CHAPTER 16

Girling turned the BMW onto Shari’a Al-Ahram, the road that led almost from the centre of Cairo to the pyramids of Giza, and settled down to a steady pace in the centre lane. It was coming up to one o’clock. He was in good time for his lunch appointment at the Mena House Hotel, a luxury affair in the shadow of the Great Pyramid. The Mena House was just that little bit remote; he guessed that was why Schlitz and McBain had picked it.

It had been a busy morning and it was getting busier. First he had called on his old friend John Silverman at Reuters and dropped the story onto his desk. Silverman was shocked. He had known and liked Stansell. But Girling recognized a look in Silverman’s face that said he also knew a good story when he saw one. With kidnapping and hijack in the air, the fact that a leading British journalist had been murdered by the world’s latest public enemy made the story dynamite. And despite his previous visit from the Mukhabarat, Silverman wasn’t going to be deterred. With commendable restraint, Girling thought, Silverman had not pressed him for any of the details of Dispatches’ forthcoming exclusive on the Angels of Judgement, which was just as well.

Next he drove to the Khan, parked and retraced his steps to Kareem’s coffee house on the Street of the Judges. This time, he gained access to Old Mansour without difficulty. Mansour accepted Stansell’s death with a sad, wise look in his face which said that he had known all along that Stansell would never again smoke and exchange banter at Kareem’s. Girling explained that it was important he get in touch with Uthman, the doctor from Duqqi, who worked part-time at Mukhabarat HQ. He gave Old Mansour Sharifa’s number and told him to get Uthman to ring him, day or night.

It was when he returned to the office, at about eleven o’clock, that he’d got the invitation from Schlitz.

Soon he caught his first glimpse of the Pyramids’ chipped, sand-blown peaks creeping above the houses lining the dead straight road. Despite their over-exposure - Pyramid motifs were emblazoned on everything in Egypt from newspapers to petrol stations - he never tired of seeing them. On the rare days when neither the smoke nor the dust was too thick, you could see them with the help of a long lens from any of the tall buildings downtown.

Mona and he had climbed to the top of the Great Cheops Pyramid on a day much like this. They had ignored the cautionary notices and made it to the summit a little before sundown. The view had been breathtaking. They had sat holding each other in the moonlight.

The sun glinted on the windscreen of a Fiat three cars behind him. Girling spotted it in the mirror. They must have picked him up at the office. He adjusted his dark glasses.

He drove on for another kilometre without varying his speed, but instead of turning off at the hotel kept driving along the road that led up the escarpment to the Pyramids. He parked in the shadow of the Great Pyramid and set out for the first row of metre-high stone blocks that marked the base. He heard the Mukhabarat slow to a stop a little way behind. He began to climb.

Neither of the two Mukhabarat field officers elected to follow him. While one of them watched his progress, the other reached for a newspaper. They knew Girling would be gone a long time. It was a forty-minute climb to the summit and probably a thirty-minute descent.

When he was about a hundred feet up, Girling began moving towards the corner of the pyramid, the safest route for the ascent. He paused for breath and looked down. He could see the camels and horses for hire, their owners touting for customers, scores of milling tourists and a few white-clad police. In the blue Fiat neither man had moved.

Girling stepped round the corner, out of the Mukhabarat’s sight, and moved swiftly downwards. There was a warm wind blowing in from the desert. He glanced towards the horizon and made out the crumbling remains of the Abusir pyramids eight kilo-metres to the south. A little further still he could see the distinctive shape of the stepped pyramid of Zozer at Saqqara nestling between the green valley strip and the desert.

It took him about five minutes to reach the ground. He dusted himself down and walked around to the back of the tomb before rejoining the road that led to the Mena House. He glimpsed the Fiat. The man reading the paper was smoking a cigarette. His companion looked as though he’d gone to sleep.

It took five more minutes to reach the hotel. Although built at the turn of the century, successive owners had added new wings and outbuildings. Girling proceeded straight to the cocktail bar. He spotted Schlitz in the corner sharing a drink with two other men. One was dressed in a light-weight tropical suit, the other in jeans, T-shirt, and a scuffed leather jacket.

