“Cameroon,” Harper said. “They can be out of Yaoundé and on their way to Cairo within twenty-four hours.”
“Very well,” Kassab said. “Please send me their photographs immediately so the corporate identifications can be readied. When they arrive here, I will see to it they are met at the airport and accompanied to Aswân with a special escort. The Nile River Ferry Company runs a daily boat into Wadi Halfa. Although an air shuttle would be faster, the ferry would probably be best as I have personal influence with its ownership.”
“Got it.”
“Also, I would suggest you make sure your people have ample funds to cover their travel expenses—including those that may arise without prior notice. These are lean budgetary times, and a bit extra might be of use here and there.”
“Right. Anything else?”
“Only that I might return to my sleep and dream peaceful, uninterrupted dreams.”
Andrews grinned. “Asser, if you’re very fortunate, it might happen after you retire,” he said. “Men like us, though . . . I’m guessing we’ve seen too much of what makes the world tick to ever enjoy that luxury again.”
The ferry from Aswân to Wadi Halfa was a crowded, rackety metal steamer that ostensibly left at noon every Monday from a sand-blown pier at Aswân High Dam—or El Sadd el Ali—on the large manmade body of water known as Lake Nasser. Bound by a system of three massive dikes on the Egyptian side of the Nile, the reservoir was the product of a major construction effort in the 1970s, its southern edge lapping up on the pebbled Sudanese shoreline, where the preference was to call it Buhayrat Nubiya.
Kealey and Abby had landed in Cairo Sunday morning, after an uneventful five-hour flight, their embarkation of the plane at Yaoundé airport having been a successful first test of their cover documents. These had arrived separately at the United States and Egyptian consulates in sealed diplomatic pouches, then had been couriered over to Kealey at the Hilton on Boulevard du 20 Mai, where they were directly handed off to him in his room. The pouch from the U.S. consulate had also included envelopes containing several thousand dollars in mixed American bills and an equivalent sum in euros.
The name printed alongside Kealey’s U.S. passport photograph was Ryan Harner. Abby, whose passport declared her to be of French citizenship, was identified as Abigail Leung Evart. In addition to the CIA-fabricated passports, both had received, through the swift efforts of Asser Kassab, a variety of credentials establishing them as employees of the Boutros Advanced Packaging Corporation in Alexandria, a developer of biodegradable and recyclable shipping materials for food, pharmaceuticals, and other commercially transported goods. A note in the Egyptian packet explained that someone named Yusuf would await them at the Cairo International arrivals terminal.
A dark-eyed and alacritous young man who spoke fluent English, Yusuf was there as arranged, his car waiting in the parking lot. Within minutes of their arrival, Yusuf was driving them over the bridge to the train station at El Giza, explaining that the minor detour was necessitated by expansion work at the Cairo station on the east bank of the Nile.
With its elaborate façade of limestone building blocks and classic colonnades, the El Giza railway station was an impressive, vaulting structure teeming with humanity, the travelers passing through its entrance doors and lined up at the ticket windows scrutinized by white-uniformed security personnel. Although Kealey and Abby’s tickets had been purchased in advance, Yusuf discreetly asked Kealey for four hundred dollars inside the station, nodding in the direction of two guards standing near the gate for their train to Aswân.
“It will ensure that your papers are given quick inspections,” he explained. “And viewed in the most favorable light.”
Which they were with accepting nods.
“Rihlah muwaffaqah,” Yusuf said in colloquial Arabic, wishing the pair well as they were waved onto the platform. “The ferry’s booking agent in Aswân is a Mr. Ferran. Your crossing to Sudan will be in his very capable hands. Should you encounter any problems, however, mention my name.”
A short while later the sleek, air-conditioned Abela express had pulled from the station, leaving on schedule for the country’s southernmost border town . . . an overnight journey of somewhat under 900 kilometers. Yusuf had reserved a two-berth sleeper compartment, and both Kealey and Abby, leaving their cots folded, managed to doze off intermittently in their seats en route to Aswân.
