“Take this dog outside. I’ll deal with him later.”
Two soldiers cautiously descended the steps again. They stumbled over the bodies of their comrades as they groped though thick, acrid smoke. In addition to the two corpses, they found the body of a man who had blown himself up with a grenade.
Firefighters and ambulances were on their way. The neighborhood had been sealed off.
Leaving his men in place, the captain raced back to Mukhabarat headquarters. In the back of his pickup truck, two soldiers were sitting on el-Said, who was still unconscious.
A half hour later, the pickup passed the machine-gun emplacement that guarded the entrance to the Mukhabarat. Then it drove to a windowless gray cement building, the interrogation center.
In a basement room, el-Said was shackled to a metal chair welded to the floor. The room was soundproofed so the screams of prisoners being interrogated wouldn’t disturb the work of the bureaucrats on the ground floor.
In Egypt, torture was a practice as old as the pharaohs.
Captain Saadi was preparing his equipment when his phone rang. A Mukhabarat agent at the shop said they had finally cleared the basement and found the unrecognizable body of the man who had blown himself up, as well as eight Russian surface-to-air missiles, still in their crates.
This was the most important seizure they’d made in a long time, and Saadi knew it could belong to only one organization: the Muslim Brotherhood’s Al-Tanzim al-Asasi. And just one person could help him write a complete report: Fathi el-Said, the owner of the tire-retreading shop.
The Mukhabarat officer carefully fitted a medium bit into his drill and sat down on a stool facing the chair el-Said was chained to. The shop owner had regained consciousness and was now very sorry he hadn’t been killed.
The Mukhabarat officer looked at him.
“Who’s the guy who blew himself up, you cur?”
He didn’t answer, so Saadi set the drill bit against the prisoner’s left knee. El-Said screamed in terror.
“Yallahs,” said the officer, pulling the trigger.
The drill bit instantly cut into skin and cartilage, sending out a spray of blood, some of which spattered the torturer. Saadi stopped for a few seconds.
“I’m going to drill as many holes as it takes to get you to tell the truth, dog.”
When the prisoner eventually talked, Captain Saadi would know where the surface-to-air missiles had come from and where they were bound. He would also know the identity of the man who had committed suicide rather than let himself be captured.
The secret meeting was held in a rarely used building in Nasr City. Shalubi, the Cairo head of the Brotherhood underground, had called an urgent meeting of his men. Thanks to a disposable SIM card, they would also be talking with Abu Bukatalla, who had just arrived in Marsa Matruh to pick up Ibrahim al-Senussi for his trip to Libya.
Shalubi looked grim. The Mukhabarat raid on Fathi el-Said’s tire shop had been a terrible blow. Not only had they lost the Strelas—and they wouldn’t get replacements anytime soon—but the Jund Ansar Allah had paid for them in advance. Shalubi had also lost one valuable man, Abdul Gabal al-Afghani, and probably a second, Fathi el-Said. Worst of all, the Mukhabarat might be able to work its way up the Al-Tanzim al-Asasi chain of command. If so, the Muslim Brothers could wind up paying a heavy political price.
The Brotherhood was keeping a low profile until the elections. Having to explain why its armed branch was in possession of surface-to-air missiles would be extremely awkward.
For the time being, however, that fact was still secret. Neither TV, nor press, nor radio had reported what had happened. The official story was that an oxygen tank had accidentally exploded in a workshop. Nobody in the neighborhood was likely to tell reporters about the presence of the Mukhabarat agents.
One of the men handed Shalubi the cell phone, saying:
“Our Libyan brother is on the line.”
Abu Bukatalla, who knew what had happened at the tire shop, didn’t hide his fury. He started by raking Shalubi over the coals, first, for deciding to kill the CIA agent without alerting him, and second, for failing. Ibrahim al-Senussi was due to travel to Libya and the CIA agent wasn’t likely to follow, said Abu Bukatalla, so there was no problem. And in case the man did come, it would be easier to kill him in Libya than in Egypt.
