Vengeance: A Derek Stillwater Novel (Derek Stillwater Thrillers Book 8) (22 page)

Hussein Nazif, from the rear
seat of a black
BMW
driven by one of his men, checked the time and accessed the ’net via a cellular card. They were parked three blocks away from the Armed Forces Mosque in Heliopolis, the three blue domes hidden, but the tower with its blue cap visible between the nearby apartment buildings.

He accessed Al Jazeera, watching the reporting. The broadcasters were showing a news report on Syria.

Hafaz, his driver, said, “We should be back there fighting.”

“We have a job to do here.”

“Madness. We’ve lost too many already. And for what? Why do you provoke the Americans? You know what they did to Iraq, to Afghanistan, to Osama himself.” Hafaz was his senior man now that Josef and Issa were dead. Hafaz was a good soldier, but not as loyal and dedicated as the two other men.

Voice icy, he said, “Abdul.”

Hafaz looked at him in the rearview mirror. “Josef. Gyasi. Fenuku. Hondo. Issa. We’ve all lost someone, someone close to us.”

“Am I your leader?”

“Yes.”

“Then this is what we are doing. This is our mission. If you can’t be loyal and faithful to me, then you will need to go.” Or I will put a bullet in the back of your stupid skull right now and be done with your questions.

“I’m here, aren’t I?” Hafaz said.

“Yes, you are.”

He turned his attention back to the tablet, heart beating a little harder in his chest. The reporters said, “We have just minutes ago received this video from the U.S. government. As we have been reporting, a militia group called the Nazif Brigade has taken the U.S. Secretary of State hostage and is demanding that the leader’s brother, Abdul Nazif, be released from the U.S. Navy detention center at Guantanamo Bay, Cuba. Here’s the video showing his release.”

They cut to video of his brother, beard now shot with gray, wearing an orange jumpsuit and kefiya, manacled, walking into a room escorted by two men in uniform, their features blurred.

An off-screen voice asked him to confirm his identity, which he did. It was explained to him that he was being released today, and his cuffs were removed. He held up a newspaper and read off the date, which was accurate.

A moment later his brother was in the back of a vehicle driving across tarmac to an enormous airplane. He turned to the camera and in Arabic said, “I’m coming home, brother.” Then he was walked into the plane. The camera stayed on the plane as it rumbled down the runway and lifted like a gigantic bird into the blue sky.

The same voice as before said, “He is now on his way to Qatar. It will take approximately eight hours to fly to Qatar. Members of the Qatar government as well as reporters from Al Jazeera will meet him there.”

The video ended and the Al Jazeera broadcasters recapped the events leading up to Robert Mandalevo’s. Then they moved onto a discussion of Derek Stillwater.

“The U.S. government has provided no official documents regarding the identity of the other man the leader of the Nazif Brigade is demanding be turned over for trial. One of our reporters, Mohamed Baher, has been investigating. Mohamed?”

The camera cut to a young reporter with cropped black hair, olive skin, and a brilliantly white smile wearing a blue business shirt open at the neck and a pair of khakis.

“Dr. Derek Stillwater, the mystery man at the center of the Mandalevo kidnapping, is apparently well known within counterterrorism circles. Last we were able to confirm, he was with the United States Department of Homeland Security, where his job was to investigate biological and chemical terrorist threats. It’s unknown exactly why he has come to the attention of the Nazif Brigade or why he appears to be working with the U.S. State Department. There are rumors he was at one time with the U.S. Central Intelligence Agency, and it has been confirmed that he retired from the U.S. Army with the rank of Lieutenant Colonel. He has doctoral degrees in biochemistry and microbiology.

“A source in the Russian government has told me that Dr. Stillwater was one of several experts working with the U.S. and Russian governments to develop a plan that would convince Syria to turn over and destroy their chemical weapons. The latest news is that he has been seriously wounded in Cairo during a shooting near the Cairo Marriott that led to an extended car chase between members of the Nazif Brigade, Stillwater and what are believed to be U.S. embassy staffers, and the Egyptian military. Several members of the Nazif Brigade have been killed and at least one was captured alive. Stillwater seems to have disappeared, although there are hints that he has been transferred to a private surgical center and is undergoing surgery from gunshot wounds. I will update you as further details surface.”

Hafaz, from the front seat, said, “They don’t know much about Stillwater. Maybe he’s really dead.”