Schlitz got to his feet. ‘Glad you could make it, Tom. We were just about to order another round. What’ll it be?’ Even in a jacket and tie Schlitz managed to look dishevelled.

The waitress appeared and Girling asked for a beer.

Schlitz made the introductions.

‘Tom, this is Lieutenant-Colonel Cyrus McBain, our defence attaché.’

McBain shook his hand. He had sandy hair, thinning on top, and piercing blue eyes. A guy to depend on in a tight spot, Girling thought.

‘And this is John Gudmundson of the DIA,’ Schlitz continued. ‘John just got in from Washington.’

Girling matched the strength of Gudmundson’s grip with difficulty. There was steel in the man’s eyes, and a restless energy in his body that made it difficult for Girling to picture him behind a desk. He looked somehow out of place in the ornate surroundings of the hotel’s cocktail bar.

‘Seems like we picked a hell of a time to meet with you,’ Schlitz said, lighting up a Marlboro.

‘I’m sorry?’ Girling said, settling into his seat. For a moment he thought they were referring to the cuts and bruises he had received at the hands of the mob.

Schlitz said: ‘Come on, Tom. It’s not a secret any more. It came over the wire just before we left the embassy. And, by the way, before we go any further, I’d just like to say how sorry I am. Like I told you, Stansell was a good operator. A good guy, too. He’ll be missed around here.’

‘Well, I guess I owe you an apology for that cock-and-bull line I gave you about him being sent back to England,’ Girling said. ‘The Mukhabarat didn’t want the news to leak while they were looking for him. I kind of had my hands tied.’

‘We’ve known for a few days now about Stansell’s abduction,’ McBain said. ‘As you can imagine, the antennae are pretty sensitive at this time. There’s a lot of things out there we’re picking up.’

‘And a lot you’re missing, too, perhaps?’ Girling said.

McBain said nothing. He settled back in his armchair, relaxed, confident, every inch the diplomat. Gudmundson, on the other hand, seemed edgy.

‘I’ve been reading your stuff,’ McBain said. ‘Dispatches seems to be way ahead of the game.’

‘At a price.’

‘Yes, I’m sorry.’ He paused.

‘The thing of it is, Mr Girling,’ Gudmundson said, ‘we’d appreciate hearing what’s going to go into your next Angels of Judgement story...’

Girling noticed McBain frowning.

‘Is there any chance we could see your copy early, Tom?’ Schlitz asked.

Girling smiled. ‘What are you guys at the DIA working on right now, Mr Gudmundson?’

Gudmundson shifted in his seat. ‘I’m afraid that’s classified information.’

‘Quite,’ Girling said. He looked at the three of them in turn. He’d seen a hundred Gudmundsons in his years as a defence journalist and none of them had been in intelligence. ‘So, who’s calling the shots here, gentlemen?’

‘We thought it would be useful to talk, that’s all,’ McBain said. ‘For both of us.’

Girling looked at Gudmundson again. Something about him definitely didn’t fit.

‘Have we ever met before?’ he asked.

Gudmundson looked him in the eye. ‘No, sir.’

‘You sure?’

‘I never forget a face,’ Gudmundson said.

‘Me neither. That’s what bothers me.’

Girling sipped his beer. ‘What line of work do you do with the DIA?’ he said.

‘Government work.’

Girling smiled. ‘Sounds fascinating.’

Schlitz had began to stub his cigarette nervously. ‘Tom, I think I should just say... er, at this point that this conversation is not really happening. I should have made the ground rules clear from the start. Clearly you appreciate the sensitivity of this meeting.’

‘Maybe you should get to the point, Mike.’

‘You said you wanted to meet with Colonel McBain the other day. Well, here he is.’ Schlitz was sweating.

‘That was three days ago. A lot has happened to me since then. How about you?’

‘What do you mean?’ Gudmundson asked.

McBain flashed him another warning glance.

‘Are you any closer to the hostages?’ Girling said.

‘It’s better you don’t know,’ Gudmundson said.

‘I thought this was meant to be a frank exchange of views.’

‘Then start talking, hotshot,’ Gudmundson said, his anger suddenly coming to the surface.

Girling turned to McBain. ‘I don’t need this.’

‘Then fuck you,’ Gudmundson said, rising from his chair.

Across the room, people had begun to stare.

