Vengeance: A Derek Stillwater Novel (Derek Stillwater Thrillers Book 8) (19 page)

Sholes’s voice crackled in Derek’s
ear. “Come back to the embassy unless you’ve got something hard-and-fast to work on.”

Derek looked at Noa and shrugged. “Something of a dead end, but I doubt Nazif will let it go for long. He’s got something planned.”

Sholes: I have a lead, but I need to share it with you in person.

“Me personally?”

Sholes: I think so, yes.

Brigham said, “Go. We’ll wrap things up here. Communicate with me when you can. And thanks.”

With a nod, Derek and Noa hurried back to the pickup truck. It was an uneasy feeling. Although he didn’t see anybody, he was certain they were being watched. Friend or foe?

Or just people trying to live their lives while the world blew up around them?

Back in the truck Derek plugged in his phone and looked at his face in the mirror. Covered with charcoal, he looked stretched thin around the eyes, which were red and raw-looking. He splashed some water into his hands and rinsed out his eyes and wiped his face. Noa did the same.

“You could drop me off at the embassy and go back to your people. This isn’t your fight.”

“It isn’t, exactly, but it is. And don’t worry, my bosses will let me know when it’s time to back off, Derek. Ready?”

The U.S. Embassy
was a gray concrete building that to Derek looked like a prison. It wasn’t helped by the twenty-foot concrete wall surrounding the compound scarred with graffiti, much of it in Arabic, but
FUK
USA
and
FUCK
OFF
AMERICA
translated fairly clearly. And there were plenty of U.S. marines at the gate and along the wall.

Just one great big happy Middle East.

Security took their weapons and their communication gear. Derek let Irina and Johnston know what was happening. An embassy doctor took a quick look at their cuts, sewed a couple stitches in Derek’s leg and told them to stay out of trouble, as if that was possible. They were eventually led into a private office in the secure section of the embassy. Sholes, who looked like she was having a stressful day as well, told them about General el-Sisi’s visit.

“What do you know about Ali Urabi?” Derek asked. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Noa frowning, as if the name meant something to her.

“I’ve asked our
COS
and he said he’ll get back to me,” Sholes said.
COS
, Chief of Station, the
CIA
’s head guy at the Embassy.

“He’d better fucking get back quick.”

“There are political repercussions here, Derek—”

Leaning forward in his chair, he snapped, “I don’t give a shit, Sholes. Robert Mandalevo’s life is on the line. Are you trying to negotiate with Nazif? What do we know?”

“We think he’s still alive. But we’ve lost all contact. And given the time pressures, there is little likelihood of the U.S. trading Abdul Nazif for Robert. And we certainly don’t trust Hussein Nazif to negotiate in good faith.”

“His behavior so far,” interjected Noa, “suggests that he’s familiar with what we’re doing and is at least one step ahead. He’s setting a series of traps. I would expect that to continue.”

Nodding in agreement, Derek said, “I want to talk to the COS.”

Sholes nodded. She tapped a button on her phone and said, “Mike, Stillwater and Shoshan want to talk to you.”

“I’m good with Stillwater. Shoshan stays out. She’s not cleared for this.”

“He’ll be right in.” Sholes stood up. “Noa, we appreciate—”

“I’m good with it. I need to communicate with my office, anyway.”

“Of course.”

Minutes later Derek was in the office of Mike O’Bannon. Sandy-haired in his early sixties, he had a pasty complexion and dark circles around his eyes, magnified with heavy black-framed glasses. His white shirt was wrinkled, his muted blue and maroon tie loose at the neck.

Sitting in front of his desk, Derek splayed his hands. “Isn’t the clock ticking?”

“For all we know Mandalevo’s dead. We lost all communication with the Nazif Brigade when you guys tripped the wire with the sniper and the phosgene. We don’t know if that was something you were supposed to do or the outcome was unexpected. We don’t know shit.”

“And el-Sisi’s tip?”

O’Bannon sighed. “General el-Sisi. That’s just what we needed. If something happens to President Morsi, el-Sisi will be the guy in charge. He comes out of nowhere here to help us out, but he’s always got an agenda.”

“Maybe his agenda is helping get Mandalevo back.”

