Countdown in Cairo

TWENTY-EIGHT

Before leaving Langley, Alex spent some time with a man named Thomas Meachum in the Technical Resources Division. Meachum was in charge of preparing her documents for her trip. Meachum led her through a photo area where new passport and license photos were taken. In keeping with normal procedure, Alex changed her hair and her expression from shot to shot. Tech Resources also had a variety of women’s blouses and tops to change in and out of. For her driver’s license, she wore a summer tank top. For her passport, an office-style blue blouse with a jacket.

She was equally careful to remove the pendant from around her neck, the one with the praying hands that she had acquired in Venezuela. Then, giving it greater thought later in the day when she returned home, she placed the pendant in her jewelry box. No point in taking extra chances and risk identification through a unique piece of jewelry. For the duration of the case, she would do without it.

The next morning, Alex selected an itinerary to Cairo.

While she would have loved to have chosen a direct nonstop from the United States, she reserved, instead, a seat on an Air Canada flight to Toronto from Washington. From there she found a pair of Alitalia flights that would pass through Rome. She kept her reasons to herself for that specific route. The Agency allowed her to book herself through in business class rather than the dreadful economy class that had recently turned into a form of latter-day steerage.

She left her apartment and went to a newsstand. She purchased fifty dollars’ worth of phone cards. Then she walked several blocks until she found a coffee shop where she had never been before. Making sure no one was on her trail or able to listen in on her cell phone, she used a public phone and called Joseph Collins in New York. With regret, she confirmed that her impending visit to Venezuela would have to wait until early the following year. Collins had no issues with that. She also asked, as a special favor, if she could lodge a close friend at the East 21^st Street apartment.

“Who’s the friend?” he asked.

“A girl who’s in a bit of trouble with some bad people,” Alex said. “She needs a place to stay out of view.”

“Well, as I mentioned, my son is out of the country for another several months,” Collins said. “I’m sure it will be no problem.”

She then phoned Don Tomás and asked Janet to pack immediately. Alex would be away indefinitely, she explained, but there was someplace safer that Janet could stay.

She had one more call. This one would max out one of her phone cards. The call went to Rome where she arranged to have a dining companion on the evening she would be passing through the Italian capital.

Alex accompanied Janet to the bank, where she withdrew enough money for a month. In the afternoon, Alex purchased a new cell phone and paid cash in advance for three month’s service. She gave the new device to Janet.

Later in the day she and Janet crowded into the backseat of her car and kept low to avoid any watchers. Don Tomás drove them to Union Station in Washington where they took a train to New York. In the station Alex visited a locksmith and duplicated the keys to Christopher Collins’ apartment. Then they took a cab to 21^st Street. Alex installed Janet in the apartment. She also introduced Janet to Lady Dora Rose, the marginally daffy proprietor of the building. Alex explained to Lady Dora that Janet had recently become estranged from a man in another city who was prone to violence. It was not altogether a lie. Then, still working from her own cell phone, Alex phoned Yuri Federov. Federov, when he answered, was just leaving one of his doctor’s clinics. He sounded pleased to hear from Alex so soon again.

“I’m in town,” Alex said.

“In New York?”

“Is there another town?” she joked. “As it’s turning out, I might get transferred here.”

“Ah! I envy you. Some handsome, wealthy man will spot you and marry you in a heartbeat. I envy him, with such an extraordinary wife.”

“That’s the distant future,” Alex answered, playing along. “I’m in town with a girlfriend and I need a favor or two in the immediate future. I’m also willing to do one in return.”

“Name it.”

She asked if she and her friend could have an audience with him as soon as possible, with Paul Guarneri attending also.

“Would this evening work?” Federov asked.

“That would be excellent.”

“Paul and I have two tickets to the hockey at Madison Square Garden,” Federov said. “New York Rangers against Chicago. There are several Russian players.”

“After the game then?” she asked.

“Nonsense. Come with us.”

“You said you had two tickets. Aren’t those games sold out way ahead of time?”

“I have friends,” Federov said. “So does Paul. Are you carrying a gun? What is your country coming to? They have metal detectors now at sporting events in America.”

“Yes, I have a gun. I also have a federal permit.”

“Then you’re okay. Paul has a New York permit. I’m walking around defenseless, however. I feel naked. How do you like that, huh?”

“Not very much,” Alex said.

“Wear something sexy,” he said, “in addition to the gun. Meet us at the Seventh Avenue entrance, okay?”

“Okay.”

Two tickets turned into four within two hours of game time. Federov had seats three rows behind the Rangers bench in the $1500-perseat territory. Janet had never been to a professional ice hockey game before, much less in the “connected” section with a pair of wise guys. The Rangers won 4-2 in a game memorable for forty minutes of fighting penalties. One of the Russian stars scored two goals and handled himself well in a brawl. Federov went wild like a kid. Both Janet and Alex savored the experience.

