CAIRO, EGYPT
Oliver Manton entered the hotel lobby and scratched his right ear, a gesture intended for his partner Trent, signaling that Russell was on his way.
“Good copy,” Trent replied, his voice coming through the earbud deep in Manton’s ear canal. “The SUV is at the door and ready to receive.”
The lobby was spacious and elegant, with dark marble floors and a large reading area, but it lacked any real charm. The reception area was busy with the regular hum of arriving and departing guests, and Manton figured that, on a busy day, the check-in counter might be mistaken for a terminal at Hartsfield-Jackson Airport in Atlanta. A quick look outside through one of the large floor-to-ceiling windows confirmed that the rain had stopped, but the dark, low-hanging clouds promised more very soon, which didn’t help lighten Manton’s bad mood. Another downpour would only worsen the drive out of the airport.
Moreover, in Manton’s opinion, it didn’t make much sense to have three Treadstone agents babysitting an assistant deputy secretary in Cairo. Manton had read the ops plan prepared by Treadstone Director Levi Shaw and understood why DSS special agents couldn’t be involved. He was in agreement with Shaw as to why Russell needed to be protected.
That wasn’t the problem.
What Manton couldn’t wrap his head around was why Treadstone had been given the assignment in the first place. These kinds of duties were usually assigned to private military companies who specialized in close protection. Treadstone operatives were hardened assassins, not protectors.
Unless . . .
Was escorting the assistant deputy secretary only a cover for a darker assignment? Having worked for Shaw for years, Manton wouldn’t be surprised.
Manton grunted at the thought. Did it really matter? Whatever the real reason he and the other agents were in Cairo, they would do what they were told. Like they always did.
He had never worked with the other two operatives before, and he couldn’t even remember the last time he had worked so closely with another agent, let alone two. Still, it was comforting to know he was operating alongside highly skilled individuals who had graduated—survived, really—the same brutal training he had.
Manton crossed the polished floor of the lobby and strode past Trent, who had taken position next to the concierge desk. Manton pushed through the brass-framed revolving door and headed toward the dark gray Audi Q7, his head on a swivel. The stench of gasoline fumes emanating from the idling vehicles parked curbside, mixed with the smell of jet fuel, assaulted his nose. The odor was so powerful that Manton could taste it.
When Edward Russell stepped out of the lobby twenty seconds later, followed ten steps behind by the second Treadstone agent, Manton gave the assistant deputy secretary of state a nod and opened the rear passenger door for the two men.
“You can leave your carry-on here, sir,” Manton said. “I’ll put it in the trunk for you.”
Russell complied and climbed inside first, with Trent following seconds later. Manton closed the door, dropped the surprisingly heavy carry-on in the trunk next to a pair of duffel bags, and scanned the area one last time before sliding into the passenger seat of the SUV. The Audi surged forward and merged into traffic.
“We’re going to the alternate safe house,” Manton said to the driver.
Manton shifted in his seat so that he could look at the Treadstone agent seated behind him.
“Anyone in the lobby?” Manton asked.
“Can’t be sure, but probably,” Trent replied, pulling out two MP5 submachine guns and a bunch of spare magazines from a hard-sided Pelican case at his feet. “I’d say there’s a fifty-fifty chance they made us.”
The agent gave Manton an MP5 with three full magazines. Manton quickly inspected the magazines and inserted one into the submachine gun’s well. Manton glanced at the side mirror. Aged vehicles in various states of repair swarmed all around their SUV, and it would only get worse the closer they got to the city center. On their right, an old, horribly beat-up white sedan accelerated past them. Manton tightened his grip on the MP5, but relaxed when he saw two young children seated in the rear. One of the kids looked at Manton and waved, a big smile on her face. Caught off guard, Manton tried to return the smile, but only managed a twitch of his lips.
He turned his attention to Russell and was surprised at the intensity with which the bureaucrat was staring back at him. Although Russell had almost jumped out of his socks when Manton had made initial contact with him on the bridge linking Terminal 3 and the Le Méridien, he certainly didn’t look scared now.
