Targets of Revenge (23 page)

Farrar scowled as he always did when criticized about his aggressive driving. “Just remember, right now I’m the only chauffeur you have.”

“I appreciate that, I truly do, even if you are one helluva scary wheelman. Let’s try to get somewhere near Taba in one piece and I’ll take it from there on my own.”

“Even if we manage to get you close to Taba, you’ll have no way to deal with the border guards, not to mention the other authorities that might be looking for you in connection with the girl’s death.”

“She had a name,” Sandor snapped. “It was Lilli.”

“Fine. Her name was Lilli.” Farrar shook his head again and blew
out a stale lungful of air. “Listen to me Jordan, because I speak to you now as if you were my own son. Please have the respect to hear what I say.” He paused. “You have chosen a life where you are not entitled to give free rein to your feelings. Such behavior is not just a liability, it is a death sentence. I realize you know this, but right now it appears you need to be reminded.”

“They murdered an innocent young woman.”

“But that’s not really why you’re so angry, is it? They murdered her because she spoke with you, and you feel the guilt that comes from that knowledge.”

They rode on a little way in grim silence until Farrar spoke up again.

“Innocent people die every day,” he said. “Children die of hunger and disease and even for want of clean water. Hurricanes and earthquakes take countless lives. Extremists conspire to kill people who have never done them any harm.”

“What’s your point?”

“My point is that you have chosen a profession where you have sworn to do all you can to stop that last type of injustice.”

“Is that not what I want to do with Sudakov?”

“No,” Farrar responded, his voice as loud as a shout in the confines of the small car. “Avenging the death of one girl, of Lilli, is not your mission. If that’s all you accomplish then she will have died for no reason and you may well end up joining her, which would be even worse.”

After another interlude of sullen quiet, Sandor said, “Well, I guess you told me.”

Farrar, still facing straight ahead, allowed himself a sad smile. “I hope you listen better than my own son.”

“You haven’t said much about Hasani,” Sandor pointed out, pleased with the change of subject. “How is he?”

“Ask him yourself. We should reach him in less than twenty minutes.”

————

Sandor had not seen Farrar’s son in more than three years, not since the tragedy in Bahrain. Sandor was running a mission that was compromised
by the rogue agent Vincent Traiman together with a mole within the CIA. When the operation imploded, Hasani chose to flee rather than fight, leaving the other local agents behind. Sandor attempted a rescue of the remaining members of his team, but he arrived too late. They had already been captured and were later killed by a Libyan-led group of assassins sent by Traiman.

Sandor understood the pressures of combat better than most. He empathized with the grip of fear that had overtaken Hasani, a young man on his first mission, acting in a nonofficial capacity, whose actions ultimately had no effect on the grizzly outcome. More important, Sandor felt he owed something to Farrar for all of the older man’s loyalty and help over the years. Eventually Sandor hunted down and liquidated both Traiman and his accomplice, but the sting of Hasani’s cowardice was still keenly felt by the proud Egyptian Farrar.

Today he was giving his son the opportunity to redeem himself.

Less than twenty minutes later Farrar pulled off the dusty road and, after negotiating his way around an assortment of potholes, animals and pedestrians, he came to a stop behind a small, one-story building where another car waited.

Without a word, Farrar turned off the engine, pushed his door open and got out. As Sandor also climbed out of the small sedan he watched Hasani emerge from the other car.

The two Egyptians strode toward one another, then stopped as they drew near. Before either of them could speak, Sandor moved past Farrar and extended his hand.

“Hasani,” he said with a warm smile, “I see you’ve been called back into action.”

The young man was not yet thirty, taller and better built than Farrar, with a handsome face and his father’s dark, wary eyes. Hasani took Sandor’s hand and said, “Please believe me when I say that when my father telephoned me this morning he did not have to ask twice for my help.”

“I believe you. So, where do we go from here?”

Father and son exchanged a look that spoke for generations of fathers and sons who never had to say a word in order to communicate. Then Farrar turned to Sandor.

