African Ice (28 page)

Kerrigan rang Liam O'Donnell's room and asked the man to join him immediately. Less than fifty seconds later, there was a soft knock on the door. Just as O'Donnell entered, the phone rang and Kerrigan motioned for O'Donnell to sit down and wait. He picked up the phone. He nodded a few times to the caller, said a few terse yeses, then hung up. He turned to O'Donnell.

“The NSA,” Kerrigan said, pointing to the phone. “You won't believe the audacity of Carlson and her little band of mercenaries. They withdrew three hundred twenty thousand dollars from the Swiss account I set up for them to use while in the Congo, and funneled that money through to guess where?”

O'Donnell shrugged.

“Cairo. And guess where in Cairo?”

“I have no idea,” Liam said.

“There's a Banque Masr in the narrow street that runs between the Halnan Shepheard Hotel and the Semiramis. They picked up the money,
my
money, less than a block from this hotel. The arrogant bastards.”

“When?”

“Four days ago. They routed it from Geneva to the Caymans, then through the Bahamas into Cairo. It took days for my contact at the NSA to get the information from the CIBC bank on Grand Bahama Island.”

“Four days is a long time in a city this large,” O'Donnell said. “They could be anywhere.”

“True. But I had another call from my source in the CIA. Carlson signed on to the Internet somewhere near the Mausoleum al-Husain.”

“I know where that is. It's close to the Khan El Khalili Bazaar. That makes sense,” O'Donnell said, and continued as Kerrigan made a motion with his hand. “If they're near the bazaar, they can get pretty well anything they need without moving around much. And I'm sure McNeil would prefer moving around Cairo in the darkness whenever possible.”

“Move your team in from Belfast. Carlson and the SEALs are here, and I want to trap them before they can escape. Set up some sort of surveillance on the area around the Khan El Khalili. If they so much as stick a nose out of a doorway, I want it shot off. Just remember, don't kill Carlson. I need her alive.”

O'Donnell nodded and left the room to make arrangements. It suddenly dawned on Kerrigan that if Samantha had signed on the Internet, there was a good chance she had opened his e-mail. He flipped open his laptop and signed on. He connected to the net and checked his inbox. One new message, and it was from Samantha Carlson. He hesitated for a second, then opened the file.

Patrick Kerrigan
,

 

The very fact that I had any agreement with you, at any time, leaves my stomach in knots. I really don't care if I'm in violation of anything to do with you
.

 

As to the location of the diamonds, you're absolutely correct. I know precisely where they are. And guess what? It's the mother lode
.

 

As far as my location is concerned, piss off
.

SC

Kerrigan's teeth ground together as he clenched his jaw. His breathing became increasingly deeper and his temples throbbed as his blood pressure rose, and his face took on a crimson glow. He strived to keep his cool, but the facade snapped and he grabbed the laptop and tore the connections from the wall. He hurled it at the window and watched in amazement as the computer smashed through both panes of glass. He stood fixated, trembling with rage.

The woman had survived what the other expeditions had not: the jungle and the murderous Colonel Mugumba. She had located the diamonds, and now she mocked him. Perhaps he had picked the men to guard her just a little too well. He knew that McNeil was good; hell, he had insisted on better than good. He needed a team to keep his geologist alive until he wanted her dead. But when he decided it was time for someone to die, she should die. Yet that hadn't happened. McNeil had rescued her from Mugumba and had brought her to Cairo. And now, somewhere in the sprawling city, he had hidden her.

Kerrigan regained his composure as he concentrated on the question, where would they hide? O'Donnell was probably right; they would try to assimilate, disappear into the sea of humanity that was Cairo. The closer they were to something like the Khan El Khalili the better. For them, and now, perhaps, for him. Yes, a sixth sense told him that O'Donnell was on target, that they were close.

He moved toward the door as the anticipated knocking began. The hotel manager would be wondering what had happened, and if his prize guest, who was paying enormous sums of money for the room, was all right. He would assure the man that everything was fine. He had simply lost his balance and the laptop had slipped from his grasp and hit the window. Just add it to the bill. But the last thing that Patrick Kerrigan envisioned before he opened the door was not the manager; it was Samantha Carlson, on the floor and pleading for her life.

