by Brad Thor
It was only through sheer force of will that Hashim’s accomplice had been able to neutralize the Alpha Team and successfully drag him to their hiding place deep within the bowels of the plane. They had underestimated their enemy, and because of it, all of their months of planning and training were ruined.
Now they had no choice but to wait. All of their soldiers were dead. It was a calculated loss. Contrary to what they told their devout followers, they had suspected that the plane might never leave Cairo and that many might die. As part of their contingency plan, they had prepared for either an assault or the need to create a diversion themselves by detonating several charges throughout the plane, but not so soon. They had hoped to ransom at least one of the VIPs. Either the mayor or the airline CEO. One ransom would have helped their cause incredibly, but to get paid both would have been an answer to their prayers. They needed the money desperately and now they were left with nothing, less than nothing in fact, because the execution of this mission had been expensive. With America’s war on terrorism waging, it seemed that everything these days was very, very costly.
Hashim’s impulsiveness would one day be the ruin of the organization. Abu Nidal had not worked as hard as he had to have it torn asunder by his idiot son.
Hours passed, and finally Hashim Nidal and his accomplice felt themselves moving. A forklift removed the crate from the cargo hold and transferred it to a flatbed trailer with several other matching containers. Everything was being done under strict military supervision. Though armed teams had swept the cargo bay repeatedly once all of the passengers were off the plane, they were still leaving nothing to chance. The crates were driven to a customs warehouse adjacent to the terminal along with all of the passenger luggage from flight 7755.
Customs broker Farouk Negim was waiting in the warehouse, flanked by one of his company’s most important clients, Dr. Abdel Mandour, curator of Cairo’s Egyptian Museum, and Dr. Kamal el Aziz, Egypt’s government minister of antiquities. They had been camped out in the warehouse manager’s office since the hijacking had been announced the previous afternoon. As part of the cultural exchange between Chicago and Cairo, Chicago’s Field Museum was loaning the Egyptian Museum a pair of mummies that had been removed from Egypt over a hundred years ago. The Egyptian Museum planned to study the mummies and then put them on display.
The fact that all of the containers had been sitting in the cargo hold of the 747-400 since yesterday afternoon troubled all but one of the men, who now exited the warehouse manager’s office and quickly made their way toward the incoming airport trailer truck.
The truck was met by Egyptian soldiers and a blond man, an obvious westerner, in a pin-striped business suit.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” said the blond man as the three Egyptians approached the trailer. “This area is off-limits. No one gets in here.”
“Who are you?” demanded Dr. el Aziz.
“Who am I? I’m Tom Ellis of the United States Embassy and this is a crime-scene investigation involving American property.”
“Well, I am Dr. Kamal el Aziz, Egypt’s government minister of antiquities, and this crime, which happened on Egyptian soil, also involves priceless Egyptian property, which has been languishing in unacceptable conditions. We are here to remove those containers in particular and get them back to the Egyptian Museum as soon as possible.”
“We? Who’s ‘we’?” asked Ellis.
“This is our customs broker, Farouk Negim, and Dr. Abdel Mandour, curator of the Egyptian Museum.”
“Gentlemen, I am sorry, but those containers are not going anywhere until we have had a chance to thoroughly investigate them.”
“You will pardon my asking, Mr. Ellis,” began Dr. Mandour, “but what is it exactly you wish to investigate?”
“We want to make sure that no one has stowed away in them and that they don’t contain any evidence that might have to do with the hijacking.”
“That is impossible,” replied the museum’s curator, who was completely unaware of what the containers truly held.
“So you say, but until I’m convinced, those crates are not going anywhere.”
Dr. el Aziz did not like the man’s tone and stepped away from the group to place a call on his cell phone.
“Mr. Ellis, do you wish to know what is in those crates?” asked Dr. Mandour, who was just as ignorant as his colleague, Dr. el Aziz.
“You betcha, and I plan to find out.”
“Let me save you the trouble. The crates contain two ancient mummies, their two wooden boxes, and two rather extraordinary sarcophagi.”
