Reprisal (16 page)

Mustafa remembered the second mullah as the hawk-faced desert warrior with a glistening black, pointed beard who had stared
unblinkingly at him with dark, contemptuous eyes. Mustafa had also left the meeting before this mullah had forced the president
to set up a terrorist training camp in exchange for his not opposing Hasan’s nuclear program.

The desert warrior said, “What progress are you making on the bomb?”

Mustafa tried to be vague. “All goes well, in sha ‘allah.”

“You blaspheme by suggesting that Allah might wish us to mire ourselves in the Devil’s plan to destroy the world.”

“That was not my intention,” Mustafa said firmly, determined to avoid matters of religion with these two fanatics.

“We are opposed to Ahmed Hasan’s plan for an Egyptian atom bomb and we make no secret of our opposition,” the one with the
white beard said,
bringing them back to the matter at hand. “You will therefore realize that we do not view your role in all this very kindly.”

Mustafa said nothing.

The white beard continued, “You might have excused yourself by saying you are not here of your own free will. We have heard
about how your family… arrived at Cairo airport before you made your decision to come. We sympathize with your position.”

The desert warrior mellowed a little and added his piece. “We have not brought you here to abuse you.”

Mustafa waited in silence.

The white beard picked up the conversation again. “There are zealots who wish to harm you because they feel you alone can
achieve this bomb for Hasan.”

Mustafa suddenly got the uncomfortable feeling that the desert warrior was the main zealot that the white beard was talking
about. Maybe they were doing what the Americans called a “good cop-bad cop” routine on him. Mustafa was a devoted reader of
detective novels. He kept his mouth shut.

“I myself have pointed out to them that personal harm to you would merely delay the project, not halt it,” the white beard
said.

“Killing me wouldn’t even delay it,” Mustafa explained quickly. “All the basic processes are already set up and some are even
in production. The president would have adequate time to find a replacement for me for the final steps in arming the weapon.”
Mustafa was making it sound easier for Hasan than it really would be, hoping this was being taken in by
the desert warrior. “I am not a vulnerable point in the chain of production.”

The pointed black beard glistened and the hawk’s eyes bored into him. “What then is the vulnerable point?”

“There are more than one,” Mustafa said, turning on them suddenly with the defiance they had seen him display to the president.
“The vulnerable points vary with your ability and willingness to act. For the French they are different from those for the
Americans.”

“We are mullahs,” the desert warrior said dryly.

“Simple,” Mustafa said airily. “France supplies Egypt because of oil. Egypt does not have the oil resources to pressure France.
Who then is Egypt’s ally in pressuring France for an Islamic bomb? If you could persuade them to withhold their support, France
would laugh at Hasan’s demands.”

Though no names were mentioned, all understood that Mustafa was talking about Iran. The cheap oil on long-term contracts being
given to France was all from Iran. It was commonly rumored at high levels in the Citadel that Hasan had promised Iran two
bombs for use on Israel, but refused them one for Iraq. It was even rumored that King Hussein of Jordan was deeply concerned,
since his country was next to Israel and could expect to be ravished by nuclear fallout. Hasan had questioned Mustafa closely
on fallout patterns under conditions of a moderate east wind.

Mustafa had taken the bull by the horns by saying that any bomb dropped on Israel in an east wind would deposit fallout on
Egypt’s second largest city of Alexandria. A bomb dropped in a west wind would
affect Jordan’s capital, Amman. In a south wind, the coastal cities of Lebanon and Syria would be affected, and in a north
wind it would be the Egyptian and Saudi coasts of the Gulf of Aqaba and probably the Red Sea coasts also. Mustafa had added
that, besides this, wind patterns and directions were unpredictable and changed with altitude, so that fallout could in reality
occur in any direction.

This slowed Ahmed Hasan until someone told him about small bombs with low radioactive yields. Use four small ones instead
of one big one. This approach had the added advantage, from Hasan’s point of view, that even if they brought down one plane,
there were still three more on the way. Mustafa was now working on small bombs, which greatly increased the technical problems
and delayed the delivery schedule.