After the game Guarneri’s driver, a young man named Anthony, waited in a stretch Cadillac at the corner of Seventh Avenue and 33rd Street. They all piled into the car, which drove south down Seventh, then turned east and crossed the Brooklyn Bridge. Twenty minutes later, they arrived outside a small Italian restaurant in Red Hook named Margherita’s. The restaurant’s kitchen was closed to the public by that hour but remained open for a selected clientele. Guarneri’s car and driver waited outside, parked next to a fire hydrant with the engine running.

The woman who owned the place, Margherita herself, came out and greeted Paul Guarneri with a hug. She was a small gnomelike woman shaped like a bottle of Chianti. She had gray hair and gushed over Paul. She alluded to knowing Paul since he was a boy. She was just leaving.

Over veal and a light red wine from Sicily, Alex eventually got around to what she wished to discuss.

“Against favors past and present that I might do for either of you,” Alex began, addressing the two men. “I wonder if either of you could do me a favor while my friend Janet is in New York. I need to be away for what may be a few weeks.”

Both Federov and Guarneri settled in to listen.

Alex began. “As you may know, Janet is her real name. But it’s all of her name you’ll need to know unless she chooses to tell you more. And I’ve already advised her not to, for her own protection. She’s in some trouble and needs looking after. Normally I’d see to it myself, but her situation is so delicate that I don’t have time to work out something myself. I need to take a work trip to the Middle East,” Alex said. “I leave within a few days.”

“So you want us to watch over her for you?” Federov asked.

“Yes. I wonder if you would establish some security around Janet for me,” she said. “Make sure nothing happens to her. She has some people who wish her harm. She needs a bodyguard. At least one, maybe a couple.”

“I might be able to arrange something,” Federov said, “but I am powerless in this city now. I don’t live here, and I don’t know the right people. Further, I will be going back to Switzerland very shortly.”

But Guarneri started to laugh. He had a couple of young men in his organization who specialized at such jobs, he said.

“Your men need to be respectful as well as protective,” Alex said. “They should be married men with families and not inclined to socialize.”

“I have the right people,” he said. “They know better than to mix pleasure with business. They can arrange with her a time when she goes out each day. And they will accompany her. Maybe between the hours of noon and three. Then again in the evening when she desires it. They can also inspect her apartment when she reenters to make sure no one is inside waiting.”

“They’ll need to be armed,” Alex said.

“That goes without saying.”

Federov glanced at Janet, then back at Alex. He smiled. “What has this nice young woman done to get in such trouble with so many bad people?” Federov asked.

“She saw something. Or she thinks she did. That’s all I can tell you.”

“You work for a government security agency,” Guarneri said, probing gently. “I would be happy to arrange protection for her. But why can’t the government do it?”

“In this case,” Alex said, flattering them, “I trust you more than I trust them.”

Guarneri’s lips parted, and he flashed his expensive teeth. “Why do you trust me more? That’s a good one.”

“I trust you more, Paul, because you want my help in the future with your Cuban situation. I’m prepared to advise you informally on that, perhaps even accompany you to the island. That’s not something you can purchase or obtain somewhere else.”

She paused and, from his delighted expression, realized that she had pressed the proper buttons.

“Again, I need to maintain certain professional ethics. I won’t tell you how to break the law, and I refuse to advise you how to avoid the law. But I can guide you in ways to attain what you need within the law. That has an extra benefit to you since any profit you might obtain you will not have to hide.”

Guarneri nodded. Contentment came across his face. Simultaneously, a look of amusement went across Federov’s. Janet grinned innocently.

Then, “All right, then. We have an agreement,” Guarneri said. Guarneri lifted his wine glass and held it forward. A moment later, three other glasses clicked with his.

After dinner, they walked in pairs the short distance to the curb, Janet and Alex walking ahead, Federov walking several paces behind them with Guarneri.

“I’ve never been with such dangerous men in my life,” Janet muttered, “and never felt so safe at the same time.”

“Just go with the flow,” Alex said, “and don’t get too used to it. Hopefully, if I accomplish what I want to accomplish in Egypt, you’ll be safe when I return.”

Anthony, the driver, sprang from the car when he saw the young women approaching. He opened the door and ushered them and their escorts into his vehicle. They sat comfortably in the back as Anthony then navigated the traffic to Alex’s apartment building where both women got out.

In bidding each other good night, Federov stepped from the back of the limo and stood on the street with the two women. Guarneri remained in the car. Federov embraced Janet as a new friend. Alex clasped his hand and embraced him in a quick hug also, then turned to go.

But Federov held her arm. Impetuously, he pulled Alex back to him and fully surrounded her with his massive arms. He pulled her into a strong embrace. He planted his lips to hers and gave her a long powerful kiss, one she initially tried to resist. Then, for reasons even she couldn’t explain, she felt a tremor inside her, a feeling she knew she shouldn’t have felt, and her resistance melted. She went along with it. She completely let him have his way until, several seconds later, he drew back from the kiss and released her, astonished, into the cold night.

“See you soon again,” he said.

It took her a second to gather herself. “Soon again. Good night, Yuri,” she said. “And thank you.”

Janet and Alex walked to the doorstep of the brownstone. The limousine stood guard, not moving, till the women were inside.

“I think that big Russian hood likes you,” Janet said on the stairs.

“Much too much,” Alex agreed.

