Vengeance: A Derek Stillwater Novel (Derek Stillwater Thrillers Book 8)

by Mark Terry

  As she walked out of the room, she heard Jake say, “All teams, this is Eagle Two, switching over for Eagle One. Spear One, respond please.”

  Ambassador Anne Patterson was a career diplomat who had been the U.S. Ambassador to Egypt since 2011 and before that had been Ambassador to Pakistan. For the most part Sholes liked her, found her intelligent and professional. In her fifties, Patterson had shoulder-length blonde hair and liked linen suits and colorful scarves. Her pantsuit today was teal. Sholes knew Patterson was a good poker player, but she’d worked with the woman for three years and could tell she was tense. Egypt had been a mess since the Arab Spring and the U.S. had a mixed relationship with the Morsi government, which in turn had a mixed relationship with General el-Sisi.

  General el-Sisi rose from his chair across from Patterson, a barrel-chested fireplug of a man in full dress uniform, stars on his collars, full fruit salad on his chest. He held his military hat under his left arm. Ambassador Patterson said, “General el-Sisi, this is RSO Lynn Sholes. She heads up our security here. She’s overseeing the search for Secretary Mandalevo.”

  With a tiny hint of a bow, the general shook her hand. It was big and strong and rough. His complexion was dark, even for an Egyptian, hair still black but receding to reveal a high forehead. He was jowly, like a bulldog. “Sorry to meet under these circumstances,” General el-Sisi said. “How is the search coming?”

  “We are following some leads.”

  He studied her for a moment with his dark, intense gaze, then gestured at a chair. She sat. “I’m in the middle of operations, General. Is there something I can do for you?”

  “It is more what I can do for you. I would like to offer any support and resources.”

  Ambassador Patterson cut in. “Thank you, General. We appreciate that very much. I have tried to get through to President Morsi, but he is unavailable.”

  General el-Sisi’s face twisted into a small, sardonic smile. “Is that correct? I am … surprised he has not offered every assistance possible.”

  “What are you suggesting?” Sholes said, ignoring Patterson’s subtle headshake.

  “I am not suggesting anything,” el-Sisi rumbled. “But I believe that the kidnapper, Sheikh Hussein Nazif is not a stranger to President Morsi’s regime.”

  “Are you saying,” Ambassador Patterson said, “that the President is behind this crisis?”

  “No, no, no,” the general said, hands splayed in protest. “Of course not. I am quite sure that there is no overt support for an organization such as the Nazif Brigade by the government. I merely wish to offer any assistance and resources the Egyptian military has available. We are already searching, of course.”

  “Do you have any information on where Nazif is?” Sholes asked.

  “No, although I have people working on that.”

  “Do you have intelligence on the Nazif Brigade?” the ambassador asked.

  “We do.”

  “Will you share it with us?” Sholes asked.

  The general reached into his pocket and withdrew a flash drive, which he rested on Ambassador Patterson’s desk. “It has been translated into English.”

  “Thank you,” Patterson said, voice level. “I will leave it up to RSO Sholes as to what assistance she might need.”

  He stood and shook both their hands. “You have my direct number?” He directed this question to the ambassador. She nodded.

  He turned to leave, then paused. “There is a person on President Morsi’s staff who might be of assistance to you. His name is Ali Urabi.”

  “And his role?” Ambassador Patterson asked.

  The general shrugged. “His title is Political Advisor. However, I believe he may be more of an intelligence liaison.” Something tugged at the edges of his mouth, but Sholes didn’t think it was a smile. “Good luck,” he said, and let himself out.

  Sholes turned to Patterson. “That make sense to you?”

  The ambassador’s expression was distant. “Be very careful what you do, Lynn. We need to get Robert back safe, but we don’t want to blow up the entire region in the process.”

  33

  Noa rushed over to Derek. As she approached, he turned his head to look at her. “Did you get them?”

  “Yes. Are you okay?”

  “I could use a nap.”

  “Let me check your leg.”

  “Are you just trying to get me out of my pants?”

  “Shut up, sit up and let me take a look at that.”

