Threatcon Delta (32 page)

K
areem Galal sat at the large oak desk, waiting. There was nothing in front of him save for a laptop and a battery-powered lantern. An AK-47 sat on his lap and a walkie-talkie was looped to his hip. With alert, excited eyes, the man was watching cell phone images being flashed to various websites from the foot of the mountain.

A voice crackled from the radio. “Sir?”

Galal snatched the radio from the leather strap and raised it to his mouth. “Here.”

“Two men are approaching from the garden,” the caller said. “One looks like a pilgrim, the other is wearing trousers and a shirt.”

“Armed?”

“Impossible to tell.”

“Do they seem to know where they’re going?”

“Yes, sir. The pilgrim is in the lead.”

Galal considered the matter. He was thinking of the intruder who had been exploring the tunnels the day before. That man was a pilgrim, too. These two couldn’t possibly interfere with what was about to take place. It was too late for that. But Galal was curious to learn whether the two visits were related. And who had sent the men.

“Find out what they want,” he said. “Make sure they’re not reporters wearing a camera.”

“If they are?”

“Keep your gun hidden, be a monk.”

“Yes, sir. If they aren’t?”

“Kill them.”

The subordinate clicked off and Galal went back to his Web browsing. He liked the way the events were being reported. The pictures and short videos alone told the story. Very few of the pilgrims had anything to say, and those who did expressed only awe.

It was exactly as they had expected.

Before the sun rose, the world would be changed dramatically.

It was by far too late,
he smiled.

A
djo felt electrified as they walked to the front gate of the monastery. This was going to be a challenge. Pushing himself was one of the qualities that had drawn him to Task Force 777. He had never been much of a student because the risk had never been terribly high. His father would hit him with a strop for bad grades, but not too harshly because he needed the boy to help carry boats to and from his work shed each morning and evening. Adjo had never felt challenged by the river because the shore was never more than a dozen meters away in either direction and, if it was swollen or raining, one didn’t go out. That was not the case here.

Unlike every other mission, there was nothing secretive or forceful about their approach. It was neutral, daring in its lack of bravado. The tactic went against his training. Unlike his previous visit to the monastery, Adjo was moving toward the enemy in the open, not running from him in a place of concealment. That went against his instincts. Adjo’s one precaution was to wrap the tatters of his garment around his right hand to conceal the gun he had taken from the pilgrim. He hoped that whoever they met would think he was merely trying to keep the robe from dragging on the cobblestones, a quaint attempt at dignity.

They reached the old wooden door beside the towering gate. The MFO cordon was several hundred meters to their left, well beyond the gardens and past a downward dip in the road. That was where their jurisdiction ended—farther than the shores of the Nile had ever been. The only thing visible was the upper dome of the glow from the lights they had erected.

The American searched for a bell or knocker. He found neither and pounded one of the ancient panels with the side of his fist. They did not have to wait long for someone to appear on the wall above them. Adjo did not think they would be shot out of hand. Even if someone recognized him as the refugee from the tunnel, the “monks” would want to take them inside and find out what he knew and who he had told. Besides, the MFO would be watching the monastery. Gunfire would be an invitation for the Egyptian component—active members of the military—to move in.

“I am from the All Saints Diocese in Cairo,” Phair said in Egyptian. “Father Constantelos is expecting me.”

“He?” The man indicated Adjo.

“My guide,” Phair said. “I had considerable difficulty getting here.”

The observer on the wall stepped away. Even though he was out of sight, Adjo recognized the distinctive static of a walkie-talkie. They were obviously using very old, very localized technology so that the calls couldn’t be hacked.

“Stay there!” the man said, reappearing at the top. “I will open the door.”

“You see? Easy,” Phair said from the side of his mouth.

“Getting inside is never a problem,” Adjo observed. “Is this diocese real?”

“Very.”

“So what do we do next?”

“I was sent to do research in the library,” Phair told him. “If they don’t accept that—”

“They won’t.”

“Then, regrettably, we fight our way to the archives. That’s where you were shot at and that’s where I saw a small downlink antenna on the roof.”

“Where?”

“Behind the cross,” Phair said. “I don’t believe the designs changed during the time I was in Iraq.”

Adjo was impressed. He hadn’t noticed it before.

The men were ushered inside. Phair went first, surrendering his backpack at the insistence of one of the three men who were waiting for them. The men were dressed in jeans and sweatshirts. In the dark, it was difficult to tell their skin color. A fourth man joined them from the direction of the office. He was a monk.

“
Beati pacifici,
” Phair said to him as one of the men patted him down.

The monk stared blankly at him.