“Let’s hope, Doctor, that that’s all they contain.”
“Surely, Mr. Ellis, you do not intend to open them here.”
“Yes, I do.”
“That simply cannot happen,” said Dr. Mandour.
“Really. And why not?”
Dr. Mandour did not have the energy for this. He had been waiting since yesterday afternoon to claim the containers and had not gotten a wink of sleep all night. His wife had called him incessantly, believing he was using the hijacking as an excuse to see another woman. Finally, the poor man had to turn off his cell phone. No, the curator definitely had neither the energy, nor the patience for any of this.
“Mr. Ellis, let me show you something, if I may,” said Dr. Mandour, taking the clipboard from the customs broker and guiding Ellis toward the crates. “These crates, as you can plainly see, have all been stamped and stenciled as ‘Enviromentally Controlled.’ The top of each one has been locked with a rubber seal under the strictest of conditions at Chicago’s Field Museum. Inside, a substance called silica gel has been added to temporarily maintain the proper balance of humidity. The key word here, Mr. Ellis, is temporarily. Because of the risk to the artifacts from our modern-day air, we can only open these containers within a special facility at the Egyptian Museum—”
“And that is exactly what is going to happen,” said el Aziz, the minister of antiquities, who flipped the top down on his cell phone and returned to the group.
“What are you talking about?” said Ellis.
“Mr. Ellis, I know it is very early, but if you would kindly call your ambassador at his residence, you will find that not only has he already spoken with my government, but that he will instruct you to impede us no further.”
Ellis called the American ambassador, of course, and was furious when told to back down. Dr. el Aziz then shouted orders in Arabic to both the soldiers and the warehouse workers. A semitrailer from Worldwide Customs Brokers International was backed into the warehouse, and the Egyptian Museum’s containers were loaded without further delay.
Once the semi was loaded, Dr. el Aziz offered to treat Dr. Mandour to breakfast before he returned to the museum to open the crates. Dr. Mandour accepted and the pair departed in the minister’s chauffeured Mercedes.
Farouk Negim finished signing the paperwork and climbed into the semi’s passenger seat next to his driver.
Tom Ellis was fuming. “Mr. Negim,” he called snidely through the open window. “Beware of the mummy’s curse.”
Farouk Negim didn’t bother to respond. He simply instructed his driver in Arabic to proceed. Once they had cleared the customs warehouse and were on the road leading from the airport, he smiled to himself. Mummy’s curse, indeed. He knew full well that the occupants of his crates were not at all cursed. If anything, they were blessed, and they had showered riches upon him and his counterpart in Chicago, the likes of which neither had ever before seen in their long careers of smuggling.
25
Bernard Walsh, the navigator, and the badly beaten flight attendant were immediately choppered to El Salam International Hospital, but Rick Morrell had other plans for Meg Cassidy. After Harvath had escorted all of the VIPs to the EgyptAir clubroom, Morrell magically appeared with his SAS medic in tow. They made a beeline for the leather couch where Scot had laid Meg down and was conducting a cursory assessment.
“Okay, Harvath, we’ll take it from here,�
� said Morrell, who indicated to the medic to take Scot’s place. The SAS man was apprehensive. He was already sporting two butterfly bandages above his eye and had no desire to add to them. He didn’t want to be anywhere near Harvath.
Morrell sensed his operative’s trepidation and said, “Clear the way, Harvath. I’ve got some questions for this woman.”
“I’m sure you do, but she’s in no condition to talk. I told you, she needs medical attention,” replied Harvath.
“Why do you think I brought my medic with me?”
“Listen, Rick. I can appreciate that you want to find out what she saw, but she needs to be seen by a real doctor in a real hospital.”
“If she was that bad, why didn’t she go out on the chopper with the other wounded?”