Nazif clicked onto various websites, accessing intelligence from members of his extended network. “Perhaps. He hasn’t surfaced yet, though. But the Egyptian Army is on its way.”

Looking in the rearview mirror, Hafaz said, “Time to leave?”

Reluctantly Nazif nodded, thinking about his brother, flying across the globe. If he really was flying across the world. Eight hours, at least. And then what?

Mandalevo would be dead by then.

Maybe Stillwater already was.

And Egypt would be in turmoil.

“Drive,” he said.

Major Gamal Ezz of the
Egyptian Army had been chasing phantoms most of the day. He and his strike team had just missed the first lead to the house where he had encountered Stillwater, the Israeli woman and the American strike team. Then he and his team had chased after Imam Yusuf Effat, but he had disappeared. A source in the Muk claimed he was last seen driving a Land Cruiser into the desert.

The one success had been the trap set at the Cairo Marriott, although that had not gone as well as they had hoped. Stillwater had apparently been wounded and disappeared. Al Jazeera was broadcasting that he was in the company of Americans, but Ezz knew better—it was the Jews, probably Mossad. He had even seen footage of a wounded Stillwater falling from a car and being loaded back in and disappearing.

Maybe it was real. It was certainly convincing, even if it did not make complete sense to him. Why stop the car?

He had little problem believing some people nearby would video the event and upload it to YouTube or Twitter. He knew all too well how powerful social media had been during the Arab Spring. Still …

But he had been notified that one of the Brigade he and his men had captured had provided real intelligence.

So now he was leading his strike force of six ahead of a hundred other Egyptian military. Only moments ago a helicopter had flown over the Armed Forces Mosque and taken video footage. There were several military trucks in the area, due to the proximity to the Presidential Palace and the headquarters of the Central Military High Command.

They had been able to identify all but one parked very near the Armed Forces Mosque.

Now, a block away, waiting in his command vehicle, he said into his radio, “Alpha-Gamma to Zeta-Two. Report.”

“Alpha-Gamma, this is Zeta-Two. We have the truck in sight.”

“What do you see?”

“No drivers. It’s parked.”

“Zeta-Three, this is Alpha-Gamma. Divisions ready?”

“Alpha-Gamma, this is Zeta-Three. All divisions ready on your mark.”

“Staggered, as directed. Zeta-Two, on your mark.”

“This is Zeta-Two, on my mark, three, two, one, mark.”

Major Ezz nodded to his driver, who had been listening. As soon as Zeta-Two gave his mark, he and his squad would swarm the truck, intent on a hostage rescue.

Simultaneously, one hundred soldiers circling the area would shut down traffic in and out of the area.

Ezz’s driver punched the command vehicle into gear and headed around the corner toward the Armed Forces Mosque.

Zeta-Two was Geb
Rahotep and he led the strike team of four. Three additional members of the team were clearing people from the area. Mohammed and Hanif approached the cab, rifles raised, fingers on the trigger. He and Moshe approached the rear of the truck.

“Alpha-Gamma, this is Zeta-One. Cab is secured. The rear of the truck is padlocked. We are proceeding.”

“On my way.”

Moshe, a mountain of a man, six-foot-seven, almost three hundred pounds of muscle, shouldered his assault rifle and pulled out bolt cutters. He gave Geb a look, eyebrow raised in question. Geb nodded, adjusting his H&K G36. Heart hammering in his chest, he was ready to explode into the back of the truck and surgically take out any of the Secretary of State’s guards.

With a grunt, Moshe snipped the padlock, unhooked it, and grabbed onto the steel handles that would allow him to unlatch the truck and swing the door up.

Moshe raised three fingers. Two. One.

He flung open the handles and crouched, shoving up the steel door.

Only fifty yards
away, Major Ezz saw the massive explosion a split second before the compression wave slammed into their truck, skewing it sideways and shattering the windows. Before he or his driver could react, a gigantic cloud of dirt and smoke engulfed his vehicle.

Major Ezz thought, “Mandalevo!”

Then the earth swallowed them up and his final thought was, “My men.”

The El Nada Surgical Center
was a standalone building near the busy business district in Cairo, a long and low modern structure. The El Nada Surgical Center was owned and run by an Egyptian surgeon named Mohammed El Nada whose father had been an Egyptian businessman working primarily in Israel. As a result, Dr. El Nada had grown up in both Cairo and Tel Aviv and eventually fallen in love and married an Israeli woman, Ilana.