Abu Bukatalla was an important person, and Shalubi didn’t argue.
“I don’t want to stay in Marsa Matruh much longer,” the takfiri continued. “Al-Senussi must join me here, tonight. Don’t call to tell him. Send Nabil to the Four Seasons.”
“It will be done,” said Shalubi, happy to have the Libyan prince off his hands.
“Take steps to make sure he isn’t followed,” said Abu Bukatalla. “Call me back at this number when everything is set.”
“Those assholes!”
Jerry Tombstone was sputtering with rage when Malko entered his office. The CIA station chief had summoned him an hour earlier, and Malko had made his way through the various barriers protecting the American embassy.
“What’s going on?” he asked.
“The Mukhabarat raided the place where the guy who tried to kill you was hiding, and it was a massacre: he blew himself up. They found Strelas in the basement, which proves that the British Airways attack and the attempt on you were committed by the same people: the Al-Tanzim al-Asasi. But not for their own account; they were working for the Libyans. We’ve got to find out who.”
“So what do we do?”
“Stay close to al-Senussi. We can’t let him slip through our fingers. It’s for his own safety; I don’t think he realizes the risks he’s taking. And I don’t like this trip to Libya one bit. I’m going to see General Mowafi at the Mukhabarat. His people have kicked over the anthill, and God knows what’s going to happen next.
“At least we’ve identified the people who tried to shoot down al-Senussi’s plan. We might be able to pick up a lead.”
Al-Senussi had been exercising in the hotel gym and was just stepping out of the shower when somebody knocked on the door of his suite. Thinking it was room service, he opened it promptly, to find Nabil standing there. The young Egyptian stepped into the suite.
“I’ve come to get you,” he announced. “We’re leaving for Marsa Matruh.”
“Right away?”
“That’s right. I’m going with you. A car’s waiting for us.”
“Why right now?”
“I don’t know,” answered Nabil with a disarming smile.
Al-Senussi realized he would have to do as he said. Anyway, he didn’t mind moving up his departure.
“All right, I’ll get ready,” he said. “You can wait for me downstairs.”
Nabil didn’t budge.
“I’d rather wait for you here,” he said shyly but firmly.
Al-Senussi didn’t argue. He thanked his lucky stars that he’d earlier paid a call on Herbert Mallows, the MI6 man in Cairo, to tell him about his upcoming trip to Libya. The Briton warned al-Senussi about the pitfalls that might await him on the other side of the border. He also approved his wish to meet General Younes. Finally, he gave al-Senussi a Thuraya satellite phone so he could stay in communication. Regular phones worked very poorly in Libya, if at all.
Al-Senussi quickly packed a suitcase and tried to phone Cynthia, who had gone to visit the Cairo museum.
No answer.
He tried four more times and then gave up, as Nabil grew visibly nervous. Resentfully, al-Senussi followed the young man out of the hotel and down to the street.
A car was waiting for them some distance down the Corniche el-Nil: an old Japanese model with a bearded man at the wheel. After driving a few hundred yards, the man turned left into a narrow street. To al-Senussi’s surprise, a brick wall blocked the entire street a little farther on.
“You went the wrong way,” he told Nabil.
“No, we didn’t.”
When they reached the wall, the car stopped and Nabil opened the
door.
“Come with me,” he said.
When al-Senussi got out, he realized there was a narrow opening between the brick wall and one of the buildings. The two men took this pedestrian passageway, with Nabil carrying al-Senussi’s suitcase. An old gray Volkswagen Golf awaited them on the other side and took off as soon as they were seated. No one could be following them now. Al-Senussi, who wasn’t familiar with the technique of ditching a car that might be tailing you, was a little confused.
After a while, they merged with the insane late-afternoon traffic and headed for the Ring Road to pick up the Alexandria highway. The car smelled of onions and trash. Al-Senussi suddenly regretted agreeing to the trip.
He would have done better to stay with Cynthia.
“Are you free for dinner tonight?” Cynthia Mulligan’s joyful voice came over the house phone.
