Tracks (34 page)

The doctor looked beat. 
He was quite young, Jack estimated in his early thirties, with wavy black hair,
kind eyes, and a natural worried expression.  His skin color was light
brown and his unshaven features indicated he was due for a
break.       

 He studied some papers
on a clipboard for a moment, eyeing Jack’s exposed knee intermittently, then
released the belts.

“I’m Doctor Hafez,” he
introduced himself.  “Do you speak Arabic?”

Jack nodded, indicating with
his fingers he knew little.

The doctor flashed a weary
smile. “While you’re in here, you will be treated as all patients, regardless
of your special status.  The soldiers will keep an eye on you but will let
us perform our job.  Do not worry.”

Jack nodded that he
understood.

“It is my responsibility,” the
doctor went on, “to deliver you to the department, as I see fit.  From the
looks of it, and based on the recommendation from the prison doctor, you will
need an operation.  But first I need to take a look.”

Doctor Hafez examined the knee
carefully, causing Jack some pain in the process.  He then ordered x-rays
which caused some additional discomfort to Jack’s entourage who escorted him to
the x-ray room, sat around while he was being x-rayed, then had to wheel him
back to the emergency room and fetch Dr. Hafez who, being the only doctor on
duty, was being pulled in different directions.

Jack saw him come out of the
Swedish stand with the Swedes all over him bickering and complaining.  He
walked into Jack’s stand, being handed the x-rays by a male nurse who had just
arrived with them.  Closing the curtain behind, Doctor Hafez raised them
to the light and examined them carefully, nodding to himself.

Finally he looked at Jack.

“Looks
like your trip is not wasted.
You will need an
operation.  The meniscus is shot.  There’s a lot of fluid we’ll need
to take out.”

Jack closed his eyes not sure
if he was to rejoice.  The medical term was vaguely familiar. 
Athletes often suffered such injuries.  On the positive side, if the
operation was successful, he would walk again and it delayed his return to the
cellblock.  On the negative side, it was a risk being operated on in such
a facility in a third world country.  He had no information
who
would perform the operation, who would put him to sleep,
and how safe and sterile the equipment was.  What if he was given a blood
transfusion?

Doctor Hafez opened the
curtain and called in the officer explaining his decision and giving
instructions on where they should go next.  Armed with the documents and
x-rays the party of three wheeled Jack from the emergency ward, up three
flights in the elevator to the Orthopedic
Department.        

The nurse on duty was
expecting them.  As soon as Jack was wheeled into the check-in area, she
took charge, asking them politely to wait and wheeled the bed herself to a
white treatment room, which looked well-kept and quiet.  The nurse left
Jack there momentarily and rushed to call the doctor.

The doctor was a woman. 
She introduced herself as Doctor Fiad, and immediately connected Jack to an
IV.  She had black hair, fashionably cropped and wore trousers underneath
her white apron.  She looked efficient and professional, a permanent
little smile plastered on her silky face.

“I’ll be your
anesthesiologist,” she informed Jack.  “Doctor El-Gaziz will perform the
operation.”

“How long will I be
under?”  Jack asked lamely.

“Normally for this type of
procedure – two hours, no more, unless there are complications.  We
normally can only tell once the procedure begins but not to worry, I’ll be by
your side.”

Jack smiled weakly.

“Thank you,” he said. “I’m in
your hands.”

Doctor Fiad called the nurse
and gave her instructions.  Several more doctors came and went and a few
patients strolled in for a look.

Then Doctor Fiad came back in
and administered the anesthetic. 

It was the last thing Jack
recalled.

CHAPTER
THIRTY-ONE

   David Kessler
walked into the Hilton Eilat searching for his rendezvous.  He spotted her
in the corner table by the espresso bar.  The Hilton was a perfect meeting
place, swarming with vacationers of all colors and types.

Kasuma sat by herself, sipping
a cappuccino, watching the crowds swirl.  She wondered how much more grace
she had, before they caught on to what she was up to.

Spying for the Israelis was
certain death.

She did it for revenge, plain
and simple.  Before the wars of ‘67 and ‘73, the Bedouins, particularly
her tribe, the Tarrabin, were considered bottom of the pile.  They were
simple fishermen and herders oppressed by the Egyptians for generations until
the Israelis came along and taught them the art of business.

The Israelis, always viewing
matters with a sense of making a profit, collaborated with the desert natives,
rather than use them, and created an entirely new thought process of using the
desert with its vast natural habitat, to encourage tourism.

All along the Gulf of Aqaba
from Eilat to Sharm el Sheikh, and in the high mountains, opportunities began
presenting themselves in the form of guided tours, accommodation, restaurants
and diving.  Tourist attractions such as sunbathing, camel riding,
snorkeling, authentic cuisine, and shopping for Sinai souvenirs became popular
overnight and the Israelis were more than happy to hand the Bedouins their fair
share.  It took them a while, but the Bedouins learned the art and began
exploiting the opportunities themselves, making a fortune never before familiar
to these simple people.