Girling also got to his feet. ‘Gentlemen,’ he said, ‘I’m afraid I won’t be joining you for lunch.’

Ulm said goodbye to McBain and Schlitz too angry for remorse. He was due on the six o’clock express to Qena, but hoped there might be an earlier train. He did not want to spend a moment longer in Cairo. He stopped at the concierge’s desk to ask for a timetable for southbound trains. Then he joined the small line of people waiting for taxis outside.

Girling watched the man he knew as Gudmundson from a phone booth in the main lobby, shielded by the throng of tourists checking in and out at the front desk.

He was intrigued by Gudmundson. He watched impatiently as the queue grew shorter. Girling strained for a better look, willing a couple of tourists to get out of his line of sight. A taxi swung into view and Gudmundson raised his hand to flag the driver.

It was in that moment, when Gudmundson’s body was three-quarters to him, that Girling tagged him. The American’s entire bearing was military. This was a man used to giving orders, but not from behind a desk. And Girling suddenly realized he’d seen Gudmundson giving orders before.

He rushed outside as the taxi swept out of the forecourt. There were no others in sight. Taking a deep breath, he went back inside the hotel and asked the concierge what his American friend with the sun-tan and the leather jacket had asked her for a few moments earlier.

The girl smiled and pointed at a timetable for trains leaving Ramsis Station, Cairo, for the tourist centres of Middle and Upper Egypt: Minya, Asyut, Qena, Luxor, and Aswan.

Girling thanked her and looked around for Schlitz and McBain. They hadn’t emerged from the bar. The sound of crickets mingled with the buzz of traffic on Pyramids Road. He felt light-headed. He went back to the phone booth, lifted the handset and gave the hotel operator a London number.

In less than a minute, he was talking to Kieran Mallon.

‘Girling, you rogue. Jesus, I can’t believe I’m talking to you. Where are you, man? The world, not to mention Kelso, is going ape-shit and you’re nowhere to be found.’

‘Slow down, Kieran.’

‘Slow down, you say? Is it true about Stansell?’

‘Yes, I’m afraid it is.’

‘Hell, I’m sorry, Tom. Kelso’s been besieged with calls from Fleet Street ever since the story broke on the wire. They want to know everything. The facts behind the kidnapping, how he died, and what we’re going to file about the Angels of Judgement. I know Kelso wanted to capture a bit of attention, but I’m not sure this is exactly what he had in mind. He and Carey are both screaming for you. What do I tell them?’

‘Tell them the story’s on its way.’

‘Is it?’

‘No. But keep that to yourself.’

‘Tom, why Reuters? What’s going on?’

‘I need your help, Kieran. Can you do something for me? It’s very important.’

‘Name it.’

It took Girling a little over two minutes to dictate his instructions. After he’d finished, he made Mallon read them back.

‘What’s this got to do with Stansell?’ the Irishman asked.

‘I’m not sure. When can you get back to me?’

‘Hopefully within the hour.’

‘Good. I’ll be waiting by the fax. And if you need to get hold of me by phone, I’m abandoning the office and my apartment for a while. I’ll be here.’ He read out Sharifa’s number.

‘A woman?’

‘It’s not what you think.’

‘Tom?’

‘Yes.’

‘You sound different.’

‘You should see how I look.’

‘No, you sound... well, better.’

Girling felt himself smile. ‘I hope it lasts,’ he said.

He paid reception for the call and set out to retrieve his car.

It was hotter than usual for late afternoon and nowhere more so than in Al-Qadi’s office, three floors above the basement cells at Mukhabarat Head-quarters. The air-conditioning unit had long since broken down. An electric fan mounted on his desk had suffered an undiagnosed mechanical failure three days before.

Al-Qadi mopped his brow and read the handwritten report from his deputy for the third time.

He took another sip of water and loosened his tie. When Girling had filed his report with Reuters he had declared war. The investigator wondered whether the Englishman had even begun to appreciate the power of his enemy.

