The Cairo Puzzle

by Laurence O'Bryan

  That morning it was all about Egypt. The general, who had been President of the Egyptian Republic for less than a year, had been helicoptered to the Montaza Palace, a wedding cake style building in the eastern suburbs of Alexandria. President Mubarak had installed an underground control room there. It was an ideal location to oversee the crushing of any revolt against his rule.

  Henry read the latest short report from the British Embassy in Cairo. It indicated that twenty civilians had died in the Tahrir Square massacre the night before and that six security personnel and nine armed rebels had died in attacks on three military installations the previous evening.

  But these numbers were tiny in comparison to the population of the country, ninety-two million by the latest estimates. The most populous country in the Arab world had suffered a blow, but it was an injury that could quickly be recovered from.

  If nothing else were to happen, that is.

  Chatter on Arabic websites and social media, translated overnight by the security services translation team, supervised from the Swindon intelligence unit, showed that most Egyptians were not likely to join any revolt at this time. The decisive handling of the attack on government buildings in Tahrir Square had stopped the rebels. But two issues were still of concern to the embassy.

  One was the possibility of a new demonstration that afternoon and the second was the shift in the alliances at the top of the Egyptian state. The rise of Ahmed Yacoub was noted. His possible elevation to a position in the Executive Council of the Egyptian Republic, where real power in Egyptian life lay, was now a distinct possibility.

  Ensuring British interests were protected in Egypt would require that good relationships with Yacoub be firmly established.

  Henry brought up his profile on another screen to see if anything had been added to it. The coffee he had brought with him to his desk was getting cold.

  He read about the event in the Great Pyramid planned for that morning, and looked through the list of Egyptian security camera systems he still had access to. Relying on satellite images was not going to be enough today. He remembered Isabel Sharp had told him she was heading to Egypt to look for her husband.

  Where the hell was she?

  He took out his phone, laid it on the desk. He would call her, but first he had to allocate tasks to his staff. Two of them were already at their desks. They had to be directed towards monitoring the situation in Egypt, and in particular to finding out if there were any chance of a further destabilization there.

  There was too much at stake right now. Nothing was certain anymore. Old alliances could not be counted on in the way they had in the past. The United Kingdom had to rely on its own intelligence, its own resources.

  17

  I looked at my watch. We were inching forward. The driver had turned on the air conditioning, as the heat was building up outside. The sun was over the horizon. Car horns were blaring.

  The driver turned to me. “We will be twenty minutes more here, madam.”

  I took my phone out called the number the taxi driver had called me from. He answered quickly.

  “I’m on my way. Please ask the nurse to wait. I’m stuck at some military checkpoint.”

  “This is bad, very bad.” He paused. There was music in the background. Egyptian pop music. He was in his taxi, probably outside the hospital, waiting for me.

  “How much cash will I need?” It was the question I should have asked on the last call.

  “Ten thousand Egyptian pounds, but he prefers five hundred American dollars. It is the same for you, almost, yes?”

  I groaned. I had a thousand Egyptian pounds in my purse, from the money I’d changed at the airport.

  “Bring him to the hotel after his shift. I should be there in half an hour.” I’d spotted a small sign at reception offering to provide Egyptian currency for credit card users. Most of my credit cards were below their credit limits.

  And it would be safer to meet them at the hotel.

  “We will wait outside.” He sounded angry. Was this a warning sign? Was I about to be ripped off?

  I ended the call. If they wanted the money they would come.

  The driver looked at me in the rear view mirror.

  “You want to go to the hotel?”

  “Yes.”

  His eyes stared at me in the mirror. I looked away. What the hell did the men here stare this way? But I knew the answer. Western women were seen as easy here. Some of them would assume, because I had the freedom to choose my own partner, that I could be persuaded to go to bed with them, just by their smile.

  I stared out the window. What the hell was I getting myself into?

  The van lurched forward. A helicopter appeared to the right, coming over the low dust covered two and three level houses, appearing through a forest of satellite dishes, TV aerials and the clothes lines that filled almost every roof.

  Within a few seconds the chatter of the helicopter was overhead. If they were targeting us, we were ducks all lined up, and tied by our feet to the ground. Whoever was at the controls of the helicopter, an Apache gunship, could send us all to the next life with the twitch of a finger.

  The whup of the blades sent a shiver through my body. Fear had filled my heart every day since Sean had disappeared. Since coming to Cairo it had started filling my head too.

  18

  Ahmed Yacoub pointed at Professor Bayford. He took a step towards him to add extra power to his words. The conference room in the research center near the Great Pyramid was empty except for the two of them. Below, visible through the window, were four black armored Toyota Landcruiser J200’s.

  “You can bring anyone you like to the ceremony.” He jabbed his finger into Mike’s white shirt. “But when I see her I will tell her what I think of the British Security services sending a spy to watch over us. They should stay out of our business.” Spittle flew from his mouth.

  “Isabel Ryan is looking for her husband. She thinks he’s in Cairo. Whatever her job is, that part is true.”