Mustafa had now begun to hope that a change might occur in Hasan’s unstable regime before he would be called upon to complete
a workable nuclear weapon. All he had to do was keep quiet and pretend that all was going well—and hope that Ahmed would destroy
himself before he gained the capacity to destroy millions of others. But Mustafa had no intention of explaining this to these
two mullahs, who would probably misunderstand what he was saying and wildly misquote him, with dire consequences for Mustafa
himself.

When Mustafa hinted to the two mullahs that if they wanted to stop Hasan their best way was to stop Iran, they were stung
by his words. Iran was controlled by mullahs. What could be easier for them?

The white beard answered him. “The Persians are not Arabs. They share Islam with us and so we are
bound together under Allah. Remember too that they are Shiites and we are Sunnis. These Persians consider Ahmed Hasan’s plans
to be in their interest. What do they care if the Mediterranean is devastated by nuclear weapons? Not at all.”

Mustafa decided to take a chance on these two mullahs. He had to, since the desert warrior was likely to order him killed
on the offchance that it might delay the program in spite of what Mustafa claimed.

“A working nuclear device is still in the future,” he said with insolent confidence to the two mullahs. “I will warn you well
in advance of the time these bombs become a physical reality. Until that time, all you hear is merely empty words. In sha
‘allah“—this time he very deliberately repeated the phrase that meant God willing—“that time will never come while we three
are here to prevent it.”

The mullahs nodded, smiled, touched his arm and left the room in that slow way they had of moving, which showed their dignity
and power.

Fuck them all, Mustafa thought, I wish I were back with my wife and kids in the cold English rain.

Jacques Laforque left his crumpled trenchcoat in his room at the Hotel des Roses on Talaat Harb Street—he would not be needing
it in the mild Cairo autumn. The hotel was modest but pleasant. He always stayed there on his frequent trips to the city,
which he supposed made things a little easier for his opposite numbers in Egyptian intelligence. They didn’t seem to care
and had ignored him for years. Never flattering for an intelligence operative, yet a
fact of life for most. You got classified as middle level, and no one these days could afford continued surveillance on all
the attachés, visiting businessmen and tourists who fitted into this category. It was because of the French government’s tight
purse strings that he stayed at the Hotel des Roses instead of the Nile Hilton, the Marriot Hotel or one of the other expensive
places.

Paul Savage, the man Richard Dartley had sent instead of himself, had cabled his coded message to Paris: Hasan was building
a bomb; Savage would now kill Hasan. Everything was going as agreed. Which was enough to make Laforque’s Paris superiors nervous.
They didn’t like this lone operator out in the field with no strings attached for them to pull. No, no, they had no change
of mind, they were pleased with how things were going. But… if Laforque would not mind… they would feel reassured if he would
go to Cairo himself just to make sure everything was in place. Yes, they realized that Laforque had no prearranged way to
contact this American Paul Savage—which they regarded as a serious weakness in the plan, as Laforque conceded—but even though
Laforque did not know how to find him, they felt sure that a man with Laforque’s talent and resources would discover a way…
How could he refuse?

Laforque had a simple way to locate Savage all right. He would pay Omar Zekri to find him. Omar knew the name of every rat
in the sewers.

The Frenchman found Omar at one of his usual places, where he tried to be on time every day so that his numerous informants
and contacts could trade with him on a regular basis, and besides all that
there was his “ancient artifact” business aimed at the tourists. Omar was a constantly active man. There were rumors he had
a Swiss bank account. Others said he spent everything in wild flings.

“I am looking for an American,” Laforque told Omar. “His name is Paul Savage, or so he says.” He went on to describe Richard
Dartley in detail. “Look for him around the nuclear technicians at the Citadel when they make their frequent trips in from
the desert.” He passed a wad of Egyptian bills to Omar. “You’ll get the same amount again when you put me in touch with him.
You know where to find me—at the Hotel des Roses.”

Omar said, “The American calls himself Thomas Lewis here. I know him, but I can’t say where he is right now or even if he’s
in the city. I’ll put out word.”

Laforque nodded and went away, satisfied with himself for knowing who to see in a matter like this.

