Aggressor (29 page)

CHAPTER 15

Sharifa awoke just before the dawn. She reached out for Girling, but he was not there. Slipping on her T-shirt, she found him hunched over her ancient typewriter at the dining-room table, pounding away at the keys as if his life depended on it.

The first he knew she was there was when she touched him on the shoulder.

‘What are you doing?'

‘I'm writing Stansell's obituary.'

She gave a puzzled look.

‘I know. But believe me, it helps.'

‘Who's it for?' she asked.

‘Reuters, the Associated Press... One of them will take it. News of his death will have the wires humming by mid-morning.'

‘That sounds so cold.'

‘I'm sorry, it wasn't meant to.'

‘But you haven't even told Kelso yet.'

Girling pulled the finished page from the roller and added it to the two others beside the machine.

‘Kelso can read about it in the papers, or hear it on the radio, the same as everybody else. This way, the words will get to the right people.'

She rubbed her eyes, wearily. ‘I don't understand.'

‘Read it.'

It took her several minutes. It was less an obituary, more a news story. It pointed the finger squarely at the Angels of Judgement and their accomplices in Cairo, the Brotherhood. And finally, it revealed that the full story of the Angels of Judgement, the hijack-ing in Beirut, and the reasons behind Stansell's death would be made public in the next issue of
Dispatches
in two days' time.

She put the sheets back on the table, puzzled. ‘You don't have a jot of evidence against the Angels of Judgement.'

‘Right, but they don't know that.'

She stared at him.

‘Don't you think they might just be a little bit curious about how I know so much?' Girling asked. ‘And, more to the point, about exactly who else knows what I know?'

‘You're setting yourself up!'

‘Something like that.'

‘No!'

‘Sharifa, it's the only way.'

‘But what about last night? You said you were leaving. As soon as Al-Qadi sorted out the paper-work.'

‘I changed my mind. Someone's got to get these fuckers. It's as simple as that.'

‘Al-Qadi will put you straight back in that cell.'

He reached out and held her hand. ‘Who's going to tell him?'

She recoiled like a sea-anemone from a predator's touch.

‘Why has he got a hold over you, Sharifa?'

She said nothing.

‘You were the only person who knew that I would be at the mosque. I'm not angry. You saved my life.'

‘I was scared I'd lose you, too.'

‘Tell me about Al-Qadi. I want to help.'

‘Al-Qadi's evil, Tom. You've no idea of the things he can do.'

Girling held her. ‘He's a playground bully,' he said, and wondered who he was trying to convince.

‘If he touches me again,' she said, ‘I'll kill him. I've been running from him for too long.'

‘You told him where Stansell was going, didn't you?' Girling said quietly.

She looked up at him. ‘I'm so sorry, Tom... I'll carry that for the rest of my life.'

From the look in her eyes, he believed that she would.

‘What are you going to do?' she asked.

Girling folded the sheaf of papers and tucked it into his jacket.

‘First I take this to Reuters, then I'm going to the Khan. There's an old friend of mine there who might be able to get me access to the pathologist's report on Stansell.'

‘Is there anything I can do?' she asked.

‘Yes, I believe there is.'

He gave her the volume and page number of the piece missing from the
Dispatches
binder. Then he went to take a shower.

Cyrus McBain's face almost creased in two. He stood up from behind his desk and greeted his old friend warmly.

‘Elliot Ulm. I might have fucking guessed.'

‘You mean, they didn't warn you?' Ulm said. ‘You always were slow, McBain.'

‘Your identity was ‘need to know' right up until this minute, which is a piece of luck for you, Elliot. If I'd known, I wouldn't have shown up for work today. What kind of trouble have you gotten yourself into this time?'

Ulm threw his leather jacket over the back of a chair. He had made the overnight journey from Qena in good time, blending in amongst the tourists from Luxor and Aswan in his jeans, sweatshirt, and beat-up jacket. ‘Shut up, Cy, and give me a drink. Where I've been the last three days, they don't even have Miller Lite on the menu.'

‘Colonel Beckwith always said Qena was a shit-hole. If you'd read up on Eagle Claw and Tehran before you signed on, Elliot, you might have elected to stay at home.'

‘I didn't have a whole lot of choice.'

McBain shrugged and moved to a small fridge beneath a shelf crammed with books about the Middle East, terrorism, and military hardware. He threw the can of Budweiser across the room and Ulm caught it cleanly.