“Because when the Delta medic triaged the injuries on the plane, there were plenty more serious than her. They were barely able to squeeze your injured men into the Black Hawk along with the civilians. Now, we need to get an IV started on her, and then—”
“What we need,” said Morrell, cutting Scot off, “is a description of the man she saw. I’ve got every person from that flight being held in a containment area. If Hashim Nidal is among them and she can ID him, then that’s what we need done.”
“And what if he’s not?”
“Then she’s going to need to view the bodies and tell me he’s among the dead.”
“Jesus, Morrell. We don’t even know the extent of her injuries and you want her to sit through a lineup of hundreds of people? For Christ’s sake, the woman can’t even speak. What’s she supposed to do, blink once for yes, twice for no?”
“If that’s what it takes.”
“Well, that isn’t going to happen. An As-Salam ambulance has already been called.”
“As-Salam? You mean El Salam.”
“No, I mean As-Salam. It’s a private ambulance service. If you dial Egypt’s version of nine-one-one, they only send out a public ambulance that’ll transport to the nearest hospital. I figured we would want her to be taken to the El Salam hospital where the other injured are.”
“No way. If she’s not talking now, I want her close when she starts. Have her taken to the Anglo-American Hospital.”
“But that’s not close. That’s the other side of town.”
“It’s close to the embassy, and that’s where I want her.”
“Fine,” said Harvath, anxious to be rid of Morrell so he could tend to Meg Cassidy. “I’ll ride over in the ambulance with her.”
“No you won’t. I’ll send one of my people to keep an eye on her. I want you down in the containment area conducting interviews right now. And don’t try to buck me on this one.”
Harvath knew why Morrell wanted him interviewing the passengers. As a matter of fact, there were probably two reasons. Number one, it was tedious as hell and Morrell wanted to stick it to him. Number two, it had been scientifically proven that the highly and specially trained U.S. Secret Service agents were exceptionally capable of detecting microexpressions. These were facial expressions that manifested themselves when a person was under psychological stress, such as from lying, harboring an intent to do harm, or, most pertinent to the current situation, trying to conceal one’s true identity. The expressions lasted for only a fraction of a second and were therefore incredibly difficult to detect. The Secret Service had never revealed how their agents were trained to pick up on these subtle facial cues. It was a closely guarded secret and part of what made the U.S. Secret Service the greatest protective force in the world. Obviously, Morrell planned to get his money’s worth out of Harvath.
The interview process was long and drawn out. At one point, Harvath thought they had a hit, but it turned out to only be a passenger hiding the fact that he was smuggling American cigarettes and whiskey in his suitcase. Judging by the looks on the faces of the Egyptian customs officers, Harvath figured the contraband would never make it as far as the evidence locker.
Once all of the passengers had been interviewed, Scot wandered over to the adjacent hangar, where the bodies of the hijackers were lined up along the floor, covered by tarps. He looked each one over. What he saw didn’t surprise him. The bodies were all those of Middle Eastern men in their twenties to thirties, with dark hair, dark skin and eyes. He was sure that if he went through their pockets, each would have a copy of the Koran. Harvath felt for the Muslim people. Islam was an honorable religion that was unfortunately rotting from within. Like it or not, the radicals gave all Muslims a bad name.
In fact, if blame had to be laid for the modern decay of Islam, the Saudi royal family was the perfect group to begin pointing the finger at. In an attempt to shore up their sovereignty, the Saudis had helped to promote one of the most radical forms of Islam, which an overwhelming majority of the world’s Islamic terrorists followed.
Harvath continued to look at the bodies, wondering if one of the men was Hashim Nidal himself. Something—he didn’t know what—told him he was wasting his time.
Scot was interrupted by a Delta operative, who told him that the Delta commander wanted him in the EgyptAir clubroom for a debriefing. When Harvath arrived, Morrell and his people were nowhere to be found. “Where’s the SAS team?” he asked.
“Back at the embassy. They took the mayor and Bob Lawrence with them,” said the CO.
“What about Ms. Cassidy?”
“They were going to take her to a nearby hospital for further observation.”
“And the debriefing?”
“We’ve already got a statement from Morrell, so I guess they plan to do their own debriefing at the embassy.”
