by Nick Cook
Girling had never believed in anything like an afterlife, but under such a sky, on such a night, it was difficult not to feel that something existed out there for Mona and Stansell. He wondered whether her killer, Abu Tarek, was watching the sky that night. And whether he would ever be given the chance to make Abu Tarek pay.
Abdullah stoked the dying embers. As he did so, Girling saw him shiver.
‘What is it, my friend?’
‘I will get little sleep tonight.’
‘There is nothing to fear from this place.’
‘It is your soul that frightens me, ‘agnabi.’
Girling sat up.
‘Something troubles you,’ Abdullah said. ‘Many times I have felt it while we were riding.’
Girling felt compelled to answer.
‘I lost my wife some years back,’ he said. ‘There is still pain.’
‘How did she die?’
Girling told the story of Asyut and the manner of Mona’s death.
‘I have heard of these people from the towns and cities who do wrongs in the name of our belief.’
‘I cannot forgive them, Abdullah.’
‘Then you will never truly live again, my friend. There is only one path to true happiness and that is forgiveness. Forgive and your pain will cease.’
‘If Islam is vengeful, then so am I,’ Girling said.
‘God says that evil should be rewarded with like evil,’ Abdullah said. ‘But the Koran also says that he who forgives and seeks reconcilement shall be rewarded by God.’ He paused. ‘It is for each man to choose his path. You should make peace with the world, ‘agnabi. That is yours.’
‘That is easy to say, my friend.’
Abdullah sighed and lay back on the sand to sleep. ‘My heart is heavy for you, ‘agnabi.’
The light wind that had brought with it the heat of the Red Sea by day had turned colder and Girling pulled the blanket more tightly around his shoulders. Try as he might, sleep evaded him until the small hours before dawn.
The sound cut into his dreams before Abdullah’s rasping whisper roused him. He had not stirred before because he was convinced that the swishing noise of the blades only existed inside his head.
Girling’s eyes snapped open. The sky had lightened in the east. He had been asleep for an hour, maybe two.
Abdullah shook him hard. His voice was tense. ‘That sound. What is it?’
The canyon reverberated as the blades carved through the air towards them.
It took Girling a moment to focus his mind, a moment longer to appreciate that he, Abdullah and the camels were out in the open, clear of cover.
Girling knew that wherever the machines were going, their course would take them right overhead.
He threw the blanket off his body and sprang to his feet, thinking blindly that it would be enough for him and Abdullah to run for the shelter of the rocks close by. But then he remembered the camels.
Could he risk leaving them out in the open, while he and Abdullah cowered behind the rocks? The camels were alert, their ears twitching to each blade beat that echoed off the rocks. It was as if they sensed he might leave them behind.
‘We must move the camels behind the boulders,’ Girling yelled.
He dragged the first camel to its feet. A moment later Abdullah was by his side.
They cajoled the creatures, their gangling legs resisting attempts to hurry them as the sound grew in Girling’s head and the sand was whipped up by the rushing wind.
‘It is Shaytan. He is coming for us,’ Abdullah said, gasping, eyes wide with fear.
‘No, not Shaytan.’ But Girling was too breathless to explain.
They dragged the camels behind the nearest cluster of rocks just as the first helicopter swept round the bend in the wadi, the downwash from its rotors sending dust devils spiralling into the air.
The big machine roared past their position, its pilot holding a resolute course a few feet above the centre of the wadi bed. Girling recognized it as a modified Jolly Green, the fabled MH-53J Pave Low III of USAF special forces. It was so close that he could see the concentration on the pilot’s face; so close that the monotone star and bar was easily visible on the fuselage.
The MH-53J was followed by three more, each flying with the precision of the first.
Girling saw the special modifications - refuelling probe and radar system in the nose, the miniguns protruding from the open cabin door - and knew that these helicopters were training for no ordinary mission.
When the last MH-53J had thundered past, he sprang out from behind the rock and watched as it skittered down the wadi like a giant dragonfly, eventually pulling up over the cliffs and disappearing from view.