Malko couldn’t believe his ears. He’d gone looking for the young woman at the pool, but the cabana was locked.
“Sure, but what about you?”
She laughed.
“He took off a while ago as if he had the devil on his tail. I wasn’t even at the hotel. He just left me a message.”
Clearly, she couldn’t have cared less.
Malko’s brain started to race. Was al-Senussi’s sudden departure somehow connected with that morning’s Mukhabarat action? He absolutely had to alert Jerry Tombstone.
“I’m free, all right,” he told her.
“Okay, let’s meet downstairs at nine o’clock.”
“Aren’t you worried about the hotel staff gossiping?”
“Nah, I doubt they care what the foreigners do,” she said. “See you later.”
Malko grabbed his cell phone.
It was a few moments before Tombstone answered.
“I’m at the Mukhabarat,” said the CIA man. “Can we talk later?”
“Certainly. I just wanted to tell you that our friend left on his trip an hour ago.”
“Do you know how?”
“No.”
“Okay. I’ll call you back later.”
The Volkswagen was now beyond El Alamein, and night had fallen. They were driving slowly because of heavy truck traffic in both directions.
Nabil turned to al-Senussi.
“We’re about halfway to Marsa Matruh,” he said. “Would you like to stop for a cup of coffee?”
“No, thanks.”
What he really wanted to do was to get there so he could phone Cynthia. He was angry that he hadn’t been able to talk to her before leaving.
The highway stretched ahead of them, running as straight as an arrow along the coast. The sea to the right, the desert to the left. From time to time, the lights of a village or a gas station.
The Libyan tried to relax. He was starting to realize that becoming king was harder than he’d thought.
Malko was leaning on the railing of the ground-floor tearoom near the piano player when Cynthia stepped out of the elevator.
She looked so beautiful, it took his breath away.
She was wearing a black suit with narrow stripes. The skirt was split in front and went perfectly with her black “anti-mosquito” stockings. As she came closer, Malko noticed she was wearing a see-through black chiffon blouse over a lacy black bra.
With the jacket buttoned, she was perfectly decent. But with it open, she was something else again.
“Where are you taking me for dinner?” she asked, her eyes sparkling. “Someplace civilized, I hope.”
“Let’s try the Shepherd. It’s a little way down the corniche.”
“Is your driver here?”
Nasser hadn’t come. He was probably feeling bad about what had happened.
“No, he isn’t. We’ll take one of the hotel’s limos.”
Looking as regal as Queen Nefertiti, Cynthia walked across the lobby, followed by hungry looks from the staff.
When they were in the limo, Malko’s cell rang: Jerry Tombstone.
“I’m on my way to dinner with a lady friend,” Malko said warningly. “What’s new?”
“They took a man alive and interrogated him,” said Tombstone. “He claims the Strelas were bound for Gaza, and he doesn’t know anything about any attack, either on you or on the plane.”
“Who are these people?”
“The armed branch of the Brotherhood, apparently. I asked the Mukhabarat to watch the Sallum border crossing. It’s the only one open to Libya, so we should know when our friend crosses and who he’s with.”
“Fine,” said Malko. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”
Cynthia was starting to give him quizzical looks. Fortunately, they had reached their destination.
The Shepherd was a shadow of its former self, alas. The nightclub, which had once featured the best belly dancers in the Middle East, was closed, and the dining room was half empty.
Malko was on the verge of leaving, but he knew there were practically no other restaurants left in Cairo outside of the hotels. The offerings included the same old mezzes, plus some very tired-looking lamb. They fell back on the wine, which at least was fairly drinkable.
As the limo brought them back to the Four Seasons, Cynthia rested her head on Malko’s shoulder and sighed.
“It’s so nice to kick back and relax,” she said.
“Didn’t your boyfriend call?”
“He may have, but I turned off my phone. I want to be left alone tonight.”
When they took the elevator, she pushed the button for the twenty-seventh floor. “In case he calls, I’d better be there to answer,” she said.
