The Forbidden Tomb (10 page)

Cobb was familiar with Sarah’s undercover work, having seen her transformation in their previous mission. She had the ability to look any age from eighteen to forty.

She continued. ‘We recruited Simon to help us determine where the traders were meeting next. He was a local expat who knew the landscape and seemed to have the right connections. Not a player, but someone with his ear to the tracks. As the point man, I was the one who reached out to Simon to bring him on board. Once I made contact, Simon literally walked me around the city. He gave me the guided tour of every place I needed to know and introduced me to everyone I needed to meet.’

‘Hence the “tour guide” title,’ Cobb said.

Sarah stood and started to pace. ‘Other agents assured us that the brokers were gathering in Cairo, so that’s where we concentrated our forces. Simon was the only one who kept insisting that the location was Alexandria. In the end, Simon was correct. Thirty-seven girls got sold here, and we were too late to stop it. We lost them all.’

She hung her head. ‘When it was over, Simon collected the descriptions from all of his sources and gave us everything he could. He even convinced some of them to sit with forensic artists. They worked for hours, directing sketches from memory. They described accents, mannerisms, and anything else they noticed about the brokers.’

‘Did it work?’ Cobb asked.

‘We tracked down five of the sellers and six of the buyers, all because of Simon’s efforts. Eleven convictions because of him, yet he still feels indebted to me. He thinks if he had found something concrete about Alexandria instead of just rumors then we could have saved them all. To this day, he still feels responsible for the girls. He’s been hoping to make it up to me ever since.’

‘He’s been hoping for more than that.’

Sarah looked at him quizzically. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Come on, Sarah, don’t play dumb. You know damn well that Dade’s interest isn’t just professional. He’s got a crush on you. Even I could see that, and I’m about as romantic as a hemorrhoid.’

‘Nice visual,’ she mocked.

Cobb stared at her, unwilling to let her off the hook.

‘What do you want me to say? Of course I know that Simon wants something more. But we aren’t together, and we’re never going to be together. It’s just that when you go through something tragic like we did . . .’

Sarah didn’t know the right words to finish her thought, but Cobb understood the sentiment. He knew that traumatic events could forge powerful connections.

‘Sarah—’

He was cut off by the ringing of his cell phone.

‘You get that,’ she said. ‘I’m going to step out for a bit.’

Cobb nodded. He could see the toll her story had taken and knew that she would never show her emotions in front of him. If she needed to scream, cry, or punch a wall until her knuckles bled, she would do it in the privacy of her own room.

Cobb waited until the door closed behind her before he answered the call from Florida. As far as he was concerned, the timing couldn’t have been better. He had sent a simple text to Garcia during the trip back to the hotel that consisted of little more than Dade’s name and a request to ‘find everything’.

It wasn’t meant as an insult to Sarah, who was able to provide personal details that wouldn’t turn up in a field report. It was more to uncover what had happened to Dade since they had last worked together. Six years was a very long time – particularly in the cutthroat world of espionage. For Cobb to consider Dade as a potential asset, he needed a lot more than a personal reference. He needed a full workup, the type of deep background that could only be done by a computer hacker.

Thankfully, Cobb had one of those on his team.

‘Simon Philip Dade,’ Garcia began. ‘Born and raised in Charleston, South Carolina. Normal middle-class childhood as far I can tell. In fact, there’s nothing noteworthy about his life until his parents died. That’s when things get interesting.’

‘How’d they die?’ Cobb asked.

‘A boating accident,’ he replied. ‘The honest-to-goodness kind, not the kind of “boating accident” we see in our line of work. His parents spent the night of their fifteenth anniversary on a forty-foot sloop, and there was an electrical fire in the engine compartment. The smoke overwhelmed them during the night. The Coast Guard found the vessel the following day.’

‘That would certainly change a kid.’

‘That, and the culture shock of being transplanted to a new city,’ said Garcia as he scrolled through the information on his laptop. ‘Dade moved from Charles
ton
to Charles
town
, as in Boston. His uncle took him in but only to get access to Simon’s trust fund. Looks like the uncle wasn’t exactly parent material – he was more like a drunken piece of shit – which meant Simon had to basically raise himself. His high school transcript has as many suspensions as it does recommendations. Most teachers considered Simon to be a brilliant student, but one who had trouble staying out of trouble.’

