That wasn’t a revelation. But Phair felt how different it was when the drama and danger are unfolding than when they are cold, detached history, where you know how it all worked out.
“So what do you think will happen next?” Kealey asked.
Phair forced his mind back on track. He was enjoying this. “Given the importance of religion to the local Arab population, and their mobility—there is little to hold them to their jobs or homes—my guess is that pilgrims will begin descending on the desert by the thousands, perhaps by the tens of thousands.”
“Creating a humanitarian crisis for Egypt,” Kealey said.
“Yes. From an anarchist’s point of view, I don’t see the value in that.”
“I do,” Kealey said. “Egypt is one of the few stable republics in the Islamic world, but that stability is recent and vulnerable. Radicals would love to see that go away.” He started typing. “I’m writing up what we just discussed and sending it to my superior, Deputy Director Harper.”
“What will he do with the information?”
“No idea,” Kealey said.
Phair suddenly realized that Kealey’s wavering affability might be related more to his job or his superior than to Phair.
“I may have something to add to your report,” Phair said, using the iPad to look something up on the Internet. He was surprised by how easy it was.
Kealey waited, then grew impatient. “I’ll send it in a follow-up e-mail.” He tapped at his computer. “Unless you can be more specific right now?”
“It might get people a little agitated,” Phair said absently, absorbed in his iPad.
“Why?”
“I’ll let you know when I’m sure I’ve got it right.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
JEBEL MUSA, SINAI PENINSULA
Acting scared, Lieutenant Adjo jogged through the Minaret Gate toward the gardens that spread from the compound. Tourists were still descending from the mountain. He didn’t want to call attention to himself by being the last tourist out. He ran past the buses toward the village, jotting down license numbers on his palm as he passed, then paused by a clump of olive trees that shielded him from the lower slopes. Not far below were the first tile rooftops of St. Catherine’s Village. Crouching behind a boulder at the foot of one tree, the young officer reached into his backpack and withdrew the STU III—Secure Telephone Unit, Third Generation—surplus acquired from the United States military. The lieutenant selected the “secure voice mode only” since he wasn’t sending data. That burned up less battery and he had no idea how long he’d be out here.
Lieutenant General Samra answered at once. “What’s going on?” he demanded. “We’re getting reports of gunfire.”
“One shot from a high-powered rifle about two hundred meters up the mountain,” Adjo said. “It was meant to intimidate, I think. I was asking questions and may have been ID’ed.”
As he spoke, Adjo looked around to make sure no one was listening. The old streets behind him were filled with tourists hurrying toward buses.
“Do you have any idea who the spotter might have been?” Samra asked.
“No. He could have been a tour guide who heard me talking with one of the monks or someone watching from the slope. It might even have been one of the monks. Do you have any additional information?”
“Nothing yet,” Samra replied.
“I’m watching the tourists as they get on the buses,” Adjo said. “It looks like a broad mix. Everyone is scared. The guides are looking up, down, and around—no one seems to be relaxed.”
“It has to be one of them, and he would have to leave with the other tourists to avoid drawing suspicion,” Samra said. “I don’t see the Greek Orthodox monks supporting snipers.”
“I can’t see why they would,” Adjo agreed. “But I don’t see what anyone would be protecting in this place—unless the entire Gharib Qawee matter is a cover for something else.”
“Or it might be as simple as supporters fearing for the safety of the prophet.”
“Why would the chosen of God need a bodyguard?” Adjo asked.
“The chosen of God have a way of meeting unhappy ends,” Samra said. “What are the license numbers of the buses? I will have someone check the passenger manifests.”
Adjo read them off his left hand. Then he reached into his camera case. His digital camera had a strong telephoto lens. Adjo moved cautiously from behind the rock, snuggled the phone between his shoulder and his ear, and looked through the lens.
“I’m checking the slopes now,” he told Samra. “There are strings of tourists coming down from the summit. They look confused.” He took photos; computer analysis might turn up a case large enough to hold a rifle. Then he scanned the peaks, searching for movement or a glint among the rocks. He saw nothing.
“Sir, I’d like to go up there and reconnoiter.”
“That’s not a very good idea,” Samra said. “You’re unarmed, and if you were the target—”
“They could have killed me before.”
“Shooting you in the midst of a crowd would have forced an investigation,” Samra said. “But if they draw you in and cut your throat in the mountains, you will never be found.”
“They must earn that privilege,” Adjo said.
“I just checked several of the tour sites,” Samra said. “They all say they’re sold out for today.”
“Shooting tourists raises their insurance rates,” Adjo said.
“My point is, you’ll be up there alone—no crowds to get lost in. And if the U.N. Multinational Force blockades the road, you’ll get caught up in their bureaucracy if you try to get out.”
That was true. The MFO stationed in the Sinai desert was responsible for helping to patrol and secure the region, and they took their duty very seriously. Whenever U.N. peacekeepers closed off a region, their charter mandated that everyone inside be considered a threat until proven otherwise. The paperwork could take days.