Al-Qadi opened the top drawer of his desk, pulled out a tatty manila file and studied it one final time. The pathologist’s report had been placed on his desk that morning. He was supposed to read it, then hand it back to be copied. There was, of course, no way he could allow that. He lit one of the corners, made sure it had caught well, and tossed it into his metal waste-paper bin. As the flames took hold, the cardboard buckled and a blown-up passport picture of Stansell slipped from the dossier. Al-Qadi stared at it, mesmerized by the advance of the flames across the ‘agnabi’s face. Not until every scrap had been reduced to ash did he turn to the second drawer of his desk, open it, and pull out his automatic.

He had resolved not to wait for the general’s call.

It was dark when Girling entered the office to find both telephones ringing and Sharifa nowhere in sight. Having checked the fax tray and found it empty, he took both phones off the hook. Then he locked the door, sat down on the floor beside the fax machine and waited in the gathering gloom.

Ten minutes later, the silence of the fifth floor was disturbed by the first bleep of the fax’s built-in phone. He switched on the light as the teleprinter burst into life.

The picture formed before his eyes, pixel by pixel, line by line, until it grew into the face and body of a man. Mallon had enlarged the shot on the photo-copier and still kept reasonable definition. When the transmission ended, he took the page over to his desk and placed it under a lamp.

Girling stared at the picture with some satisfaction. The thick-set, balding guy in the fatigues standing hand raised before the 11-76 Candid at Machrihanish, the day he thought he would die in the Tornado, was the man who called himself Gudmundson.

He blipped the phone and composed the number the moment he obtained a line. Ten seconds later, he was connected again to Mallon. This time, there was no small-talk. Mallon’s rapid breathing signalled his excitement.

‘Who is that guy?’

‘I don’t know,’ Girling said. ‘That’s what I want you to find out.’

‘Me?’

‘It’s all right, Kieran, I’m going to take you through it. Have you got the picture in front of you?’

‘Yes.’

‘OK. You’re going to have to help me here as some of the quality has been lost in the transmission.’ He brought the desk lamp lower. There was a name tag stitched onto the officer’s combat fatigues, just above the left breast pocket. With the frame enlarged it was possible to see that the person he had mistaken first for a technician was in fact a USAF officer - and a senior one too, judging by the pips on his shoulders. He asked Mallon if he could read the name on the tag. One thing was for sure. The letters did not spell Gudmundson. Not that he had ever expected them to.

‘What do you make of it?’ Girling asked.

It was not easy - it was already grainy from the enlarging process - and to make matters worse, the man’s arm was obscuring part of the word.

‘Could be... Palmer,’ Mallon said. ‘It’s a common enough name.’

Girling found a magnifying glass on the desk and tilted it under the light. ‘Could be,’ he agreed. ‘But that doesn’t look like an ‘A’, more like a ‘U’.’

It took them a minute or so to agree that the three letters were U-L-M. Neither of them thought it sounded like much of a name.

‘Whatever he’s called, he’s a colonel in the US Air Force. See that eagle on his epaulette? I wonder why the hell he was meeting a Soviet tactical transport aircraft on a remote Scottish air base?’

‘And you met the same guy today? You think it has something to do with the hijacking?’ Mallon asked.

Girling thought back to his flight in Rantz’s Tornado.

‘Could be. But why is Ulm interested in me, all of a sudden? Do the Americans think I know where their hostages are? Do they think I’m going to blow the gaff?’

‘That’s not their style, Tom. If they thought you were going to compromise their mission they’d have gagged you already. I reckon it’s much simpler. They’re still in the dark and they think you might be able to help.’

Girling’s mind raced.

‘Tom, are you still there?’

‘Yeah.’

‘What do you want me to do?’

‘Who was on this Soviet transport aircraft?’

‘MOD neither confirmed nor denied it was even at Machrihanish, remember?’

‘OK, so we’re going to have to try another route.’ He thought for a second and then dictated another set of instructions. After putting the phone down, he sat back in his chair and waited.

It took Mallon roughly half an hour to return with information.

‘Machrihanish isn’t any old base,’ he explained. ‘A recent modernization programme has turned it into Europe’s principal storage site for US nuclear weapons.’

Girling drummed his fingers on the desk.

The line was beginning to break up. Girling shouted to make himself heard. ‘That’s interesting, but it’s not what I’m after.’

‘How about this, then?’ Mallon said. ‘There’s a permanent detachment of SEALs there - you know, US Navy special warfare troops.’