Kasuma’s
faction
of the Tarrabin were
located in a prime location called Nueba known for
its endless flat beaches and beautiful diving attractions.  It was also
the closest settlement to the main road leading to the high mountains and the
Katarina Monastery and many would stop there before going on up.  The
Israelis built a Jewish settlement there called Neviot, and together they
thrived.  They were even exempt from paying taxes due to an Israeli law
exempting settlements in the occupied areas from paying income tax.

Kasuma was born in 1974 so was
a little young to appreciate that time.  She remembered a carefree
childhood playing with the Israeli children on the beach and having everything
she ever wanted.

What she vividly recalled, an
event so traumatic it marked her adult life, was the return of the Egyptians
who took reign back in 1982.  The good life was over.  The Israeli
settlement was burned down and most of the tribe’s possessions were confiscated. 
What was left was charged with very high taxes, so that it choked the business
and for years the Tarrabin did not recover.

She recalled standing by her
father, Abu-Kadim, who was Nueba’s head chief, and watching him being
humiliated by a company of Egyptians soldiers whose orders were to “put the
Bedouins back in their place”.  She remembered following her father as he
stumbled after the soldiers trying to save the little that was left standing.

In the early years, the
Egyptians did not acknowledge tourism and the business died down. 
Advertising, travel packages, facilities and ease of access were all taken away
and people stopped coming.  There were some die-hard Israelis who
religiously came by but the Egyptians only made matters more complicated. 
Going through the Taba border point took so long and cost so much, it was no
longer beneficial and people went elsewhere.    

It was in those years, as she
grew into a striking teenager, that Kasuma decided she would seek
revenge.  Her father, though still prominent, had lost his fortune, his
pride, and as a result of constant haggling by the Egyptians, lost his good
health as well.  He became bitter and sick and spent many days in bed,
emotionally paralyzed.

It was only in the later years,
when the Egyptians realized the income they could collect from tourism, that
her father became a focal point again and regained some of his lost pride.

By then it had been too
late.  Kasuma had volunteered to spy for the Israelis; to provide information
across the lines.  They would use her sporadically particularly to track
possible terrorist infiltrations which were rare, and warn of threats to
Israeli tourists who frequented the Sinai beaches in the tens of thousands
every year.

The level of her success was
never revealed to her but she knew the Israelis appreciated her work from the
paychecks and dedication they showed her.

Kessler sat down across from
her sweating heavily, a long glass of Sprite in his hand.

Kasuma smiled.  She was
wearing her hair long, with a silk white top, a blue mini dress and beach
slippers, as if she was just back from the pool.

“Heat never lets up here, does
it?” he observed.

“It does in here,” Kasuma
remarked, smiling.

“Give me a minute to cool
down.  I’ve been running around like crazy all day.”

They sat in silence for a few
minutes as Kessler sucked on his Sprite,
then
began to
discuss the subject at hand.

“What can you tell me of Jack
Preston’s whereabouts?”  Kessler cut to the chase.

“Best kept secret in the
Sinai,” Kasuma said.  “Most people don’t know and the ones who do won’t
talk about it.”

“Why?”  Kessler asked.

“From what I can gather, they
want to make sure and nail him.  Make an example.”

“Why are they so offended all
of a sudden?”

“They were hoping to make big
money out of it and he ruined their plans.”

“I figured as much.  So
what happens now?”

“Rumor has it Jack was taken
to A-Tur then sent to Sharm for treatment.  He apparently was injured and
needed a hospital.”  

“Where is he now?”

“Most
likely in Sharm.”

“Where is he going from
there?”

“Back
to A-Tur.”

“Then
what?”

“They’ll keep him there until
the trial.”

“How long will that be?”

“Not
long; a week or two.
  I hear they are making preparations
in Dahab.  They want to finish it quick before the world wakes up.”

“Does he have
representation?”  Kessler inquired, shifting uncomfortably in his seat.

“They will appoint him an
attorney but…”

“It’s all for show,” Kessler
pitched in.  “He doesn’t stand a chance.”

“I don’t believe so,” Kasuma remarked
sadly.  “He’s looking at a minimum of ten years.”

 “What are our
options?”  Kessler asked.

“If we can pinpoint his
transfer to Dahab, you might want to grab him en route.”

“Can we?”

“For an appropriate sum we
probably could.”

“How much we are talking?”

“Half a million Egyptian up
front, and I can guarantee a twenty-four hour warning.”

“I’ll need at least
forty-eight,” Kessler persevered.

“That’ll mean one hundred
thousand more.”