“Why these precautions?” Phair asked, though not before shifting his eyes toward Adjo. “The bishop spoke to the appropriate authorities. We are expected, to do research.”

Phair’s glance, slow and wary, informed Adjo that there should have been some kind of response to the Latin. As if they needed any assurance that these men were not affiliated with the monastery, this was it. Four against two, superior firepower—there was no question who the odds favored, especially with their knowledge of the compound.

Adjo couldn’t afford to think like that. As they patted the cleric down, he could see Phair’s expression collapse into something sad and resigned. Seeing that, Adjo fixed his attention on the goal. They had to obtain information and phone it out of here. Getting themselves to safety was secondary.

One of the men approached Adjo next. He extended his arms as the man went to search him. The gun was still wrapped in the ragged hem of the robe. The man reached out to pull it off.

Adjo didn’t know what the American’s follow-up plan might have been, but they were not going to be admitted anywhere, under any pretense, once the man found the gun. The cleric’s ruse had gotten them inside and that was all.

His arm swung toward the man and the gun shot through the fabric. He moved his arm quickly. There were two bursts and two more men went down with wounds to the torso. Adjo had avoided head or heart shots so they’d have a chance to survive. The monk reached into his robe, and Adjo put him down with a shot to the thigh.

Phair grabbed two guns and Adjo took the other two.

“I’m sorry,” Phair said.

Adjo wasn’t sure who he was addressing. It didn’t matter. They needed to get to the archives, quickly. If any relevant records or monitoring equipment were here, that was the likely place.

“Will the MFO respond to that gunfire?” Phair asked in a loud whisper.

“It’s likely, though they’ll probably send in members of the Egyptian military for reconnaissance.”

“It will be interesting to see if the phony monks try and stop them.”

“The ones dressed as monks will be left alone and will probably vouch for the others,” Adjo said. “We’re the ones everybody wants.”

There was movement along the top of the outer wall and around the other structures in the compound as the two men hurried through the darkness. A few men peeled away toward the gate. Others came in their direction. Adjo could hear the footfalls. But there was no talking, no one was using a radio. The occupants obviously did not want to give their positions away.

Adjo and Phair reached the archives without encountering any opposition. That didn’t mean there wouldn’t be men waiting inside. Adjo stood to the side while he reached over and tried the door. It was locked.

“The windows are barred,” Phair said, having made a quick check.

Adjo motioned for Phair to get behind him, then fired twice at the wood to the left of the doorknob. He kicked the door and it swung open as he dodged to the side. When no one fired, he took a chance and stepped inside. Phair followed him in.

The young officer shined his light around the room. It appeared deserted. There was a door in the back and Phair ran toward it. Adjo turned a small desk on its side and pulled it in front of the entrance. He didn’t want to shut the door and leave himself blind. The desk was high enough so that anyone coming in would either have to stop and step over it or else push it aside. He crouched behind the other desks, deep in the narrow room, and laid the recovered guns at his side.

“Let me have a light,” Phair said.

Adjo glanced back and shined the flashlight on him. The inner door was locked but a quick search uncovered a key on the bookcase beside it. Phair fit it into the lock and the door opened. He stepped inside.

Adjo looked out at the compound as voices and lights started to converge in their direction. Obviously, the decision to come here had been correct. The men couldn’t have known where they were going. They were simply coming to the one place that was worth protecting.

Adjo’s mouth was dry, but he dared not put down his weapon to wet it. He hoped they didn’t have tear gas. If they did, he’d have to surrender this position and join Phair.

“Jesus wept,” Phair said, after less than a minute.

“What is it?” Adjo asked urgently, half-turning. The lights down the street were growing larger as they moved toward them.

“Anyone comes through that door, you kill them,” Phair said, his voice thick with disgust. “I have to call this in.”

K
ealey’s phone vibrated as he pulled away from Carla and her grandfather. It was Jonathan Harper. Other people were on phones, talking or sending video images. He would not stand out.

“Can you talk?” Harper asked.

“Yes, though I don’t know if I can hear,” Kealey replied, poking a finger in his left ear. “The prophet has descended and is walking through the plain to where the fifteen helicopters just landed—”

“We saw that,” Harper said. “I just got the word from the National Reconnaissance Office. They have no ID on any of them, and we can’t tell anything about the crew. What are you seeing?”

“Nothing yet,” Kealey told him, “but we’ve confirmed that our own target is a fake.”

“Then who took the real Staff?”

“I still don’t have a clue,” Kealey said, trying not to yell over the murmuring tumult of the crowd. “Phair and the Egyptian officer have gone to try and find out more at the monastery. I’m going to check on the choppers.”

“What about the prophet?” Harper asked. “Did you see him? Was there anything to him?”