‘Now you’re getting warmer. Anything more on that tack?’

‘Yes. Machrihanish has been extensively updated with US cash since the early eighties. The underground nuclear storage sites account for some of it, but that’s comparatively small -’

‘Compared to?’

‘Compared to what US Special Operations Command has been doing there. Machrihanish is apparently the main staging post for American special forces coming to Europe. It’s been built up since the Gulf War as a liaison point between the US Eastern Seaboard and any hot spots that develop on this side of the Atlantic. The runway’s been lengthened to take C-5s and C-141s and there’s a new special operations command centre on the base for controlling forces in the field. It’s all hush-hush stuff. Even your contact started clamming up on me.’

Girling clenched his fist and held it in the air. ‘Our man is special forces, which puts him in that USAF outfit... shit, what are they called? The Pathfinders, that’s it. They dropped off the map a couple of years ago. Rumour had it they ran into some kind of trouble in Panama.’

‘And you think they’re in Egypt?’

‘Yes. Ulm sure as hell hadn’t just got off the plane from Washington.’

‘Then everybody has been heading in the wrong direction,’ Mallon said. ‘The conventional wisdom is that any rescue would be launched by Delta or the SEALs from a ship with the task force off the Lebanese coast.’

Girling nodded. ‘Right.’ He only half heard Mallon, because he was looking at the wall map behind Stansell’s desk. He shone the lamp full on it.

‘So where are they then, your Pathfinders?’ Mallon asked. Girling touched a spot in the desert just north of a wide bend in the Nile. ‘Wadi Qena,’ he whispered.

‘What? You’re breaking up on me, Tom.’

‘Nothing.’ Ulm had gone to the train station. He hadn’t gone to the embassy, or the airport. He’d gone to the bloody train station. And he’d been southbound. There was only one possible place he could be heading. The same place Colonel Charlie Beckwith, the man who had led Eagle Claw, had gone over ten years before. The place from which Delta Force had launched its abortive rescue attempt on the hostages in Tehran. With the US Navy prowling in strength somewhere off Beirut, it was the perfect double-bluff.

He gathered his things. As he closed the door the phone began to ring, but Girling ignored it, locked up and headed for the lift.

Girling kept his foot down as he left University Bridge and headed north along Shari’a Al-Nil. A flash rainstorm had left the streets slippery and shiny under the bright city lights. He checked his mirror and saw a car pulling away from the junction behind him. The Mukhabarat were back on his tail.

Half a mile ahead, he could see the lights of the Sheraton reflecting off the oil-black water of the river. He glanced to his right at a barge sailing silently, almost invisibly, downstream towards Alexandria, its wake chopping the river’s surface. The vessel would be laden with cotton, cane, or potatoes. As he slowed and the barge ploughed on, Girling found himself staring at the Meridien Hotel on the opposite bank and realized that he was at the point where Stansell’s body had been recovered from the river. He pulled the BMW into the side of the road and a hundred yards away the driver of the Fiat followed suit. As he stepped onto the pavement, Girling gave the second car a glance, but the Mukhabarat were staying put, invisible behind their lights. He stepped onto a low wall and stared down at the dross floating on the river’s surface. The ripples from the barge’s wake lapped against the small stretch of beach, depositing the water’s jetsam in miniature tide lines on the fine silt. It was a lonely place to wind up dead. As he stared across the river Girling saw the lights of fishing boats bobbing up and down on the water, some of them quite close by. For all the myriad noises that made up the background hum of the big city the sound of their oars dipping in the Nile was crisp and clear in the night.

Girling shivered and he headed back towards the car. He did not want to keep Sharifa waiting any longer.

He gunned the engine and pushed on, past the Sheraton and the Cairo Tower, through the bright lights of the Gezira Club and into the gloomier tracts of Al-Aguza, keeping a tributary of the river on his right. As he took the slip road that led to the 26th of July Bridge, which would take him back to Zamalek and Sharifa’s apartment, Girling lost sight of the Mukhabarat. It was only when he glanced from the rear-view to the off-side wing-mirror that he saw the Fiat, very close and slightly behind, sticking like glue to his blind spot. There was a sharp crack, as if his tyres had kicked up a pebble. Everything seemed to happen so slowly that Girling found himself almost observing what followed. His eyes moved down to the speedometer. Accelerating up the ramp, he’d allowed the car to get up to eighty-seven kilometres per hour. The steering wheel suddenly went slack in his hands as the tyre blew instantaneously. There was a demonic shriek as the bare metal rim scraped across the road. And then he lost control.

