as his men kept pulling the trigger, the Egyptians would respond.
Someone from outside shouted, “The truck will get away!”
Kamil said, “If that truck reaches the terminal, they might be able to convince the guards to attack. It’s their money the Egyptians took. We’ll be fighting our way through an army.”
Rafik began running toward the plane’s door, hoping a lucky round didn’t take him out. Kamil followed.
Collapsing behind the van, he berated the first man he saw. “How could you mess this up? All you had to do was kill the men in the truck.”
“They suspected something. They fired first.”
Rafik looked around the corner of the van and saw the pickup fifty meters away, the nose facing the front of the plane. He could see the legs of two men underneath the chassis, near the rear wheel. As he considered his options, one popped up and began shooting. Rafik’s men returned fire, followed by the distant flashes of the soldiers on the perimeter. Rounds began sprinkling around them, most striking the biggest target available — the airframe.
Every bullet that ripped through the skin caused Rafik to cringe. “Stop pulling the trigger! Now!”
Underneath the truck, he saw one man move to the cab. He’d have to crawl across the seat, but once he was behind the wheel, they’d be gone. Rafik rolled underneath the belly of the plane, stood up, and raced toward the cockpit, the airframe shielding him from the truck’s view.
Circling the nose, he saw the man had reached the steering wheel. The truck sprang to life, the headlights blinding him for a second. He heard the tires squeal, and he ran out, blocking the path of the pickup with his body. He raised the weapon as the vehicle bore down, stitching the front of the windshield with multiple rounds. The truck picked up speed, right at him. He refused to move, raking the AK left and right until the magazine emptied, the bolt slamming home with a clunk. He threw the weapon at the windshield, the vehicle so close it clanged off the driver’s-side mirror. The vehicle veered to the left, missing him by two feet. After thirty meters, it veered back to the right, now going fifty miles an hour. It slashed across the tarmac and slammed into a ditch, the nose crumpling inward with a shriek of twisted metal.
Rafik took a deep breath. The night became still, the only sound the hissing of the radiator of the truck. He walked back to the rear of the aircraft. The men were looking at him in awe.
“Get the Indonesians and their paint. Clean up that truck.”
He walked to the driver’s-side door of the van. The contact was cowering in the well by the pedals. He pulled him up by the hair.
“Go talk to the security perimeter. Tell them a story. Whatever, I don’t care, as long as you tell them that the transfer was successful and we appreciate their help. Hand me my bag.”
The man did as he asked. Rafik pulled out a thick wad of American dollars. “Give this to whoever is the best choice. Come back when you’re done.”
As the van pulled away, he turned to the Indonesians.
“Get to work on the numbers.”
As all three began to move, he grabbed the loadmaster. “Not you.”
The loadmaster whimpered, making Rafik want to gut him right there. The pilot who was his partner began to panic. “What are you doing? You said we’d all fly.”
“No. I said you’d all be fine. And you will.”
He pulled out the fillet knife, the dried blood black in the dim light of the runway.
“But if you don’t meet us in Prague, I’ll cause him so much pain that you’ll feel it long after he’s dead.”
Han had just settled into his suite, toying with the idea of getting a late-night massage at the spa, when the contact phone began to ring.
“Hello. I’m assuming that
Han pulled the phone away from his ear, the shouting coming from it incoherent. Congressman Ellis sounded like he was hyperventilating, babbling about the American they’d tried to kill and the equipment transfer. Han could barely make out what he was saying. He cut Ellis off.
“Stop. Start over. What has happened to the shipment?”
“It’s gone! Someone stole it! I’m not lying. It had to be that Nephilim guy. I told you to do something about him.”
“What do you mean, gone?”
“The plane came in tonight. I was going to transfer the equipment to you tomorrow, but someone came in and took it. My Egyptian contacts are all saying the transfer occurred and the plane flew away, but I can’t get any of my men on the phone. Neither the men who were bringing the equipment to Cairo or the flight crew. They’ve disappeared, and so has the cargo.”
Han considered for a second. Ellis could be lying, but he didn’t think the man was capable of such acting. The voice on the other end of the phone was on the verge of breaking.
“How do you know it was the American?”
“I don’t, dammit! But who the fuck else would it be? You need to get it back. Get it back and kill Nephilim, before he can talk. And the woman, too.”
The man Han had tasked to follow the American hadn’t reported in a couple of days, but that in itself wasn’t unusual. He’d been told to report only if something suspicious happened, and it appeared that the American cared about nothing but his friend in the hospital.
“Are you sure the plane’s gone?”
“Yes! The Egyptians told me the plane flew away. Why would they lie?”
“So why aren’t you sure the transfer happened? Maybe your men just have phone trouble.”
“No, no, no. This was too important. I had three numbers. They were instructed to call immediately. I’ve heard nothing and had to call my Egyptian contact to get the information I’m giving you. Something’s wrong, and that American is at the heart of it.”
Han’s voice became brittle. “Before you call me in a panic, find out the facts. All of them. I’ll find the American. You confirm the loss of the equipment. For your sake, you’d better hope it’s just a mistake.”
Han hung up the phone and called the team leader he’d brought from China.
“Have you heard from Wan?”
“No, but the last report was nothing except back and forth to the hospital. I told him to quit bothering me with useless information.”
“Find him and get the American man and woman that survived the bomb. The mission’s changed. Don’t kill them. Bring them to me.”
“You want both?”
“No. I only need one. If you can get both, fine. But don’t work too hard at it.”
28
I saw Jennifer finally pull off the rutted dirt road we’d been traveling down for what seemed like days. Or nights, as it were. She flashed her brakes twice to let me know this was it, and shut off the truck. I pulled in beside her and killed the engine. If things went according to plan, we had about forty-five minutes before the team jumped. Plenty of time to get the drop zone established.
We’d rented a couple of Toyota Hilux pickup trucks, ubiquitous in the desert, and had traveled south on Highway 2, then cut east before Beni Suef on Highway 54. Jennifer had found a deserted spot about three and a half hours away from Cairo, which was harder than it sounds. She kept bumping into Bedouins, forcing her deeper and deeper into the Eastern Desert.
She’d done her usual perfectionist job, bringing me the grid references for the DZ along with digital photos, which I relayed to the Taskforce. She’d treated me with detached professionalism, like a receptionist at a dentist’s office. I wanted to talk to her, to connect again, but didn’t know how. For her part, she seemed to be forcing the facade. But then again, maybe I was projecting what I wanted to see.
Jennifer said, “Well, does this work?”
“Yeah. Of course. As long as we don’t get company.”