Samra didn’t have to waste battery time spelling the rest of it out. He couldn’t send the helicopter to Adjo. If the sniper was a vanguard of a larger force, they might have rocket-propelled grenades. The appearance of a partisan military force might trigger a deadly incident, not just a warning shot fired into a crowd. That could start a larger conflict, not to mention exposing the usually secretive activities of 777 to public scrutiny.
“I want to stay,” Adjo decided. “I’ll find a safe haven if need be and wait it out. You will hear from me when I’m able to call.”
Adjo clicked off to conserve power, then found a spot where he could hunker down until dark. He had water, he had a sandwich and a candy bar, he had shade. For now, he would simply watch to see what happened next before deciding how to proceed. If past field experiences were any kind of guideline, “next” would be like nothing he could presently envision.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
MCLEAN, VIRGINIA
Kealey sat down opposite Jonathan Harper in Harper’s office. Half an hour had elapsed since he had sent the deputy director the summary of Phair’s opinion about the events at Mt. Sinai. He’d heard nothing since then, which he’d expected, until Harper called him to his office, which surprised him.
As Kealey entered Harper had nodded but continued typing, staring at his computer screen with a level of intensity Kealey hadn’t seen since Texas.
“Quite a head on those shoulders,” Kealey said.
“The chaplain?” said Harper. “Yes, I’m impressed. The thought occurred to me that for an emissary of America wandering around Iraq for sixteen years, we may have lucked out. He might have been better representation for us than we’re used to having.”
“Better? That’s quite a judgment call, Jon.”
Harper neither looked up nor looked apologetic, only saying, “Better suited, then. We got another e-mail from Task Force 777, by the way. I’ll forward it to you but it just says there is now video ‘in house’ that shows a staff becoming a serpent.”
“But not the
video itself.”
“Preempting a request, Lieutenant General Samra says he will share the clip when it has been cleared by his superiors.”
“They’ve probably had it for days,” Kealey said. “They probably didn’t want to admit that they can’t verify whether or not it’s authentic.”
“You sound a little dismissive of all of this, Ryan.”
“Just keeping my focus,” Ryan replied evenly. “After hearing Phair’s opinion I can certainly understand the possibility that this would blow up into a sizable problem for the Egyptians, and they have my sympathy. They’ve been through enough over the past few years not to need a false prophet appearing on Mt. Sinai. Hell, they probably don’t need a real one showing up, either. And I can’t imagine the Muslim Brotherhood getting behind this kind of tactic, but that doesn’t mean they wouldn’t take advantage of it.”
“That’s analysis. I was referring to your personal feelings about it.”
“Personally, I can also see how this could be a tempest in a teapot, one kook in a cookie jar, and I have other things on my mind. An Iranian terrorist, whom we can’t bring in because we don’t have the proof, is gaining international political traction as well as local leverage in a city with a major smuggling route running through it. Frankly, I’m waiting for you to tell me to pack my bags for Iraq, and Phair’s, too.”
“The Israelis asked for a presence on Mt. Sinai,” Harper said abruptly.
Kealey’s eyebrows rose. “They’re forbidden from taking part in U.N. activities on Arab soil.”
“Which is why the United Nations turned down the request from the Israeli government. They had asked for an Israeli observer to be temporarily assigned to the Multinational Force.”
“They’re taking this staff seriously, then.”
“Seriously enough.”
Harper didn’t have to point out that the Israelis didn’t always share their suspicions or data, at least not directly. Only through requests like this. Kealey already knew.
“If they’re that concerned, then we should be that concerned,” Kealey said.
“I agree.”
“But you didn’t have to call me up here for that. You could have just forwarded me the e-mails.”
Harper looked back at his screen.
“Jon,” Kealey said gently, “you don’t need my assurance. You don’t need a backup brain. Let Texas go as the unpreventable surprise that it was, forgive yourself, and move on. Your decisions are sound.”
Harper shook his head. Kealey had missed the mark. “Danny Hernandez contacted the DEA,” he said. “He wants to talk.”
Kealey was on his feet before he knew he was standing up. Adrenaline surges he knew, but this was on the level of a solar flare.
“Where is he?”
“The DEA hasn’t provided any details about where he is or how he got in touch with them.”
“Are they taking tutorials with the Egyptians now? Shit!” Kealey nearly pounded the desk. “Are they sure it was him who got in touch with them? Is it proof positive verified?” Harper started to speak. Kealey rolled over him. “And assuming it’s him, how the hell did he do it without being noticed by anyone in his cartel? Never mind evading the other cartels that are all spying on each other. Do we have an informant in his cartel, did he figure out who it was and approach him? And why?!” Kealey leaned over the desk. “That’s an even bigger question than how. He got away with it, Jon. We lost him. Why would he be willing to talk to us, knowing that we are going to find a way to hang his ass out to dry for Isobel Garcia?”
“I don’t know,” Harper said wearily.
Kealey paced. “Did his new friends turn on him? Is he feeling heat from the Iranians, running to the coattails of Uncle Sam? But he wouldn’t choose us for that even if that is the case. He has Mexico and half of Central and South America to call on for shelter and protection. This doesn’t make sense, Jon, I don’t like it. I want to know where he is and I want a flight there today.”