  Yacoub shook his head. “You are so naïve. That is the most obvious cover story I have ever heard.” He pressed his finger into Mike’s shirt again.

  “She’s a honey trap. And you’ve swallowed the honey.”

  Mike looked down at the Landcruisers. Two men were loading white plastic boxes into the last vehicle. There were three more boxes nearby waiting to be loaded.

  “But you will meet her?”

  Yacoub shrugged. “Yes. I’d like to meet this honey pot.” He made a licking gesture on his fingers. “I have a liking for honey.”

  Mike glared at him.

  “Will you help her look for her husband?”

  “Let’s get going. We’ll be late.” Yacoub pointed at the men carrying the last box. “Is everything the way we agreed?”

  “Yes.”

  “And your team know nothing.”

  Mike nodded.

  Yacoub’s right hand became a fist. He placed it on the glass in front of him. “I don’t trust anyone, professor.” He lifted his fist away from the window, then banged it back onto the glass. The glass shook.

  “Any mistakes, there will be consequences.”

  Mike stepped back. He looked a little pale under his tan. “There will be no mistakes. I don’t do mistakes.” He pushed his chin forward. “I don’t even know how to spell the word.”

  19

  The helicopter didn’t fire. It loomed over the tank barring the road, then leaned to the side and roared away. Of to the next checkpoint around Cairo, no doubt.

  I leaned forward. “How much longer will this take.”

  The driver shrugged. “Not long.”

  I tried the taxi driver’s number again. I had to tell him to wait if I was delayed. There was no answer. What the hell was I going to do if he wasn’t at the hotel? I willed the cars ahead to move, craning my neck to see if they were.

  My phone buzzed. Thank God. The taxi driver was calling bac
k. I put the phone to my ear.

  “Mrs. Ryan. Henry Mowlam here. How are you getting on in Cairo?”

  A light sweat broke out on my brow. This was the last thing I needed, Henry interfering.

  “Still looking for Sean. But I’m alive. Was there anything else?”

  Henry coughed. “You didn’t get caught up in that incident in Tahrir Square last night?”

  “No, but I saw flashes across the roof tops. I know what happened.” I turned towards the window. “A lot of people died, didn’t they?”

  “Yes. It’s not safe there, Isabel. The embassy is issuing a public notice that British citizens should not travel to Egypt, except for emergencies.”

  “This is an emergency, Henry.”

  “What are you up to out there?” Henry’s tone had changed. “I’m pinging you off a mast on the road to the pyramids.”

  “I’m not sightseeing, if that’s what you’re concerned about.” He was annoying me now.

  “Go on, then. Tell me.”

  I thought for a second about giving him a story, but that wouldn’t do me much good if I needed his help while I was here.

  “I met Mike Bayford, who’s doing research at the Great Pyramid. He has a press conference this morning. I was hoping to be at it.” I didn’t say why. The driver might report everything I said.

  There was a pause, a clicking noise. Henry was looking up Mike on Google, probably.

  “This is the guy who’s sponsored by Ahmed Yacoub?” he said.

  “Yes.”

  “Good.” He left the rest unsaid.

  “What does that mean?”

  “Just keep your eyes and ears open. I’ll call you tonight.”

  The line went dead. He didn’t even give me a chance to respond. Typical. The need of the security services for information outweighed anything else. We lurched forward. We were near the top of the line.

  “You have passport?” The driver was staring at me in the rear view mirror again.

  “Sure.” I pulled it from my bag, held it up. He held a plastic ID card with his picture up. Soldiers were standing to the side of the tank ushering cars through one at a time, leaning in, checking each driver, looking under each vehicle with a mirror on a telescopic stick, opening the boot of each and checking what they were carrying.

  They were looking for guns, I supposed. They didn’t want people fighting back today.

  Now we were at the top of the line. They took my passport, gave it a quick look. The driver said something in Arabic. I heard Yacoub somewhere in the middle of it. My passport came back in the window. We were waved on. It looked like Mr. Yacoub had a lot of pull here. The road ahead was almost deserted. We reached the hotel ten minutes later.

  It was twenty past eight. There was no sign of the taxi driver. I went to the reception.

  “Are there any message for me?” I asked the smiling young man behind the counter. The reception area was almost empty. A few European tourists were standing near the door out to the street, with their bags. It looked as if they were heading to the airport.

  He looked in a pigeon hole, then on the counter in front of him, then looked at me.

  “No, I am sorry, Mrs. Ryan.”

  Can you give me some cash if I use a credit card?”

  He smiled. “Yes, madam.” He was slightly taken aback at the amount I asked for, but after calling someone on his phone he ran my card through a machine and took cash from somewhere deep beneath the counter. He smiled as he gave it to me. The exchange rate he’d given me was probably a total rip off. I didn’t care. I had to be able to pay this guy.

  I went to wash my face and use the bathroom. I didn’t want to look a mess when they came. If they did come.

  When I arrived back at reception the taxi driver was there. He looked out of place in his dirty white galabeya. He waved at me, his palm up and steady. I walked towards him.

  “Where is this nurse?”