It was half past eleven the next morning when they reached the village center—and just thirty minutes before their boat was supposed to set sail. There was a row of cabs waiting outside the station, and they hurriedly took one to the ferry line’s ticket office, which was tucked away amid a ramshackle outdoor mall consisting of a fruit and vegetable stand, the local tourist center, and a spice market that sold powdered laundry detergent in unmarked baskets alongside its ground, dried edibles.
The office itself was a small, unadorned, somewhat shabby storefront with a counter at the rear. Wearing a traditional Muslim robe and embroidered taqiyah on his head, the man on the stool behind it provided a stark, immediate contrast to his surroundings. He was perfectly shaven and manicured, with gleaming diamond rings on several fingers of each hand. Entering the door, Kealey could at once smell his expensive oriental cologne—its blend of musk and agarwood, dabbed on judiciously so as not to overwhelm, accenting an overall air of fastidiousness that approached, but did not quite reach, the threshold of excess or ostentation.
“Mr. Ferran?” Kealey said.
The man rose from his stool, nodded. His expression, such as it was, seemed indicative of a mild strain of boredom.
Kealey took Abby’s documents from her hand, moved to the counter, produced his own identification from the carryall on his shoulder, and set them all down in front of Ferran. “We need to get aboard the next ferry to Wadi Halfa,” he said.
Ferran glanced at the wall clock on his side of the counter, shook his head. “The boat is departing in fifteen minutes,” he said. “If you left here this minute, it would be too late.”
“We’ve come all the way from Cairo,” Kealey said, looking at him. “It’s very important that we get across.”
“Impossible.” Ferran’s tone was disinterested. “I can look at your documents and issue tickets, but they will be inspected a second time at the dock. That alone might take an hour . . . or more if there is a backup.” He paused. “We have a barge leaving tomorrow afternoon. It is meant for vehicles and items of freight. I can find room aboard on occasion, but the cost of passage would be high, and there is no seating for passengers.”
Abby had come up to stand beside Kealey. “Yusuf assured us we could count on you, Mr. Ferran,” she said.
Ferran turned to her. “Yusuf.”
“That’s right,” she said. “I expect you know who he is?”
Ferran’s eyes had narrowed. “Yes,” he said. “Full well.”
“Then don’t play games with us,” Kealey said. “We need to be on that boat when it leaves today. Tell me what it’s going to take.”
Ferran had returned his attention to Kealey. “One thousand dollars,” he said.
Kealey nodded, started opening the flap of his carryall.
“For each of you,” Ferran said.
Kealey snapped a glance at Ferran’s face, kept it there a moment before reaching into the carryall for one of the envelopes he’d gotten from the courier pouch. He counted out two thousand dollars in hundreds, doing it slowly enough for Ferran to watch. Then he held the money over the counter. “Here,” he said. “Let’s get it done.”
Ferran took the money from him, slid open a drawer beneath the countertop, deposited it inside, and pushed the drawer shut. Then he reached into a pocket of his robe for a cell phone and fingered a speed-dial key.
“Gamal,” he said, “inform the passengers aboard the ferry there is to be a slight delay . . . for minor repairs, yes? In the meantime, I have two additional fares who will be seeing you at the dock shortly. . . .”
&nb
sp; In the garden behind Ishmael Mirghani’s home in Khartoum’s upscale Bahri section—his chair near the very spot where he had once watched a late-afternoon breeze scatter cinders of his Harold Traylor identity beyond recovery—Cullen White sat opposite Mirghani in the shade of a guava tree laden with ripe yellow fruit, his satellite phone in hand, the hand lowered to his lap. His face sober, his jaw set, he glanced down at the phone, then up at Mirghani.
“This isn’t going to be pleasant,” he said. For either of them, he thought, but most of all for him. “You know that.”
Mirghani nodded. He looked, if not quite as nervous as he had during the flight to Darfur less than a week ago, then close to it.