“What’s your name?” Russell asked.
“Oliver.”
“Which PMC are you guys with?”
“Does it matter?” Manton replied.
“Guess not.”
“By the way, this is Patrick,” Manton said, pointing to the driver. “And the big guy next to you is Trent.”
Trent nodded at Russell, then turned his attention to Manton and asked, “You want me to grab the rest of the kit?”
Manton nodded. “Yeah. Why not? And get a vest for Mr. Russell, too.”
“Hold on a second, will you? Did I miss something?” Russell asked. “What’s with going to the alternate safe house and all the guns? Is something wrong?”
Manton realized he hadn’t kept Russell in the loop about his thought process.
“Let me first apologize for the series of detours we imposed on you,” he said. “But we needed to see if you were being followed or if someone was waiting for you at the terminal.”
“I figured that much,” Russell said. “So I’m clear?”
“No.”
Russell’s eyes widened in surprise. “What? On the bridge you told me I was—”
“I lied,” Manton said, cutting him off. “I didn’t want you to panic and start looking everywhere.”
“Are . . . Are you sure?”
“Very. But I don’t know who they are or what their intent is.”
“I didn’t see anyone. Is it possible you’re—”
“I said I’m sure,” Manton said, once again interrupting Russell.
The assistant deputy secretary of state was doing his best to maintain a straight face, but Manton could see the concern in the man’s eyes. Russell’s presence in Egypt and the meetings he was scheduled to lead were supposed to be kept under wraps. Now that the cat was out of the bag, decisions needed to be made.
“I don’t know you, Oliver, but my boss told me you’re good at what you do,” Russell said after a moment. “So, what do you suggest I do?”
“It’s up to you, sir. You can go back to DC, or we can try to fix this.”
“Fix this? What does that even mean?”
“It means that we have numerous contingency plans for situations like this,” Manton said with a hint of impatience.
“Like what?”
“You don’t need to bother yourself with that, Mr. Russell.”
“Maybe, maybe not, but I’d like you to tell me anyway. If you don’t mind?”
Manton did mind, but if giving the chatty bureaucrat a two-sentence answer would shut him up . . .
“I can go into the details later if you insist, but we’re going to make a series of detours and stops on our way to the safe house. The second stop will be in an underground parking garage right off Tahrir Square, and this is where you, Trent, and I will switch vehicles.”
“Okay. I assume the objective is to get to the alternate safe house unnoticed?”
“That’s right. If we believe you’re still under surveillance, or that the alternate safe house is compromised in any way, then we’ll have no choice but to recommend you call off your meetings.”
“I see. And what are the odds of that happening?” Russell asked.
“Hard to say without knowing how the opposition found out you were coming,” Manton admitted. “Very few people outside this vehicle knew about your trip to Cairo. It’s possible that the people who were waiting for you at the airport weren’t hostiles, but members of the Muslim Brotherhood making sure you arrived okay. I think there’s a fair chance you’ll be able to carry on with your mission.”
“You think?” the bureaucrat asked with a chuckle. “That’s not very reassuring.”
“Well, that’s all I can offer you. There are no guarantees—”
Manton caught a bunch of flashes at the edge of his peripheral vision and turned his head toward their origin—the parking lot of a McDonald’s on El Nasr Road two hundred yards away.
Before Manton could scream a warning, the driver yelled, “RPGs!” as he punched the gas and cranked the wheel right, aiming for the drainage ditch on the side of the road. Few men could have reacted as quickly to the threat as the driver did, but even he wasn’t fast enough. Manton saw several trails of smoke, and then the white sedan carrying the two kids flew into the air on a pillar of flame, a vicious explosion splitting the air. A millisecond later, a second projectile struck the pavement and detonated less than one meter from the left rear tire of the Audi, tilting the bulky SUV onto two wheels. The driver lost control and hit the ditch at an odd angle at almost fifty miles an hour. Manton’s heart lurched into his throat as the Audi took flight. The SUV flipped twice and landed upside down on the other side of the ditch with a sickening, metallic crunch.