If she were any more of a slut, it would kill her.
Malko opened her suit jacket and brushed the firm tip of one breast.
Cynthia closed her eyes with pleasure.
“If you stroke me very gently, you can make me come.”
He wasn’t able to; the elevator trip was too short. But the moment they reached her suite, he took up where he’d left off.
Cynthia got rid of her jacket and let him caress her, while gently stroking Malko’s head. She started breathing faster, eyes closed, and suddenly a long sigh escaped her lips. When she looked at him, her eyes were dewy.
“You did it. You really have a magic touch.”
Malko was a bit rougher when he put his hand through the slit in her skirt to find a pair of satin panties. He stroked them softly and soon had Cynthia practically purring.
She helped him slip the silky triangle down her long legs. Then, without taking off her black skirt, she turned around and kneeled at the edge of the bed. She tugged the skirt up over her hips, baring her bottom. Malko came closer.
“Do whatever you feel like,” she said sweetly.
Marko’s erection could have led an army. Without bothering to take off his pants, he freed his cock and approached the young woman. With her rear end thrust out and her back arched, Cynthia waited like a she-cat in heat.
Malko entered her in one thrust, going as deep as he could, then seized her hips and started a long in-and-out movement.
He slid smoothly in her soft, warm sheath, and Cynthia gave little flicks of her hips, as if to spur his desire. With her skirt pulled over her hips, black stockings far up her thighs, and high heels, she was charming, crude, and irresistible. Malko savored all this fully before exploding deep in her belly.
Cynthia let herself slide slowly forward until she was lying facedown on the bed. She hadn’t come this time but seemed to be feeling good. Malko was still deep inside her.
“Are you satisfied?” she asked.
“Absolutely.”
He pulled out and she rolled over onto her back. She undid her blouse, revealing a silent plea from her stiff nipples.
They were as hard as pencil tips, and when Malko’s mouth closed around them, he could feel Cynthia shiver. Eyes half closed, she responded hungrily to his caresses. Then, with her skirt still hiked up, she slowly parted her legs, offering herself to him.
Malko couldn’t ignore this second silent p
lea. As his head slipped between the young woman’s thighs, she squeezed them together lightly, as if to greet him.
Her pussy was hot, and she immediately started responding to his caresses, much more actively than when he had penetrated her. Grabbing Malko’s hair, she pressed his head against her crotch.
This got Malko so excited, he outdid himself.
Until Cynthia gave a hoarse cry, suddenly straightening her legs.
It really was her thing.
After some time had passed, she stood up, her eyes glazed.
“Want to take a shower?” she asked.
“You go first.”
She stepped out of her skirt and stockings and headed for the bathroom, staggering slightly. Malko waited until he heard the water running before getting up in turn. The CIA wasn’t paying him just to satisfy a supermodel. He walked over to a desk covered with some papers.
A sheet of hotel stationery immediately caught his eye. It bore a few lines in Arabic followed by telephone number.
A number that began with 218.
A Libyan number.
Malko took the paper, folded it, and put it in his pants pocket. He had just gotten back to the bed when Cynthia emerged from the bathroom wearing a robe. She stretched out next to him.
“Would you like to sleep here?” she offered.
Politely, Malko turned her down. He was eager to give Jerry Tombstone what might be the name and phone number of the person who had tried to shoot down Ibrahim al-Senussi and dozens of other innocent people.
Including the delectable Cynthia Mulligan.
Jerry Tombstone’s office was so quiet, you could have heard a pin drop. One of the embassy’s Arab linguists was bent over his desk, studying the note Malko had taken from Cynthia Mulligan’s room. He wrote a few words on a piece of paper and handed it to the CIA station chief.
“It’s the number of a Libyan cell phone,” he said. “But there’s no way to know who it belongs to.”
His job done, the translator left the office.
Tombstone looked disappointed.
“Let’s see if the number appears in Abu Bukatalla’s file,” he said, turning on his computer.
The Madmen of Benghazi Page 8
