THE WAVE: A John Decker Thriller (28 page)

“The video he made. Of the event. As he always does. I saw the way the fire burst out of those boys, the words. They are the same. ‘Pregnant She-Camels.’ And ‘Hell.’ What do they mean?”

“We don’t know for sure but I believe they’re somehow tied to Beersheba.”

“You mean an omen?”

“Each PC wallpaper not only predicts the next event, it features a number corresponding to a specific moment in time. The first was 540,000, set when Baqrah stole that HEU in Kazakhstan. The second was 205,200. The difference is ninety-three hours. And ninety-three hours from the time Baqrah stole the HEU is six AM your time. Exactly. Which is . . . ” Decker looked down at his watch. “ . . . three minutes from now.”

For a moment Seiden did not speak. Decker could hear him breathing on the other end. “I’m not exactly following you,” he said, “but I believe you think you’re right. And that’s good enough for me.” He shouted to someone standing by. “Contact Rifkin. Tell him he has two minutes to get the hell out of there. Now!”

* * *

Captain David Rifkin finished re-assembling the device with the attentive assistance of Gal Baror. It had been an agonizing day for the young recruit. He had equipped himself well, and his uncle was proud. They packed the device into a clear plastic bag and filled it with a snowy white foam that looked like shaving cream; it solidified immediately, sealing the aluminum case within. Rifkin slipped it carefully into his duffel bag. They packed up their tools and instruments, picked up their flashlights, and started back along the tunnel. That’s when they got the call from Seiden. “We’re on our way,” said Rifkin.

They ran as quickly as they could along the darkened tunnel, when Gal misplaced his step, and reached out for support against the wall. There was a little sound, like the breaking of a twig, a gentle snap, and then a bright light filled the tunnel. Rifkin and Gal jumped back unconsciously. The light, as bright as an acetylene torch, continued to crawl along the passageway. They couldn’t tear their eyes away.

“Oh, shit,” said Gal. And then the world exploded. It was as if they were
inside
a firework. Talons of fire raked the air, descended from the ceiling, slashed at their bodies like phosphorescent claws. They tried to run but they were trapped. The more they struggled, the more some sort of netting settled into place around them. Their shirts burst into flames. They heard their own skin sizzling. It smelled of burning hair. They watched in horror as a line of pale green fire began to snake across their chests, began to curl from left to right, bold loops, uncompromising arcs, seductive curves, until with one last breath of flame-filled air, one final baleful moan, their lungs imploded and their horrified expressions melted off the bone.

* * *

There was a camera on the wall. It recorded the events dispassionately, dispatching the signal with a measured, cool efficiency through the RCA connectors, and then down into the wire on the floor. It ran along the tunnel, around the trellis which had held up the device, into a crack and down along a sleeve behind the cistern where a video recorder purred and clicked and stopped, reclining finally into sleep mode. It was exactly six AM.

Tuesday, February 1 – 9:42 AM

Cairo, Egypt

The Egyptian mule Auwal Al-Hakim had not had a solid meal in days, not since Kazakhstan. His stomach growled. He cursed and curled himself into a ball, and pressed his back against the cracked stone wall of the apartment. Where was Nasir? The boy had promised to return by nine and it was almost ten o’clock. He did not trust him. He was a member of al-Jihad, not of the Brotherhood. Al-Hakim sat up, curling his arms about his knees, his frayed and ragged trouser legs, and started to rock back and forth on his haunches. There was a window in a corner of the room that overlooked the el-Hakim Mosque and, across the Sharia Ramses, the Sultan Baybars Mosque beyond.

The Mameluke General Zahir Baybars had always been a hero to Al-Hakim, ever since childhood. Baybars had been born in Mongol Russia, in the town of Kipchak, and was later sold into slavery in Damascus as a boy – at a very reasonable price, since a cataract covered his left eye. But Allah had granted him a penetrating voice, insatiable energy and ambition, and a brilliant military mind. Ruling Cairo for seventeen years, his court had been notorious for its riches.

Baybars was also responsible for rebuilding the canals, fortifications and shipyards throughout Egypt, things essential to the public works. Using both the subtlest of diplomacy as well as raw belligerence, he neutralized the crusading Christians along the Mediterranean coast. He installed the Abbasid Prince al-Mustansir as khalif at Cairo, thereby moving the Sunni religious center to Egypt, effectively gaining control of the Hajj and Mecca. A deeply religious man, Baybars even ordered all the taverns and brothels of the city closed.