“I would place the call myself if it were possible,” he said, his frank gaze taking White a bit by surprise. Damned if he didn’t seem to mean it; the man deserved credit for his accountability. “Unfortunately, I do not believe it would be the wisest of proposals.”
White could have almost managed a grin. “No, it wouldn’t,” he said. “I appreciate the thought, Ishmael. I’m serious. Like I told you, though, his anger is something I can accept. I don’t know whether you can understand, but it’s his disappointment that will be most difficult. He entrusted me with an operation of enormous magnitude and the upshot . . .”
He let the sentence trail off. What exactly would the upshot be? He didn’t, couldn’t know, and supposed that uncertainty, translated as possibility, might yet be his saving grace. Yes, if he had it to do over again, he would have accompanied Hassan al-Saduq to Cameroon for his meet with the bloody pirate. Would have accompanied him aboard the yacht, overseen the entire money transfer. And whoever had boarded the boat and captured him would have had much more to handle than Saduq’s cheap, amateurish excuse for a security team. Yes, he thought, a great deal more.
But that was behind him, an error that could not be undone—but whose damage still might be limited. One of the most vital lessons he had learned in his day was that survival often hinged on untethering the past before its weight dragged you down into the muck of failure. The thing was just to stay on track.
He lifted the phone to his ear, thumbed in a number in America. He didn’t have long to wait; none to his surprise, it took only two rings before his party answered. Some version of the news, however, sketchy, would have reached him by now.
“Yes?” he asked over the phone’s encrypted channel.
“Condor, this is—”
“I know who it is. I also know the reason for your call. I’ve been expecting it.”
White could almost picture his baleful glare. “Sir, I don’t want to rehash whatever you already might have heard. It’s clear we have a problem. . . .”
“We have a problem, all right. A fucking monster of a problem. Who were those people in Limbe? Can you tell me that?”
“No, sir. The question’s been with me every waking minute since it happened. They’re saying in the media it was an EU antipiracy team that was conducting a probe into our man’s activities—”
“And you believe it?”
White inhaled, exhaled. He was thinking he could lie here, make it easier. Except he couldn’t, not to the man at the other end of the line. “No. Or only partially. It makes for a good blind.”
“The cover story should be true in its own right. Like that search for the Titanic, the glory hound that dove on her wants to go waltzing through her grand ballroom and show movies on television. But first he’s got to find a submarine the Russians sunk in the Cold War. Office of Naval Intelligence pays his way, but he never tells the frog scientists aboard his research ship his real mission.”
“Yes, sir. Exactly.”
“So you believe somebody here at home was working with the EU task force?”
“I’m inclined to think so, yes. The timing doesn’t seem a coincidence—”
“And your shit antennae probably tell you there’s more than we’re sniffing on the surface.”
“Yessir,” White said. “A standoff on the street near the marina, the seizure of the yacht, and most of all our man being kept under tight wraps . . . does have a feel about it.”
“Have you spoken to the Exile?”
“Not yet, sir. He’s been out of phone and radio contact. But I expect to be in touch with him within the next few hours—”
“Listen to me,” Condor interrupted. “You damn well better get in touch with him. You can send a carrier pigeon, or you can sprout wings. You can do whatever the hell it takes under the sun, moon, and stars. But we aren’t going to be passive. I want this operation’s timetable ramped up.”
“Yes, I don’t see that we have any alternative. But there are eventualities we can’t altogether control. The delivery, for example—”
“Those thugs took our money and we have to be concerned with delivery?”
“Sir—”
“No. I understand contingencies. But I’m not hanging on them. I refuse to accept that, and I refuse to be advised about them. . . . Am I making myself clear?”
“Yessir.”
“Good. Then get this moving. It doesn’t matter who’s onto it. You stay two steps ahead of them. I know you’re capable. I’m counting on you, White. Get it moving now.”
White nodded with the phone still against his ear, staring across at Mirghani, meeting his gaze with his own even as he realized the line had gone silent, leaving only the odd echoing silence particular to Satcom links.