“He wouldn’t turn heads anywhere else,” Kealey said as he continued to make his way through the crowd. “There was nothing rock-star about his coming among his followers.”

“Security?”

“Small cordon surrounding him, I couldn’t tell if they were armed. But no one was running forward.”

“Sniper positions forward?”

“Negative,” Kealey said. “He’s got people around him and there are no elevations closer than a half mile.”

Kealey understood why he was asking. It wasn’t about an Egyptian operative taking the prophet out but one of his own people, and making it look like an official act. That’s the fast road to a movement having its own martyr.

“Are you hearing anything?” Kealey asked.

“We got an alert about a big fire in Sharm el-Sheikh,” Harper said. “It seemed to be centered in a bakery.”

“Timing?”

“Right after the choppers left,” Harper said. “The police are investigating.”

“Which way did the wind carry the smoke?” Kealey asked.

“Northwest.”

“The same direction as the choppers,” Kealey said.

“I don’t follow.”

“If they’re connected, the fire was not set till after they left,” Kealey said. “Otherwise, they might have been grounded.”

Harper was silent for a moment. “Good get. I just checked. There was a half-hour hold on all flights due to smoke. I’ll do some more checking and let you know what I find out.”

“Thanks,” Kealey said. He signed off, then looked across the plain. Carla and her grandfather had caught up while he talked to Harper.

“Is something the matter?” Carla asked.

Kealey told her what Harper had reported, as much to try and process the information himself as to inform her. Connected or not, the precise timing and inexorable nature of all these events troubled him. It was like trying to stop an ocean breaker. The participants, himself included, were being swept in one direction by events as well as their own momentum.

He turned to Durst. The German was standing there in a strange posture that combined slope-shouldered defeat and fist-shaking anger. He felt this getting away from them, too.

“You really didn’t take it?” Kealey asked the German. The agent practically had to yell to be heard. The chants were growing louder as the prophet moved among them, closer to Kealey. People were firing guns again.

Durst shook his head angrily, once.

Kealey faced Carla. “Or you?”

“I did not.” She was not angry, just very, very insistent. “Why does it matter right now?”

“Because I don’t like what I’m thinking,” he said. “Look, I’m going ahead, but I don’t want you with me.”

“Why?”

“I have a bad feeling about whatever is going on up there,” Kealey said. “Go back toward the monastery and watch for Major Phair and the Egyptian officer. If for some reason you don’t hook up with them, go to the MFO checkpoint. Tell them you’re tourists who were stranded here and have been lying low.”

“They will believe that?”

“They’re the United Nations,” Kealey said. “They’ll believe anything.”

Carla looked at her grandfather and repeated what Kealey had told her. He nodded and they set off in that direction, against the flow of the pilgrims.

“Be careful!” the agent shouted after them, but he wasn’t sure they’d heard. He decided he liked Carla. It wasn’t easy, being in her position, trying to keep her family intact and civil, but she handled it with grace.

The crowd was thinning in that direction as the acolytes joined the press of humanity heading toward the plain. People had abandoned their cars for now, but they’d left the headlights on to show the way. It was a strange vista, ghostly pale, many of the people in silhouette as Kealey joined the sea of pilgrims.

What he had been thinking, what he didn’t want to share with Carla, was that someone on their own side had taken the Staff—possibly someone from the CIA. It may not have been Harper’s doing, but someone who had access to the information—one of a handful of senior-level staff—running his own operation. Maybe someone’s idea of defusing this situation was having some professor show up on CNN, holding the treasure and undermining the movement in one bold gesture.

The bad guys would never let their staff be tested for age or authenticity,
he thought.
They would lose the public relations battle.
The story of the true Staff would captivate the TV audience. It had religion and Nazis, two things for which viewers had an insatiable hunger.

There was just one problem with that scenario. Something was going on here and now. The CIA might not have until prime time to fix it.

Kealey had this fleeting, hopeful vision of a consortium of benevolent theologians gathered at a college campus somewhere, deciding that this was the best way to save the world, by resurrecting a figure revered by three conflicted faiths. Kealey was willing to bet that absent the unifying figure of the prophet, many of the people gathered here would turn on one another with violence, spurred by different interpretations of scripture and law and millennia of cultural schisms.

If that was the case, then bringing down the prophet would make Kealey a participant in genocidal rage.

But I don’t think that
is
the case,
he thought. He didn’t believe there were visionaries behind this movement because he knew human nature, and it was selfish and fundamentally base.

That was his last thought as he let himself be carried by the surge of bodies, camels, horses, and blind will to what might well prove to be the gates of Paradise.

Or Hell.