Looking sour, O’Bannon said, “You would think so, but Morsi’s people, though concerned, don’t seem to be very helpful. General el-Sisi and Morsi are not buddies.”

Leaning back in his chair, Derek said, “Okay, look. We’re having a nice chat here, but aside from hinting about what a political can of worms we’ve got, what’s the deal with Ali Urabi.”

“He’s an advisor to the President.”

“Intelligence?”

O’Bannon nodded.

“Jesus Christ, O’Bannon. Spit it out. Is he an asset of yours?”

“A counterpart. How this works, Stillwater, is he’s very high in Egyptian intelligence. I know your time with the Agency was very short, that you’re more of a blunt instrument, but you know how this crap works. So Ali Urabi works at cross-purposes to us. But we share information with him if we think it’s worthwhile, and vice versa.”

“And el-Sisi says he might be able to help.”

“Yes, but … ”

Derek said, “Either tell me what the problem is or I’m walking out of here.”

“The problem is he probably won’t talk to you.”

“Who will he talk to?”

Licking his lips, O’Bannon said, “He’s pretty much my asset.”

“So get your ass out of the office and talk to him.”

“This is a sensitive—”

Derek got up and headed for the door. “Do your job, asshole.”

“Stillwater.”

Derek turned, waiting.

“We’ll do this. But I want you to remember something. Something important.”

Derek waited.

“You can’t believe everything he says.”

“Everybody’s got an agenda. I got it. Let’s go.”

O’Bannon rode in the front
seat of a Toyota driven by an Embassy Security Officer whose shoulders were so wide Derek marveled that he’d been able to get into the car at all. The officer had a shock of black hair, hard angular planes to his face, and thick hands. He said nothing. Derek rode in the back. Noa had been informed that she was not welcome on this particular meeting. To her credit, she hadn’t seemed very surprised.

Before they left, Derek pulled her aside. “You know what’s going on?”

“I know who this asset is. Derek, intelligence works the same way for everybody. We share what we can. Egypt may hate us, but we are allies of sorts, and they have significantly more problems with Syria and Iran and Iraq than they have with us. So if we get intelligence that might be of value to them, we may trade it for intelligence of value to us. That’s how this works.”

“Okay. I understand. What are you going to do?”

“I’m going to read the materials el-Sisi gave on the Nazif Brigade. And I’m going to worry about you.”

He kissed her. “I’ll let you know just as soon as I know something.”

“And Derek?”

He raised an eyebrow in question.

“Watch your back. It’s dangerous out there.”

And now, they parked a block or so from the Cairo Marriott. To his driver, O’Bannon said, “You know the drill. Special attention today, though. Everything’s hot.”

Leaving the car and stepping out into the baking sun, they walked down to the Garden Promenade Cafe. It was only about a block and a half, but O’Bannon took his time, stopping periodically to glance around.

“This isn’t subtle,” Derek said.

“In case you hadn’t noticed, there was a revolution recently and the U.S. Secretary of State was kidnapped by extremists today. I’m not looking for subtle. I want to make sure nobody’s following us.”

“This where you usually meet?”

O’Bannon shot him a look. “I’m a professional, Stillwater. Let me do my job.”

With a shrug, Derek looked around. The Nile River was nearby. The streets were mobbed. This was something of a tourist area, except that the Arab Spring had pretty much killed Egypt’s tourism industry, at least for a while. Still, business continued and the area was filled with Western and Middle Eastern businessmen in either their suits or their robes, all carrying briefcases and cell phones.

The café was an open-air restaurant alongside the south side of the hotel and casino, which was all orange stucco and arches and wrought-iron balconies. They slipped between massive acutely trimmed circular hedges. O’Bannon nodded. “He’s here.”

Glancing around at the other people, Derek appreciated that the restaurant was basically off the street, but was overlooked by the twenty-some story part of the hotel. Who knew who would be watching?

Thinking of his recent experience with a sniper, the pain in his leg still present and real, he limped after O’Bannon to a small round table in the shade of one of the circular hedges and sat down.

Ali Urabi was an older Egyptian man, thin, probably in his sixties, bald with wire-rimmed glasses. He wore an open-necked white dress shirt and khaki slacks. He didn’t look like a spy, which, Derek supposed, probably meant he was a good one. He looked like an aging professor of accounting.