He stood there, waiting for the din to recede, but the sound of their engines did not disappear into the desert as he thought it would. He could hear them roaring beyond the wall of the wadi.
Girling began to sprint for the cliffs just as the gunfire started.
Abdullah was behind him, rifle in hand. They reached the flat summit together and ran across the plateau, stopping only at the abyss that lay on the other side. What Girling saw took his breath away.
The helicopters were circling like vultures a few feet above the tops of the cliffs at the head of the wadi. Every second or so, a belch of flame leapt from the cabin doors, accompanied by a sound that ripped apart the last vestiges of the night.
The gunners were pouring fire into the ground at the base of the cliffs. The shooting was well disciplined, each burst aimed with pinpoint precision -Girling could tell as much by the isolated puffs of dust that jumped from the ground.
One of the helicopters broke away from the group and came in to a hover a few feet above the cliffs at the end of the valley. Girling was dimly aware of shadows scurrying from the open cabin door.
Two more helicopters broke away, but Girling only tracked their passage on the periphery of his vision. A complex at the base of the cliffs was beginning to take shape as his eyes grew accustomed to the light. It was as strange as any he had ever seen. Its rigid geometry looked incongruous against the desert setting, but the fact it was fifty kilometres from the nearest outpost of civilization made it absurd.
It was a perfect square, its sides some fifty yards long, its walls approximately fifteen feet high. In its midst was a great courtyard, covered, in part, by a flimsy roof. There were a number of outhouses scattered round it, all whitewashed. Beyond the out-houses a trench enclosed the cluster of buildings.
More details leapt into focus. In one of the corners he noticed a minaret set starkly against the rocky backdrop, a building within the building at its base.
Girling turned to Abdullah. ‘What is this place?’
‘I do not understand,’ Abdullah replied. He had to shout over the gunfire. ‘It is a caravanserai.’
Girling had never seen one close up.
‘Did you know about this caravanserai here?’
‘No, ya majnoon.’ There was a mixture of puzzlement and anger on the bedouin’s face. ‘A caravanserai is the desert’s own miracle, a sacred place, where even rival tribes forget their differences.’
It was only when Girling looked at one of the walls side-on that the pieces fell into place. ‘Look,’ he shouted. ‘Your caravanserai is made of wood.’
Before Abdullah could ask him the purpose of such an edifice, the two Sikorskys that had broken away thirty seconds earlier swept in low and fast from the open end of the wadi. Their noses reared as the pilots bled off the excess speed. Then they began to settle on the expanse of dust between the caravanserai and the two outhouses. Even before their wheels brushed the ground men leapt from their ramps.
A group of eight soldiers rushed to one of the outhouses amidst covering fire from the helos circling overhead. Accurate sniping fire came from the men who had been deposited earlier on the clifftops.
The soldiers were difficult to spot, dressed as they were in black, gas masks and hoods on their heads.
There
was a flash like a firecracker detonation and the outhouse door blew off its hinges. Two men scurried inside. Another group dished out similar treatment to the second outhouse in a mirror-image operation. The second door blew open just as the first group of soldiers began hurrying back across open ground towards the helicopters. Each soldier supported mannequins, all dangling legs and dead weight. The second group reappeared and from somewhere a star-shell rose into the sky, bursting in an incandescent shower of green phosphor.
The two Sikorskys lifted off from the ground and peeled away.
There was so much action that Girling did not know where to look. At the head of the wadi, the second pair of Sikorskys began to lower over the caravanserai, ropes spilling from their bodies like disembowelled entrails. In an instant men were abseiling to the ground.
It took, perhaps, less than two minutes for the soldiers to clear the rooms with gunfire and grenades. This time, they did not reappear with mannequins. As he watched, the caravanserai was torn apart.
Another star-shell, red this time, burst in the sky. The Sikorskys reappeared and, once more, the ropes fell from the cabins. The helicopters pulled away, clearing the cliffs just as a series of explosions blew the building apart.