Ulm snapped the can open and poured half its contents down his throat before he came up for air. ‘So this is what it's like outside the firing line,' he said, taking in the clean, businesslike appearance of McBain's office. ‘Judging by your beer gut I'd say they must be preparing you for a nice fat job in Washington.'

‘Repeat those words across a volley-ball net some-time and I'll make you eat them, Elliot.'

Ulm snorted and they both laughed. McBain took a step forward and they embraced, slapping each other heartily on the back. ‘It's good to see you again,' Ulm said.

‘You, too, Elliot. So, you finally managed to get away from that rest home in New Mexico.'

‘Yup. One fucking desert to another.' Ulm waved his can around the room then lowered his voice. ‘I take it this place is clean.'

‘Swept every day.'

‘I need the big picture, Cy. Tell me what's been happening these past three days. Is there any news?'

McBain sat back at his desk and began rolling a pencil between his palms. ‘Not a squeak. It's like the Angels of Judgement and Franklin's negotiating team never existed. Don't they get newspapers out where you are?'

‘We don't get Jack,' Ulm said.

‘No Early Bird?'

The Early Bird was the Pentagon's own cuttings service, a faxed digest of all the important news stories of the day.

‘Minimum transmission, remember?' Ulm said. ‘That's why I'm here. Cyrus, there's a whole lot I don't like.'

‘I've known you a long time, Elliot. And the last time I saw you look this way was the day. before the court-martial brought home its verdict. What's up? I guess it's got something to do with this guy Jacob-son that keeps sending all this encrypted shit for you. I thought I'd seen some classification levels before, but. . .'

‘There's not much I can tell you.'

‘Just make sure this thing stays an Air Force operation,' McBain said, his voice set. ‘You know what happens when Marine pilots get involved.'

‘Come off of it, Cy. What happened at Desert One could have happened to anybody. Shit, look at me. I should know. The suits punished me long enough for a lousy piece of bad luck. The Tehran operation wasn't the operators' fault, it was the system. Washington fucked Eagle Claw, and the same guys are pulling the strings this time around. But I've done my stretch, Cy. I'm not going to pick up the tab again.'

‘What can I do, Elliot?'

‘I need the big picture.'

McBain shook his head. ‘Like I told you. Everybody's running around like headless chickens here. When it comes to the Angels of Judgement, nobody knows. Nobody.'

Ulm wondered what his old friend, dyed-in-the-wool Colonel Cyrus J. McBain, USAF, would say if he were to tell him that the Pathfinders were hooked up with Spetsnaz, or Opnaz, or whoever the fuck Shabanov and his men were.

‘That's not exactly true,' McBain said, correcting himself. ‘There's one guy around here who seems to know what's going on but-'

‘Who?'

McBain looked uncomfortable. ‘Well, he's not exactly cleared.'

‘Tell me about it.'

‘The guy's a journalist, Elliot. A British journalist from the magazine that broke the story,
Dispatches
.'‘

Ulm was immediately suspicious. ‘Shit, you don't think-'

‘Relax. Girling's got too much on his mind to start digging into special operations activity here in Egypt. Besides, people's attention is on the Lebanon task force. If there's going to be a rescue that's where they think it's coming from. Read any of the papers.'

‘You said he had some things on his mind.'

McBain put down his pencil. ‘A guy called Stansell, their Middle East correspondent, got himself snatched by the Angels of Judgement. Girling has been here the best part of a week trying to get him back. We just heard he didn't luck out. They fished Stansell out of the river a few days back with a couple of holes in him.'

‘So what good is Girling to me?'

‘I never said he was good; in fact, he smells like trouble. But you asked who might be able to give you more on the Angels and Girling's the only guy I can think of who fits the bill. He's got the Mukhabarat, the secret service, running around in a blue funk, he's stirred up a hornet's nest in the Islamic fundamentalist community, and he's even got the Israelis going. We intercepted a transmission from their embassy here to Tel Aviv the day before yesterday. And guess whose name was on it. The Israelis are convinced that Girling's going to lead them to the Angels of Judgement and, God knows, they've got just as much to be worried about as we have.'

‘So how do I get in touch? I haven't got much time, Cy.'

McBain poured himself some coffee. ‘Something's really gotten under your skin, hasn't it?'

Ulm said nothing.

‘Girling's already contacted our public affairs people here,' McBain continued. ‘He wanted to meet with me, or someone who could give him updates on what's happening in the Lebanon. So far, I've told the P/A guys I'm out - permanently. I don't give intel briefs for people I don't know. But there's no reason why we shouldn't have a change of heart.