‘What kind of trouble?’

‘Shoplifting, vandalism, trespassing. The sort of thing you might expect from a teenager left to fend for himself. When he graduated, he enrolled at a local college. It lasted all of one semester. In January of his freshman year, he spent his winter break in Cairo as part of a school-subsidized trip. He never returned home.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘He just decided that he wanted to live in Egypt. The government over there granted him their version of an emergency visa until he could petition for citizenship. The school contacted the state department, and they agreed that he was eighteen and that he had filed all the necessary documentation. They had no authority to force him to return.’

Cobb shook his head. ‘Something doesn’t add up. Why would an American teenager with no ethnic connections to the Middle East want to move to the desert? London, I could understand. Same with Paris. But Egypt? That doesn’t make sense to me.’

‘Me neither.’

‘Unless . . .’

‘Unless what?’

‘I wonder if there was a girl.’

Garcia studied the information on his screen. ‘None that he married – I know that much. But I’ll take a closer look, see if I can turn up a name or two.’

‘In the meantime, any red flags?’

‘Not really,’ Garcia said. ‘No arrests or citations. Not even a parking ticket. His tax records show him as the sole owner of a lucrative security and surveillance company. Apparently he’s very good at what he does because he has clients throughout the city.’

‘Well, that explains it.’

‘Explains what?’

‘How he kept tabs on us without us noticing. That was bugging the hell out of me. I thought maybe Sarah and I were getting rusty.’

‘No sir, not rusty. He has cameras all over. He probably followed you without leaving his office.’

‘If we needed to, could you tap them for me?’

Garcia laughed. ‘Already have.’

Cobb smiled. He liked working with professionals: people with initiative, people he could count on. It made his job so much easier. ‘Anything else?’

‘Maybe,’ Garcia said, unsure of himself. ‘I hope I’m not stepping out of line by telling you this, but since you’re overseas, I just thought you should know.’

‘Know what?’

Garcia swallowed hard. ‘McNutt’s gone AWOL.’

Daytona Beach, Florida

(
220
miles north of Fort Lauderdale)

Most dedicated bikers have a few ‘must-see’ events on their social calendar. The Sturgis Motorcycle Rally is usually one of them. It draws more than half a million riders to the Black Hills of North Dakota every year for a rowdy weekend of races, concerts, and parties. Another is the Rolling Thunder Run in Washington, D.C. It honors men and women of the armed forces who have been prisoners of war and those who have gone missing in action. Riders from all across the country descend upon the capital in a show of support for military personnel, both past and present.

Participants in these (and similar) rallies earn the right to wear a special patch associated with each event. Though it is nothing more than a simple piece of sewn cloth, it recognizes those who were willing to put in the time and miles. To bikers, they are symbols worn with pride, similar to military ribbons or medals.

McNutt had plenty of medals, but he preferred the patches.

They looked cooler on his leather jacket.

The largest bike event in Florida is Daytona Bike Week. Early each spring, Daytona Beach is transformed into a haven for cabin-fevered riders from the north. McNutt had made the trip several times, but he had missed the most recent event. Fortunately for him, Daytona offers another opportunity for those who couldn’t attend the main festival. Held every October, Biketoberfest is a second chance to enjoy bikes, beer, and camaraderie with like-minded souls.

Plus a chance to earn another patch.

Most of the bars off the main drag were virtually identical: narrow halls that started with a row of barstools and ended with a pool table. The only thing that changed was the clientele. A quick scan of the room was all McNutt needed to confirm that he had come to the right place. For all intents and purposes, the entire bar was one big reunion. Checking tattoos, McNutt saw representatives from every branch of the US military, as well as three members of the Royal Navy.

‘Hey Jarhead, think fast!’

McNutt spun toward the familiar voice, knowing what would happen if his reactions were slow. As he turned, he spotted a pool ball flying at his chest and the smiling soldier who had launched it. Using his helmet as a basket, McNutt caught the speeding projectile then tossed the ball onto a nearby table.