And he knew what his answer would be.

Travis stowed the Vektor MINI under the driver's seat after checking that the clip was full. He stared at the tips of the bullets for a few seconds, marveling at how perfectly sculpted each one was, how harmless they looked crowded into the magazine. Until the shooter pulled the trigger and they flew from the muzzle at a speed that defied the imagination, wreaking havoc on anything in their path. He gently patted the gun, praying it wouldn't be needed to escape Cairo. Samantha appeared in the doorway, her arms laden with the last of their food. She dumped it in the back of the Wagoneer and jumped in. Alain slipped through the entranceway to the apartment, locked the door, and slid in the front seat beside her.

The plan was simple. Exit Cairo on the northeast-running number three highway, skirt the international airport, and then across the desert to the Sinai Peninsula. They would follow the coastal highway until a few miles from Rafah, then cut inland and cross the Israeli border just south of the Gaza Strip. But the first thing was to escape the horrific traffic that clogged the main arteries and small side streets alike.

“Where's the sniper rifle?” Travis asked Alain, sliding the keys into the ignition.

“It's under some blankets in the box. There's no way we're getting through a customs inspection like this. We'll have to dump the guns before we hit the Israeli border.”

“Yeah, but let's keep them until then. Just in case.” He gunned the ignition and the old Jeep motor sputtered to life, deep blue smoke belching from the exhaust. The truck was a piece of junk, but decrepit vehicles on their last legs blended into the Cairo traffic much better than a newer model. And anonymity was exactly what they were striving for.

Travis pulled ahead slowly, and the morning sun hit the cracked windshield, momentarily blinding him. Three city buses surrounded them in seconds, the giant red and white vehicles choking them with diesel fumes. Travis slowed, letting the buses pass. He headed west, the ancient walls of the Mausoleum al-Husain crowding them on the left side. At the House of Qadi, he hung a right and headed north on Bab an-Nasr. The bumper-to-bumper traffic crawled through the gritty haze of the morning heat. The only vehicles making any time were the mopeds that darted between the stalled cars and trucks. He swore under his breath, cursing the traffic.

“Try to keep in mind the Egyptians built this part of the city back in the eight hundred to eleven hundred AD range. There weren't a lot of cars then,” Samantha said. She saw a tinge of a smile on his lips, but he didn't respond. She knew both the men sitting next to her were on edge, ready and watching for anything that could spell trouble. She concentrated more on the sights, trying to enjoy the ride.

“What exactly have we got for guns?” Travis asked as traffic began to move.

“Two Vektors, the Sako sniper rifle, two Glock A-17s, and the Panthers for communications. Plenty of ammo for the Vektors, lacking slightly on the Glocks.”

“How many Panther units made it back from the Congo?”

“Two,” Alain replied. “I've checked them and they work

fine. Batteries are a bit weak on one, but the range should still be over a mile, even in the city.”

“Excellent, but we do
not
split into three separate groups.” The accent was hard on “not.” “Sam, you'll have to stay with either Alain or me. I don't want one of us without communication, and with only two mobile radios, that means we'll have to team up.”

“That's fine,” Sam said. “We're just driving out of Cairo anyway, so what's the big deal?”

“Yeah,” Alain said. “Stop being such a pessimist. We're out of here.”

Travis grinned. The traffic opened up a bit and he surged ahead with the flow. Bab an-Nasr threw off its shackles once they cleared the northern edge of the Khan El Khalili. He shifted into third gear and leveled off at twenty-five miles an hour. Ahead and to the left was the backside of the ancient walls of old Cairo. Constructed of tightly formed blocks of sandstone, the walls rose over thirty feet from the dusty ground. They were punctuated with two massive gates, the closest being the Bab al Futuh, or Gate of Conquests, with four separate towers rising above the walls and culminating in square turrets some seventy feet high. A quarter mile to the west was the Bab el Nasr, or Gate of Victory. It sported a single, intricately carved round pinnacle the same height as its non-identical twin, and was equally as impressive, although much smaller. He stole a quick glance at Samantha as he drove, watching her reaction to the thousand-year-old monuments to man's abilities. She was impressed, staring at the wall with the true admiration of a history buff.