Someone from P/A will sit in on the meeting, but there's no way they'll be able to guess who you are. Even if they do, they'll play dumb. You're just another suit from Washington, right? All you need is a name. Your mother's maiden name mightn't be a bad place to start. That's if you had a mother, Elliot.'

Ulm sat back.

‘Thanks, Cy. I owe you.'

McBain said: ‘You can pay me back by forgetting I ever did this.' He punched a four-digit extension number and held the phone to his ear.

‘Get me Mike Schlitz,' he said, as soon as he had a connection.

CHAPTER 16

Girling turned the BMW onto Shari'a Al-Ahram, the road that led almost from the centre of Cairo to the pyramids of Giza, and settled down to a steady pace in the centre lane. It was coming up to one o'clock. He was in good time for his lunch appointment at the Mena House Hotel, a luxury affair in the shadow of the Great Pyramid. The Mena House was just that little bit remote; he guessed that was why Schlitz and McBain had picked it.

It had been a busy morning and it was getting busier. First he had called on his old friend John Silverman at Reuters and dropped the story onto his desk. Silverman was shocked. He had known and liked Stansell. But Girling recognized a look in Silverman's face that said he also knew a good story when he saw one. With kidnapping and hijack in the air, the fact that a leading British journalist had been murdered by the world's latest public enemy made the story dynamite. And despite his previous visit from the Mukhabarat, Silverman wasn't going to be deterred. With commendable restraint, Girling thought, Silverman had not pressed him for any of the details of
Dispatches
' forthcoming exclusive on the Angels of Judgement, which was just as well.

Next he drove to the Khan, parked and retraced his steps to Kareem's coffee house on the Street of the Judges. This time, he gained access to Old Mansour without difficulty. Mansour accepted Stansell's death with a sad, wise look in his face which said that he had known all along that Stansell would never again smoke and exchange banter at Kareem's. Girling explained that it was important he get in touch with Uthman, the doctor from Duqqi, who worked part-time at Mukhabarat HQ. He gave Old Mansour Sharifa's number and told him to get Uthman to ring him, day or night.

It was when he returned to the office, at about eleven o'clock, that he'd got the invitation from Schlitz.

Soon he caught his first glimpse of the Pyramids' chipped, sand-blown peaks creeping above the houses lining the dead straight road. Despite their over-exposure - Pyramid motifs were emblazoned on everything in Egypt from newspapers to petrol stations - he never tired of seeing them. On the rare days when neither the smoke nor the dust was too thick, you could see them with the help of a long lens from any of the tall buildings downtown.

Mona and he had climbed to the top of the Great Cheops Pyramid on a day much like this. They had ignored the cautionary notices and made it to the summit a little before sundown. The view had been breathtaking. They had sat holding each other in the moonlight.

The sun glinted on the windscreen of a Fiat three cars behind him. Girling spotted it in the mirror. They must have picked him up at the office. He adjusted his dark glasses.

He drove on for another kilometre without varying his speed, but instead of turning off at the hotel kept driving along the road that led up the escarpment to the Pyramids. He parked in the shadow of the Great Pyramid and set out for the first row of metre-high stone blocks that marked the base. He heard the Mukhabarat slow to a stop a little way behind. He began to climb.

Neither of the two Mukhabarat field officers elected to follow him. While one of them watched his progress, the other reached for a newspaper. They knew Girling would be gone a long time. It was a forty-minute climb to the summit and probably a thirty-minute descent.

When he was about a hundred feet up, Girling began moving towards the corner of the pyramid, the safest route for the ascent. He paused for breath and looked down. He could see the camels and horses for hire, their owners touting for customers, scores of milling tourists and a few white-clad police. In the blue Fiat neither man had moved.

Girling stepped round the corner, out of the Mukhabarat's sight, and moved swiftly downwards. There was a warm wind blowing in from the desert. He glanced towards the horizon and made out the crumbling remains of the Abusir pyramids eight kilo-metres to the south. A little further still he could see the distinctive shape of the stepped pyramid of Zozer at Saqqara nestling between the green valley strip and the desert.

It took him about five minutes to reach the ground. He dusted himself down and walked around to the back of the tomb before rejoining the road that led to the Mena House. He glimpsed the Fiat. The man reading the paper was smoking a cigarette. His companion looked as though he'd gone to sleep.