  He rolled over and sat up. Pulling up his pantleg, Noa wiped at the wound. He winced.

  “Stop being such a baby.”

  “Well, it hurts, dammit.”

  “It’s a graze.”

  “Still hurts.”

  She pulled a bottle of water from her backpack and poured it on the wound, clearing away blood and grime. “Okay,” she said. “More than a graze. This will hurt a bit.”

  Using the first aid kit, she poured a coagulant into the shallow wound, pressed gauze into it, and wrapped surgical tape around his calf.

  In her ear, her own team: Sit-rep.

  Tapping the mic, she said, “We’re okay. Taking a breather at the moment. State team is finishing off a sniper nearby.”

  “Don’t linger.”

  “Affirmative.”

  Derek looked at her. “Big Brother?”

  “Just checking in. Have you responded to your people?”

  Derek tapped his ear. Reaching into his pocket, he checked the phone. The jack had slipped out. “Charge is running down, too. Just a sec.”

  Noa changed the channel on her set and immediately got a panicked, “Spear One. Check in. This is Eagle Two. Do you read me?”

  “Yeah,” Derek said. “Spear One here. We’re fine, more or less.”

  “Good. But we’ve lost contact with Spear Two.”

  Derek turned toward the site of the sniper’s nest. “Haven’t heard anything in a bit. We’ll check it out.”

  It took a while to work their way from the rooftop to the sniper’s nest. Not far from the entrance to the three-story building they saw a black Humvee, presumably the State Department RSO team’s vehicle. Derek tapped into his phone. “Anything from Spear Two?”

  “Negative, Spear One.”

  He exchanged a quizzical look with Noa, placing a finger to his lips. She nodded.

  Scanning the area, all sightlines, he looked for any evidence of gunmen. It was, well, as quiet as tomb. Derek limped up the stairs, Noa behind him. Like the building they had been in before, the stairs were steep and narrow, pitted and uneven from age and wear.

  Halfway up the stairs Derek froze. Spinning on his bad leg, he lost his balance, teetered, then caught Noa by her arm and shouted, “Get out of here! Now! Now!”

  They rushed down and out of the building. Derek burst out the door and brought his gun up, checking their sightlines again.

  “What?”

  “I smelled … Did you smell anything?”

  She shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe. Something … ”

  “Cut grass? Hay?”

  Noa frowned. “Maybe. What’s that mean?”

  “Phosgene,” he said. “I think there’s poison gas up there.”

  Noa paled.

  “I don’t suppose you brought a gas mask?”

  “No.”

  Derek shook his head. He tapped on his radio. “Eagle One, this is Spear One. Cannot enter building. Believe there is presence of phosgene gas. I repeat, I believe there is presence of phosgene gas. Have you heard anything from Spear Two?”

  Sholes: Negative.

  “Shit.” Derek looked around, frantic. He limped across the street to another building. Peering inside, he saw it too had been occupied. Instead of a propane stove, however, it looked like they had used a fire pit. He tore off his sling, reached into the fire pit and picked up a fistful of the charred wood and charcoal. He crumpled it into his fist, dumped it into the sling, and then knotted it on both sides so the charcoal was in a clump.
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  “What are you doing?”

  “We don’t have time. I’m going up.”

  “Are you insane?”

  Sholes: Sit-rep.

  “I’m going in.”

  Sholes: Proceed.

  “It wasn’t a request.”

  He tied it around his head, so the section with the charcoal was over his nose and mouth. In a muffled voice he said, “If I’m not down in three minutes or you haven’t heard from me, hold your breath and drag my dead ass out of there.”

  She caught his arm. “You can’t do this.”

  “I can. Cover my six.”

  He headed up. His shoulder ached, but he liked the better mobility without the sling. The charcoal stench was strong, but he hoped the makeshift filter would give him a little extra time.

  Following the barrel of the MP5 up the steps, he pressed himself against the wall on the left and edged upward. “Second floor.” He sighed. “Shit. I’ve got to clear this room. Hang on. I’m going in.”

  He didn’t know if the mic was picking up his voice or not.