Zekri was even more satisfied with himself. The Egyptian government wanted this American. So did Pritchett and the CIA. And
along with Pritchett, a masked man who spoke Arabic with a Lebanese Christian accent. The Lebanese Christian spoke French.
And now Laforque from government intelligence in Paris. Omar could not see anything that made sense there. Then there was
Laforque’s remark about nuclear technicians around the Citadel, although he did not mention Dr. Mustafa Bakkush by name. Omar
decided quickly not to waste time trying to unravel the puzzle. He’d sell what he could about each one to the others and try
to keep them all scrambling
after one another while they improved his cash flow situation. He phoned Awad and Zaid.

They picked Omar up in their black van an hour later. To Omar’s surprise, they did not balk at his demand for two hundred
pounds. Zaid drove. Omar sat between them and told them about Pritchett and the masked Lebanese Christian, and about Laforque
and France’s interest in this American. Omar could sense that this came as a total surprise to them.

“Anything else?” Awad asked.

“That’s it,” Omar answered.

Awad grabbed him by the back of his jacket collar, yanked him off the bench seat, and threw him against the vehicle’s firewall
at his feet. Omar began to grovel and Awad’s shoe descended on his neck.

Awad pressed the side of Omar’s face down on the metal floor and held it there with his foot while Zaid bounced the van into
potholes and over bumps as fast as he could go in the traffic.

No one said a word.

After a few minutes of this, Omar’s hand raised up with the two hundred pounds they had given him. Awad took it and lifted
his foot from Omar’s neck.

“You whore’s scum,” Awad said, “we pay you every day by letting you live.”

Awad slid back the side door and kicked Omar out of the slowly moving van onto the roadway in front of a small Renault, which
screeched to a stop inches away from the man cowering on the asphalt.

Richard Dartley saw clearly that things were not going to work out for him if Ahmed Hasan simply continued to shuttle back
and forth under armed
guard between the presidential palace and the Citadel. Hasan took a dozen routes in random order, and Dartley never knew whether
he would be in a Jaguar, in a crowded Range Rover or Jeep or invisible inside a military truck. The presidential palace was
heavily guarded and the Citadel was literally a high-walled fortress. So long as the president kept to this way of life, he
would be safe from Richard Dartley. But only so long as he kept doing what he was doing. Dartley could wait…

Dartley was sitting in a cafe after his morning walk, taking refuge from the crowds, leaking sewage pipes, traffic jams and
construction sites. He was reading the daily English-language newspaper,
The Egyptian Gazette,
which was mostly a guide to movies, shows, fancy restaurants and late-night places, all of which Dartley was careful to avoid.
One news item struck him forcibly. President Ahmed Hasan was about to pay a short state visit to King Hussein of Jordan. Hasan
would spend the first day in the capital, Amman, and the second day at the Red Sea resort of Aqaba, from where he would fly
back to Cairo that night. At last Ahmed Hasan might be where Dartley could get at him.

At first Dartley planned the hit for Cairo. The airport would be no good, because an airport is designed with no-go areas
and security in mind and thus is easy to seal off. Even if Dartley infiltrated to make the hit, he would never get out alive.
Hasan’s armored cavalcade to and from the airport would only turn out to be a variant of the one he used every day, and he
would be safe in that too, since Dartley could not tell which route he would take. Even if he
could, laying a mine or radio-activated bomb or setting up an ambush would be extremely difficult to do unobserved in the
teeming hordes of the city.

The president would travel by special plane. Perhaps Dartley could bring the aircraft down if the arms dealer Yahya Waheed
could get him a Redeye or Stinger antiaircraft guided missile and launcher. Even if Waheed could supply him and even if Dartley
was able to position himself by the fact that the aircraft would take off into the wind direction, he would still have to
move around crowded Cairo with a four- or five-foot-long missile under his arm.

Jordan might be good, if Dartley could get there undetected. The Jordanians would have ultra-tight security, but at least
they wouldn’t be looking for someone of his description, like the Cairo secret police were. The capital city of Amman was
not the place to go. Everything would be well organized there. Things might be looser in a resort town.