Lang followed them as they dismounted and walked toward what looked like some sort of transportation shelter, a roof but no sides, like the bus stops in some American cities.
“Does a bus to the airport stop here?” Lang asked, hopeful one or both spoke English.
“Yes,” they said almost in unison before the smaller of the two continued. “The bus circles both terminals, the one we call the new airport, where Western European and American airlines are, and the old airport, where Eastern European, Arab and African airline gates are. We are going to the new airport.”
Lang sat beside them on a wooden bench, waiting until the bus chugged to a stop. All three boarded. In minutes, he was following the two into the terminal.
Due to the late hour, the chaotic mob Lang associated with Egyptian transportation hubs was absent. There were, however, the police with automatic weapons common to air terminals everywhere outside the U.S. A quick glance revealed two of these officers were showing an unusual degree of diligence in inspecting the papers of every person passing through the single security checkpoint while two more watched.
Normal procedure, or had the Alexandria security police alerted Cairo? He knew Cairo’s security was among the world’s toughest if not necessarily the most competent. Instead of random checks, every passenger’s background as shown by his passport was scrutinized, his carry-on searched as well as x-rayed.
Either way, Lang had a problem. If he used the Roth passport, he would be risking instant detention. His own would lack the Egyptian entry visa, raising questions he certainly didn’t want to answer.
His back to the rest of the terminal, he studied the TV screen of arrivals and departures. There was an Air France flight to Paris that departed in the morning and a Heathrow-bound British Airways plane half an hour later. He could buy a ticket now in his own name, but that would not only involve the missing visa, it would also give any Egyptian official scanning airline computers five- or six-hours’ notice of his intentions if the Alexandria police had discovered his identity.
There was no line at any of the ticket counters, most of which bore “closed” signs.
Handing his Roth passport to a brightly smiling young woman behind the British Airways sign and logo, he said, “I hope you have room on your flight to London in the morning.”
He listened to the click of a keyboard before she looked up, smile still in place. “Tourist or first-class?”
“First- class.”
At roughly twenty cents to the Egyptian pound, the number representing the cost of the ticket was astronomical. Lang reached for his wallet and feigned surprise and embarrassment. “I seem to have left my credit cards in my other pants.”
She gave a shake of the head, still impressed by the fact someone would pay that sum of money to ride in comparative luxury for four and a half hours. “No problem, Mr. Roth. I have the number from your passport. Here it is back. I will note that you will pick up the ticket two hours before departure tomorrow morning. Your seat will be reserved until then.”
He thanked her and exited the terminal but not before stopping by the electronic billboard of hotels. At the cabstand, he directed the driver to deliver him to the nearby Novotel with an intermediate stop at a nearby pharmacy. He was familiar with the worldwide chain of inexpensive lodging, clean rooms and little else. At the desk, he gave his own passport to the sleepy desk clerk, who, as expected, simply swiped it through the copy machine without noticing the absence of a visa and returned it. Lang was betting if his papers were checked against immigration records at all, he would be long gone before the discrepancy was discovered.
He gave the clerk a healthy tip and requested a wake-up call. Once in his room, he searched his wallet for the international calling card he always carried but had not used in over a year. Manfred answered on the first ring. “Hi Vati! Where are you?”
Resisting the temptation to visit with his son, Lang said, “I need to speak to your mother. Right now.”
He sensed the little boy’s disappointment from the silence before he heard him calling Gurt. Unfortunate, but the longer he was on the line, the better chance the call could be traced by anyone with the minimal equipment and know-how to tap a phone.
“Lang?” There was anxiety in Gurt’s voice. “I could not get you on your BlackBerry.”
“It’s on a South Pacific cruise at the moment with emphasis on south. ”
“I do not understand.”
“No time to explain. You and Manfred OK?”
“Yes. You?”
“I’m a moving target at the moment, but yeah, I’m OK.”
She told him about the men on the street and Miles’s thoughts. The whole thing fit uncomfortably snug with the cancelled credit card and the sudden unavailability of the driver Miles had provided. For whatever reason, the Agency was more interested in their silence than the help Miles had originally sought.
A sea change indeed.
“OK, here is what we’re going to do,” Lang said deliberately. “You and Manfred take a few days, go to the farm.”
The “farm” was a shack on farmland in middle Georgia Lang had purchased in a foreign corporate name some years ago. Its remoteness plus neighbors who were highly suspicious of intruders had proved it to be an invaluable hideout before, and Lang had improved it since its last use.
“We are having an ice storm here.”
“You are also having four-wheel drive on your Hummer. I’d risk the road before I’d depend on the weather to keep the Agency at bay. Next time they may send someone experienced enough to anticipate your tricks. And not to forget our Chinese friends. You can bet they still have us in mind. Oh yeah, don’t mention any of this to Miles.”
“You think…?”
“I’m not thinking anything; I just don’t want to take the risk that you and Manfred get stuffed into some Agency hideaway until whoever is calling the shots thinks different. I’ll call you on the neighbor’s phone when I can. Oh yeah, don’t use your BlackBerry. There’s a good chance somebody can triangulate.”
Lang hung up to a background of Manfred indignantly demanding to speak to him.
He woke up minutes before the call, the growling of his stomach reminding him he had not eaten since… when? Breakfast on the plane yesterday? Putting aside the growing protest, he carefully disassembled the Browning. He put the metal barrel component in his shave kit and distributed springs and catches among his shirts. Clips went into the shoes in his bag. In Egypt, firearms were prohibited, whether in carry-on or checked baggage. Breaking up the recognizable components of the weapon should defeat the curious eyes of the x-ray machine trained on even checked baggage. Ammo he sealed in plastic bags that he hoped would frustrate any sniffing mechanisms, chemical, mechanical or canine, looking for explosive compounds. He could only hope he had no need of the gun before his departure.
His next task required somewhat more care. Using a razor blade purchased at the pharmacy last night, he cut the page from the Roth passport bearing the Egyptian visa. Noting the page was the one with a picture of a Mississippi River boat on it, he razored the same from the real U.S. passport. Now the tricky part: using just a touch of the paper glue he had also bought at the pharmacy, he substituted pages. The alteration was not going to withstand careful inspection and it surely would be detected by electronic means upon reentry to the States, but that was not his problem at the moment.
He stopped in the lobby long enough to help himself to luscious-looking figs, dried dates and nuts from the hotel’s small breakfast buffet. His stomach cried out for more substantial fare but he did not have the time.
Back at the new airport, he joined the tourist-class line in front of the Air France counter. As he shuffled his bag along, he noted the British Airways desk thirty or so feet away. Two uniformed and armed security police were checking the passports of every male in the queue. Two men, conspicuous in their dark suits, watched. Lang thought he recognized Major Saleem before turning his back. Given the opportunity, he would bet the gate from which the plane to London was to depart was equally well covered.
Finally at the front of the line, Lang purchased what he was told was the last available seat on the Paris flight, paying with his American Express card. He hated leaving a record. The Chinese had proven adept at following him by credit-card receipts, but the alternative was more immediate: buying a ticket without prior reservations and paying cash almost guaranteed drawing the attention of either the security or drug-enforcement people.
Almost as unpleasant was the thought of checking his suitcase. Modern transportation had made it possible to have breakfast in New York, lunch in Paris and baggage in Tehran. Plus, standing at airport carousels waiting to determine the winners and losers in the luggage lottery tied him to one place when circumstances might dictate