“You’re stretching the rope,”
Kessler cautioned.

“It’s a dangerous assignment,”
Kasuma pointed out.  “We can lose everything.”

“How
so?”

“We have got to use people on
the inside, unlike most times when we can observe from a distance.  This
affair is being closely scrutinized and everyone is very tight-lipped about
it.  Unless we work the inside we will not know.”

“Who are you working?” 
Kessler asked, severely violating the laws of compartmentalization.

“I can’t say,” Kasuma said
stubbornly.  “But my people could get you the information, in time, with
that kind of cash.”

“I’ll need real time
information on his escort,” Kessler maintained.  “It’ll be critical.”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

Kessler gulped down the rest
of his Sprite and sat silent for a while, contemplating the odds. He could
intercept the convoy on its way to Dahab attacking from the water. The Navy
frogmen could do it but the IDF would never rubber-stamp it.  It could
start a war.  He could approach the Americans to save one of their own but
by the time it got through the system, Jack would be sentenced.

That left Harley, which caused
Kessler butterflies in his belly.  Harley was good, there was no doubt,
but his mercenary ways frightened Kessler.  If anything went wrong, he
wouldn’t hesitate to shoot his way out and save his people.  The mission would
only come second.

He wondered what kind of deep
pockets Sam had to afford such an expense.  And he further wondered who
needed convincing to have the IDF insert Harley such a long way into Egyptian
territory.

“Meet me at the Dan tomorrow,”
he said to Kasuma.  “I’ll need to check whether we can spring it.”

Kasuma nodded.  Kessler
got up and walked to the bar.  He stood there a while, sipping more
Sprite
, watching Kasuma make her way out, ensuring she was
not being followed.

*****

They were having lunch at Pier
17, when Peka walked in.  Natasha produced a weak shrill of surprise and
got up to greet him.

Introductions complete, Peka
ordered a salad and coffee and faced the girls with a solemn stare.

“Can we talk?” 
he
asked Natasha, gesturing at Elena.

Natasha looked unsure. 

“You don’t have a clearance,
do you?” she asked Elena.

“I was trusted only with the
unclassified stuff,” Elena acknowledged.

Peka and Natasha exchanged
glances.

“I’ll go back to the office,”
Elena volunteered.  “You two can stay here and talk.”

“Finish your lunch first,”
Natasha offered, feeling uneasy.  She and Elena had become quite close
since their night out and in the few days they had been working together. 
It felt odd to suddenly shut her out.

There was an uneasy silence as
Elena hurried to finish her gyro.  She wiped her lips, quickly sipped her
espresso and got up to leave.

“I’ll wait for you in the
office,” she said to Natasha, as she put on her coat.  “It was nice
meeting you.”  She nodded to Peka and slipped out the door.

“Likewise,” Peka called after
her and turned to Natasha.

“We lost their tracks,” he
admitted dejectedly.  “Whoever was supposed to track them in Athens
screwed up.  The girls disappeared.”

“Who told you this?” 
Natasha asked.

“Word came back a few days after
you left.  Lena Taler informed me.”

“Where were you?” 
Natasha demanded, sounding harsher than she intended.

“I stayed in Bucharest hoping
to learn something.”

“Did you verify what Lena told
you?”  Natasha persisted, sounding upset.

“Orlov told me the same
story.”

“So you took their word,”
Natasha sighed.  “These people never had their hearts in this.”

“No, I flew to London and used
my UN credentials to get an interview at MI6.”

“What did they say?”

“That they lost them.  I
spoke to one of the agents who stalked them in Athens.  They were only
two, and lost them in traffic on the first day.  The girls switched vans
three times.  They kept driving them around in rush hour traffic until
they lost them.”

“Sounds like elementary evasive
procedure,” Natasha commented.  “Anyone working Athens should be able to
anticipate such hazards.”

“They were both new to the
post.  They never had a chance,” Peka remarked indignantly.

“So what are the Romanians
going to do about it?”  Natasha queried.

“Back
to business as usual.
  This was supposed to be a model
bust to use with the media.  Now they can renege.”

   Natasha shook her
head in disappointment.  Peka looked away, beleaguered. After a moment of
uneasy silence, Natasha took his hand.

“I know where some of these
girls are taken,” she told him.

Peka looked surprised.

“Some are shipped in cargo
boats to Alexandria and are smuggled to Israel.  Some stay in Egypt, some
go to Croatia or Turkey.”

Peka studied her
intensely.  “How…?”

“Bedouin tribes smuggle them
across the border to Israel.  The Israelis have caught a few.”

“What did they do with them?”

“Handed
them over to the embassies.
  Apparently nothing
became of it.”

“So where are these girls
now?”

“My source assumes they were
sent back to their families but he doesn’t know for sure.  Still, we might
be able to back track their route to get our proof.”