He felt almost like a prisoner in the spacious apartment, but his rendezvous with the Pathfinders in a few hours was too important for him to expose himself unnecessarily. He had to remain hidden for a while longer. Still, he could not help being restless and aware that vital time was slipping through his fingers. The longer the Revolutionary Guards remained unmolested, the more likely it was that they would succeed in securing their foothold in Egypt.
He did not listen to the radio nor turn on the television set, although he checked briefly with Washington and was advised that the Pathfinders were still on schedule. Once they were in place, other options would open up, but meanwhile he still had permission to act independently. The political side was wrestling with the rapid developments, and the Muslim Brotherhood — orchestrated riots in Cairo and other countries seemed to have reached a temporary stalemate, as if the core of the movement were being reorganized into a more military-oriented force. Neither side held the upper hand twenty-four hours into the invasion.
After the messaging, he dropped to the floor to pump out some exercises, made a good meal, and thought about creating some kind of diversion that would keep the Iranians busy looking the other way when he went to fetch the Pathfinders at 0300. He found the keys that Omar had left and made a quick trip down to the garage to check out the new set of wheels, a like-new Toyota 4Runner Trail with automatic transmission, four-wheel drive, and a powerful V-6 engine that ordinarily was used to run tourists out to distant attractions in the desert. The back windows were tinted, which made it perfect for hauling in the Pathfinders tomorrow morning. Satisfied, Swanson went back upstairs.
Knowing he would probably get no more sleep for a while, he planned to take another nap while he could, and the idea came to him while he dozed, forcing him awake with a start. The Iranians had to be tight on ammunition, having only what they carried on their persons and in the aircraft that brought them and whatever was being unloaded among the beans and tents and other gear back on the beach. They could be leaning on the locals for food and some supplies, but each bullet might become worth its weight in gold until this advance force was relieved by some other force. The weakness was their inability to resupply. If he could somehow damage the supply line, they would have trouble.
He went to the telescope and examined the airport again until he found that stack of crates that had to be the ammo dump, then studied the scene and drew a detailed map. Swanson stepped back, drank some water, and thought, I want that! Pleased to finally have found another goal, he ransacked the closets. The problem of sneaking up on the airport stash crossed his mind only in terms of the possible tactical approaches. He never doubted success, particularly when he had a cushion of several hours to assemble a homemade ghillie suit that would help him vanish during the approach.
He assembled his camouflage suit out of the darkest cloth he could find, cutting it apart and then using a sewing kit from the bedroom table drawer to stitch it back together in the rough shape of his body. Dirt from some potted plants in the safe house helped ugly it up, as did splotches of black paint and ripped rags. Finally, he tried it on before the full-length mirror and saw something that appeared misshapen from head to foot, more like a couple of mounds than a human form. It was lacerated with tears at frequent intervals, into which he would insert vegetation from the immediate area of the stalk once he was on scene. A pillowcase became a camouflaged bag that he would drag along behind him.
As the sun began going down, Swanson lugged his gear down to the 4Runner and joined the evening traffic through the outskirts of the city. As opposed to the earlier complacent freedom he had seen, there now seemed to be some tension in the town. Groups of people were talking and gesturing on the corners, arguing in public, and the few soldiers that he saw were grim instead of being placid. Perhaps everyone was settling into the idea that Sharm el-Sheikh was no longer a good place to be, that the Iranians were here to stay, but he wondered if something had happened that he did not know about. The problem with being cut off from Omar and Tianha was that he could not keep up on the local gossip. No matter; that could wait.
A good place to stash the Toyota opened up when he found a small market that had closed early. The lights were out, latticed steel bars were padlocked on the windows and doors, and the small parking apron was shielded from view by an adjacent industrial building. He pulled into the most distant parking spot, got his gear, locked the Toyota, and began to walk casually toward the southern end of the airport. He looked back down Hotel Row, where many of the usual lights had not been turned on tonight. Darkness slammed down. Perfect.
By eight o’clock, Swanson was only a mile away from his target, unseen in the night with his face blackened with soot, his ghillie filled with thistles and brush, and his drag bag tied to his ankle. The painfully slow stalk was going surprisingly smoothly, although he did not rush things; the closer he got, the slower he went, until he was moving even slower than the gentle breeze coming across the water. Time did not matter as he progressed an inch at a time in a belly-scraping low crawl, down with the worms and the beetles.
The examples, for major Shakuri preferred to think of the six Egyptians who were about to die as examples and not real people, had not been brutalized when they were arrested. They were neither clubbed nor kicked but were treated almost as if they were invited guests of the Iranian military. Shakuri, after all, was not a barbarian. The prisoners had been told what was going to happen, and why; then they were allowed private time with their families and a period of solitude with the comfort of reading the Koran. Food and drink were made available, but most barely touched it.
At exactly eight thirty in the evening, Shakuri’s driver parked the commander’s Rolls-Royce alongside the main entrance to a five-acre circular park in the middle of the city, a peaceful oasis of green grass and trees that was tended carefully all year because it was a favorite place for residents and tourists to stroll, for lovers to rendezvous, and for children to play. Clean sidewalks edged the circumference of the park, and two wide lanes flanked with benches crisscrossed the circle, meeting in the middle at a large fountain that splashed geysers of water. Decorative blue tiles lay in patterns beneath the ripples. Very nice, the major thought.
When he lifted his eyes, the image was jarred by a wall of sandbags that sprawled with menace beside the southern walkway to the fountain, awful tiers that measured seven feet high and twenty feet in length. Lined directly before the sandbag barricade were six thick posts that stuck out of the grass at three-foot intervals. This would be the killing ground, and it would be left in place to remind the Egyptians not to assist enemies of the Iranians. The major was puzzled that only a small crowd had gathered. Maybe a hundred people, not much more than the families of the prisoners. He had thought there would be more.
The troops that had erected the wall and the posts had returned to the airport, for the duty that came next could be trusted only to hand-chosen soldiers who would not flinch from an unpleasant task. The firing squad of ten strong young men was at parade rest, wearing green-patterned camouflage uniforms with white scarves tucked around their necks, green berets, and white gloves on their hands. AK-47 assault rifles with curved magazines that were loaded with thirty rounds each hung from their right shoulders. Major Shakuri was saluted by the captain in charge, then did a quick review of the smart-looking troops, their neat garb reflecting both the solemnity of the occasion and respect for the men they were about to kill.
When Shakuri took his place to one side, ten paces behind the soldiers, the captain ordered the captives brought forward, and the six prisoners emerged under guard from a pastel-colored building on the east side of the park. Their hands were cuffed behind their backs, and they wore clean clothes. Five watched the ground, while the sixth held his head erect, staring with anger at the Iranians, and when his gaze swept to Major Shakuri, it locked there in challenge. Shakuri recognized him as the mayor of Sharm el-Sheikh, who had argued with him against the reprisals only to be added to the list. He was a popular local figure, the owner of a marina, and Shakuri knew that putting the mayor before the guns would definitely send the message that the Iranians were not to be attacked.