Terminal Rage (13 page)

Seth spoke again, but not to Blackwell. “State your name.” A loud thump like a fist landing on a face was followed by a cry of agony coming from a grown man.

“Say your
fucking
name!” It was a different voice screaming the command in the background, probably one of Seth
’
s two accomplices. Another thud, maybe the base of the gun to the skull.

“Albert Voss.” His voice was weak and almost unrecognizable.

Blackwell leaned into the mic, his hands in fists. “Do not harm these men, Seth! I am begging you—take them hostage. These are federal agents and will be worth more to you alive than dead.”

“
Bism Allah al rahman al raheem. Ashhadu ana la ilaha ila Allah wa ashadu ana Muhammadan rasool Allah.
” The same voice that had just shouted at Voss was reciting something in Arabic.

Blackwell rotated on the axis of his chair to face Natasha Shaker who was cupping her mouth, her eyes wide. “It
’
s the
shahada
—Muslims recite this before slaughtering an animal.”

Monica grabbed Blackwell
’
s headset mic and shouted something unintelligible. But it was drowned out by four consecutive gunshots echoing in the loudspeaker in the room.

Seth
’
s voice came back. It was cold. Monotone. Resolute. “I hope you
’
ll be man enough to face the wives and children of these four men. Tell them who got their dads and their husbands murdered. It wasn
’
t the terrorist. It was the intransigence and arrogance of the FBI.”

The throbbing in Blackwell
’
s temples and his face was now nuclear. There was a heavy silence in the negotiating room. Vlasic held her hands against her head and silent tears erupted from her eyes. And for the first time that night, Nishimura stopped chewing his gum. He slumped, rubbing his face. Slant and Grove gaped at each other, frozen in time, coffee mugs still in their hands. And Natasha Shaker, who
’
d been exposed to the true meaning of the Arabic recital that preceded the death of Voss and his men, still had her hand on her mouth, her eyes glistening.

Seth started up again. “Listen carefully, you pieces of shit. I didn
’
t come here to fuck around with you. I
’
m moving the deadline an hour earlier—so four a.m. our time. If my demands are not met by then we
’
ll kill four hostages every ten minutes for the next hour after that. That
’
s twenty-four dead bodies for you to deal with. Which leaves Mark Price—I
’
ll kill him myself with a shot in the eye. Then if by five a.m. Nabulsi and Madi are not safe in the hands of my men in Naples, consider Julia Price dead. And then the kids, Mr. Blackwell. Because that
’
s who you really came for, right?”

Blackwell felt the contents of his stomach rising up.

“You didn
’
t need to kill these men.”

“And you didn
’
t need to leave them up there.

“Now you have blood on your hands.”

“I guess that makes two of us then. But they were good men—they died honorably to protect the hostages. They did the right thing until the last breath.”

Vlasic grabbed the headset from Blackwell
’
s face once again in a blatant breach of protocol.

“When this is all over, wherever you are, I swear to God I
’
ll hunt you down and piss in your dead open skull.”

Seth ignored Monica and continued.

“The entire floor is wired with explosives. One small click and we all go up in flames. Remember the magical vest I am wearing. If you take me out—all hell will rain down on you. You can
’
t outsmart me. You can
’
t predict my actions. And I am prepared to die today. In other words, check-fucking-mate.”

THIRTEEN

Sunday, November 6, 2011—3:57 a.m.
Cairo, Egypt

A
mbassador Farid Mourad didn
’
t recognize the number blinking on his iPhone. He put it back on his nightstand and ignored the call, then turned to look at the woman next to him, fast asleep. She was a whole twenty years younger than him. Moonlight was flooding the bedroom through a large wrought-iron window overlooking the Nile. It cast soft hues on her delicate features. Her long black hair shimmered like strands of expensive silk, sprawling around her and covering most of her full breasts. Usually she tied it in a neat bun before they went to bed, but right after sex she became drowsy and skipped these bedtime rituals.

They were both naked. She lay on her side, her legs half-covered with a soft lilac sheet. The contours of her body were now keeping him awake, aroused again and contemplating some more of the delicious love-making they
’
d shared a few hours earlier.
I
’
m one lucky guy to have a woman like Dalia in my life.
The only man fortunate enough to see her hair and her bare body, while everyone else can only wonder what beauty lies beneath her veil.

Mourad decided to just admire her for a while, hoping this would lull him back to sleep.

Dalia Oraby was a junior analyst in his division. She was the only female diplomat who had kept her job at the MOFA—the Ministry of Foreign Affairs—after donning the veil during Mubarak
’
s rule. The veil was not an expression of piety for her, but it provided social acceptance, which was critical for a divorced woman. Their affair had started two years ago when she was working under him. She wasn
’
t veiled back then, but she was still married. To Mourad
’
s nephew.