It took five more minutes to reach the hotel. Although built at the turn of the century, successive owners had added new wings and outbuildings. Girling proceeded straight to the cocktail bar. He spotted Schlitz in the corner sharing a drink with two other men. One was dressed in a light-weight tropical suit, the other in jeans, T-shirt, and a scuffed leather jacket.

Schlitz got to his feet. ‘Glad you could make it, Tom. We were just about to order another round. What'll it be?' Even in a jacket and tie Schlitz managed to look dishevelled.

The waitress appeared and Girling asked for a beer.

Schlitz made the introductions.

‘Tom, this is Lieutenant-Colonel Cyrus McBain, our defence attaché.'

McBain shook his hand. He had sandy hair, thinning on top, and piercing blue eyes. A guy to depend on in a tight spot, Girling thought.

‘And this is John Gudmundson of the DIA,' Schlitz continued. ‘John just got in from Washington.'

Girling matched the strength of Gudmundson's grip with difficulty. There was steel in the man's eyes, and a restless energy in his body that made it difficult for Girling to picture him behind a desk. He looked somehow out of place in the ornate surroundings of the hotel's cocktail bar.

‘Seems like we picked a hell of a time to meet with you,' Schlitz said, lighting up a Marlboro.

‘I'm sorry?' Girling said, settling into his seat. For a moment he thought they were referring to the cuts and bruises he had received at the hands of the mob.

Schlitz said: ‘Come on, Tom. It's not a secret any more. It came over the wire just before we left the embassy. And, by the way, before we go any further, I'd just like to say how sorry I am. Like I told you, Stansell was a good operator. A good guy, too. He'll be missed around here.'

‘Well, I guess I owe you an apology for that cock-and-bull line I gave you about him being sent back to England,' Girling said. ‘The Mukhabarat didn't want the news to leak while they were looking for him. I kind of had my hands tied.'

‘We've known for a few days now about Stansell's abduction,' McBain said. ‘As you can imagine, the antennae are pretty sensitive at this time. There's a lot of things out there we're picking up.'

‘And a lot you're missing, too, perhaps?' Girling said.

McBain said nothing. He settled back in his armchair, relaxed, confident, every inch the diplomat. Gudmundson, on the other hand, seemed edgy.

‘I've been reading your stuff,' McBain said. ‘
Dispatches
seems to be way ahead of the game.'

‘At a price.'

‘Yes, I'm sorry.' He paused.

‘The thing of it is, Mr Girling,' Gudmundson said, ‘we'd appreciate hearing what's going to go into your next Angels of Judgement story...'

Girling noticed McBain frowning.

‘Is there any chance we could see your copy early, Tom?' Schlitz asked.

Girling smiled. ‘What are you guys at the DIA working on right now, Mr Gudmundson?'

Gudmundson shifted in his seat. ‘I'm afraid that's classified information.'

‘Quite,' Girling said. He looked at the three of them in turn. He'd seen a hundred Gudmundsons in his years as a defence journalist and none of them had been in intelligence. ‘So, who's calling the shots here, gentlemen?'

‘We thought it would be useful to talk, that's all,' McBain said. ‘For both of us.'

Girling looked at Gudmundson again. Something about him definitely didn't fit.

‘Have we ever met before?' he asked.

Gudmundson looked him in the eye. ‘No, sir.'

‘You sure?'

‘I never forget a face,' Gudmundson said.

‘Me neither. That's what bothers me.'

Girling sipped his beer. ‘What line of work do you do with the DIA?' he said.

‘Government work.'

Girling smiled. ‘Sounds fascinating.'

Schlitz had began to stub his cigarette nervously. ‘Tom, I think I should just say... er, at this point that this conversation is not really happening. I should have made the ground rules clear from the start. Clearly you appreciate the sensitivity of this meeting.'

‘Maybe you should get to the point, Mike.'

‘You said you wanted to meet with Colonel McBain the other day. Well, here he is.' Schlitz was sweating.

‘That was three days ago. A lot has happened to me since then. How about you?'

‘What do you mean?' Gudmundson asked.

McBain flashed him another warning glance.

‘Are you any closer to the hostages?' Girling said.

‘It's better you don't know,' Gudmundson said.

‘I thought this was meant to be a frank exchange of views.'

‘Then start talking, hotshot,' Gudmundson said, his anger suddenly coming to the surface.

Girling turned to McBain. ‘I don't need this.'

‘Then fuck you,' Gudmundson said, rising from his chair.

Across the room, people had begun to stare.

