As they took off, she turned and peered out the rear window. -The police are crawling all over the Maestranza, she said. -Whatever you did has sent them into a frenzy.
But Bourne didn‘t hear her; he was already passed out.
Soraya and Amun Chalthoum arrived in Al Ghardaqah just before noon. Not that many years before, it had been nothing more than a modest fishing village, but a combination of Egyptian initiative and foreign investment had turned it into the leading Red Sea resort. The hub of the town was El Dahar, the oldest of the three sections, home to the traditional villas and bazaar. As was the case with most Egyptian coastal towns, Al Ghardaqah did not venture far inland, but rather clung to the shore of the Red Sea as if for dear life. The Sekalla district was more modern, made ugly by the proliferation of cheap hotels. El Korra Road was prettier, filled with upscale hotels, lush plantings, lavish fountains, and walled private compounds owned by Russian moguls with nothing better to do with their easy money.
They hit the fishermen first, what was left of them, anyway-time and the tourist business had decimated their ranks. They were old men now, skin wrinkled and brown as well-worn leather, their eyes paled by the sun, their work-hardened hands like boards, gnarly with outsize knuckles from decades in seawater. Their sons had abandoned them to work in air-conditioned offices or in jets that flew high above, leaving their homeland far behind. They were the last of their line and so an insular lot, their suspicions heightened by sweet-talking Egyptians taking their launching sites away from them to accommodate more and more Jet Skis and Sea-Doos. Their innate fear of Chalthoum and his al Mokhabarat manifested itself in cold hostility. After all, they must have reasoned, having lost everything, what more did they have to lose?
On the other hand, they were charmed by Soraya. They adored the soft way she spoke to them even while they admired her beautiful face and shapely figure. For her they would answer questions, although they insisted that it would be impossible for anyone outside their close-knit circle to pose as a native fisherman without their knowledge. They knew by sight every boat and ship that plied the local waters, and they assured her that nothing out of the ordinary had occurred in their recent collective memory.
— But there are the dive companies, one grizzled seaman told them. His hands, as they mended his nets, were as big as his head. He spat to one side to show his displeasure. -Who knows who their clients are? And as for their staffs, well, they seem to change from week to week, so no one can keep track of them, let alone note their comings and goings.
Soraya and Chalthoum divided up the list of twenty-five dive firms the fishermen gave them, setting out for different ends of the city, agreeing to meet at a carpet shop in the El Dahar bazaar whose owner was a good friend of Amun‘s.
Soraya went down to the sea, visiting eight of the dive companies, one by one, crossing them off her list as she went. With each she boarded their boats, interviewed the skippers and crew, looked at the customer logbooks for the past three weeks. Sometimes, she had to wait for the boats to return. Other times, the owner was kind enough to ferry her out to the dive sites. After four hours of frustrating work asking the same questions and getting the same answers, she was faced with the reality: This was an impossible task. It was like looking for a needle in an endless line of haystacks. Even if the terrorists had used this method to enter Egypt, there was no assurance that the dive operators would know. And how in the world would they have explained a crate large enough to house the Kowsar 3? Once again, she was plagued with doubts about Amun‘s story, with a dread that he had been involved in the downing of the airliner.
Despairing, she decided to can the entire enterprise after she was through interviewing the personnel at the ninth dive shop. She was ferried out to its boat by a grizzled Egyptian who constantly spat over the side. It was exceptionally hot, the sun beating down on her head; the only breath of wind came from the movement of the boat through the listless air. Even through her sunglasses, everything appeared washed out in the glare. The brine of the sea filled her nostrils, heady and mineral. The repetition had sapped her of keen interest, otherwise she would have marked the young man with the tousled dirty-blond hair edging away from her as she was introduced by the dive shop owner. She began her interviews, asking the same questions: Have you noticed any out-of-place faces in the last three weeks? Any group of seeming Egyptians who came from another boat and who went ashore the same day? Any unusually large packages? No, no, and no, what else did she expect?
She didn‘t see the young man with the tousled hair gather up equipment as he backed away, and it was only when he jumped overboard that she awoke from her bored lethargy. Running down the length of the boat, she stripped off her handbag, kicked off her shoes, and dived into the sea after him. He had pulled on a mask and an air tank before going over the side, and she saw him below her. Even though he lacked fins, he was diving deep where he must have suspected that she-not being similarly equipped-would not follow.
He was wrong about both her ability and her resolve. Her father had thrown her into a pool on her first birthday, much to her mother‘s horror, and had taught her endurance, stamina, and speed, all of which had served her well throughout high school and college, when she‘d won every award imaginable. She could have made the Olympic team, but by that time the intelligence system had engaged her and she had more important things on her agenda.
Now she powered down, slicing her way through the water, but as she neared him, he turned, startled that she had drawn so close, so quickly, and raised his spear gun. He was cocking the mechanism that drew back the barbed bolt when she struck him. He tenaciously maintained his grip on the weapon, successfully readying it to fire even as she twisted his body backward. He brought the butt of the spear gun down against her temple and as her hands came off him, he lowered the barb until it was aimed at her chest.
She scissored her legs in a powerful kick just before he pulled the trigger, and the bolt shot by her. Then she made a grab for him. Now she was uninterested in the weapon or in his hands and feet. Her sole imperative was to pull off his mask, to even the playing field between them, because her lungs were beginning to burn and she knew she couldn‘t stay under for much longer.
Her pounding heart beat off the seconds, one, two, three, as they struggled, until at last she managed to rip off his mask. Water flooded against his face and, though he twisted to the left and right, she pulled the mouthpiece out and inserted it into her mouth, taking a couple of breaths before she kicked upward, holding him in an armlock. She spat out the mouthpiece as they bobbed to the surface.
The captain had raised the anchor while they‘d been underwater, and now the boat maneuvered close enough for hands to reach down and pull them both aboard.
— Get my handbag, Soraya said breathlessly as she sat on the young man‘s back, pinning him to the deck. She took deep, even breaths, smoothed her hair back from her face, and felt the water already warmed by the sun trickling over her shoulders.
— Is this the one you‘re looking for? the owner asked anxiously as he handed over the bag. -He‘s been here for three days, no more.
