“Once there, we won’t leave.” The major gave a tentative smile.
The colonel laughed out loud. “No, we won’t. But remember: In this action, we do not want to appear to be a force of invading imperialists. Instead, we are invited guests of elements of the elected host government. We are merely an advance guard for a multinational United Nations peacekeeping force that will derail a military coup by radical Egyptian generals. We plan to help reestablish order in this wicked country, protect our own people and foreign visitors, and stand guard over the most important oil transportation routes on the globe.”
“That will present an interesting diplomatic situation for the rest of the world, sir.”
“There is one more thing, Chief of Staff.” The colonel actually broke into a big smile that left Shakuri sweating. “You will turn over my briefings to someone else in the office and fly down to Sharm immediately. I am giving you overall command down there, Major. I need someone trustworthy and smart in charge on the ground, and no one is better suited for the task than you. You have shown your capabilities many times, and now you are ready for a step up. When this is over, you will get a promotion in rank and a new assignment. Meanwhile, you will run the Sharm operation and let no one get in your way. There will be a lot of soldiers of higher ranks to perform the military tasks, but they will all report to you, Major Shakuri. If they have a problem, tell them to call our superiors in Tehran.”
The concierge was a polite and sincere young man who had been trained well for the position by growing up in the thriving belt of big hotels along the scenic waterfront. Nothing surprised him any longer about the lifestyles of the wealthiest people in the world. He had seen suicides, assaults, drunks, rapes, drug overdoses, bribery, the bloody aftermath of beatings and murders. He always made sure the ambulances came to the unseen side entrance of the Blue Neptune and handled everything with courtesy, sympathy, and total confidentiality. From what the desk clerk said, this particular meeting with a newly arrived American guest should not take long. He found the man in the bar, staring out one of the big windows toward the sea. “My name is Karam, and I am the concierge, sir. You asked to see me?”
Swanson motioned for Karam to sit down, and almost immediately, a waitress arrived with a bottle of champagne wrapped in a towel and placed in a bucket of ice. “A small welcome from the Blue Neptune, Mr. Swanson. I heard about your ferry crossing. It is a tragic thing.”
Kyle put his hand on the bucket. “Thank you, but there is no use ruining this perfectly good bottle of champagne by opening it. Save it for someone else. I won’t be here that long.”
At a silent signal, the waitress removed the bucket and bottle back to the bar. “Very well. Then down to business. What can I do for you?”
“Did you bring the airline schedules?”
A broad smile revealed gleaming teeth. “No need for that, sir. After so many years, I know them by heart. Where do you want to go, and when?”
“What is the first flight to London tomorrow morning?”
“There are a number of departures available. The first one is very early, the British Airways seven o’clock. Are you certain that you would not prefer a later departure, say the ten o’clock Lufthansa?”
Swanson had a pair of U.S. hundred-dollar bills folded in his shirt pocket, and he pushed them over to Karam. “No. I’m an early riser. Seven o’clock is good, and make it a first-class cabin, would you? I’ll need a private car and driver, not a taxi.”
Karam smoothly palmed the money, put it in his own pocket, and stood. “Consider it done, Mr. Swanson. I will send a note of confirmation to your room this evening.”
Kyle also stood up and fished out another hundred. “Apparently, I didn’t make myself clear, Karam. I want confirmation not this evening, but within an hour. In fact, do it right now.”
As the businessman walked away, Karam looked out the window at the smoke smudging the horizon, and everything came together. This man was the first rat leaving the sinking ship that was Sharm el-Sheikh’s. The concierge hurried back to his desk and ordered the airline reservation and the car and driver in a matter of minutes, then left a confirmation message on Swanson’s telephone. Karam tapped a pen on his fingers as he thought about what he needed to do next.
It was a short walk across the spacious lobby to the office of the in-hotel travel agent, who happened to be his brother-in-law. His sister was at her own desk, and Karam shut the door, locked it, and spun around the CLOSED sign. His relatives stopped what they were doing, and they all moved to a corner to discuss the situation.
Whatever had happened out there on the Red Sea had been very bad, they surmised, worse than was first thought. It would probably bloom into a crisis, which meant that big money could be made from a sudden exodus of scared tourists. Quietly, the family laid hurried plans to reap a financial windfall.
13
Seven minutes before the one o’clock appointment, Kyle Swanson was in his suite at the Blue Neptune, finishing a quick change of clothes. The suit he had worn that morning was creased and dirty from the ferry ride and smelled faintly of smoke and oil. He had stripped, jumped into a hot shower for a rinse to shock his body back to normal, dried off, and put on fresh underwear and black socks. The shirt, suit, and tie were on hangers in the bathroom to let the steam generated from the shower work on the wrinkles because there was no time for valet service, or even to iron them.
Two large blue duffel bags were beside the closet, and he lifted them to the bed, where sunlight highlighted the official seal of the United States and long zippers that were sealed with locks. Kyle ripped open the envelope he had been given at the front desk and shook out a key that popped both locks; then he hauled down the zippers and opened the bags. Bless you, Lizard, he thought. In his last call to Task Force Trident before leaving London, he had asked Commander Benton Freedman to somehow get him a package of what he called “the necessaries.” Liz had come through big-time.
The term “diplomatic pouch” was a misnomer, dating back to the days when confidential messages were exchanged between nations. As embassies grew, so did the need to supply them with more things, ranging from crates of liquor to food and medicine. The privilege often had been abused to transport drugs, illegal cash, and once even a kidnapped Nigerian ambassador locked in a box. Stamped with diplomatic immunity, goods pass through customs offices without being opened or X-rayed. Almost anything could be in them, and the Lizard, working through the resources of the U.S. Drug Enforcement Agency in Egypt, had outdone himself. A local DEA agent had dropped the duffel bags at the hotel.
A disassembled M-16A3 match grade rifle was secured inside a backpack, along with eight hundred rounds of ammunition, enough for more than twenty full magazines. He felt like a kid at Christmastime as he dug out the toys: a satellite radio-telephone, four fragmentation grenades, four smoke grenades of various colors, two Willie Petes — white phosphorus — a pair of claymore mines, four bricks of C-4 plastic explosive, and a supply of det cord, primers, and timers. He felt a surge of adrenaline, for although he was standing there in his underwear, he no longer felt naked in this worsening situation. When he snapped the rifle together and shoved in a clip of ammo with a satisfying click, it felt better in his hands than a lingerie model.
Also folded in the bags were local rags of the sort that an Egyptian workingman would wear, so if needed, Kyle could blend in with a crowd. A pair of jeans, two polo shirts, and a tattered and stained heavy pullover hoodie completed the set. The final items were enough bottles of water and MREs, the infamous Meals, Ready to Eat, to last three days. In all probability, he would never need any of the material, but before he left tomorrow morning, he could give the entire stash to Omar for the MI6 agent’s future use.