Time to Kill: A Sniper Novel

25

“Hello?”

“Am I speaking with Dr. Tianha Bialy?” A man’s voice, rather deep, his accented English crisp. She snapped her fingers to Omar, motioning for something to write on.

“Yes, it is. Who is this?”

“My name is Major Mansoor Shakuri, and I am commandant of the Iranian peacekeeping forces in Sharm el-Sheikh. A thousand pardons for telephoning at such a terrible hour.”

Bialy turned and sat as Omar handed her a small tablet and a pen. “It is no problem at all, Major Shakuri. I doubt if many people in Sharm have gotten much sleep tonight. There has been so much going on.” It was a little jab at having so much trouble with his command.

“It has been rather noisy,” he admitted with a subdued chuckle, “which means I will be very busy today hunting terrorists to protect this beautiful city from further harm.”

So you can execute more civilians, you bloody monster? Instead of asking that question, she said, “Why are you calling?”

“Perhaps we can help each other,” he answered. “It has come to my attention that you are trying to contact an intelligence agent who goes by the name of the Pharaoh. I can help you with that.”

“Do you know who it is?”

“In fact, Dr. Bialy, I do. And I’m willing to share that information with your British intelligence service. Everyone knows you are with MI6.”

“And what do you want in return for this man’s name? You said we could help each other.”

“I want your friend Kyle Swanson, of the American CIA.”

“Kyle Swanson is no friend of mine, Major. We had to work together on a financial project for a few days, but afterward, he immediately left for England.”

The voice hardened. “He did not get on a plane before the airport was closed. Therefore, he is still around somewhere. I want to find him for a few questions.”

“Then I’m sorry, Major. As I said, we were not friends, and I have not seen him since dinner before the hotel was attacked. He told me good-bye. I told him the same thing. I cannot tell you something I do not know.”

“I am sorry, too. The Pharaoh will not be disclosed unless Swanson is available.”

Tianha let the moment of silence extend. “Major, give me a bit of time. Let me talk to some locals and make a few discreet inquiries back in London.”

He changed back to a command voice. “I will arrive at the Four Seasons Hotel at exactly ten o’clock this morning, Dr. Bialy. Whether our visit will be pleasant is entirely up to you. Don’t think of trying to escape, because I have men watching for you. Is that clear?”

“Very clear, Major. Thank you for the courtesy of your call. I will see if we can work something out.” She hung up, threw herself back onto the pillow, and rubbed her eyes with her palms. Her thoughts tumbled with images of explosions and treachery and an unknown future. One thing was clear: Her mission had always been to find the Pharaoh, and he was almost within her grasp. She explained the call to Omar, who lay beside her, keeping his pistol within reach on the table.

“He wants a straight swap,” she said, explaining the call. “Exchange Swanson to the Iranians for the Pharaoh.”

“Then the major believes he has you boxed in. If you don’t give Kyle up, then you will be arrested and never find the Pharaoh. It could be your death warrant, so in his view, you have no choice,” he said, nuzzling into her hair, and she reached out for him. They lay in silence for a while, thinking.

“Kyle’s still at the safe house?” she asked.

“He should be, but who knows what the man is up to?”

“Then suppose I let the major take me prisoner and force me to cooperate? That would buy time for you to get over there and warn Swanson.”

“That’s much too dangerous for you, Tianha. Once he has you, Shakuri won’t let you go. As an MI6 agent, you could be hauled off to Tehran for interrogation, then buried out in some Iranian desert. C would never approve, and I sure as hell don’t want you committing suicide.”

“I won’t ask C,” she said and gave him a soft kiss. “You, my dear, will let me do it because I want to and because I am ordering you to do so.”

“No.”

“Omar, the major is coming up here with armed security. You are a wonderful bodyguard, but the numbers and weaponry are on his side. I don’t want to see you killed, either.”

Kyle Swanson clung to the waist of Abdel El-Din as the young Egyptian piloted the jet ski in a mad zigzag dash back for the safety of the Gold Sun Water Equipment warehouse, careering wildly around buoys and boats to eat up the distance, finally slowing near the marina, where they scooted inside just as the darkness was giving way to another winter morning’s light. Kyle had kept looking back over his shoulder toward the ship, which had become a ferocious inferno within ten minutes. He had expected damage, but nothing like what was happening aboard that vessel; it had been filled with flammable material and was being gobbled by the fire.