Kealey hovered over the desk. Harper half expected to see steam float from his nostrils.
“Because if it’s a trap,” Kealey said, “I trained Yerby and I have a good idea of what I’m walking into and you know the DEA doesn’t have anyone who can hold a candle to me. I want to be in on the first phone call, the first pickup, the first meet and every contact after that. I want to be planning it and I want every team answerable to me. If Danny Hernandez blinks, my fingers are going into his eyes.”
“What about Iraq?” Harper asked quietly.
“It’s a hospital. They’ve only cleared the ground, they haven’t even broken it yet, much less started construction. We’ll have a good idea of where the doctor will be for months, or at least where he’s going to visit regularly and frequently. Our people there can keep an eye on him and someone else can run Phair until I’m done with Hernandez. Get Dina Westbrook from DHS, she can run him, she’s already met him.”
Kealey finally stopped and observed the look on Harper’s face. What he saw there made him sit down. He was going to hate what came next, he knew it.
“I need you to go to Egypt,” Harper said. “With Phair. Whatever the Israelis know and aren’t telling us, it’s clear that this matter has become urgent.”
“One of the top drug lords in the western hemisphere,” Kealey said, “that is urgent, too.”
“Hernandez is smart. He’ll drag out the waltz before we get him face-to-face.”
“No. Hernandez is smart and that’s why he’ll come in as fast as he can figure out a safe, secret way to do it, to mitigate the possibility that someone finds out what he’s done.”
“It can’t be you, Ryan.”
“You think my feelings will compromise me? You think I’m blinded with revenge.”
“I don’t think that at all. Your international experience makes you essential—”
“I’m getting sick of hearing that.”
“And it appears that you have Phair on your side. You can’t walk away from that attachment without jeopardizing someone else’s attempt to replace that attachment, should you break faith and cause that to be necessary. He is obviously the right person to send to a place where religious fervor might be starting a global firestorm and beyond that, a situation where people are possibly being emotionally and spiritually manipulated. He goes, you go. I’m sorry, Ryan.”
“But . . .”
Kealey did not finish his thought, but what about the doctor? He had said it himself, they would have a good idea of where the doctor would be for months to come. He had said it himself because Harper had asked the right question at the right time, setting him up.
It was only Kealey’s memories of the Baltimore Convention Center, of Julie Harper struggling to regain her confident stride, of Jonathan staring miserably at the footage of candles and flowers being placed around San Antonio City Hall for Isobel Garcia the night of her death, that kept Kealey from calling him an SOB.
He walked out of the office.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
MCLEAN, VIRGINIA
Kealey had been gone for forty-five minutes, walking himself into a sweat outside, when he finally rejoined Phair in his office. Phair’s first reaction at seeing his face was to put down the iPad. He recognized the facial expression. He’d seen it on teenagers when they were angry at God. Not the teenagers with relatively ordinary lives who, through broken hearts or parents’ divorces, were learning for the first time that the world would not always conform to their plans for it. No, this was the expression on the face of an abused kid, one whose emotions had been shut down for years and then, after patient work with a trustworthy adult, was starting to feel again—and what was felt was all-consuming rage at the Almighty, because the teenager didn’t feel safe enough yet to be angry at the abuser.
But Phair checked himself before offering any assistance. He barely knew Ryan Kealey. He might not know him well enough to read him accurately. The man was an agent, which Phair presumed meant that he had to sort and mana
ge his emotions in a somewhat different way than most people, a way that Phair was unfamiliar with. And Kealey had not been doing patient work on himself with Phair’s guidance. Their trust of each other was new and thin. Nor did Kealey seem to be a man who would discuss his feelings under any circumstances. By no interpretation did Phair have an invitation to extend help.
He knew what was coming next and indeed, Kealey’s expression began to resolve into a hard, intelligent surface, absolutely practical for accomplishing tasks, strategizing, even socializing, up to a point. Revelations of feelings happened in waves and it took many cycles before someone could start to reclaim their life from their past, whatever that past was. Right now Ryan Kealey needed to work, and the best thing Phair could do for him was to help him work.
“The Staff of Moses,” Kealey said, now faultlessly professional. “What should we expect from it? Or to put it another way, what should we expect the faithful will expect from it?”
“Well, so far the behavior of the staff is certainly predictable,” Phair said, picking up his iPad again. “The apparent behavior, that is.” The cleric recognized that he was toning himself down so as to match Kealey’s impervious mood, but the truth was, he felt energized in a way he hadn’t been since returning from Iraq. He hadn’t realized how cocooned he’d become until the pieces started to chip off. “According to the Bible, the first miracle with Moses’s staff was God transforming it into a snake. Later, in the presence of Pharaoh, Moses used the power of his staff, channeling God, to turn the staff of his brother Aaron into a serpent. When the sorcerers of the pharaoh duplicated the feat, the serpent of Aaron devoured the Egyptian snakes.”
“I remember that from Sunday school,” Kealey remarked. “But the trick could be faked or this video the Egyptians say they have could be doctored.”
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