Mourad lived with his wife and three children in a massive villa overlooking a golf course in the upscale gated community of Katameya in west Cairo. His affair with Dalia was a secret to protect his children rather than his sham of a marriage.

This apartment in a chic building overlooking the river in the affluent neighborhood of Zamalek was a love nest. But as far as his wife was concerned, his justification to have it was that he needed a place to crash and sleep on the days he worked late and was too tired to drive back home. Considering the revolution raging through his country, which had forced him to work even longer hours, his wife never questioned that logic.

Mourad
’
s cell phone started vibrating and blinking with renewed urgency. It rattled with anger against the marble surface of the nightstand. He switched it off now. Any more of this and she
’
d wake up. Whoever was calling would have to wait until tomorrow.

He closed his eyes and started negotiating with sleep again. And he would have won if his home phone hadn
’
t erupted like an air-raid siren and jolted him out of bed.

No one but his immediate family knew this number. This had to be bad news. Mourad ran to get to the phone before it woke her up. He fumbled for few seconds to find the cordless handset under a mountain of paperwork on his desk. But it was too late. By the time he picked up, Dalia was sitting up startled in bed.

“
Alo?
” His voice was abrupt to indicate exactly how he felt about the timing of the call. He held his finger to his lips to signal to Dalia not to speak, just in case it was his wife on the phone.

“Your Excellency—my apologies for calling at this hour. Ambassador Wagner would like to speak to you. It
’
s a matter of extreme urgency.” He wasn
’
t expecting an American voice and had prepared all of his choice expletives in Arabic as he stood naked, his glance fixed on Dalia. It took him a few seconds to process what he had just heard.
Of course the Americans would know where to find me.

Blake Wagner was the American ambassador to Egypt and a good friend of Mourad
’
s. “By all means. I
’
ll take the call.”

Wagner
’
s voice boomed in its baritone glory, even this late at night. “Farid. I know it
’
s a lousy time but we
’
re in a tight fix and need your help.”

“Whatever I can do, Blake. What happened?”

“Nothing I can say over an unsecured line. I need you to arrange a meeting for me in the next thirty minutes with the SCAF. With General Elwy in attendance, if possible—we
’
re going to ask a massive favor, so we need as many friends as we can get in that room.” Wagner was referring to General Hazem Elwy, one of the younger members of the Supreme Council of the Armed Forces, the abruptly convened body that had assumed power after Mubarak was toppled. Elwy was known for his pragmatism and moderate stance towards America.

“Consider it done. Start heading to Abbassiya now, and by the time you get to the Ministry of Defense you
’
ll be cleared to enter. I
’
ll head there myself right away.”

“
You are a true friend, Farid. I thank you for that.”

How things had changed in less than a year. Ten months ago, if the US administration had wanted something urgently from the Egyptian government, they would have gone straight to the chief-keeper of the alliance between the two nations—then President Hosni Mubarak. But the old Pharaoh of Egypt was now whiling away his days in a prison hospital pending a criminal trial, nine months after a popular revolution had toppled him.

Egypt was now ruled by the SCAF, a governing body of twenty-one senior army officers. Most of these military men were not well versed in the intricacies of the alliance between Egypt and America, and were therefore seen as an unfamiliar currency for the US administration. Pressured by the political tsunami transforming the country, the SCAF generals had alienated the Yanks in order to strike a popular, nationalist tone at home.

The Americans had always loved Mourad, though. Not just because of his strategic role as the director of the counterterrorism desk at the MOFA, but because he loved them back. Early in his career, the CIA and the State Department had reached out to nurture and support him. Before the revolution froze all postings and promotions, Mourad had been on track to nab the coveted Washington ambassadorial slot—a position known to herald an almost inevitable appointment as Minister one day.

A Georgetown graduate, Mourad had spent his formative years in America when his father was a star diplomat under President Sadat. Later, when Mourad became one of the country
’
s top diplomats in his own right, he took a decisive stance as a proponent of strong Egyptian-American ties. A role that came into full fruition after the Mubarak regime imploded and the lines of communication between the two countries became strained.

The SCAF generals were brash and paranoid. Their only obsession was to appease the Islamic current that had bubbled to power. Without much choice in the matter, Mourad found himself the key masseur of the tense relations between the new military rulers of Egypt and the US administration.

The deep connections he had cultivated over the years on both sides of the divide made him a shoo-in as the US administration
’
s go-to man in the new Egypt. Through his groundbreaking work on joint counterterrorism initiatives, the Americans saw him as Egypt
’
s most trusted diplomat. He was on a first-name basis with the secretaries of State and Homeland Security, and worked with the top analysts at the CIA. And as the founder of the American-Egyptian Shield—a think tank promoting greater security and intelligence cooperation between the two countries—he had high-level ties to the US military complex.