He sat motionless for a while, immersed in his thoughts.
“Well?” Mirghani asked. “How did you fare?”
White gave a slow shrug, lowered the phone.
“As I’d expected,” he said finally.
CHAPTER 18
SUDAN
Navigating under cover of night’s darkness with their sophisticated GPS systems, the pirates had pulled their long, flat cargo barges to shore at Zula on the Bay of Arafali, some 50 kilometers south of the far busier port of Massawa, with its commercial dhow and tourist boat traffic, American naval base, police stations, and railway line. Thousands of years in the past this tiny Eritrean village had been an extension of Adulis, a major center of trade within the vast and influential Kingdom of Aksum, later to be known as Ethiopia. In the modern era, with the great empires fractured and degraded, their glory crumbled into sand, it was a sparsely populated belt of semiarid Sahel, with the thatch huts of its native tribesmen dotting the land near occasional springs and wadis, and stretches of featureless dun-colored terrain, over which archeologists would bump along in their 4x4s while heading toward the ancient ruins and excavations a stone’s throw to the north.
Standing very straight in his desert camouflage uniform, his hands planted on his hips above a nylon web belt—its pistol holster on the right, an ammunition pack on the left—the commander moved his gaze along the dockside, where half the total consignment of Zolfaqar MBTs and ANSAT/Sharaf combat helos had been discharged onto waiting heavy equipment transports. He would have preferred receiving the arms and equipment in a single delivery, and expedience was hardly his principal reason. It would be a sufficient challenge to get the trucks across the border without detection even once; twice invited complications and escalated the already considerable risks. But the pirates had wisely transferred the shipment from its original Ukrainian freighter onto a pair of smaller barges, and there had been restrictions on the size and weight of the loads those aging vessels could carry. That aside, the commander himself had corresponding practical and logistical limits. Seventy-five feet long from end to end, his giant tractor trailers could travel between 400 and 600 miles cross-country at a fair enough clip given the inhospitable desert landscape, their 500-horse-power diesel engines fueled by massive driver- and passenger-side gasoline tanks. Still, it would take two trips to move all the matériel to the staging ground, whatever quantity the pirates were able to bring with them tonight. The bottom line was that he had just so many available trucks.
Now he reached for the canteen strapped over his should
er, removed its cap, and took a drink of tepid water, swishing it around his mouth before he gulped it down. It was now almost two o’clock in the morning, six hours since the Hangarihi had guided the barges ashore and deployed their off-load ramps. His men had since driven the Zolfaqars onto the trailers and put their backs into manually rolling the helicopters from the barges on metal tow carts, grunting and sweating as they hastened to complete their arduous work so the convoy could set out with many hours of darkness still ahead.
Lined along the gunwales of the barges, the Hangarihi had watched the laborious effort as if it were a relaxing diversion, smoking and drinking whiskey from tin flasks, the tips of their cigarettes glowing like orange fireflies in the night. They had offered no assistance after their cargo had been unlashed from its pallets, and the commander and his men had expected nothing else from them. In delivering his plunder without delay, their leader had stuck to his end of the bargain when he could have simply made off with the loot, using the raid on the yacht of Hassan al-Saduq as justification to go into hiding. That alone had earned him a large quantum of respect. With its easily defended coves and grottos, the Somali coast was a rabbit warren where he could have laid low indefinitely . . . not that it would have been his single best recourse. In the pirate boomtowns that were the underpinnings of the country’s new economy, Nicolas Barre would be treated as a king in his stronghold, and the people there would go to any lengths to shelter and protect them from legal authorities or any other threats.
The commander heard the growl of powerful engines coming to life, twisted the cap back onto his canteen with long, graceful fingers as he saw his chief lieutenant, Mabuir, striding toward him from the line of HETs. Although Mabuir had not shied from assisting in the off-load, it did not escape the commander’s notice that he looked crisp in his beret and field uniform. A great deal had changed about his fighters since the events at Camp Hadith—or the best of them, at any rate.
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