Mohammed and Ilana were what the Mossad referred to as
sayanim
, or helpers. They were not officially part of Mossad, but they were sympathetic to Israel and provided assistance as needed for Mossad operations in Egypt.

For the most part that meant offering medical services to Mossad agents on as-needed basis without filing a report. Once or twice they had offered their home or vehicles for operations.

As a general rule,
sayanim
were one hundred percent Jewish.

That made Dr. El Nada’s role as a
sayanim
somewhat unusual. If his father-in-law had not been a high-ranking member of the Knesset, a source of some embarrassment for both men, it probably would not have happened. But the State of Israel and the Mossad found Dr. El Nada’s skills and position in Egyptian society to be so valuable that they were willing to overlook the misfortune of him having been born non-Jewish.

In a locker room in the basement of the building, Derek stripped out of his clothes and washed off the gruesome makeup. Dr. El Nada, a middle-aged man with light brown eyes, thinning black hair and the paunch of a man who did not get nearly enough exercise, studied him. “After you are done, please come to Examining Room 2 on the first floor.”

“Why?”

Noa, who had been leaning against one wall watching Derek, much to the doctor’s embarrassment, shrugged.

“You need some medical treatment. Your recent wounds, though relatively minor, should be attended to. And if you wish to remain mobile—”

“Whether I want to or not.”

“—I can provide some pain medication and a stimulant.”

“That would be good.”

El Nada looked at Noa. “You look well. It’s been some time. I would like to change the dressing on the bandage on your forehead. It’s bleeding through.”

“Thank you. We appreciate this.”

With a nod, Dr. El Nada said, “Extraordinary times.”

“I am sorry this might potentially bring unwanted attention to your clinic,” she said. “We’re trying to minimize the risk.”

“What is life without a little risk?” he said with a shrug, and left.

Derek slipped into the shower. The hot water both soothed and aggravated his bruises and cuts. He cut off the hot water, shivering in the blast of cold water. Still, it seemed to help relieve some of the ache in his muscles.

Drying off, he pulled on a fresh set of clothes—khakis and a white dress shirt, running shoes.

“How are we on time?”

“It’s running out.”

At the back of his mind, his old friend the panic rat, gnawed at his nerves. Clock is ticking, it whispered. No time left. Clock is ticking, ticking, ticking …

He pushed it away. “Let’s go see the doc.”

Ten minutes later, as Dr. El Nada replaced the bandages on his shoulder, he said, “Does this wound hurt?”

“Aches, yes.”

“Too much abuse before it properly healed. Rotate your arm, please.”

Derek did, slowly, wincing.

“That spot, right there?”

“Yes.”

“You have good mobility, for the most part, and clearly a high pain tolerance, but I don’t think it’s healing quite properly. I would recommend having a specialist look at it, or after this is done, come back to me. For the time being, though, I’ll give you a steroid shot. It’ll cut the inflammation. It should temporarily help with the pain and stiffness.”

“Sounds good.”

El Nada was injecting the shoulder when the door swung open. “I’m with a patient,” the doctor snapped.

It was Kadish, who said, “Huge explosion in Heliopolis.”

The TV was
turned to the local Cairo news station. The video showed a scene of incredible devastation, a building half-collapsed, a huge crater in the road. Emergency vehicles and military vehicles and personnel were everywhere in the background. A slender man spoke in Arabic.

Noa translated. “A truck bomb exploded in front of the Armed Forces Mosque in Heliopolis. Not too many details yet, but an unnamed source says a military task force searching for the U.S. Secretary of State was following intelligence indicating Mandalevo was in a military vehicle near the mosque.”

The panic rat nibbled at his gut. Derek swallowed. “Was Bob there?”

“They don’t know yet. A lot of people are dead. They believe all the members of the strike team are dead. There were a lot of people in the mosque and in the area.”

“He’ll still want me,” Derek murmured.

Gripping his arm, Noa said, “We have a plan. Don’t go off on a tangent.”

“Let’s do this. But now the media will be focused on the explosion.”

“Then it’s time to pull in your team,” she said.

With a nod, he clicked on the phone. “This is Spear One. Report in.”