It was not the first time the prince’s name had arisen in connection with Islamic terrorism in Egypt. He’d funneled millions of dollars into the pockets of the Egyptian jihadists over the years, including fronts and entities controlled by the Sword of Allah. But because the prince was a Saudi-and because impoverished Egypt was beholden to Saudi economic aid-al-Zayyat had had no choice but to turn a blind eye to his charitable endeavors. This is different, he thought now. Giving money to Islamist causes was one thing; providing aid and shelter to a terrorist bent on the destruction of the Mubarak regime was quite another. If the SSI managed to find Sheikh Tayyib hiding in a Saudi-owned property, it might very well give al-Zayyat the ammunition he needed to end Saudi meddling in Egypt’s internal affairs once and for all.
Al-Zayyat arrived at the Ramses Towers shortly after 10:30 and found the building surrounded by several hundred raw police recruits. He knew that many of the young officers secretly supported the goals of the Sword-and that many of them, if given the opportunity, would gladly duplicate the actions of Lieutenant Khaled Islambouli and put a bullet through Pharaoh’s chest. He directed his driver to a spot across the street and lowered his window. Aman from his directorate, spotting the official Mercedes, came over at a trot.
“We went in about two minutes ago,” the officer said. “The place was empty, but it was clear someone had been there recently and that whoever it was had left in a hurry. There was food on the table and pans in the kitchen. Everything was still warm.”
Al-Zayyat swore softly. Was it bad luck, or did he have a traitor in his midst-someone inside the SSI who had alerted the sheikh that Mandali had been captured and was talking?
“Close the Zamalek bridges,” he said. “No one gets off the island without a thorough search. Then start knocking on doors inside the Ramses. I don’t care if you have to ruffle the feathers of the rich and famous. I want to make sure the sheikh isn’t still hiding somewhere inside.”
The officer turned and ran back toward the entrance of the building. Al-Zayyat drew his mobile phone from his pocket and dialed a number inside the Scorpion.
“We hit a dry well,” he told the man who answered.
“Shall we have another go at Mandali?”
“No, he’s dry, too.”
“What do you want us to do with him?”
“We never had him,” al-Zayyat said. “We’ve never heard of him. He’s nothing. He’s no one.”
33
Gabriel sat before the recorder, slipped on a pair of headphones, and pressed PLAY.
“I was afraid you were never going to call tonight. Do you know what time it is?”
“I’ve been busy. You’ve seen the news?”
“The bombings? It’s all anyone’s talking about.”
“What are they saying?”
“The Danes are shocked, of course. They’re wondering when it’s going to happen in Copenhagen. Here in Nørrebro, they say Europe is getting what it deserves for supporting the Americans. They want the Americans to release the sheikh.”
“Be careful what you say on the telephone, Hanifah. You never know who’s listening.”
“Who would bother to listen to me? I’m no one.”
“You’re married to a man who works for the Islamic Affairs Council of Denmark.”
“A man who thinks nothing of leaving his wife and child to roam the Middle East conducting research on the state of the Islamic world. Where are you tonight anyway?”
“Istanbul. How’s Ahmed?”
Gabriel pressed STOP, then REWIND, then PLAY.
“Where are you tonight anyway?”
“Istanbul. How’s Ahmed?”
“He misses his father.”
“I want to talk to him.”
“It’s too late, Ishaq. He’s been asleep for almost an hour.”
“Wake him.”
“No.”
“It’s important I speak to him tonight.”
“Then you should have called earlier. Where are you, Ishaq? What’s that noise in the background?”
“It’s just traffic outside my hotel room.”
“It sounds like you’re on a highway.”
“It’s loud here in Istanbul. It’s not like Copenhagen. Did you speak to my father today?”
STOP. REWIND. PLAY.
“Where are you, Ishaq? What’s that noise in the background?”
“It’s just traffic outside my hotel room.”
“It sounds like you’re on a highway.”
“It’s loud here in Istanbul. It’s not like Copenhagen. Did you speak to my father today?”
“This afternoon.”
“He’s well?”
“He seemed so.”
“How’s the weather in Copenhagen?”
“Cold, Ishaq. What do you think?”
“Any strangers around the apartment? Any unfamiliar faces in the streets?”
“A few more police than usual, but it’s calm here.”
“You’re sure?”
“I’m sure. Why are you so nervous?”
“Because the Muslim communities across Europe are under siege at the moment. Because we are being rounded up and brought in for questioning simply because we happen to speak Arabic or pray toward Mecca.”
“No one’s being rounded up in Copenhagen.”
“Not yet.”
“When does this conference of yours end, Ishaq? When are you coming home?”
“Actually, you’re coming here. Not Istanbul. Some place better.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Go to the bottom drawer of my dresser. I left an envelope for you there.”
“I don’t feel like playing games, Ishaq. I’m tired.”
“Just do as I tell you, Hanifah. You won’t be disappointed. I promise.”
Hanifah gave an exasperated sigh and slammed the receiver down next to the telephone so hard that the sound caused Gabriel’s eardrums to vibrate like a snare drum. The next sounds he heard were distant: the patter of slippered feet, a drawer being yanked open, the rustle of crisp paper. Then, a few seconds later, Hanifah’s startled voice.
“Where did you get this money?”
“Never mind where I got it. Do you have the tickets?”
“Beirut? Why are we going to Beirut?”
“For a holiday.”
“The plane leaves Friday morning. How am I supposed to be ready that soon?”
“Just throw a few things in a bag. I’ll have someone from the Council take you to the airport. A colleague of mine from Beirut will meet you at the airport and take you and Ahmed to an apartment that we’ve been given use of. I’ll come from Istanbul in a couple of days.”
“This is crazy, Ishaq. Why didn’t you tell me until now?”