They reached the seaside
Bedouin village of Nueba a mere hour before sunup and took refuge in a row of
huts along the beach. The huts were wooden structures with bamboo roofs,
closed on three sides with shades of woven fiber, the open side touching the
waters, equipped with colorful rugs, cushions and pillows, with low coffee
tables spread about. The entire village belonged to the Tarrabin tribe of
which Ahmed was a proud member so it was not difficult to remain hidden from
the Egyptian presence in the area.
They were treated to warm pita
bread with Labaneh spread, a fresh salad, pickles and potatoes, followed by
baklava and sweet tea. It seemed to Christine the tastiest meal she had
ever eaten. She was worn out, tired to the point of collapse, her feet
blistered, her joints aching, her body filthy. She fell asleep, on her
side, right by the low coffee table where she and Ahmed had taken their meal
and did not wake up until late afternoon at which time a Bedouin woman showed
her to a warm bath in a tin shack. There was soap there and hot water,
amenities she had not enjoyed in weeks. She took her time there,
scrubbing herself clean, enjoying the luxury and came out refreshed, ready for
another meal, which was again generously served.
Ahmed had been gone the entire
day but as night fell he came by with a man who sat himself cross legged across
from Christine and looked her up carefully as he was served dark coffee.
He took out a bag with some tobacco and slowly rolled a cigarette, offering it
to her. When she declined, he lighted it for himself and sat
back.
“We had a serious incident
last week,” he declared in excellent English, probing her face for any reaction.
Christine remained silent,
searching for Ahmed who had sat himself on the cushions a short distance away.
“We heard a foreigner died in
Dahab looking to kidnap a boy,” the man continued.
Christine looked again at
Ahmed for help but none came.
“He was looking for me,” she
blurted in a hoarse voice, not sure if he was for or against her but too
desperate to care. “I took the boy to bring him back to his mother.”
“And where is the boy now?”
the man asked.
“Somewhere
in the mountains with Ahmed’s people.”
The man suddenly smiled, his
white teeth flickering against the dark background. “Don’t be alarmed. We
will try to help. Ahmed is my nephew.”
Christine relaxed, feeling her
body go limp from the tension.
“Who was the man?” she
asked, eager to relieve what was preying on her mind.
“There was a boy involved; one
of ours. He saw it happen. He will be here soon to tell us.”
*****
Sam and Kessler met Natasha at
the Eilat airport and the three of them drove to the Queen of Sheba Hotel where
Sam was staying.
“We’re having a hard time
locating your man Ortega,” Kessler said a while later as they all gathered in
the lobby lounge over tea and coffee.
“How long has it been since he
crossed over?” Natasha asked. She had showered and replaced her winter
gear from cold Eastern Europe to light airy attire fitting the hot weather of
Eilat, looking quite out of place, her skin glistening white.
“It’ll be six days tomorrow
morning,” Kessler replied. “We have not been able to make contact with
him or any of our Bedouin contacts since he went in there.”
“Black Jack and Christine have
been there over two weeks,” Sam remarked. “We’ve heard nothing from them
either.”
“This is quite irregular,”
Kessler continued. “We normally are able to contact our people there at will.”
“Could I go in there?” Sam
asked, avoiding Natasha’s gaze.
“I would not recommend it,”
Kessler said. “Not until we find out what happened to Ortega and the
others.”
“Could we use diplomatic
means?” Natasha asked.
“US or Spanish ambassadors?”
“That’s an option.
Question is
,
do you want to publicize your operation?”
Sam and Natasha looked at one
another.
“Yes, if it’s a matter of life
or death,” Sam said. “Plus, it doesn’t necessarily have to be
publicized. They can make quiet inquiries.”
“Are you absolutely certain
you want to involve diplomats with whatever went on down there?” Kessler
insisted. “You’ve got three people who went to free a mother from prison
and hopefully get her child back, all missing. Diplomats do not like to
be embarrassed.”
“I prefer to embarrass them
than to lose any one of my people or the people we’re trying to help.”
“Fair enough,” Kessler
said. “If that’s what you want, that’s what we’ll do. I was hoping
to get you some more information tonight, but I can’t promise. I’ve been
wrong about this case more than I care to admit.”
“What did you have in mind for
tonight?” Natasha asked.
“We’ve got Bedouins going
across and back all the time. I’ve sent someone with specific
instructions, which she’s to relay back to me, hopefully, late tonight.
If she doesn’t make it through, we know there’s big trouble.”
“Why?”
“Because
she’s a prominent figure, a chief’s daughter, who normally gets easy access in
both directions.
If she’s stopped anywhere, then they
must be putting a lid on something really important.”
Natasha eyed Sam.
“There’s not a whole lot we
could do tonight with the embassy,” she reasoned. “We might as well wait
and see what happens. If by tomorrow we have nothing, we go to them.”
“We may have to go to them
anyway,” Sam said thoughtfully. “My gut tells me we’re in over our heads
this time. Whatever comes out of there, may, in any event, need
diplomatic attention.”
They were all silent for a
while, before Sam, ever practical, summed the meeting up. “I’ll be on the
first plane out to Tel Aviv tomorrow. Natasha, you stay here and keep an
eye on things. I’ve rented two cell phones so we can keep in close
contact. David, what’s your schedule
look
like?”
“I have a couple of things to
do tonight before I go to Taba to wait for my contact. I can pick you up
on my way over there. Meanwhile you can rest.”
“Sounds like a plan,” Sam
said. “Natasha, you must be exhausted.”
“More anxious and hungry than
anything else but I can use some rest after we’ve had some dinner.”
