by Finn Óg
“Good girl,” said Sam.
“Girl?”
“Woman,” he corrected himself. “Sorry.”
“You’re grand.”
“So was she able to say what type?”
“Kind of. We showed her loads of pictures on Google and finally she found one on eBay. It’s a really old yoke, Sam, with a twisty aerial that sticks out the side.”
“What make?” Sam asked, feeling like this was going nowhere.
“A Garmin. It took us ages to find it. It’s really old – from the nineties.”
“Right,” said Sam with a sigh.
“Hold on, Sam,” said Sinead, detecting his ambivalence. “I’m going to put Áine on.”
Sam’s resignation got deeper as he waited for the sarcastic sister to start.
“Hello?” came the curt voice of Sinead’s twin.
“Áine,” said Sam.
“That the GPS is so old is actually an advantage.”
“How come?” he asked, refusing to brighten.
“Because,” said Áine, mounting her high horse, “nobody ever tries to update the software on obsolete devices, do they?”
“Haven’t a clue, do they not?”
“No, Sam,” he could almost see her expression, “yet somebody recently did just that on a device similar to the one we’re looking for.”
“And how does that help us?”
“Well, Sam, it doesn’t help me one bloody bit. It’s you that’s looking for the help, so perhaps you’d do well to be a little less dismissive.”
“Alright, Áine,” he said, “how does that help me?”
“It helps you because the software was downloaded at a hotel not a million miles from where you are.”
“Serious?”
“Serious.”
“How do you know?” he said.
“I could tell you but Neanderthals like you would never understand, Sam. It’s all to do with whizz-bang computers and stuff.”
Sam had to smile. “Thanks very much,” he said, feigning offence.
“Well, I’m told you just sank a ship with a hatchet. You’ll be off to paint your remarkable personal development on the inside of a cave this afternoon. You know, how you’ve evolved so far in the last few years from trained killer to, oh wait, trained killer.”
“Nobody died, Áine.”
“I take it all back,” she said. “You’ve clearly become cultivated. Make sure you capture that in your cave art.”
Sam shook his head in wonder at her relentless hostility, but he’d learned to firewall her jibes and could hear Sinead hissing at her sister to ease up.
“Will you text me the hotel details?”
“Fine,” she said, and hung up before he could speak to Sinead again.
In a rare display of efficiency, Cairo came through before Waleed had even made it to Nuweiba. His phone buzzed on the dash and he punched the answer button on the Bluetooth, anticipating yet another distraction.
“Yes?”
“This is a secure line from central,” a woman said.
Waleed was no stranger to such calls. They came from the GID, the General Intelligence Directorate, known to most as the Mukhabarat. His own position was an extension of that agency, although more military than spook. The two wings were rarely without tension. He went through the security checks and confirmed his staff credentials and passwords.
“We have information regarding your inquiry this morning.”
Such conversations were always formal, the operator generally permitted only to relay what was written in front of them.
“Yes?” said Waleed.
“I have instructions to ask whether this is connected to a similar inquiry from the police in Alexandria.”
Immediately Waleed’s antenna shot up. Big Suit was a member of Alexandria’s police force.
“What inquiry do you have from the police in Alexandria?”
“There is a similar request to track phone signals last positioned in your jurisdiction,” said the operator.
“A specific phone?”
“I have no further details, sir.”
“Can you not tell me whether the request is to track unusual calls or a phone unit itself?”
“I have no further details, sir.”
Waleed thought for a moment. He was tired and didn’t have much capacity to play this information.
“As far as I’m aware, my inquiry is not connected to the Alexandrian police in any way. However, as head of military intelligence in this area I would like to formally request sight of that monitoring in full.”
“I shall relay your request, sir,” said the operator.
“So what of my own inquiry?”
The operator began to read. “You requested notification of any unusual cellular phone communications in the area of Nuweiba and Nuweiba Port over the past twenty-four hours.”
“And ongoing,” Waleed chipped in.
“Noted, sir. We have a record of two unusual calls being made. Notification of the calls came through a cellular mast six miles north of the port at Helnan.”
“Who made them and to where?”
“The calls were made from a phone registered in the United Kingdom to a phone that connected in the Republic of Ireland.”
Waleed sighed. Tourists.
“What type of place is Helnan?”
“Sir?”
“You are in front of a computer, yes?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Get on Google and look up Helnan. What type of place is it?”
“I’m not sure that—”
“It’s ok. I shall explain to anyone asking – or listening – that I’m ordering you to take a look for me.”
He could hear the operator typing. Then a pause.
“It is a resort, sir.”
“A beach resort?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Is it an upmarket beach resort or a downmarket beach resort?”
“Ehm … I do not know, sir. There are images of huts on the beach and, eh, it looks quite nice.”
Waleed breathed out in frustration.
“How much does it cost to stay there?”
He heard the keyboard batter.
“Ok, sir, I see what you mean. There is a backpacker’s hostel there that is cheap.”