Then they were back at the little pier, tied up, and Abdel lowered the outer door. Both men sat on the waterside pier in silence for a few minutes, just catching their breath after the tension-filled past hour. The strain of the continuing action during the night had left Kyle drained of energy, and he thought about how he far he had pushed his luck by breaking almost every rule in the book on clandestine warfare. With daylight coming, he could get back to the safe house, get some food, and take a break.

“I’ve got to go,” he told his new accomplice. “You did great tonight, kid, and you sure as hell drive a mean jet ski. Your family will be proud that you exacted such a vengeance on those who murdered your brother.”

“Do you have a place to stay? You can stay here, if you wish.” El-Din had not moved from his place on the pier.

Kyle stripped off the dive suit and toweled down hard to restore some warmth to his skin before putting his dirty local clothes on again. “I’m good. I can’t tell you where I’m staying. You understand?”

“Of course. What do you want me to do?”

“You go to the police in about an hour. Report that your dive shop was broken into last night by thieves and two jet skis were stolen.” He thumbed back at the office, where the broken window attested to forced entry. “I left plenty of evidence to back up the claim. You found one ski drifting and abandoned about a hundred yards away, but no sign of the other one. You took a quick look around and went for the cops.”

Abdel shook his head in amusement. “That is almost the truth. So are you going to leave me out of any further action? I don’t want to be left out.”

Kyle stared at the earnest youngster, then picked up a loose business card from a rack on the counter. “I need all of the friends and assets I can get, Abdel, so it is likely I will be asking for more of your help. Meanwhile, stay in the background, and don’t tell anyone what really happened last night, not even your family. Just continue working here. I’ll find you. This thing is not over.”

El-Din watched the strange American leave, heard the SUV engine boom to life, and saw the 4Runner drive away. His thoughts turned to food, and for some reason, he wanted an enormous breakfast. After that, he would contact the police. He was just full of energy.

Major Shakuri believed his overall situation was good. While being the on-site commander in Sharm, he could blame the army general at the airport for the military mishaps, and now he saw a unique opportunity born of that rising confidence.

Instead of being the whipping boy of Colonel Yahya Ali Naqdi, the major sensed that there might be a chance here to topple his vile boss, take his place, and leap forward in rank and privilege, maybe even become a general. All he had to do was inform Tehran that their man was selling secrets, almost on the open market, and the colonel would be gone forever. He was weary, but this entire operation was playing out much better than he could have imagined.

Already, he had the colonel dangling, and Naqdi’s normally confident voice was sounding strained. He had told his senior to get some sleep; then he had awakened the colonel a short time later with really bad news.

“The transport ship! The ship was sunk?”

“Yes, sir. At present, we do not know if it was a torpedo or a missile from the infidel fleet, but nothing is being ruled out. It certainly had the look of a decisive military attack, and resultant heavy loss of life. I have asked General Khasrodad for his explanation for still another military failure.” And what do you care, you old dog? You had one of our ships sunk with a missile strike without giving the crew any warning.

The colonel had grown agitated. “I sent you down there to run this operation, Major Shakuri, and most of the reports I receive are of new disasters.” The voice was rising, and Shakuri could detect a little fear from the colonel at the sudden loss of control. Someone else was pulling the strings in Sharm el-Sheikh while he was in Cairo trying to oversee the entire operation to put Egypt into Iran’s military grasp.

“Even after the earlier attacks, our army commander failed to take adequate precautions, sir. Apparently no one on the ship even saw the attack coming. The captain and his first officer are among the dead, lucky for them, for I would otherwise have them shot for their negligence. I regretfully recommend that after his dismal performance of the past twenty-four hours, you consider relieving General Khasrodad of his post.” And replace him with me.

It was if the colonel were no longer even listening. “I must spend some time this morning finding out why the Muslim Brotherhood has been unable to come to our rescue down there, as they had promised. And then I must talk with our leaders in Tehran about the situation, and what the diplomats are saying. That will not be pleasant. But I am definitely coming down today, Shakuri, and you had better have some adequate explanations by the time I arrive.”

Shakuri let the uncomfortable silence hang in the air, knowing the colonel would be feeling pressure from Tehran. Push him harder. “Sir, I recommend that you consider placing Sharm under martial law. General Khasrodad simply must get his soldiers out of their holes and into the streets.”

“I will be there this afternoon, Major. Carry on.” The colonel abruptly hung up his phone. No new orders. No asking about the spies. The Pharaoh was falling apart.