Three younger Marines seated near McNutt stood to confront whoever was stupid enough to hurl an insult – and a pool ball – at one of their own. But two things stopped them in their tracks. The first was the size of the man himself. He looked like a weightlifter. Or a bulldog. Or a weightlifting bulldog. The kind of guy you didn’t pick a fight with unless he spit on your mother . . . and even then you’d have to think about it.

The second thing they noticed, the one that quelled the argument completely, was the ‘U.S.M.C.’ T-shirt that he was wearing. Coming from a fellow Marine, the name
Jarhead
was friendly banter rather than a sign of disrespect.

McNutt smiled as the others sat down. ‘You’ll have to do better than that.’

‘Maybe next time,’ the bulldog said as he waved his friend over to the table. He greeted him with an enthusiastic hug. ‘Shit, man, I thought you were dead!’

‘You’re not that lucky,’ McNutt replied. He motioned for the waitress to bring two more bottles of whatever it was that his friend was drinking.

‘So, where the hell have you been hiding? Are you here for the festivities or to see me? Your message didn’t really explain.’

‘Sorry about that. I didn’t want to get into it over the phone.’

‘Didn’t, or couldn’t?’

‘A little of both.’

The waitress delivered the next round, and each took a moment to enjoy a long, cold pull from his bottle as they stared at the waitress’s ass. Somehow she had squeezed into a pair of shorts that would make a stripper blush, and they approved of her effort.

‘As I was saying,’ McNutt said with a laugh, ‘I’m planning a trip to the Middle East and I needed a travel agent. You’re the first person who came to mind.’

‘I can understand why.’

Staff Sergeant James Tyson was a member of the United States Marine Corps’ Force Reconnaissance Company. He and his men were the first wave of deployment into areas of enemy occupation. Their job was to gather all the relevant information – who was in command, what was their objective, what artillery did they have at their disposal, etc. – and relay that information back to their superiors.

‘You in the mood to build some sand castles?’ Tyson asked.

‘The other way around,’ McNutt said. ‘I hear they have a lot of shit buried in Egypt, and I’m hoping to find some. You still know the area?’

Tyson nodded. ‘The Middle East is my playground.’

‘For now, I’m just interested in Egypt.’

‘I’m sure you know about the instability.’

‘Leaders can’t please anyone well enough or long enough to gain a foothold. No matter what they do, someone sees it as a mistake.’

‘Their constitution was dissolved a couple of years ago,’ Tyson explained. ‘It led to a political free-for-all. At last count, there were at least forty political parties in Egypt. More than forty different views of what is best for the country, each with its own candidate who believes he best represents the voice of the people. It’s controlled lunacy.’

‘But it’s controlled?’

‘Not really,’ he said with a laugh. ‘The hope is that the country will sort itself out and establish a power base that unifies the people – whether that unity comes from this president or the next, no one knows. But the Supreme Council of the Armed Forces is on standby in case things deteriorate. They’ve stepped in before. They won’t hesitate to do it again. Not if the alternative is losing control of the country.’

‘The Supreme Council?’

Tyson nodded. ‘Twenty-one senior officials from various branches of the Egyptian military. They have the authority to overtake the reins of a failing government, not to mention the resources to ensure that their decisions are respected. Of course, that’s just the urban areas. In the desert, there is no control. There are only marauding nomads competing for whatever they can find . . . which is next to nothing. It’s a brutal wasteland of sandstorms and scavengers. You get lost out there, and you’re as good as dead.’

‘Damn,’ McNutt teased, ‘you gotta be the worst travel agent ever. No wonder I’m your only client.’

Tyson grinned. ‘Just telling it like it is.’

McNutt continued to joke. ‘I’ll take two tickets to the brutal wasteland, please. Are the sandstorms and scavengers included, or do I have to pay extra for that?’

‘Fuck you,’ Tyson laughed before taking another swig of beer. ‘I try to hook you up with intel, and you rub it in my face. Kind of like that tranny rubbed it in—’