  He pushed through the entryway. Two big rooms, empty. Niches in the walls like a mausoleum, all of them empty. “Okay, nothing here. Going up.”

  Noa: I’ll clear the main floor.

  “Do NOT go into the main floor. Phosgene is heavier than air, it’ll sink to lower levels.”

  Maybe it was his imagination, but any exposed skin began to tingle. Phosgene, when it came into contact with moisture, like sweat, became acidic. At high concentrations it would be caustic. “Light shafting through here. This level is probably open, like it was under construction or something. Up we go … ”

  He peeked up. “Shit. Boots. It’s … the medic.”

  Kneeling next to her, he pressed his fingers to her throat. He felt a faint pulse. Hauling on her boots, he dragged her to the steps, muttering, “This is going to be fun.”

  Hauling her feet first until her upper body was on the floor and her legs hung down the steps, he turned his back to her, caught her arms and used leverage and gravity to get her over his back in a fireman’s carry. He teetered at the top of the steps and for a horrifying moment worried he was going to tumble down the stairs. Catching his balance, he proceeded downward.

  Noa was halfway up the steps, caught the medic and helped bring her down. “What’s first aid?” she asked.

  “Air. Rinse her face and eyes and any exposed skin.”

  He turned and rushed up the stairs as fast as he could. At the top of the steps he paused, took a deep, horrid-smelling breath, and plunged into the third level.

  It was open to the air. It must have taken a hell of a high concentration of phosgene to kill anybody. Brigham and his other team members sprawled on the floor. A man in jeans and a black T-shirt was crumpled next to a sniper rifle and an RPG.

  Along the far wall were steel barrels.

  Derek started toward the nearest body, but stopped, frozen. Blood rushed in his ears. The whole room was rigged. Derek saw the red lasers, similar to what one would find on a garage door. They were scattered around the room.

  The beams themselves were not visible, but the sensors were. Creeping toward the American, he noted that the man was lying in the path of at least two beams. Catching his boots, he hauled back on the man, dragging him toward the stairs. He was a hell of a lot heavier than the female medic.

  “Derek? Report in.”

  “I’m fine. Coming down in a few seconds.”

  He did the same procedure with this guy that he had done with the medic. It was much harder. Staggering down the stairs, Noa came up and helped him. Outside, they spread out the body and checked his pulse.

  Derek started CPR.

  “How long has it been?” he asked.

  “Eight, nine minutes, maybe.”

  “Can you take over?”

  “Derek … ”

  He pushed back on his heels, drenched in sweat, eyes burning. Dizziness swept over him and he swayed, dropping to his hands and knees. He panted out, “There are two more bodies up there.”

  Noa yanked the makeshift filter off his face and poured a bottle of water over his head. He sucked in air. Noa disappeared.

  She had run into the building.

  “What are you doing?” he said into the mic.

  “Rest,” she said.

  What choice did he have? He crawled over to the medic. She was conscious, breathing deep. Her eyes were red.

  “Gonna make it,” he said to her.

  “Team?”

  He shook his head, sucked in as much air as he could and staggered to his feet, heading back into the building.

  Slow footsteps clumped down the steps. Taking as deep a breath as he could, he climbed upward. Noa was halfway down, dragging Brigham in a fireman’s carry, the stupid filter over her face, complexion red with exertion.

  He caught Brigham and together they dragged him outside. Tumbling him to the hard ground, he pressed fingers to his neck. Noa was already pouring water over his face and hands.

  “He’s alive,” she said. “He was close to the open area. Probably saved his life. I think he took out the sniper.”

  Brigham groaned, rolled sideways and vomited. His bloodshot eyes opened and he looked at Derek. “Secretary?”

  “Not yet.”

  34

  Sholes’s voice crackled in Derek’s ear. “Come back to the embassy unless you’ve got something hard-and-fast to work on.”

  Derek looked at Noa and shrugged. “Something of a dead end, but I doubt Nazif will let it go for long. He’s got something planned.”

  Sholes: I have a lead, but I need to share it with you in person.

  “Me personally?”

  Sholes: I think so, yes.

