At the end of the pier, a man sold tickets and a dive guide distributed tanks and other fancy equipment.
“Do we have to use air tanks?” she asked.
“If you’re going to scuba dive, Miss Karen.”
She wasn’t sure she could even lift a tank. Hani bought two tickets and she reached for the equipment. With some effort, she managed to heft a tank onboard. She threw the flippers and mask in after it.
Due to the rolling motion of the boat, she had to time her step from dock to deck. She counted to three and strode across the gap.
She landed safely on the other side and regained her full height.
The deck moved underfoot. “Doesn’t this thing have an anchor?”
A smile slipped across Hani’s face despite his otherwise disapproving expression.
The boat had a large, open stern, a pilot’s tower and an open foredeck. Dean was heading forward.
The vessel was already crowded. There were two large groups onboard. Arab men in bathing suits talked with each other in heated discussions.
Carla had no idea what they were discussing, but it sounded like business. Each group was gathered around a leader and conferring.
“Hey, isn’t that…?” she started.
Hani gave her a cautionary look and she stopped pointing. The tall leader at the front of the boat looked like the foreign minister of Palestine, the one who wanted more weapons.
What an informal place to conduct business.
A deckhand cast off the mooring lines and kicked the boat away from the pier.
“Hold tight, miss,” Hani said.
The engine went from a low idle to high speed in a matter of seconds and sent Carla lurching into Hani’s arms.
“Perhaps we should sit down,” he said.
She appreciated the steady forward thrust of the engine. It sure beat the rolling motion.
“This might be a good time to discuss scuba diving,” Hani said with a nervous laugh.
She lost track of Dean for a moment and tried to concentrate on what Hani was saying.
“…and the regulator compensates for the pressure of the depth.”
She wasn’t exactly getting the finer points of what he was saying. But in general terms, she learned that she shouldn’t ascend the last twenty feet too quickly.
“Got it,” she said.
Hani grabbed her by the wrist. “Now wear this watch and gauge and mind your depth.”
“Twenty feet.” It was the only number that stuck in her mind.
The boat glided over the surface as the hull bumped against small swells. They followed the shoreline past a large marina and entered a pristine area so natural that all the hand-planted greenery on the shoreline disappeared, and she was looking at pure desert.
The underwater formations were colorful and oddly shaped. She could already see schools of brightly colored fish swimming alongside the boat.
“How far are we going?” she asked.
Hani looked at his dive watch. “Another five minutes.”
“And then?”
“Then we stop at a popular dive site where we can explore a sunken ship.”
The idea of underwater exploration momentarily appealed to her, until she realized it required her physically going into the water.
“Would you like me to review the specifics again?” Hani asked.
She saw no need for it. She was already adjusting her bikini top so that the tank wouldn’t interfere with her
straps.
Meanwhile, Dean had climbed up to the pilot’s chair and was conversing with the captain. Carla didn’t know that he was a sportsman. Good for him.
Suddenly she felt self-conscious. How would she approach him without looking ridiculous? She had followed him halfway around the world without his knowledge. Wouldn’t that look like she was stalking him?
She couldn’t approach him and say outright that he was under investigation by the IRS. That kind of conversation got around a boat.
Maybe when they were bobbing side by side in the water.
Dean seemed interested in the two Arab groups massed on the fore and aft decks. Was he there on business? Spook business?
She wouldn’t interfere with spy work. Especially when it involved dangerous-looking harpoons like the one he was holding.
Several others held the same type of weapon.
“Are there whales in the water?” she asked.
Hani seemed confused.
She pointed to the long poles with barbed points.
“Oh those. Those are spear guns, used to fend off attack.”
“Attack from what?” Were there pirates in the waters?
“There are harmful fish.”
She looked down at the pretty little fish nibbling at the coral and flitting away from the boat. “Those little guys?”
“No. There are sharks in the early morning and late afternoon.”
That added a whole new dimension to their little excursion. “This is early morning. Shouldn’t we have one of those things?”
“It’s not that early.”
“So why the spear guns?”
“There are other fish, too. Poisonous types.”
Maybe she could squeeze in a conversation with Dean before he went into the water.
The boat was drifting to a halt alongside other dive boats.
“What now?”
Hani was already helping her into her tank and flippers and finally her mask. Through the cloudy plastic, she saw the Arabs jumping into the water and Dean climbing down the ladder from the captain’s perch.