On the other side, Mourad was close to the Egyptian intelligence, the
Mokhabarat
. Through Egypt
’
s spy agency, Mourad was introduced to the highest echelons of the Egyptian army. At one point in his career, Mourad had come to the realization that whatever the future held for his country, it would inevitably be intertwined with the men who held the guns. And it was in his best interest to cultivate deep ties with the top generals. Indeed this strategy had served him well after the revolution. The SCAF generals were bypassing the Mubarak-appointed foreign minister and working directly with Mourad on matters involving the faltering alliance with America.

He hung up the phone and walked back to Dalia, who had curled back in bed like a kitten. “I have to go.”

She gave him a slow, buttery kiss on the lips. There was a fresh chill in the air so he pulled up the sheet to her waist. He leaned forward and gave her lips longer, deeper attention, then ran his fingers along her soft, warm buttocks. His eyes said it all.
Don
’
t go anywhere. I
’
ll go take care of business and then I
’
m coming back for you. All day in bed.

Mourad was ushered into the brightly-lit operations room of the SCAF headquarters by a young, smiling brigadier general from military intelligence. Ambassador Wagner and Finn Simmer—the FBI’s Legal Attaché in Cairo—sat at one side of a long mahogany table across from three uniformed men.

General Ali Farag was the most senior Egyptian in the room, with an impressive mustache to prove it. To his left was General Moufid Gad, a quiet, bespectacled fellow with sad eyes who had been pulled out of retirement when the SCAF was convened. The third general at the table was Gamal Harby, a heavyset bull of a man with a stern, red face betraying a seething volatility simmering within him. He was the most hawkish of the group, and Mourad was disappointed, but not surprised to see him.

Silver trays of oriental pastries and fresh savory canapés were laid out on the table. At the far end of the room a beverages station had been set up. Chilled jugs of fresh mango juice, hibiscus-infused water, mint tea, and multiple varieties of coffee were ready for self-service. The level of security required for the meeting meant the usual wait staff was locked out, and the diplomats and the generals would have to serve themselves for a change.

The fourth general in the room, Hazem Elwy, was standing by the beverages pouring something steaming into a cup. When he saw Mourad walk in, he smiled and took his drink to the table.

Mourad established eye contact with General Farag and wished him good morning. He asked him in Arabic where he wanted him to sit and then went around the table to shake the hands of the seated generals. Harby
’
s grasp was tight and belligerent. But it was countered with a warm hug and cheek kisses from General Elwy. If Harby was the biggest obstacle to cutting a quick deal for the Americans, Elwy had been summoned as the antidote. He didn
’
t have much in the way of balls, but he was the closest thing the Americans had to a cheerleader within SCAF.

Mourad turned to face the American contingent. “Good morning, Blake. Good to see you, Finn.”

Blake Wagner nodded his head in gratitude. “Thank you for arranging this, Farid.” He was an African American in his late fifties who in another life had been a Harvard professor. His posting to Cairo was a political appointment, but not an inappropriate choice. Wagner was an expert on US-Egyptian politics and had written the seminal textbook on the topic. He had a Hollywood-grade jaw structure, full lips, and chocolate eyes cloaking a steel interior and stubborn resolve Mourad knew was lurking in the diplomat.

General Farag instructed Farid to sit next to the Americans. Symmetry at the table would be based on civilian versus military, rather than Americans versus Egyptians. He also sanctioned English to be the language of the meeting, out of courtesy to Wagner and Finn, even though everyone at the table must have known Finn wouldn
’
t have been the FBI
’
s top man in Cairo if he wasn
’
t fluent in Arabic.

Mourad listened to Wagner recount the story of a hostage-taking, starting with the abduction of Senator William Price
’
s daughter Julia a few weeks ago. New York couldn
’
t afford another major terrorist event, he told them. Wagner revealed the hostage-taker
’
s demand for the release of two Jordanians convicted of the 2005 terror attack in Sharm El Sheikh, and the tight deadline he
’
d set.

Mourad
’
s jaw dropped. He had understood what Blake Wagner would ask for, and hoped to God this troop of uniformed monkeys could make it happen.

“The president has asked me to request your kind approval to release in our custody the two prisoners, Tarek Nabulsi and Hassan Madi, who were convicted of the 2005 Sharm El Sheikh attacks. These men will be exchanged for Senator Price
’
s daughter. We make this request in the spirit of friendship, and the long alliance between our countries.”

The generals looked at one another without saying a word. Every fucking one of them, including his “friend” Elwy, was a mute alabaster statue.

Finn Simmer was the first to speak to break the awkwardness. The natural boyish golden curls on top of his head were unexpected for a man wrapping his forties. His small blue eyes hid behind silver glasses and suggested he did something more benign for a living, like a small-time Midwestern accountant.