CAIRO, EGYPT
FOUR YEARS AGO
Assistant Deputy Secretary of State Edward Russell maintained a brisk pace as he hurried through Terminal 3 of the Cairo International Airport. He walked past the different stores, seeing flashes of books, overpriced food, and clothes. He wondered for a moment who in their right mind bought clothes at an airport, but seeing that every store was busy with customers, he just shook his head and continued toward the main station of the MiniMetro. Quite familiar with the airport, Russell didn’t need a map to find the station, which was located between the freshly renovated Terminal 2 and the slightly older but much bigger Terminal 3. Looking past the bobbing and weaving heads of the other passengers walking in front of him, Russell spotted the red-and-white train symbol. He turned left at the next junction, with the instructions he’d been forced to memorize before leaving Washington playing in his mind over and over.
From Terminal 3, walk to the main MiniMetro station. Take the MiniMetro to Terminal 1, then use one of the terminal’s public bathrooms before climbing back into the train to Terminal 3. From there, buy a local newspaper from the gift shop and go to the lobby of the Le Méridien hotel by crossing the pedestrian bridge. Someone will be waiting for you in the lobby.
Though he remembered every word, it failed to boost his confidence. Russell wasn’t a spy, but he wasn’t a fool, either. He knew he was being watched. He just didn’t know by whom. All around him, arriving and departing passengers were hauling not only suitcases and travel bags stuffed to overflowing, but also teddy bears, pillows, and shopping bags filled with consumer goods. As large and nice as it was, Terminal 3 was packed with sweaty travelers, and their hurried footsteps, mixed with the sounds of crying babies, echoed up and down its structure. How anyone could find him in this crowd was a mystery. It seemed that every square inch of the terminal was occupied.
And it suffocated him.
To his left, a porter called out, offering to carry Russell’s lone carry-on. Russell dismissed him with an impatient wave of the hand and reserved the same treatment for the two currency exchangers waiting on the MiniMetro platform.
No. He didn’t want to exchange his US dollars or euros for Egyptian pounds.
No, he didn’t need a taxi.
And no, he didn’t want companionship.
Russell wormed his way around the well-dressed peddlers and battled for position as the bright red train arrived. He squeezed into the car, which was already packed. There was standing room only, but he didn’t mind after the thirteen-hour flight.
He had much more important things to worry about.
Russell, who had cultivated and maintained a multitude of contacts throughout Egypt during his thirty-year career at the Department of State’s Bureau of Conflict and Stabilization Operations, had been sent to Cairo as the US secretary of state’s personal emissary. His job for the next forty-eight hours was to hold discreet talks with what remained of the Muslim Brotherhood leadership. Once Egypt’s largest opposition movement, the Brotherhood’s political wing had won a plurality of seats in Egypt’s lower house in 2011 but had been pushed out by a coup d’état two years later. Following a brutal crackdown, many of the Brotherhood’s leaders and thousands of its members were imprisoned or forced into exile. With the Muslim Brotherhood completely cut off from political and civic participation, the CIA had cautioned that the remaining influential members of the Brotherhood were about to splinter into different groups. Without a central leadership, the most radical factions of the Muslim Brotherhood would become much more difficult to track. Not only could this cause significant social unrest in the capital and fuel more terror attacks against government forces in North Sinai, it could jeopardize the fragile but improving relationship between Egypt and Israel.
With the current instability in Libya and Sudan, and the escalating crisis in Ethiopia, the United States government saw the rapprochement between Egypt and Israel as vital for its national interests in the region.
In an effort to truly understand the growing discomfort within the Muslim Brotherhood ranks, the secretary of state wanted a finger on its pulse. Russell was that finger. But there was a problem. With the Egyptian government having designated the Muslim Brotherhood a terrorist organization, the United States couldn’t afford to be seen entertaining discussions with them. That meant Russell had to travel to Cairo unofficially and without the contingent of DSS special agents he would normally be entitled to for such a trip.
“But it doesn’t mean you’ll be alone, Edward,” the secretary of state had told him when he had summoned Russell into his office. “A small team of private contractors led by a man named Oliver will be waiting for you in Cairo. They’re very, very good at what they do. Follow their lead, and they’ll keep you safe. Trust me on this.”
As the train began to move, Russell could see a dull gray sky beyond the windows. It must have rained hard earlier because the drains adjoining the airport were flooded. The traffic around the terminals was backed up, thanks in part to the vehicles that were double- and even triple-parked curbside. In the background was a constant sounding of horns by frustrated drivers. Russell’s eyes moved from left to right, searching for somebody who might be paying too much attention to him. None of the faces looked familiar.
It took Russell a little less than thirty minutes to reach the final step of the procedures he’d been asked to follow. He was midway through the 250-yard-long pedestrian bridge leading to the hotel lobby when a hand suddenly squeezed his elbow.
Russell froze, spooked.
“Don’t stop walking, Mr. Russell. You’re clear. Keep your distance, but follow me,” a tall man dressed in dark slacks and matching zippered jacket said without stopping.
Russell’s heart was pounding. Where had this man come from? He just appeared from seemingly nowhere. And, even more critical, who was he? The instructions had said that someone would be waiting for him in the lobby. There had been no mention of someone accosting him on the bridge leading to the hotel.
Shit.
What was he supposed to do? The man’s English was perfect, without a hint of an accent.
And he knows my name. It has to be Oliver.
Russell prayed that he was right.