  He shook his head. “He would not come here, but he told me what to tell you.”

  I pointed towards the wicker seats at the far end of the reception area. He shook his head.

  “Come with me.”

  He led me to his taxi outside the hotel, opened the door for me, then sat inside. He started the engine.

  “Where are we going?”

  “My cousin has a restaurant near here. We will talk there.”

  We drove, took a turn to the left. This street was narrow, with balconies on the buildings and shuttered windows. At the next turn there was a restaurant on the corner with an ancient looking Coca Cola sign in Arabic on the wall high up. We stopped outside.

  Inside the café a few old men sat at tables. A large flat screen TV dominated the back of the room. A glass case ran down the left side of the room. Behind it stood a woman. Her head was covered in a pale blue scarf. She was staring through the glass at us.

  The taxi driver turned to me.

  “We stay here. After, I drive you back.” He paused, leaned towards me, his eyes widening. “You pay me now.”

  I swung my head from side to side. “No, you tell me what he had to say first. I’m not a fool.” I felt for the door handle, glanced towards the woman in the restaurant. She was gone. There was no one behind the counter.

  The driver pointed a nicotine stained finger at me. “No, you do what I say. You pay me now.”

  I pulled the door handle. “I’m going.” Just then, a movement at the corner of my eye caught my attention. I turned my head. Two men were standing near the taxi. Both had dirty galabeyas on. Both were staring at us. She’d summoned his pals.

  I pointed a finger at the driver. “The British Foreign office know exactly where I am. They are tracking my phone.” I pointed at my bag. “If anything happens to me you will all pay.”

  “This is not a trick, madam.” He pointed at the two men. “These are my friends. Talking is a thing that can get me into trouble here. Big trouble.” He had a frightened look in his eyes now.

  A noise came from the other side of the car. A man in a baggy, faded black suit slipped into the seat beside me. I held the door handle, ready to run.

  The man turned to me. He was about twenty-five, with a close cropped black beard and pock marks on the left side of his face. His hair was black and cut tight to his head so that it stuck out in spikes.

  “I can help you,” he said, in hesitant English. Then he reached a hand towards my knee.

  20

  The room was almost all white, except for the hospital bed, which had steel legs and railings all around it. Monitoring equipment rested on steel stands. Black screens showed numbers and blinking lines ascending and descending in rhythmic patterns.

  The light in the room was low, emanating from a series of adjustable downlights built into the ceiling. Along one wall stood a large basin with a water tap and beside it a green medical waste bag in a steel holder.

  Two drip bags stood beside the hospital bed. Transparent liquid dripped from the bags into tubes, which connected to the patient lying on the bed. One fed into each arm.

  The patient had no sheet covering him. He lay on soft green rubber. The room temperature was warm. A fan, humming intensely in the air conditioning duct, filtered impurities from the air.

  The door to the room opened with a loud click, as locks tumbled. Into the room walked a young man dressed in a green hospital gown, with his hands held in front of him, high up. His hands were covered in thick green gloves. He let the door close behind him, walked to the back of the room and pulled a steel, chest high table towards the bed.

  On it there were needles and steel instruments in a row, as well as a see through plastic box with a warning sticker in Arabic on it. Behind the box was a white cooler box, with a clipped down lid.

  He pulled the clips, opened the box, then went to examine the patient. He tapped the man’s knee. There was no response. He lifted an eyelid. The man’s pupils were almost fully dilated.

 
He held the instrument in his hand, paused. The last time he had done this it had taken longer it should. This time he would get it right.

  He bent the patient's head back, inserted a green roll of plastic beneath the patient's neck. Then he leaned over the patient and looked up his nose.

  The nose cavity loomed bigger and bigger as he went closer to determine the exact route he should take as he went.

  After a minute more he took the long steel scoop, with the small spoon shaped end and placed it in the patient’s right nostril. Then he pushed it. There was a slight cracking noise as the membrane between the nose and the brain broke.

  21

  I slapped his hand away. He pulled it away as if he’d been scalded.

  “He is only being friendly,” said the taxi driver, his tone angry.

  I made my hand into a fist. “If he touches me, I will scream.” My mouth was dry, my hand trembling.

  The taxi driver said something fast in Arabic, then glared at me.

  “Do you want help or not?”

  “How can he help me?”

  “He saw your husband. Is that not enough?”

  “How do I know he’s telling the truth.”

  The driver sighed. “Why do you think we are talking here and not at your hotel?”

  I looked out the window. The men had stepped back from the car. One was watching one way down the street. The other was watching the other way. Whether they were on lookout for someone who might interfere with me being ripped off, or some other danger, I had no idea. Warning klaxons in my brain were ringing so loud I wondered if everyone around me could hear them.

  “Not convinced.”

  He reached towards the glove compartment, opened it, pulled out the now folded and bent picture of Sean. He passed it to the man in the back, who was eyeing me as if I was a snake that might bite.

  “I see man,” he said, taking Sean’s picture, looking at it, then holding it towards me, his hand shaking. Then he looked out the rear window. There was a hunted look in his eyes.