The Egyptian cocked a head and studied Derek. “You are Derek Stillwater?”

Shooting a glance at O’Bannon, Derek nodded. He and Urabi shook hands.

“I understand what you’re doing here in Cairo, but I do not know exactly what you’re doing here at the table with me.”

“That makes two of us.”

Urabi nodded. “I do not know the location of Robert Mandalevo.”

Leaning forward, O’Bannon said, “You have people looking?”

“Of course. And General el-Sisi, I believe, has people looking. It is possible the Mukhabarat is … interrogating … people as we speak to acquire information.”

“And Morsi’s people?”

Urabi turned back to look at Derek. He splayed his fingers. “Egypt is a complicated place, Doctor.”

Derek felt like he was wasting time. Why was he here? What did el-Sisi think they were going to get out of this guy? What did O’Bannon think he was going to get?

“What,” O’Bannon said, “do you know about Hussein Nazif’s family?”

“They seem to have disappeared,” Urabi said.

“When?”

“Well, since we started looking for them today. The neighbors suggest, from what I’m hearing, that they left their various homes in the last several days.”

“Meaning that they had some idea what was going to happen,” Derek said.

With a slight bow of his head and a tiny shrug, Urabi said, “Perhaps.”

Derek stared at Urabi. With a glance at O’Bannon, he leaned forward. “Then my next question is this: did anybody in Morsi’s government know this was going to happen today?”

“Jesus, Stillwater,” O’Bannon started, but Urabi raised a hand.

“An interesting question. But I’m afraid I do not know. I am also afraid, Dr. Stillwater, that I need to speak with Mr. O’Bannon without you.”

Derek got to his feet, feeling the frustration flashing across his face. Without a word to either of them he walked toward the street. Why in hell had O’Bannon wanted him to come? If he and Urabi were swapping state secrets, neither of them would have wanted him there to witness it.

Out on the street in front of the hotel, he stood in the shade of a palm tree and watched pedestrians and traffic. His gaze drifted over the hotel room windows. They reflected the harsh, dazzling Egypt sunlight, but he thought he saw people standing at some of them. Watching.

Tourists?

Friend or foe?

Out of the corner of his eye he saw the broad shoulders of O’Bannon’s driver. Turning his head, they locked gazes. Derek gave him a minute nod, which the driver returned.

Traffic was so heavy and the vehicles so old, the street smelled of exhaust. The Nile was right there alongside the hotel, and had its own strong, swampy smell. Everywhere people smoked—cigarettes, cigars, pipes—and the odor was everywhere.

A man with a shaved head walked along the street toward him. As he neared, he stopped and pulled a pack of cigarettes from a pocket and lit it, cupping his hands around the cigarette as he did so. It was the Israeli, Aaron Kadish. Once he got the cigarette going, he headed on his way, saying, “Plug in” as he passed by.

Derek thumbed the power back on his phone and put his earbud in. He punched up Irina’s number. “I’m here.”

“What’s going on?”

“I’m standing around waiting for the Agency to get some useful information. What’s going on where you are?”

“No one’s heard from Mandalevo. I’ve been trying to track Nazif’s Internet usage, but I hit a dead end. Maybe your
NSA
is doing something. Wait, I’ve got Johnston and Konstantin here.”

Johnston: Nothing on our end. How are you holding up?

“Things got hairy in the City of the Dead and we had one dead from phosgene.”

Konstantin: Do you think it was a deliberate trap?

“You mean set for me? I wonder. There’s a little feel of us playing cat and mouse here, that he had things planned. I don’t see how he could have made this capture and stayed ahead of us without some planning and some decent intel.”

Johnston: You think someone in State or someone in Cairo?

“God, Jim, let’s hope in Cairo. I don’t think we can trust anyone in the—”

He broke off. From down the street O’Bannon’s driver sprinted into traffic, a machine pistol in his fist.

Two panel vans raced down the street, zigging and zagging through the clots of cars. Derek saw the doors of the vans were open and men with AK47s knelt in the doorways.

Reaching for his gun, he flung himself behind a cement planter for a tree near the hotel entrance. Suddenly a hand gripped his shoulder. It was Kadish.

He hissed, “They’re coming for you! Move!”

Together they sprinted toward a waiting car, just as gunfire chewed through the air.