“Israel,” he said.

T
HERE ARE BUS
tours that make a three-hour run between Sharm el-Sheikh and Taba. They carry tourists in air-conditioned comfort to a border exchange that takes them from Egypt into Israel and back. It is a journey that traverses an ancient region where two nations sit side by side, characterized by deep political, religious, and cultural divisions. The crossings from one country to the other require passage through armed encampments worthy of a Cold War hostage swap.

Hasani’s scheme was to have Sandor pose as one of these travelers and depart the dangers of Egypt for the safety of Israel.

“I’m listening,” Sandor said with obvious skepticism, “but I’m sure you’ve noticed we’re already halfway to Taba.”

“More than halfway,” Hasani corrected him.

“Don’t you think it’s going to be a bit suspicious if we flag down a bus in the middle of nowhere and I get on?”

“That would certainly be a mistake,” the young man agreed. “There is no way we can get you onto one of the tour buses without creating unacceptable risk. And we certainly cannot drive all the way back to Sharm el-Sheikh and have you board there.”

“Definitely not,” Sandor agreed.

“Our intention is to get you to Taba. A friend of mine drives one of the buses. He will have your name added to his manifest. When he arrives there you will simply mingle with the other tourists and make your way into Eilat.”

“And this friend of yours . . .”

“Is trustworthy. All he needs is the name you will use. Something other than Jordan Sandor, of course.” Hasani looked to his father, then back to Sandor. “You have an, uh, alternative passport?”

“I do.”

Hasani lifted his shoulders and then dropped them, as if to say it would be as simple as that.

Sandor turned to Farrar for a reaction. The older man tilted his head slightly to the right, then asked his son, “This driver, is it Awan?”

“Yes.”

Farrar nodded approvingly. “He is a loyal friend,” he told Sandor.

“Loyal enough to trust with my life?”

“Yes,” Hasani said.

Sandor shook his head. “All right, let’s go over everything from the beginning, then we’ll make a decision.”

————

The tour bus in question was a classic-style coach, about halfway full today as they learned from Hasani’s cell phone discussion with Awan. As usual, all of the window seats were occupied, the riders hoping to have a view of something worth seeing as they traveled north, with the Sinai Desert stretching out to the left and the sea to the right.

The important thing, Hasani explained, was that the passengers tended to take little notice of each other, and certainly none of them would have any reason to make a head count of those aboard. That should make it easy for Sandor to work his way into line as they disembarked at the bus terminal.

So much for the good news, Sandor thought.

The problem lay in the inescapability of the situation he would face once he placed himself in the hands of the Egyptian officers that monitor the crossing from this side. His photograph might already have been obtained and circulated; his British passport in the name of Scott Kerr might be spotted as a forgery; Interpol may have already been alerted; or, despite Hasani’s confidence in the scheme, someone on the bus might point out that Sandor had not been on the ride north. Any of these, or a handful of other hazards, could cause the guards to draw their weapons and take him into custody.

With the responsibilities before him, it was not a result he could afford. “I need to get through,” Sandor told them.

“They’re searching for an American,” Farrar observed as he studied the grim look on his friend’s face. Then he gestured toward his son, who reached into his car and removed a small bag from the backseat. “And we have a few items to alter your appearance.”

Sandor managed a smile. “Glad to see you’re on the case, but I still need to look enough like myself to match my passport photo.”

“Of course,” Farrar said with a patient nod. “We don’t intend to make you look like a Bedouin. We’ll just make you a little older.”

T
HEY FINISHED THEIR
journey in Hasani’s car, since no one had any reason to be looking for his small sedan. Sandor was slumped low in the backseat, not quite hiding but doing his best to stay out of view. Farrar rode shotgun. If there was a serious manhunt under way to find him, Sandor spotted no evidence of it as they sped north along the main highway. Given that Sharm el-Sheikh exists almost exclusively for the tourist trade, he figured the local authorities would want to place a lid on the entire affair as soon as possible.