But his piety failed to save him. He perished when he was fifty, the unwitting victim of his own hand. It was a fairy tale Al-Hakim’s mother used to tell him before bedtime. He remembered it with fondness, with the nostalgic warmth of a soft blanket. The Sultan had intended to poison Malik Kaher, a rival prince, but – unbeknownst to him – Kaher had switched their goblets when Baybars wasn’t looking. It took thirteen days for him to die an agonizing death. Baybars’ sons were soon deposed and, eventually, General Qalawun was elected Sultan.

Like Baybars, Qalawun was from Kipchak. And, like the previous Sultan, he too had been a slave. He kept the Mongols and the Christians both at bay, and made treaties with Emperor Rudolph of Hapsburg, as well as other European princes. He even continued the building programs initiated by Baybars, sponsoring both a hospital and the mosque that Al-Hakim could see outside the window, across the carpet of multi-colored rugs and tapestries that darkened the narrow passageways of the Khalili Khan.

The nearer mosque, the el-Hakim, was Auwal’s namesake. El-Hakim bi-Amr Allah, literally Ruler by God's Command, was infamous in Egyptian history for his eccentric dictatorial decrees. At one point, like the Egyptian pharaohs of old, he had even declared himself divine.

Al-Hakim remembered the afternoon that he had spent with El Aqrab, wandering through this sector of the city two years earlier. Despite the fact that he was Lebanese, El Aqrab knew an inordinate amount about the mosques of Cairo, taught to him – apparently – by some childhood friend. According to El Aqrab, over its lifetime, the el-Hakim mosque had served as a prison for captive Crusaders, Napoleon's warehouse, Salah al-Din's stables, a lamp factory, and a boys elementary school under Nasser.

As they walked together south, El Aqrab pointed out features of the mosque that Al-Hakim had never noticed before, although he’d been born and raised in Cairo. The mosque was constructed of brick with stone facades and minarets, and featured an irregular rectangular plan with a rectangular central courtyard, surrounded by arcades, supported by compound piers, with a prayer hall whose arcades were similarly perched on top of compound piers. It also boasted the oldest surviving minarets in Cairo, although the tops were replaced in 1303, after an earthquake destroyed the upper tiers.

They strolled together toward the northeast corner of the mosque, and came upon the Bab al-Futuh, the Gate of Conquest, and the Northern walls. The east side of the street was lined with garlic and onion vendors. Until about 1850, this was the last slave market in Egypt, Al-Hakim told El Aqrab, trying to sound knowledgeable about his natal city. “But that was long ago, thanks be to Allah.”

El Aqrab laughed. “Is that what you think?” he said. "But you are right, of course, my friend. We no longer buy and sell each other. Now, we are made slaves by the West.”

Then they had headed through the Gate of Conquest, into the Northern Cemetery. Known as the City of the Dead, the cemetery was as much a city of the living as a final resting place for the deceased. Cairo's original rulers had selected this location for their tombs because it was outside the crowded metropolis, in an area that was predominantly desert.  But even in early pharaonic times, the Egyptians had never thought of cemeteries as places of the dead; they were, instead, birthplaces of rejuvenation.  Hence, mausoleums were exploited for personal entertainment, and guest facilities were appended to large tombs.  As early as the fourteenth century, squatters took up residence in the catacombs, cohabitating with the dead.  Moving through the narrow streets and alleyways, Al-Hakim noticed cenotaphs used as tables, clotheslines strung between tall headstones.

“It is good you are Egyptian,” El Aqrab had told him. “There is so little distance here between the living and the dead. You’re but a step away.”

Auwal Al-Hakim climbed to his feet. He could hear a host of people shouting in the Khalili Khan below. And with the street noise came the scent of lamb, of barbecued baby goat, of hummus and grape leaves and freshly baked falafel. He couldn’t stand it any longer. He strode across the room to the front door. He slipped his boots on, tied his laces. No matter what the risks, he thought, no matter what the dangers, he was getting something to eat.