“Is that cool or is it gross?” Janet asked.

“Both.”

Alex stayed over in New York at the apartment on 21^st Street. Later the next morning, she slipped off to a small Episcopal church, one she had always liked, near Gramercy Park, to meditate and say a small prayer. She always found churches particularly restful. When she returned to the apartment she noticed that there was a Lexus parked next to the curb in front of the steps to her brownstone.

Alex knew the driver was watching her. He was a rugged-looking guy with a very New York face, about thirty years old.

Just an interested male, she wondered, or something more ominous? This carried an echo of the block surveillance that her apartment building had endured in Washington.

Her hand drifted to her weapon as the Lexus window rolled down. But the man gave her an engaging smile and held up his hands to show that they were empty. He meant no harm. Cautiously, she approached the car.

“Are you Alex?” he asked.

“It depends who wants to know,” she said.

He had a Brooklyn accent so thick she could carve it with a knife.

“I’m Calo,” he said. “I work for Mr. Guarneri.”

“Ah, then I’m Alex.” They shook hands. “Keeping watch?”

“Yeah,” he said with a grin. “That’s what I was told to do. Nice day, huh?”

“Beautiful,” she said.

“Don’t worry none about your girlfriend. I’m equipped. See?”

He parted the front of his windbreaker and revealed a nine millimeter automatic holstered under his arm. The gun had a massive silver frame. A cannon.

“Just don’t get in trouble with the New York cops,” Alex said.

He laughed. “Hey, forget about it,” he said. With his other hand, he reached to an inside pocket. He produced and flipped open a NYPD badge. “I am a cop,” he said. “I moonlight in security and doing bodyguard work.”

“Beautiful again,” she said. “Stay safe.”

“Yeah. You too.”

She took the train back to Washington, arriving in the early evening.

The next morning, she was back in Langley and connected again with Thomas Meachum, the ID expert. From a file in his office, Meachum pulled an assortment of freshly minted new documents, all with the most recent photographs of Alex. On top was a forged Canadian passport in the name of Josephine Marie LeSage. It had been backdated to reflect an issue in 2008. Various travel stamps had been impressed into it from England and Ireland, in addition to Canada.

Alex looked at it and began the process of memorizing her new name and date of birth, as well as her cover story. For the purposes of Cairo, she was a Canadian university professor, a single woman, on sabbatical and spending a holiday visiting the antiquities of Cairo and the Nile.

“I assume this will jibe with Canadian records?” she asked. “In case there’s a problem?”

“Canada’s a friendly country, so yes,” he said. “Usually.”

“Thanks for the ringing endorsement,” she said.

She carefully examined the passport. She smirked at the new pictures, taken the day before. Not bad. She was now fifteen months older and had been born in Ottawa, eh? Her newest alternative universe took shape.

She sorted through the rest of the envelope. There was an Ontario driver’s license and two credit cards along with an ATM card from the Bank of Toronto, all in the name of the fictitious Josephine.

“I think I’ll go by ‘Jo’ for short,” she said.

“Whatever, Jo,” said Meachum.

He gave her a selection of pens. She signed everything, alternating pens. Using his skilled hands, Meachum then put some scuff and age on all the documents.

“Which passport do I leave the United States on?” Alex asked.

“Your American one,” he said. “I cross-checked your travel plans. In fact, your instructions are a little complicated. You’re to fly to Toronto first on your US passport. We have a secure mail envelope. After you’ve gone through Canadian immigration, you’ll rendezvous with someone from our consulate in the Toronto airport. He’ll approach you and introduce himself as Ken, and he’ll say that he works in Detroit. We have an envelope ready. Give him your US passport in the envelope.” Meachum showed her the envelope, a padded manila one about four by six. “It will be returned to us via a diplomatic courier. Thereafter, you’re Josephine, a nice girl from the Canuck Midwest.”

“Go, Leafs,” she said.

“That’s the spirit. We worked things with the Alitalia reservation, also, so you can check in for the trans-Atlantic flight as the Canadian woman.”

“Got it,” she said.

The afternoon she spent packing and purchased a few guide books on Egypt, as well as a phrase book. She stopped by her doctor’s office. The wound to her arm was checked. It seemed to be healing properly. It was fitted with a new bandage. There was no lasting damage but some scar tissue would remain. That evening, she played basketball and had dinner with Ben at the hotel pub across the street.

Then next morning she was at Dulles International and caught her midmorning flight to Toronto.

She rendezvoused easily with her contact, Ken, at the Toronto International Airport. She gave up her United States passport to him, then killed a couple of hours in one of the airport bars, reading, drinking too many glasses of wine, and waiting for her departure.

The ten-hour Alitalia flight took her across the Atlantic, down across Western Europe, and into Rome, where she arrived the next morning. She had booked a small suite at the Hassler Roma, another upscale lodging on the American taxpayer’s dollar. The hotel was situated just above the Spanish Steps in the heart of the Eternal City. After clearing customs and immigration, Alex took a taxi there, arriving shortly before noon.

Fortunately, the hotel allowed her an early check-in. She was able to grab a shower and then lay back for what she hoped would be a short nap.