“So what does that suggest to you about the phone call that was made?”
“Perhaps the call was made by a backpacker?”
“Perhaps it was,” said Waleed, trying not to take his irritation out on a lowly operator who was just following a script. “Can I kindly request that we monitor unusual phone signals from the area?”
“I believe, sir,” he could sense her bristling, “that this is the only unusual phone signal that was made. And the description of the Nuweiba Port attacker was that he was white and English, which is why I think this was noted and relayed to you, sir,” she added curtly.
Waleed adjusted himself in the seat. The operator was clearly bright and ballsy. He quite liked that.
“Ok, you make a point. Please see what you can determine from the content of the phone call.”
“Perhaps, sir, someone may have already made that assessment.”
Waleed tensed. The operator’s tone had changed a fraction. He got the sense she was telling him something. Waleed thought on that for a moment but his mind was cluttered with questions. He’d come back to it.
“Can you do something else for me quickly?”
“Yes, sir,” the woman said.
“Look up Islamic jihadists in Ireland, please.”
“On our database?”
“On Google, please, eh … what is your name?”
“Tiye, sir,” the operator said, unsure as to whether she should be saying anything beyond her notes.
“Ok, Tiye, I don’t have a computer as I’m driving, so if you could look that up for me we’ll see if you might be right about this being significant.”
“I don’t know if I’m authorised—”
Waleed heard the woman hammer at the keyboard. He waited on the line for a few minutes listening to her breathing and reading, and then typing some more. He didn’t think she was taking notes, which was wise, as there would no doubt be inspections of their workspaces and searches of their bags as they left. The GID was nothing if not cautious about possible infiltration.
“Ok, sir?” she began, checking Waleed was still there.
“Go on, Tiye, I’m listening.”
“There have been only two arrests for Islamic jihadist-related activity in Ireland, and one loosely related case. There was a woman from Northern Ireland, which appears to be part of the United Kingdom, who is related to a jihadist, but she moved to England many years ago.”
“Ok,” said Waleed, dismissing it as unlikely. “Go on.”
“There was a man arrested ten years ago for researching how to make bombs. He was sent to prison. Again, Northern Ireland.”
“And the call that was made from Nuweiba was to the Republic of Ireland, wasn’t it? That’s kind of a different country?” Waleed wasn’t entirely sure.
“Yes, sir, that’s correct,” said Tiye.
“So is there anything from the Republic of Ireland?”
There was another long pause as Tiye read.
“Sir,” she said, frustrated and unsure. “There is really very little. One half-Turkish man was convicted recently of raising a few hundred euro for Daesh, but that’s all. There does not seem to be any sort of radicalisation happening there. No indication of it anyway.”
“Ok,” said Waleed, his mind drifting away from any notion of a complicated plot. He thought back to the hint that Tiye had given him earlier and decided to press his luck.
“Tiye, can you elaborate on the calls made from Nuweiba – is there any further information on record?” Waleed formally stated to help the operator out in case the call was being monitored by her superiors.
“Sir, let me seek authorisation,” she said.
Of course she has to, Waleed realised. Why his own agency wouldn’t volunteer everything at first ask remained a mystery to him. As usual it felt like some sort of insane control freakery.
He was placed on hold for an interminable period before Tiye came back.
“Sir, I have authorisation to play you what we have of the second call. We do not possess the conversation in its entirety.”
“Why not?” Waleed asked, although he was eager to hear the audio.
“We do not have capacity to record all calls. Where an unusual communication is detected, it can take a few moments to place a track across the transmission.”
“Ok,” said Waleed.
“Stand by, sir.”
There came a thump and a click and then – relayed through two poor speakers – Waleed could make out a woman and a man speaking in English.
“… sank a ship with a hatchet. You’ll be off to paint your remarkable personal development on the inside of a cave this afternoon. You know, how you’ve evolved so far in the last few years from trained killer to, oh wait, trained killer.”
“Nobody died, Áine.”
“I take it all back. You’ve clearly become cultivated. Make sure you capture that in your cave art.”
“Will you text me the hotel details?”
“Fine.”
Waleed was astonished at the recording. His English was good but not good enough to catch it all. It seemed like an odd conversation.
“Can you send me that file please, Tiye?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Did you understand it?”
“Some, sir. I have some English.”
“What were the accents?” he asked.
“I do not know, sir. Ireland, maybe?”
“Yes,” said Waleed. “Maybe Ireland. You know what I want now, don’t you, Tiye?”
“Yes, sir. I shall make contact again when that information becomes available.”
Sam stared at the map. He didn’t like it one bit. There was only one road to the place he needed to get to. Either side of that, nothing – sand, stones, sunshine and exposure. Nowhere to hide, he imagined. No cover. No water. If he became compromised on the short trip north, there would be few options beyond a fight, and he was ill-equipped. He hadn’t even kept the hatchet. Still, the journey needed to be made otherwise the whole trip was largely pointless, so he looked around for a car to break into but discovered that such deviant behaviour wasn’t required. Apparently nobody locked their vehicles in Egypt.