Al-Hakim clambered down the stairs, weaved through the rushing crowd, his head down, covered with a Bedouin veil, and entered the Khalili Khan. The narrow canvas-covered passageways of the old Byzantine Bazaar were choked with gold and silver merchants, with brass and copper smiths, with hawkers of leather goods and oils and glass and water pipes and pastry shops. His stomach gurgled like a crocodile. Al-Hakim reached into his pocket for some coins. He saw a gyro vendor just across the street. He smelled the marinated meat, saw it sizzling on the spit. He pulled his hand out and the stun gun struck him just below the shoulder blade, on the right side. Al-Hakim contorted and toppled over. He continued to shake and roll across the ground, like an epileptic. A man in an
aba
over gray twill trousers kneeled beside him. A syringe was already in his hand. It entered Al-Hakim’s right arm above the elbow. It hung there, like a greedy insect, for a few more seconds, then vanished and Al-Hakim just stopped. He stopped shaking. He stopped frothing at the mouth. He stopped dreaming even, as he slipped into a darkness deeper and more profoundly empty than any he had ever known.

When he awoke, Al-Hakim found himself lying on a massive wooden workbench. The outer edges of the workbench were lined with ancient swivel-base bench vises, the surface littered with wood shavings. Al-Hakim tried to sit up but his hands were lashed behind him, over his head, and a pain shot through his leg. He looked down. His left leg was pinned between two vises.

Just then, a small man with a black mustache and beard dressed in a Western suit approached the workbench from across the room. Al-Hakim hadn’t noticed him before. He was 777, Al-Hakim was sure of it, a member of the Counter-Terrorist Group of the Egyptian Secret Police. Al-Hakim had seen his kind of face before.

The man leaned across the workbench and picked up a tool. It was a wood drill, hand-powered, practically antique. The man placed the pointed silver tip directly on top of Al-Hakim’s left knee, the one pinned by the vises. Then he began to turn it slowly, swiveling the arm around, and around, and around as Al-Hakim watched. The material of his trouser leg wound up into the metal bit as he felt it pierce his skin. A moment later, the drill began to pull apart the flesh, then bone. Al-Hakim screamed. The pain was blinding in its intensity. He watched as blood boiled up out of the wound, as the bit kept twisting, turning up flakes of ivory-colored bone. He writhed and moaned and heaved until the pain enveloped him in a bubble of warm blood, and he drowned.

* * *

Acting Chief Seiden sat in the nondescript office, waiting. He had already been there for over an hour and his patience was beginning to wear thin. He felt distressed, on edge, prickly. In fact, he had felt that way ever since landing at Cairo International Airport in Heliopolis that afternoon. This was the land of the enemy, despite the Camp David Peace Accords. It had been since the days of the pharaohs. And, in all probability, it always would be. He crossed his legs, examined the room for the umpteenth time: the same Arabic calendar; the same Egyptian flag; the same obligatory photographs of President Ali Baruk. Why, for God’s sake, Seiden thought, had they sent him? He was no diplomat, no negotiator. He writhed in his cracked plastic seat. But his experience with El Aqrab in Tel Aviv, and his knowledge of the incident in Beersheba made him invaluable, unique, Deputy Director Cohen had insisted. He was the perfect man for the job. Besides, everyone else was busy.

The door opened, and a scruffy little man with a black mustache and beard dressed in a Western suit stepped cautiously into the room. “My apologies for keeping you waiting,” he said. “My name’s Aswad Talhouni.” He scurried into the room, stretching out a bony hand.

Seiden stood up and shook it. Then he noticed a series of dark red spots along the Egyptian’s shirtfront. “You might have washed up a little first,” he said, pulling his hand away.

Talhouni looked down. “Pomegranates,” he said. Then he smiled, revealing shattered brown teeth. “Sweet tooth.”

“Where is he?”

The small man wagged a finger at Seiden and smiled. “A man after my own heart. Straight to the point. I like that. I’m afraid it’s rare to find men who go straight to the point of anything in Egypt. Except their wives, of course.” He began to cackle. “Would you like some coffee, Chief Seiden? Some tea?”

Seiden shook his head and Talhouni took a seat behind his desk. He leaned forward on his elbows, arching his fingers as if in prayer. “I’m afraid my government will not be able to release Auwal Al-Hakim into your charge, as we had hoped,” he said.