“That’s just great. What about the rest of the passengers? What if there’s a hijacker mixed in there, after all?”
“Apparently, a few consular affairs officers have already been dispatched from the embassy to sift through them once again.”
Consular affairs officer was one of the CIA’s smokescreen titles for U.S. Embassy employees who were really covert, CIA in-country operatives.
“Those guys are as thick as thieves,” said Harvath.
“Yup, and they don’t play well with others.”
“Tell me about it. I’ve gotten to see it firsthand.”
“That’s exactly what we are going to talk about,” said the CO as he gestured for his men to take their seats. “All right, let’s get this coffee klatch rolling. I’ve got a feeling the after-action report from this job, especially Agent Harvath’s actions, will be studied for a long, long time.”
When the debriefing was over, Bullet Bob and some of the other Delta operatives were preparing to take the remainder of the SAS team’s gear over to the embassy and they offered Harvath a ride. As far as Scot could tell, his job at the airport was done. Morrell had left without giving him any further instructions, so the embassy sounded like as good a place as any to find out what their next move would be. Harvath retrieved his duffel from the back of Bullet Bob’s Suburban, changed back into his civilian clothes, and tucked his pistol into his waistband beneath his shirt.
26
Cairo was an amazing city. The official population was around eleven million, but when outside workers streamed into the city during the day, the numbers shot up to between sixteen and seventeen million. It was an eclectic mixture of old and new. Donkey-drawn carts shared the streets with shiny new Mercedes as men in business suits shouldered their way down sidewalks with men dressed in the traditional robes known as galabiya. Egyptians referred to Cairo as Umm al-Dunya, “the mother of the world,” and Harvath was no stranger to it. He had been here many times. It was a city that you absolutely loved or hated, and Harvath loved Cairo. Though he wasn’t crazy about Egypt’s politics, that didn’t stop him from appreciating its people and their incredible culture.
The row of Suburbans sped down the paved street, passing side streets that were nothing more than sand. Sand was everywhere here, and dealing with it was part of life in a desert. Egyptians went so far as to wrap bedsheets around their parked ca
rs to help keep them free of it. It wasn’t pretty, but it was practical, and that was the mentality of the Egyptians. They did the best with what they had.
The team slowed down as they got further into the city and were caught in the snarl of one of Cairo’s inevitable traffic jams. As far as Harvath could see, there was nothing ahead, but a sea of aging Fiat and Peugeot sedans. Drivers leaned on their horns rather than using their blinkers to indicate lane changes. A family of six, piled into an old 1940s motorcycle complete with sidecar, sneaked past them on the right.
At el-Geish Square, Harvath could make out the Gate of Conquests and told Bullet Bob to pull over.
“What for?” he asked.
“I’m gonna get some breakfast,” replied Harvath.
“Why don’t you wait until we get to the embassy and have something there?”
“Because I’m hungry now. Listen, find Morrell and tell him I stopped off for a bite and that I’ll be there shortly.”
Bullet Bob radioed the other drivers and the caravan came to a stop. Harvath got out of the Suburban and walked around to the driver’s side window to thank his friend. He stuck his hand in and they shook.
“What’s this? No baksheesh?” asked Bullet Bob.
Baksheesh was slang for “tip.”
“Sure, I’ll give you a tip,” said Harvath. “Don’t drink with the blacksmith’s wife. You’re liable to get hammered.”
Bullet Bob winced as if he were in pain. “God, that’s a bad joke,” he said.
“Hey, nobody’s perfect,” replied Harvath.
“I hope you’re packing more than that lousy sense of humor.”
Harvath raised the front of his shirt a fraction and displayed the butt of his forty-five caliber.
“Good. Watch your back. If we don’t see you at the embassy, give me a shout the next time you get near Fort Bragg. Our tour is up, and we’re rotating back at the end of the week.”
“Will do,” said Harvath. He stood back as Bullet Bob gave the order to move out, and the Suburbans rolled off toward the embassy.
