“Find them,” Simon interrupted, “and call the moment you do.”
Chapter 8
At four o’clock they reached Rosetta, which Ava insisted on calling Rasheed. Near the harbor dilapidated brick buildings had been colonized by squatters and repurposed into a vibrant, open-air market. While Ammon tended to the boat and Sefu went to purchase gasoline, Ava found a rest room and Paul found a payphone. Since ditching his mobile phone, he couldn’t remember any numbers, so he attempted to call information. This proved an exercise in futility, because the operator couldn’t understand a word he said. Eventually he relented and conscripted Ava. She pretended to be aggravated, but she was secretly pleased that he needed her help. It took her about ten seconds to obtain the number for the Hotel Salaam in Alexandria, plus the operator offered to connect her directly. She smiled at Paul. “For whom shall I ask?”
“Is it ringing? Just give me the damn phone.”
“Hotel Salaam,” the receptionist said.
“Bonjour,” said Paul, with the worst French accent Ava had ever heard. “Je voudrais parler à Monsieur Nick.”
“Qui?”
“Nick. Mr. Nick. Señor Nico. Il est Americain.”
“Ah, oui. Monsieur Nick,” the receptionist repeated. “Un moment, s’il vous plaît.”
Ava said, “I don’t know what game you’re playing, but no one will ever believe you’re French. Not with that accent.”
“True. My French is terrible, but I know the receptionist. She’s Portuguese. I’m hoping that despite my awful French, she won’t flag me as an American. I mean, sure, she’ll know I’m not French, but I could be a moron from anywhere.”
Ava laughed. Then a masculine voice spoke over the phone.
“This is Nick. How may I help you?”
Paul switched to English. “Hello. I’m a regular customer in town on a confidential matter. Can a room be arranged?”
“I’ll be happy to check with reception, sir, but we have very few suites, and rooms are often reserved quite a bit in advance. May I ask who is calling, please?”
“I’m afraid I’d rather not say. You see, I’m traveling with a woman who’s not my wife. She’s a business associate.”
“Of course,” said Nick politely.
“And I don’t want scurrilous rumors started. No stories in tomorrow’s papers. You understand.”
“Indeed, sir. Did you say you’re a regular customer?”
“Yes, but I must insist my name not be used. Why don’t I use the name of a friend we have in common: Mr. Francona. I believe an associate of yours introduced us some years ago in Boston.”
There was a long pause. “I dined with Mr. Francona—”
“At the Parker House. You ordered your steak purple.”
Another pause. “Okay, Mr. Francona. I’ll see about your room. Are you here in town?”
“We expect to arrive tonight, Nick.”
“I’ll give you my direct number. Call me when you arrive.”
Paul hung up and wrote down the number.
“What the hell was that?”
Paul explained. “An old teammate of mine works as a casino manager in Alexandria. He’s a huge Red Sox fan. Back in 2008, I introduced him to Terry Francona.”
“Does he know it’s you?”
“I think so. There were only three of us at dinner.”
“Can he get us a room?”
“Sure. They always keep a few open for celebs. He’ll sneak us in the back, no credit-card swipe, no passport checks.”
Just then, Sefu came running. He looked terrified. “Paul, go now, okay? We go now!”
As they departed, Ava sought an explanation. Sefu would say only that friends suggested they leave immediately. She assumed these friends to be fellow smugglers. Through a labyrinth of alleyways and back passages, Sefu guided them toward the harbor. Before long they entered the busy town square, which surrounded a battery of cannons dating from the Napoleonic era.
Sefu froze. Across the courtyard, two obese policemen were staring at them. The cops drew their pistols. With fear in his voice, Sefu cried, “Follow! Hurry!” and broke into a sprint. Paul grabbed Ava’s arm and took off after him, trying desperately to keep pace with the Egyptian. Their overweight pursuers struggled through the crowd, shouting “Qeff! Qeff!” and brandishing their guns. Sefu, hurdling a picnic table, demolished a chess game as he raced toward the riverfront. Paul followed, bulldozing through the astonished players, creating a path for Ava.
Running at top speed, they gained ground on the slower police. One had fallen far behind; the other had dropped from sight completely. The harbor was less than a kilometer distant. They’d reach the dock in moments. Paul felt sure Ammon would be ready with the engine running, but as they rounded the final corner, Paul realized what had become of the second policeman. He’d taken a shortcut and was now going to intercept them! He stood on the pier, blocking their escape. Just a few meters beyond, Ammon waited aboard the skiff. They were so close! Paul slowed, but Sefu did not: He intended to run for it.
“Wait!” Paul shouted a warning. Sefu didn’t seem to hear.
The policeman raised his weapon, smiling. When Sefu closed to within a few feet, the cop fired twice. One bullet whizzed by the boy’s ear. The second found its mark, blasting a fist-size hole into Sefu’s chest.
Paul saw Sefu fall and was overcome with rage. Like a man possessed, he roared and charged directly at the butcher. For a millisecond, their eyes met. Then the policeman’s face blanched with fear. In Paul he beheld a frenzied spirit. The cop hesitated, and an instant too late tried to bring his pistol to bear against the charging man. Paul launched himself through the air, driving his brawny shoulder into the fat man’s gut. The cop gasped as his sternum fractured with an audible snap. He fell back against a stone column, and when he exhaled, a mist of blood sprayed from his mouth. Paul’s left hook slammed into the cop’s face, shattering his nose. Blinded by tears and blood, the policeman managed to get off one wild shot before Paul’s colossal uppercut connected. The cop staggered farther backward. Momentum propelled him over the low wall, and he toppled into the river.
Paul turned to Ava. “Run!” he barked at her. She obeyed instantly. Behind her, Paul bent low and gathered the teenager’s body into his arms. As gently as he could, he carried Sefu onto the boat. The moment they were aboard, Ammon kicked the throttle wide open. Ava could see tears dripping down Ammon’s cheeks as he whispered a prayer for his baby brother’s life. They shot away from the pier, just seconds ahead of the other policeman. Over the engine’s whine, Ava heard three staccato cracks. Two shots flew wide to their left; the third struck the skiff amidships, just inches from her body.
Then the air erupted with the sound of a heavy machine gun. “Get down!” Paul yelled, gesturing for Ava to hide behind the canisters. He poked his head up, scanning the horizon. Charging toward them from the north was an Egyptian Coast Guard patrol vessel, with thick, bulletproof armor, a deep V-hull, a government insignia, and a fifty-caliber deck cannon. Instantly Ammon yanked the skiff into a tight hundred-and-eighty-degree turn. Surprised by the maneuver, Ava slipped and fell. Her backside slammed against the rail. Frantically she sought a handhold. By hooking her fingers under the seat’s fiberglass lip, she somehow kept herself aboard until Ammon helped her regain equilibrium. The patrol boat had throttled up and was gaining. At top speed, Ammon rocketed them across the water, jumping the shallow-hulled skiff from wake to wake. As they passed Rasheed, he veered away from shore. They heard more gunshots. The remaining cop was firing away.