Girling also got to his feet. ‘Gentlemen,' he said, ‘I'm afraid I won't be joining you for lunch.'

Ulm said goodbye to McBain and Schlitz too angry for remorse. He was due on the six o'clock express to Qena, but hoped there might be an earlier train. He did not want to spend a moment longer in Cairo. He stopped at the concierge's desk to ask for a timetable for southbound trains. Then he joined the small line of people waiting for taxis outside.

Girling watched the man he knew as Gudmundson from a phone booth in the main lobby, shielded by the throng of tourists checking in and out at the front desk.

He was intrigued by Gudmundson. He watched impatiently as the queue grew shorter. Girling strained for a better look, willing a couple of tourists to get out of his line of sight. A taxi swung into view and Gudmundson raised his hand to flag the driver.

It was in that moment, when Gudmundson's body was three-quarters to him, that Girling tagged him. The American's entire bearing was military. This was a man used to giving orders, but not from behind a desk. And Girling suddenly realized he'd seen Gudmundson giving orders before.

He rushed outside as the taxi swept out of the forecourt. There were no others in sight. Taking a deep breath, he went back inside the hotel and asked the concierge what his American friend with the sun-tan and the leather jacket had asked her for a few moments earlier.

The girl smiled and pointed at a timetable for trains leaving Ramsis Station, Cairo, for the tourist centres of Middle and Upper Egypt: Minya, Asyut, Qena, Luxor, and Aswan.

Girling thanked her and looked around for Schlitz and McBain. They hadn't emerged from the bar. The sound of crickets mingled with the buzz of traffic on Pyramids Road. He felt light-headed. He went back to the phone booth, lifted the handset and gave the hotel operator a London number.

In less than a minute, he was talking to Kieran Mallon.

‘Girling, you rogue. Jesus, I can't believe I'm talking to you. Where are you, man? The world, not to mention Kelso, is going ape-shit and you're nowhere to be found.'

‘Slow down, Kieran.'

‘Slow down, you say? Is it true about Stansell?'

‘Yes, I'm afraid it is.'

‘Hell, I'm sorry, Tom. Kelso's been besieged with calls from Fleet Street ever since the story broke on the wire. They want to know everything. The facts behind the kidnapping, how he died, and what we're going to file about the Angels of Judgement. I know Kelso wanted to capture a bit of attention, but I'm not sure this is exactly what he had in mind. He and Carey are both screaming for you. What do I tell them?'

‘Tell them the story's on its way.'

‘Is it?'

‘No. But keep that to yourself.'

‘Tom, why Reuters? What's going on?'

‘I need your help, Kieran. Can you do something for me? It's very important.'

‘Name it.'

It took Girling a little over two minutes to dictate his instructions. After he'd finished, he made Mallon read them back.

‘What's this got to do with Stansell?' the Irishman asked.

‘I'm not sure. When can you get back to me?'

‘Hopefully within the hour.'

‘Good. I'll be waiting by the fax. And if you need to get hold of me by phone, I'm abandoning the office and my apartment for a while. I'll be here.' He read out Sharifa's number.

‘A woman?'

‘It's not what you think.'

‘Tom?'

‘Yes.'

‘You sound different.'

‘You should see how I look.'

‘No, you sound... well, better.'

Girling felt himself smile. ‘I hope it lasts,' he said.

He paid reception for the call and set out to retrieve his car.

It was hotter than usual for late afternoon and nowhere more so than in Al-Qadi's office, three floors above the basement cells at Mukhabarat Head-quarters. The air-conditioning unit had long since broken down. An electric fan mounted on his desk had suffered an undiagnosed mechanical failure three days before.

Al-Qadi mopped his brow and read the handwritten report from his deputy for the third time.

He took another sip of water and loosened his tie. When Girling had filed his report with Reuters he had declared war. The investigator wondered whether the Englishman had even begun to appreciate the power of his enemy.

Al-Qadi opened the top drawer of his desk, pulled out a tatty manila file and studied it one final time. The pathologist's report had been placed on his desk that morning. He was supposed to read it, then hand it back to be copied. There was, of course, no way he could allow that. He lit one of the corners, made sure it had caught well, and tossed it into his metal waste-paper bin. As the flames took hold, the cardboard buckled and a blown-up passport picture of Stansell slipped from the dossier. Al-Qadi stared at it, mesmerized by the advance of the flames across the ‘agnabi's face. Not until every scrap had been reduced to ash did he turn to the second drawer of his desk, open it, and pull out his automatic.