Then the noise ceased, leaving only a ringing in Girling’s ears.
Shabanov jumped from the side door of his MH-53J onto the tarmac at Wadi Qena. The other three helicopters swept down from the sky one by one, each separating by a hundred yards as it lowered wheels to the ground.
The Russian had exchanged his Soviet combat fatigues for American ones. It had been decided that since they were using US helicopters they would standardize on US military equipment, right down to the uniforms. Apart from anything else, it would lead to fewer identification problems when they took the Sword’s caravanserai for real.
Shabanov waved to his pilot and took a last admiring look at the MH-53J. With mid-air refuelling, it was big enough to ferry them all the way into and all the way out of the target area and yet Soviet pilots who had flown it, his Soviet pilots, said it performed like an agile combat helicopter. Remarkable. Would that their own technology were as good.
When he turned to the other Sikorskys, two of them were already trundling across the tarmac to their hangars leaving Ulm’s machine alone, facing his, the two birds looking like overweight gunslingers at a dawn showdown. He watched Ulm swing out of the co-pilot’s seat, drop to the ground, catch sight of him and start walking over.
They met half-way.
‘Well?’ Ulm said.
Shabanov pulled off his helmet and ran a gloved hand through his bristle length hair. ‘Tell Mr Jacob-son to alert the KC-130 tankers. We’re ready to go as soon as General Aushev gives the all clear.’
‘When could that be?’
‘Your guess is as good as mine, Elliot. When the weather’s fine, when the hostages are all in the optimum position, when the Angels are asleep, when the gods smile...’
‘That could be weeks.’
‘Or tomorrow.’ Shabanov breathed deeply. He felt good. ‘You can tell Mr Jacobson we’re ready, Elliot. For the moment, that’s all that matters.’
CHAPTER 19
Only in the cool air-conditioned interior of the Misr Tours office at Ramsis Station did Girling notice the acrid odour of his body and clothes for the first time. His filth-ridden suit and sweat-stained skin had gone unremarked amongst his fellow travellers - mainly fellahin peasant farmers - on the third-class wagon from Qena to Cairo. But here, surrounded by a bus load of Italian tourists, their leader remonstrating angrily with a girl behind the desk who was disclaiming all knowledge of a block booking on that morning’s express to Luxor, the smell of the camel saddle and the dust on his jeans almost choked him.
With the uproar at its height, Girling calmly reached across the desk, picked up the phone and dialled Sharifa. He let the phone ring for almost two minutes, but there was no answer. He was relieved, because it meant she had done his bidding and gone to Lazan’s.
Enduring hostile glances from a couple of elderly tourists at the back of the melee, Girling dialled a new number, Stansell’s apartment, and waited for the answering machine to engage. He was reluctant to show up there personally in case he ran into one of Al-Qadi’s men. For the moment, being dead suited him down to the ground.
He activated the remote access code and listened to his messages. There were four from Kelso, his voice getting successively angrier. Interspersed amongst them were the calmer tones of Jack Carey, asking him to call with details of his forthcoming exclusive on the Angels of Judgement. Time was running short if he was going to make the edition. Girling smiled to himself. God, did he have a story for Carey now.
On the train, with eight hours to himself, Girling had resolved not to release details of what he had seen in the desert until after the rescue was complete. Not only did he want it to go ahead, uncompromised, he felt consumed by the need for the Angels of Judgement to get what was coming to them. The fact that he had seen the rehearsal - and knew of the punishment the Americans and the Russians would unleash once the hostages were secured - gave him a glow of satisfaction. It was as if he would be going in with them. As if their revenge was his also. His last message was from Lazan. The Israeli asked him to get round to see him as soon as possible, before he did anything else. At the embassy, day or night. He would be there, not home. There had, he said, been some interesting developments.
Girling wandered from the station into the chaos of Ramsis Square. Though it was filled with thousands of people heading off for work he managed to find a taxi before long.