The BMW careered across the slip road and smashed into the thin metal railings lining the pedestrian walkway. Girling caught a fleeting glimpse of the brown, turgid waters of the river below him as the BMW up-ended and plunged over the side of the bridge. He was thrown against the door with such force he thought it would fly open, but it didn’t; it held. His hand felt behind him, latched onto a handle and pulled. It seemed to stick. Girling shut his eyes and prepared for the impact.

And then he was free, falling through space, images of his tumbling world imprinted at random on the back of his mind. He saw the bridge above him, the car spinning, the water and the trees...

He hit the ground twenty feet below the bridge, but the shock of the fall was absorbed by five feet of accumulated rubbish. He rolled down the bank and slid into a dense clump of papyrus. He lay there, half his face in the mud and detritus, panting for air, like a fish left high and dry by the tide. Then he began to pick up the sounds around him. He could hear the car sinking in the river, the water rushing in and the air bubbling out, the two meeting in a boiling confluence. He heard a car’s doors open and close. Footsteps on the bridge. Shouts. Excitement. He rolled onto his back and saw his surroundings for the first time. Somehow the car had thrown him clear and under the bridge as it spun into the water. The concrete sections of the bridge’s span filled his vision, obscured partially by the curtain of reeds and vegetation into which he had tumbled. He pulled himself onto his elbows, ignoring the stench from the nearby rubbish and the musty smell of the swamp. The BMW was all but submerged, with only its boot and part of the roof showing above the water.

There were more voices on the bridge now. He thought of shouting for help, but something stopped him. He lay still, out of sight. He heard a twig snap on the bank above him and the light curse of a man struggling through undergrowth to get to the water’s edge.

The last gasp from the car signalled its plunge to the river bed. Moments later, Girling recognized a voice on the bridge. The investigator shouted down to the man by the water.

‘Huwa maut,’ came the reply. He is dead.

‘Tayib,’ Al-Qadi said. Good.

Only then did Girling begin to edge towards the bridge’s concrete pillar and the sanctuary of the dark road beyond.

‘If they dredge the river tomorrow they’ll know I’m not dead. And this is the first place Al-Qadi will come looking. You don’t want to be here when that happens. The guy is out of control.’

‘Where will you go?’ Sharifa asked.

Girling could see from her eyes that she was still in shock.

‘I’m going south. If I get lucky, I should be back in thirty-six hours.’

He looked at his watch. There wasn’t a whole lot of time before the last train for Qena pulled out of Ramsis station.

She sat on the edge of her bed, watching as he exchanged his clothes for a tropical suit of Stansell’s. ‘You, meanwhile, are going to get some special protection.’

‘Who from?’

‘The Israelis.’

Girling wrote down Lazan’s address in Ibn Zanki Street and passed it to her. ‘Get to him as soon as you can, either at this, his home address, or the embassy. Lazan knows most of the story already. You’ll be safe with him.’

‘What’s happening, Tom? What’s going on?’

‘I don’t know. Maybe Al-Qadi’s working for the Angels of Judgement, too. Or maybe he just decided to take the law into his own hands.’

‘This whole thing is getting out of control,’ she whispered. ‘Stansell knew the Sword. He’d written about him. In 1979.’

She produced the fax she had received from Dispatches’ circulation department, the office that dealt with back numbers.

Girling just stared at the sheet of paper. His mind tried to take in the words, but he never absorbed anything beyond the first paragraph. It was enough.

The report, datelined Kabul, bore Stansell’s byline. Guerrillas had attacked a government convoy with rockets on the Salang Highway leaving several trucks wrecked and a number of soldiers dead. No one group had claimed responsibility, but according to Mujahideen sources, Stansell filed, the attack had been carried out by a nascent organization whose leader was said to be known at varying times as Ibn Husam or Al-Saif. The Sword.

‘Jesus Christ,’ was the first and only thing Girling said.