  Brigham said, “Go. We’ll wrap things up here. Communicate with me when you can. And thanks.”

  With a nod, Derek and Noa hurried back to the pickup truck. It was an uneasy feeling. Although he didn’t see anybody, he was certain they were being watched. Friend or foe?

  Or just people trying to live their lives while the world blew up around them?

  Back in the truck Derek plugged in his phone and looked at his face in the mirror. Covered with charcoal, he looked stretched thin around the eyes, which were red and raw-looking. He splashed some water into his hands and rinsed out his eyes and wiped his face. Noa did the same.

  “You could drop me off at the embassy and go back to your people. This isn’t your fight.”

  “It isn’t, exactly, but it is. And don’t worry, my bosses will let me know when it’s time to back off, Derek. Ready?”

  The U.S. Embassy was a gray concrete building that to Derek looked like a prison. It wasn’t helped by the twenty-foot concrete wall surrounding the compound scarred with graffiti, much of it in Arabic, but FUK USA and FUCK OFF AMERICA translated fairly clearly. And there were plenty of U.S. marines at the gate and along the wall.

  Just one great big happy Middle East.

  Security took their weapons and their communication gear. Derek let Irina and Johnston know what was happening. An embassy doctor took a quick look at their cuts, sewed a couple stitches in Derek’s leg and told them to stay out of trouble, as if that was possible. They were eventually led into a private office in the secure section of the embassy. Sholes, who looked like she was having a stressful day as well, told them about General el-Sisi’s visit.

  “What do you know about Ali Urabi?” Derek asked. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Noa frowning, as if the name meant something to her.

  “I’ve asked our COS and he said he’ll get back to me,” Sholes said. COS, Chief of Station, the CIA’s head guy at the Embassy.

  “He’d better fucking get back quick.”

  “There are political repercussions here, Derek—”

  Leaning forward in his chair, he snapped, “I don’t give a shit, Sholes. Robert Mandalevo’s life is on the line. Are you trying to negotiate with Nazif? What do we know?”

  “We think he’s
still alive. But we’ve lost all contact. And given the time pressures, there is little likelihood of the U.S. trading Abdul Nazif for Robert. And we certainly don’t trust Hussein Nazif to negotiate in good faith.”

  “His behavior so far,” interjected Noa, “suggests that he’s familiar with what we’re doing and is at least one step ahead. He’s setting a series of traps. I would expect that to continue.”

  Nodding in agreement, Derek said, “I want to talk to the COS.”

  Sholes nodded. She tapped a button on her phone and said, “Mike, Stillwater and Shoshan want to talk to you.”

  “I’m good with Stillwater. Shoshan stays out. She’s not cleared for this.”

  “He’ll be right in.” Sholes stood up. “Noa, we appreciate—”

  “I’m good with it. I need to communicate with my office, anyway.”

  “Of course.”

  Minutes later Derek was in the office of Mike O’Bannon. Sandy-haired in his early sixties, he had a pasty complexion and dark circles around his eyes, magnified with heavy black-framed glasses. His white shirt was wrinkled, his muted blue and maroon tie loose at the neck.

  Sitting in front of his desk, Derek splayed his hands. “Isn’t the clock ticking?”

  “For all we know Mandalevo’s dead. We lost all communication with the Nazif Brigade when you guys tripped the wire with the sniper and the phosgene. We don’t know if that was something you were supposed to do or the outcome was unexpected. We don’t know shit.”

  “And el-Sisi’s tip?”

  O’Bannon sighed. “General el-Sisi. That’s just what we needed. If something happens to President Morsi, el-Sisi will be the guy in charge. He comes out of nowhere here to help us out, but he’s always got an agenda.”

  “Maybe his agenda is helping get Mandalevo back.”

  Looking sour, O’Bannon said, “You would think so, but Morsi’s people, though concerned, don’t seem to be very helpful. General el-Sisi and Morsi are not buddies.”

  Leaning back in his chair, Derek said, “Okay, look. We’re having a nice chat here, but aside from hinting about what a political can of worms we’ve got, what’s the deal with Ali Urabi.”