He swept the Mercedes out into traffic and retraced the previous night’s journey along the coast road, slowing down as they approached the parked military truck. “Oh, no,” he said. “That’s trouble.”
Swanson and Bialy followed his stare. The truck was in the same position, but the rack of missile tubes had been raised to a 45-degree angle, with steel struts planted on the ground around the deck to soak up recoil. The two technicians who had appeared lazy yesterday were now busy on the platform.
“What does it mean?” Tianha asked.
Swanson gave a fatalistic laugh. “Getting those tubes up means the missiles are probably hot, programmed, and ready to fire.”
“My God. We have to stop it,” she exclaimed, her eyes wide.
“Will you stop that? If we attack with a couple of pistols and an AK-47, we could take out the technicians, but that would also expose us to arrest. All you can do is update London. Other people have to handle this, Tianha.”
Omar had been watching and listening as he drove. “Swanson is right, Tianha. My hope is that they are not going to shoot at our ferry. We had best get to the pier.”
They remained in the automobile while the aft ferry ramp was cleared and the barrier opened. Omar followed signals into a short line of vehicles that disappeared quickly into the broad covered parking deck. At a signal, he shut down the ignition, and all three got out as the Mercedes was chained into position, bumper to bumper with cars in front and behind. A biting wind channeled through the open space, chilly enough to make passengers hurry up the metal staircase to the shelter of the twin lounges for the hour-and-a-half crossing to Sharm.
About 150 people were aboard the sparkling white Hurghada Turbo Sea Jet 1, half of its normal capacity, and it carried only a dozen vehicles. The absence of weight would allow the ferry to lift almost out of the water when it picked up speed and headed across the Red Sea. The frequent travelers had already staked out seats away from the metal bulkheads and near heating vents so they would be warmer than the tourists who clustered at the windows to view the passing scene.
Omar and Tianha grabbed a table while Kyle went to the cafeteria bar and brought back coffee and bottled water for them all. Orange midmorning sunshine poured into the lounge, giving it an almost cheerful glow, an oasis of peace in a country that seemed intent on devouring itself. Kids were already restless and zooming through the aisles, or just standing in place, staring at each other until a new friend was made.
“Things are always like this at the start of a crossing,” Omar said. “By the time we disembark, these quiet people will be rude and impatient, ready to commit mayhem to get one place ahead in line.”
With the rumble of engines and a loudspeaker announcement, the Sea Jet 1 dropped its lines and headed away from the long pier. Omar opened an Egyptian magazine, and Tianha spread out a tablet and two textbooks. Neither was inclined to talk, for there was little more to say. “I’m going on deck for a while,” Swanson said, pulling on a Burberry trench coat. Ignored by all, he walked away, tying the belt and flipping up the broad collar. The deep right pocket sagged a little and jingled as he walked.
“He is going to freeze out there. Just because the sun is shining does not mean it will not be cold on the water.” Omar put aside his magazine.
“Good.” She looked at Omar hard. “Safe to talk here?”
“Yeah, as long as Swanson stays gone. What’s happening, Tianha?”
She glanced around and lowered her voice a bit. “MI6 has a new source in Egypt who has been furnishing us with extraordinary information that proves the Iranians are orchestrating much of the unrest, in concert with the Muslim Brotherhood.”
“So? Everybody knows that already.”
“This is not rumor or hearsay, Omar. The source is providing ironclad proof, including names and numbers and exact times and orders stretching all the way back to specific people in Tehran.”
“Who is this person? How does he have such access?”
“We don’t know. He, assume it is a he, goes by the code name of Pharaoh, and I have been sent to find him. Right now, he is operating on his own, and we want to give him protection and guidance.”
Omar smiled. “You want to run him as an MI6 agent.”
“Just like us, Omar. Just like us. So far it has been a one-way street, with him contacting us when he wishes. We have sent a message back down the chain that someone is being sent to Egypt to establish a point of contact and provide him with protection, or whatever he wants, plus offer a way out if things go bad for him.”
“And you are to be that agent contact?”
“Yes. Eventually.”
“You gave him your name?” Omar was astonished. An agent never intentionally unmasked his or her identity and walked around in the open. “Not only is that suicide, Tianha, but it will ruin your cover as a respected academic and researcher.”
“Of course not. We are sending a quiet alert to him, but I also want you to spread the word through your networks that an influential new friend has arrived and wants a private meeting with the Pharaoh. The contact’s name is Kyle Swanson, and he works for the U.S. Central Intelligence Agency. You already have our schedule, so you can put that out there, too.”
Omar puffed out his cheeks and blew out a long breath. “Does Swanson know about this?”
She gave a small smile. “No, so let’s keep that between ourselves for the moment, shall we? I’ll tell him when he needs to know.”
“You’re playing a hard game, Tianha.” Through a lounge window, he saw Swanson staring at the water with his hands shoved in his pockets. “Is he really CIA?”
“No. He’s just an American Marine.”
Kyle was not uncomfortable on the open deck. With the heavy overcoat, only his feet were cold. Supple leather shoes were made to look good, not to repel frostbite. The harsh January wind bit at the exposed skin of his face, but the brightening sunshine was warming things fast. He fished in his pocket for an Egyptian one-pound coin and plugged it into the slot of a big telescope mounted on the deck so tourists could watch the harbors and the passing ships. No one else was interested in taking a look, so he stayed with it; two minutes for an Egyptian pound, which was worth sixteen U.S. cents and falling.
The shipping lanes seemed filled; giant oil tankers and container ships lumbered forward and stopped in a delicate dance of elephants as they lined up for access through the Suez Canal to the Mediterranean. Smaller vessels easily moved about them with discipline and care: a few yachts, fishing boats, and speedy pleasure craft. Here and there he picked up the silhouettes of naval ships. The Red Sea was busy. Swanson edged the big lens back down the swirling wake of the Sea Jet 1 to look back at Hurghada.
So far, so good. Maybe the Harpoons were just there for a regular drill, because one of the strengths of a missile platform mounted on a truck was a mobility that could quickly move it to a point of threat. Every branch of every armed force on the globe regularly ran exercises, so would the Egyptian Air Force be any different? He hoped that was so. The Harpoons were not exactly surgical tools, and even the best guidance systems would be challenged to pick one specific ship from among a cluster of targets. Many neutral fishing boats, airplanes, and human beings had been destroyed over the centuries simply for being too near, or mistaken for, legitimate military targets.
Two minutes elapsed, and the telescope shutter snapped closed with the suddenness of a triggered rat trap. He stood upright and wiped away some tears brought by the wind. Please let me be wrong about this. Kyle fished in his pocket, retrieved another coin, and was in the process of inserting it into the machine when his eye was drawn back toward Hurghada by a flash of light that was followed by a rising white column of exhaust smoke. Launch! He spun from the telescope and pounded on the window of the lounge to get the attention of Tianha and Omar, and was back at the scope, watching a second launch, by the time they ran onto the deck. He didn’t even have to point; a pair of shipkillers were in the air, chalking their way high into the sky and accelerating.