“Then I’ll leave you to it,”
Kessler said, getting up and shaking Sam’s hand. “I’ll call your rooms
half an hour before I show up.”
“Thanks for everything,
David,” Sam said, getting up to return the handshake.
Kessler nodded humbly, shook
Natasha’s hand and disappeared toward the lobby entrance. Natasha and Sam
relocated to the hotel restaurant to bring one another up to date over dinner.
*****
Jamal arrived at Christine’s
hut two hours before daybreak, accompanied by an impressive young Bedouin
woman. Christine had fallen asleep on the cushions where she had the
conversation with Ahmed’s uncle. Ahmed woke her up and made the
introductions. Jamal had been Ortega’s escort. The woman, Kasuma,
daughter of a prominent Bedouin leader, was dressed in modern clothes with no
head cover, the dim lamp light accentuating her large dark eyes, high
cheekbones and delicate mouth. She looked in her thirties and spoke with
authority.
“Jamal is taking a big risk
meeting you at this time,” she said in fluent French after settling down next
to the boy who looked quite frightened and confused. “He witnessed the
unfortunate fate of your colleague and now he’s a marked boy who’ll be hiding
with our people in the mountains for a long time.”
“What happened to him?”
Christine asked, preparing for the worst.
Jamal spoke in lame English,
but it was enough. Ortega was dead; killed by the Egyptians,
execution-style and everyone in the Sinai Peninsula was trying to cover it
up.
Christine felt great anguish
seize her. Jose Luis Ortega, a comrade she had gotten to know, like, and
depend upon for sound advice, had lost his life trying to protect the
innocent. She had never once considered she and her Center colleagues
were seriously risking their lives for those poor souls they vowed to
protect. Yes, they had gotten into a few sticky situations, but always
with suitable agencies to assist them. This was the first time they had ever
gone it alone, and they failed miserably. El Chino, the short, stocky
resourceful Spanish police sergeant, who left the comforts of his tenured job
in Madrid, to try to alter some fortunes for the better in the world, had made
the ultimate sacrifice. Like her own father, he had sacrificed his life
and Christine was suddenly at odds with whether it was worth it. She
realized they had crossed a point where there was no turning back. El
Chino’s death put them all in a new dimension, no longer protected from the
elements. They would all have to answer for this tragedy: to themselves;
to Ortega’s family and friends; to their sponsors; to any politicians seeking
to benefit from the fiasco; and worst of all, to the media. The story
would not go unnoticed for long.
Tears were welling up in her
eyes and her vision blurred. She felt a hand around her shoulders.
It was Kasuma comforting her in French. Christine, the weight of the last
three weeks becoming too heavy to bear, suddenly dropped her head between her
knees and began to sob, silently at first, then in short gasps.
The men were not there when
she came to, only Kasuma. An hour had passed. “I need to get
going,” Kasuma whispered. “I’ve got an Israeli contact over in
Eilat. I believe he could help. Would you like to send word?”
Christine considered the
offer. Could she trust her? She thought she could and there was not
much choice.
“We are an organization trying
to assist children in peril,” she said. “We released a mother of French
nationality from prison in Dahab, then took her boy from his father and fled
for the mountains.”
Kasuma eyed Christine
attentively.
“A French court had ruled
custody for the mother, but the father, Hussni El Shara, kidnapped him and
brought him here. She came here hoping to get him back and they threw her
in jail.”
“We don’t normally operate in
this way, but circumstances forced us into it. Now we’ve got a comrade
killed and a group of people fleeing the Egyptians up in those mountains,”
Christine grumbled, pointing westward toward where she had come from.
“I know the father,” Kasuma
said. “He’s a load of trouble. The entire police force is on his payroll
down there. She was most likely lured there with the promise that they’d
let her have the boy but instead they threw her in jail figuring they’d attract
someone who’d pay a ransom. And that someone is you,” Kasuma offered.
“You got it,” Christine
retorted.
“But how did they know you’d
be coming?” Kasuma questioned.
“We have been dealing with this
case for quite a while,” Christine explained.
“Me
personally.”
She took a deep breath.
“I warned Clair not to mess
with these people on her own but she didn’t listen. Now there’s trouble.”
“What would you like me to
do?” Kasuma asked.
“I need to get word to one Sam
Baker in New York. He could be lurking around here somewhere as well but
I wouldn’t know.”
“Who’s Sam?”
“He’s sort of our
leader. He founded the Center and recruited the members. He’s been
missing a son for ten years now.”
There were questions Kasuma
wanted to ask but it was not the time. She got up to leave.
Christine stood up and took out the map plastered to her stomach.
“Clair and the boy are up in
the mountains with the Tarrabin and Black Jack who’s another member of our
team. There’s a rendezvous point marked on this map which we estimated
will take them another eight days to make. I need Sam to arrange for
their extraction from this point. It’s still in Egyptian territory but
it’s a safe place for them to hide and wait.”
Kasuma took the map and
slipped it under her clothes.
“Phone number of our office in
New York is written on the map,” Christine added. “Finally there’s me and
Ortega. I need to get out of this place with his body so we can give him
a proper burial in Spain.”
“You, I can probably get out
to Eilat but your friend’s body will be an entirely different matter,” Kasuma
said sadly. “We’ll have to find him first then make arrangements to ship
the body out and it will not be easy. They’ll want to seal it up tightly.”
“What about diplomatic
means?” Christine suggested. “We can contact the Spanish embassy in
Cairo and let them handle it.”
“That will make a big stink
between Egypt and Spain but we may not have a choice,” Kasuma reflected.
“It may be the only way. But better you clear out of here before we take
such action.”