Major Shakuri snorted in disgust and brushed aside the call from his superior officer, who was too far away to change anything at all for a few more hours. Shakuri called aloud for the intelligence officer seated at his own desk outside of the main office and told him to bring in the lists, then ordered an aide to bring in a hearty breakfast. His intel officer spread out the sheets of names of candidates for the new round of public executions.

Yesterday, they had simply rounded up victims at random and treated them with respect before shooting them. The uneasy truce that followed evaporated with the overnight actions, so Shakuri wanted twenty more examples to be picked for death, men and women of substance, whose names would be recognized by the people of the coastal city.

The chief of police was the first on the list. A couple of large merchants, and a woman television reporter who had become too outspoken, fomenting resistance. A professor, a dockworker, a mother of three. The twenty would get their final visit to the park at nine o’clock that night after a day of severe questioning.

Having done all that he could for the moment, he instructed the intel officer to carry out the arrests. The spy business intrigued him. What would the rewards be if he could capture both a CIA agent and the MI6 woman? Meanwhile, the major had time for a nap before going to the Four Seasons at ten.

Once he had pried himself from beneath the thumb of the colonel, Shakuri had enjoyed the freedom of thinking for himself, and this whole spy business had intrigued him. All in all, this might turn out to be a fine day.

“Bad business, this.” The normally placid face of Sir Gordon Fitzgerald, the chief of MI6, was wrinkled with lines of tension. The man had been protecting England from foreign threats since the bitter years of the Cold War, and his office was filled with glass cases containing rare weapons and souvenirs from his long career. Soft leather chairs, a big desk, and tall dark cases of books in several languages served to emphasize his old-school manner. He did not have, nor wish to have, a computer, for he had others to deal with details, and the material he wanted would never be on the Internet. Through the decades, he had learned to recognize both the unusual and the inevitable, and the quickening developments in Sharm el-Sheikh qualified on both counts. A small war was blazing within a bigger one. “How much do you trust your American?”

Sir Geoffrey Cornwell snorted. “He’s not ‘my American,’ he’s our son. And I’ve never met a better man. I have total trust in him, C. Total trust.”

“Forgive me, Jeff. I refer only to your evaluation of his rather unusual skill set.”

“There is no one better in these situations.”

Fitzgerald lifted a quizzical eyebrow. “There is always someone better.”

A deep voice joined in via speakerphone from across the Atlantic Ocean. General Brad Middleton, the commander of Task Force Trident, was on the horn from his Pentagon office. “Actually, with all due respect, sir, I agree with Sir Jeff. There isn’t anyone better at this sort of action. From what we’ve been able to piece together on this end, Gunny Swanson is raising hell in Sharm, and he is still on the loose.”

The MI6 man had come to the same conclusion, based on a different set of facts. C cleared his throat. “General, I must apologize for not letting you know directly that we have been using Swanson as an unsuspecting plant to draw the attention of a potentially valuable secret source of information. I had assumed wrongly that the CIA, which was involved all the way, was passing along the plan. It was a massive mistake on my part, but I thought that everybody was on the same page over there since 9/11. Sharing all information, you know?”

Sir Jeff gripped the arms of his wheelchair. “You dangled him on the hook without knowing he was bait. That was inexcusable, C.”

“I have extended my apologies to you both. Now we must move on.”

“Not until Kyle is alerted to the situation.” Jeff was showing his stubborn streak. “Just in the past night, he has caused extraordinary damage to the Iranians. If they think he is a CIA agent, they are definitely coming after him.”

“That is probably happening even as we speak, which is why we must depend on his ability to react quickly and correctly to totally unexpected situations. I told our agent, Dr. Bialy, to give him a full brief, but she said it may be too late. They are not in regular contact. She hasn’t heard from him in hours.” The MI6 chief put both palms flat on his desk and rubbed the old wood as if giving it a good polish. To those who knew him, it was a habit that expressed great alarm. “After last night’s exploits, he must be holed up somewhere alone, thinking he is safe. He is most assuredly not.”

Middleton joined in. “An operator like Swanson is only as good as his last fight, sir. If I was talking directly to him as his commanding officer, I would ask, ‘Gunny, what have you done for me lately?’ Swanson may be holed up for a few hours, out of ammo, with no fresh intelligence about what we are thinking, and tired beyond normal endurance, but he will be ready for whatever comes his way.”

“Let us hope so, General. The plan was thrown together rapidly, it is complex, and the time is short. At this point, our governments are protesting to the United Nations and threatening military options if the Iranians do not withdraw from Egypt. Only his continued success in this one-man war is holding back the decision to send in special ops teams. We’re willing to give it another twenty-four hours.”