Sam found an old Merc at the edge of the port sitting among others identically dusted and exhausted. He chose a silver one because its tyre pressure looked better than the others, which meant more speed and less chance of accidents or punctures. There were a few people around, handing over goods, blethering at a million miles an hour. With the exception of one they all looked preoccupied.
Against a white Toyota van leaned a man who looked as shifty and out of place as Sam. He had a crisp white shirt on with smart trousers creased down the front. Those two elements would have been enough to distinguish him from the bartering sandal-footed Arabs to his left and right, but his shoes put the lid on it. They were fine slip-on articles with small tassels, handmade. Sam generally had no time for people who wore such shoes. In his experience they tended to be exceptionally posh and dismissive. Whoever this bloke was, he wasn’t some Arabian version of the white van man. Sam remained wary of him, suspecting him to be a police or customs officer. He stood and watched as the man’s eyes darted around the port apparently hunting for something. Sam began to worry that the man may be looking for him – after all, someone had sunk a ship in the port in recent days, so additional security was inevitable.
Sam kept his distance, observing the van. After about fifteen minutes the man straightened his back, his eye having caught something. The crisp shirt was dusted off as a larger van trundled towards him. It drew to a halt, nose first, amid a following fug of dirt and dust. The driver didn’t acknowledge the man in the shirt but went immediately to the rear of his vehicle and began, Sam imagined, to lower the loading door. Sam struggled to see what the cargo was but caught glimpses of carpet between the two vehicles. He was losing interest until he caught a familiar name: AVON. A piece of rubber languished out the end of a rolled carpet bearing the name of an old but well-respected manufacturer of rubber dinghies. Sam had seen hundreds of such dinghies in his years working on boats but none recently. The ‘O’ in the logo was a red dot and so distinctive that he was absolutely sure that the carpet had been wrapped around an inflatable boat.
Of course, that didn’t amount to a row of beans, Sam reminded himself, but that the boat had been concealed in a carpet intrigued him. Seconds later the van and the lorry drew away in opposite directions leaving Sam in peace to pinch a Mercedes.
“Sir, we have the text message as ordered.”
“Requested, Tiye, requested.”
“Yes, sir, requested.” She almost giggled.
“Well?”
“The hotel is named as the Hilton in Taba, sir.”
Waleed’s heart plummeted. He knew it well, at least he knew of it. It had been all but destroyed some years ago in a terror attack that had killed a few dozen tourists. The bombing had been instrumental in his own deployment to Sinai. He’d been appointed in the aftermath to shore up intelligence gathering in counterterror. Bad thoughts began to float through his mind: was this Irishman about to attack the hotel or was he just seeking a place to stay? The recording of the phone conversation had been far from clear on any matter other than that the man had been responsible for the sinking of a ship and was, apparently, a trained killer.
Waleed had only just arrived in Nuweiba after a long, sweaty drive. He bought a bottle of water, took a long piss against his own rear wheel and set off again north, to Taba; the edge of Egypt where his country met its nemesis, Israel – and its troubleso
me cousin, Gaza. On the way he called in reinforcements and ordered the hotel to be surrounded with a ring of security. There would not be another attack there, not on his watch.
Chapter 22
Sam couldn’t find the handbrake. He’d never driven a Mercedes before, so he just left it in gear and made the last leg of his journey on foot. The hotel hadn’t been hard to find, although Áine’s text had been typically curt: Hilton, Taba. He’d thought a little about her hostility towards him on the drive north and knew that much of it derived from a protectiveness of her twin sister. He could almost admire that, but it was exhausting nonetheless.
Sam had no idea what he would do when he got to the hotel. All he had was an indication that a GPS device similar to the one used by a known people trafficker had undergone a software update on the premises. Sure the locations matched a broader picture, but as leads went it was as flaky as week-old sunburn.
In the event, he needn’t have worried about deciding his next move. Ten feet from the gate he found himself surrounded by soldiers.
Sinead was pacing. Her sister was reassuring.
“He’ll be grand. He’s always grand. He’s kind of … indestructible.”
It was probably the nicest thing Áine had ever said about Sam.
“Then why can’t you find him?”
Áine was staring at a computer screen. Her sister had asked her to track Sam’s phone, which had gone dark five hours before.
“Maybe he ran out of battery or switched it off to get some sleep,” she said.
“Don’t do that,” Sinead said.
“What?”
“Try to make me feel better by pretending you can’t track a phone even if the signal’s down. Sure, I’ve seen you do it before, remember?”
Áine sat silent. What her sister said was true. Even if a phone was powered down – even in some cases if its battery was removed – the tech existed to keep an eye on its whereabouts. Some agencies had the capacity to listen to what was being said in such a handset’s vicinity, regardless of its security settings.
“He’s a big boy, he’ll be ok.”