Murder in a high-end hotel room tends to be bad for business.

Nevertheless, Sandor and the Farrars remained alert and were taking nothing for granted. After a couple of phone calls back and forth, Hasani caught up with the bus being driven by his friend Awan. Then, instead of following the large coach off the highway into the heart of town, they veered off one exit earlier and made their way through the backstreets of Taba that circled around toward the parking plaza where the passengers would disembark.

“Better this way,” the young man explained without being asked. “It would be too obvious for us to pull up right behind.”

As arranged with Awan, they arrived before the bus, giving them a chance to park around the corner.

“After you get rid of me, I want you to be careful yourself,” Sandor said to Farrar. “As you said, they’re going to make a connection between us, which means you need to keep out of Sudakov’s way for now.”

“He can stay with me,” Hasani said. “He’ll be safe.”

“All right,” Sandor said. “As soon as I can I’ll provide a permanent solution to that problem. I already promised you that.”

Farrar placed a hand on Sandor’s shoulder. “What was it you once told me? Wait to worry?”

Sandor nodded and was about to say something else when Hasani told them it was time to go.

They got out of the car and, with the Egyptians on either side of him, Sandor slung his black leather bag over his shoulder and wandered into the midst of what was thankfully a busy midday scene. They had considered various means of Sandor feeding into the line of people as they filed off the bus. It was agreed that Hasani should head directly toward the driver.

Awan was the first man down the steps. After half a dozen passengers followed him onto the street, Hasani approached and made a loud show of greeting his old friend. Their pretense at surprise was followed by a hearty greeting and an affectionate hug, which drew the attention of the surrounding passengers. Farrar advanced into the growing crowd of tourists climbing down to the street. He said something pleasant in his native tongue to one of the older men there, then prodded Sandor to step behind the gentleman.

Without another word, Farrar sauntered off. Moments later Awan informed Hasani that he had to get about his business, so the young men shook hands and said goodbye. Then Hasani also walked off, in the direction opposite the one his father had taken.

There were no goodbyes for Sandor, one of those small but conspicuous peculiarities of a profession that relies on the integrity of relationships which, by its very nature, it is compelled to distort. Not even a glance or smile could be exchanged.

————

As he sidled up beside the elderly gentleman, Sandor found that Farrar had made an excellent choice. The man was alone, friendly, and spoke some English, which made him a good candidate for the casual conversation that would give the appearance they were traveling companions. The man would also move slowly, which was just
what Sandor wanted. He had no interest in appearing anxious or in a hurry. He would be pleased to shuffle along as the authorities went through the tedious process of passing them through the checkpoint.

Awan led his group to the entry point of the crossing, where he presented information to the first guard they encountered—a manifest that now included one more visitor than he had departed with from Sharm el-Sheikh. He bid his passengers farewell and the group of some thirty people entered the holding area ahead of them.

Two large rectangular buildings face off across the border, one in Taba and the other in Eilat, bracketing an area set up as a demilitarized zone. Moving through these gray, officious-looking structures, people pass either east or west, explorers who are made to endure the requisite screenings, baggage searches, body checks, and state-of-the-art metal detectors.

Politely waiting his turn, Sandor was finally called forward. He placed his black bag on the conveyer that drew it through a screener which disclosed nothing sinister or even interesting. His weapons had all been left in Hasani’s car. The additional passports and money were secreted in the bottom of the satchel and could not be distinguished from the lining and structural base of the bag. The only thing that might raise a question was the presence of two cell phones.

Indeed, the question was asked.

Sandor, faking a serviceable British accent, said, “One domestic, one international.”

The soldier nodded as he began to scrutinize the passport.

This, Sandor knew, was the critical moment. Any issues with his papers and he would be pulled aside without rights or reason. If they suspected the passport was a forgery they would not even need to connect him to the murder of Lillian Mindlovitch to detain him. He would be charged with espionage and held incommunicado until they sorted out who he was and what he was doing there. His mission would be in jeopardy, not to mention his safety.