“Unbelievable,” she said under her breath.

“The walls?” Travis asked and she silently nodded. “You can almost visualize the battles that have been fought here over the centuries. Hot oil pouring down on exposed attackers as they crawled up skinny ladders. Rocks, spears and arrows pelting down on them, anything to keep the Mongol hordes from breaching Cairo's walls.”

“Very descriptive, Travis,” Samantha said. “But today, it's just another quiet day in a modern city.”

He looked grim. “Let's hope it stays that way.”

From the darkness of an alley entrance, Brent Hagan scanned the nearly stationary traffic as it inched past him on the Bab an-Nasr. Beneath his loose-fitting western-style clothes lurked a Smith & Wesson 9mm pistol. The ex-MI-5 operative slid his hand under his vest and felt the reassuring coolness of the aluminum and stainless steel alloys that formed the barrel of the gun. He wrapped his fingers around the back strap handle, cradling the weapon gently. The safety was on, but it took only a split second to release it.

His radio sputtered briefly as the Cairo traffic began to pick up a touch. He slipped his hand into his trouser pocket and clicked the talk button, speaking and listening on hands-free. It was Liam O'Donnell checking in. He reported back that he had seen nothing yet, but was still watching the main street a block from the cybercafé where Carlson's Internet signal originated. He killed the call and let his eyes roam over the mass of beat-up cars and trucks that typified Cairo traffic. A white Benz caught his eye, the rear windows darkened, but the passenger was an Egyptian woman and the driver in the midst of a heated argument with her. Little chance there would be foreigners huddled in the rear of that car listening to a husband and wife squabble. He rubbed his eyes, the airborne grit irritating his corneas and drying out his eyes almost to the point of pain. He blinked a few times and stared. Two vehicles from the curb and rolling slowly by was a dilapidated Jeep Wagoneer, driven by Travis McNeil. A woman sat next to him, and another man had the window seat. Brent Hagan turned slowly from the street and moved into the shadows of the alley. He was positive neither McNeil nor his passengers had spotted him. He clicked the send button on his radio.

“It's me,” O'Donnell's voice responded to his call.

“I've got them,” Hagan answered. “On the Bab an-Nasr, near the edge of the Khan El Khalili. One block east of the restaurant where she connected to the Internet.”

“What are they driving?”

“A Jeep. I'd estimate about 1985, give or take a year or two. It's white, with wood-grain side panels and red primer showing through on both front fenders. All three of them are in the front. I can't see anyone, or anything, in the back.”

“Is there a second vehicle?” O'Donnell asked.

“No. I looked for one, but I'm pretty sure they're alone.”

“Okay. Keep them in sight, but don't try to take them. Paul and Tony, are you guys online?” The remaining two members of the first team responded that they had been listening in and were up to speed on things. “Brent, watch for Paul and Tony. They'll be coming up Bab an-Nasr from the south in a Fiat. The second team is here from Belfast as well. I'll grab them and head over from the hotel. We'll come in from the north and try to cut them off.”

“Roger that,” Hagan replied. “They're heading north right now, but they're not making much progress. The traffic's pretty bad. You've got time, but I'm not sure how much.”

“We'll be there inside half an hour. Tony and Paul should be about five minutes away. Call in if you think they're going to get too far north for us to cut them off. And don't lose them.”

O'Donnell grabbed the phone and dialed the room his men had just checked into. They'd be tired from their flight from Belfast, but he didn't care—work came first. He instructed them to meet him outside the main lobby in three minutes. He left his room, then reconsidered and went back, putting through a quick call to Patrick Kerrigan. Voice mail picked up and he left a quick message that they were off to meet the Carlson party. He took the elevator to the parking garage, and jumped into the rented Mercedes, squealing the tires as he sped out into the bright sunlight. His second team was waiting at the front entrance as he pulled up. They climbed in and O'Donnell opened the frequency to Brent Hagan as he tore down the hotel driveway.