He reached the embassy after a protracted battle with the early morning commuter traffic. The security was elaborate, the checks endless. Only after the armed guards, video cameras, remote entry systems, and air locks, did he get to talk to Lazan on the lobby phone. The defence attache told him to sit tight and wait for an escort who would take him to the second floor. A girl behind the desk handed him his pass, scarcely disguising her distaste for his appearance as she did so.
The escort was a taciturn man in his late twenties who looked almost Scandinavian. The atmosphere in the embassy was distinctly militaristic. But for the fact that everyone sported the relaxed dress-style of Israeli officialdom, Girling imagined he could have been in an IDF command bunker on the Golan Heights.
The lift doors opened on the second floor and Girling was greeted by the quiet chatter of teleprinters and the businesslike rasp of Hebrew. He saw the sense of purpose in the comings and goings of the people in the corridor. The embassy seemed to be a microcosm of the Jewish state - a small patch of land under siege - and it showed in the determination of the people around him.
Lazan was at his desk, the phone jammed to his ear. He cupped his hand over the receiver and told the Scandinavian to bring an extra chair and two cups of coffee.
The office was bare, functional. A picture on the wall of a younger, uniformed Lazan, free of facial scars, posing beside the burned-out hulk of a Syrian T-62, provided an ironic comment on the Islamic skyline beyond the window. The picture was an arrogant gesture, Girling thought, but he would have expected nothing less.
The air-conditioning prickled Girling’s skin. Outside, the sun rose a little higher above the minarets as Cairo began to cook.
The Scandinavian returned with a chair and coffees. Lazan nodded his thanks before the door was closed and the two of them were alone.
Lazan wound up his conversation and put the phone down. ‘Where have you been, Tom Girling?’
The rim of the coffee cup never reached Girling’s mouth. ‘I’m sorry?’
‘I said - ‘
‘I know what you said, Lazan. Didn’t Sharifa tell you?
‘Sharifa? What are you talking about?’
Girling felt the old pain in his side. ‘Oh my God. Al-Qadi...’ He made a lunge for the door, but with surprising agility, Lazan beat him to it.
‘Tell me what is going on, Girling.’
‘I have to
get to Sharifa’s. She was supposed to get in touch with you.’ Girling managed to blurt out the succession of events which had led to his ordering her to seek sanctuary with him. ‘I’ve got to get to her.’ He tried to twist from Lazan’s grip, but the Israeli held him firm.
‘No, wait.’ Lazan moved to his desk and punched in an extension number. He spoke quickly into the receiver and hung up. ‘Take the lift to the basement. Ariel Ram - the man who brought you to my office - will drive you to her place. I’ll catch up with you there as soon as I can.’ He gestured to the cane by the door. ‘I’m afraid my leg would only hold you up on the way to the basement.’
Girling opened the door, then hesitated. ‘Why did you call me here?’
‘Think about this on your way. We’re receiving intelligence from the Lebanon of something extraordinary. My people need answers, Girling, and maybe you’re the one to find them. It seems like every important leader of the whole terrorist com-munity in the Levant is on the move. Al-Haqim of Black June, Sheikh Abu Jadid of Hizbollah, Ahmed Jibril of the PFLP-GC, and others. They’re mobilizing and we don’t know why. There are rumours of a shura - a council of war - somewhere in the Lebanon. Tel Aviv is screaming for information, but everyone’s drawing a blank.’
‘Do you think it’s got anything to do with the Angels of Judgement?’ Girling asked.
‘I don’t know. That’s what I’m hoping you’ll tell me.’ He slapped him on the back. ‘That lift’s waiting for you, Tom Girling. Go.’
Girling was out of the passenger seat and bounding up the steps of the apartment block even before Ram had brought the car to a stop. He dispensed with the lift and took to the marble stairs, taking three steps at a time in his impatience to reach the third floor.
Panting for breath, he stood outside her door and leaned on the bell. He sensed someone close by, turned and saw Ram coming up the stairs.
