In Cairo, Colonel Yahya Ali Naqdi had watched Shakuri’s performance with a great deal of pleasure, and now he clapped his hands in applause. Perfect. Just as you win some battles with bullets, you can also win some by stringing words together like pearls. Shakuri’s statement on worldwide television would blunt military responses from America, Great Britain, and NATO. By delaying the actual departure of the foreign nationals, the Iranians would, in effect, have human shields against airstrikes. Russia and China would veto any swift UN deployment with many speeches over a period of weeks, or even months. Iran was there to stay. The colonel was satisfied with the speech, and with how Major Shakuri had become the face of the invasion, another cutout between the colonel and repercussions — what the Americans called a “fall guy.”
In Washington, the lights were bright in the hallways of power and the mood somber in the Oval Office. “Where does this leave us?” asked the president of the United States.
“As I see it, we can mount covert operations and threaten sanctions, but with the safety of our people guaranteed, we no longer have just cause to attack.” The secretary of state ran a finger down the transcript of the broadcast. “All lies, but good ones.”
“General?” The president raised an eyebrow at the chairman of the Joint Chiefs.
“The Vinson Strike Group and the Marine Expeditionary Unit are en route and waiting for our decision. You guys have to make that call.”
The national security adviser said, “It’s a damned chess game, and we’re playing against someone who is pretty good at this, thinking two steps ahead. Giving permission for civilians to use e-mails and Facebook is nothing but free publicity. We cannot attack the Iranians now without looking like the bad guys.”
With everyone in the room agreed, the president issued his decision. He knew that Kyle Swanson was already on the ground and hard at work, so things were not totally at a standstill. Perhaps some special ops unit could go in to back him up. There would be another briefing in two hours, but for now, he made the only logical call.
The chairman summoned his aide, who was waiting outside the door. “Get on the horn back to my office. Stand down the MEU (SOC) and all strike packages, and await further orders.”
Captain Aaron Clay had peeled out of his flight suit, put on his khakis, and found a bench in the mess deck of the Peleliu LHA-5. He was decompressing with a hot cup of coffee while digging into a meal of steak and eggs. No more butterflies in the gut; just a sense of deep disappointment.
19
Swanson slid awake at noon, his eyes opening as easily as elevator doors parting to show a new world. He felt renewed, ready to take the next step, whatever it might be. His subconscious had mulled the situation thoroughly while he slept, and he recalled the first President Bush’s words when Iraq invaded Kuwait, “This will not stand.” Obviously, this illegal invasion of Egypt by Iran, no matter how it was spruced up as a diplomatic and humanitarian mission, was a slap to the face of the West; it also would not be allowed to stand.
Things had to be in motion in the world capitals, and although he did not know what actions were being considered, he did know that he had not a moment to waste. Don’t let them get comfortable. Kyle rolled from the bed and padded to the kitchen, the tiled floor chilly on his feet. He made a quick snack of juice, sliced cheese and melon, and an apple and walked to the big window overlooking the airport. It looked quiet. No planes arriving or departing.
He put his eye to the big telescope and scanned slowly left to right, coming to focus on large piles of boxes and crates stacked in and around a maintenance hangar about four hundred yards from the terminal building. Forklifts were carrying more crates to the pile, and guards were walking lazy patrol around the perimeter. Kyle pulled the telescope back away from the window to avoid being spotted by anyone doing countersurveillance by studying the windows of every building that overlooked the critical airstrip. The safe house wasn’t going to be all that safe if the Iranians and their pals in the Muslim Brotherhood got their act together and cleared the area. Omar would have to find something else within the next few days.
Back in the bedroom, he raided the closet and found a fresh pair of white cotton pants; they were a little loose in the waist, but a cloth belt took care of that. He chose a knee-length, loose dark blue dishdasha with an open Nehru collar. A checkered blue and white scarf covered his shoulders, and a cream-colored knitted cotton kufi went on his head. With that and the face stubble, he could go out in the daylight for a while, as long as he didn’t have to speak.
At the small desk in a corner, Swanson laid out a one-time code sheet and spent thirty minutes composing a report, then checked in again by sat phone with Trident headquarters. The Lizard answered instantly, and they greeted each other with inane-sounding passwords.
“How’s the weather down there?” asked Commander Freedman.
“Pretty cool. How about there?”
“Always the same. Shackle.”
“Right and ready.” Liz was ready to take the secret and guarded transmission. It was known as the Simple Shackle, and they each had preset identical pads that were a series of connected squares that gave them the look of a chessboard. Each square corresponded to a letter in the alphabet, but each number was really the number that followed it; a four actually was a five, which might correspond to a vowel the first time used and a consonant the next. The code was no match for a computer but was perfect for ease of communication. Afterward, the code sheet would be destroyed. Swanson had four that he could use on this mission.
Slowly, Kyle read the appropriate numbers that briefly reported that he was still good, the resort city of Sharm was quiet, and the airport was standing idle for the time being as far as plane movements. Then it was his turn to receive, and he jotted down the numerical series. When he decoded it, he found a surprise: The Saudis had already reacted and were shifting forces into position along the northwestern border to face Egypt. That would cover from the Jordanian border to the Red Sea, close the side door to the east, and dash any hope the Iranians might have of leaving that way. This will not stand.
He read on with a surge of pleasure that made him chew his lower lip. The next part of the message added another item to his list for this afternoon’s chores, one that he was happy to do. Then the piece of paper was ripped to pieces and flushed down the toilet.
He took a moment to disassemble the rifle, wiped the parts with gun oil, and wrapped it all in a pillowcase to cushion it and break up the straight lines, then dumped it into a trash bag made of heavy-duty black plastic. The pistol went into the back of his belt and was covered by the loose dishdasha. After adding a wire hanger from the closet to his bag of goodies, he left the apartment, locking the door behind him.
He walked casually, with the bag over his shoulder, taking on the appearance of an average businessman just trying to get by during this surprising and dangerous time. The sun was bright and the sky clear, giving everything a confusing veneer of normality, although Sharm el-Sheikh was anything but normal. Still, awnings hung along storefronts to provide shade, and goods were stacked outside for sale, everything from bicycles to fruits and vegetables. Women, who could dress with some style in Egypt, had ducked back into the anonymity of their traditional ankle-length robes and covered their faces. Kyle found he did not have to worry about speaking, for not only were the crowds of civilians unusually silent, no one was meeting the eyes of anyone else. The best way to survive was to not be noticed. He kept moving, back toward the lower-income outskirts where he had left his stolen car, for he needed to steal another one for the day.