Empty Quarter

By Les Mason

With a war raging, communications were hamstrung for Mid East CIA agent Leon Loeb.

The abducted Vercandi girl didn’t stand a chance of survival at the hands of the rebels. If the Hakeemi didn’t kill her, the Empty Quarter would. Nothing could survive the hottest, driest place on earth. He’d all but written her off when something beyond comprehension changed Loeb’s mind.

The girl’s cry for help in the center of his brain shook Loeb to the roots of his being.

Now he had to find her, and he’d use up everyone around him to do so—including the man he’d been sent to extract, diplomat Nathan Vercandi.

Something stunk about this action from the start, but nothing else mattered now. His keepers’ duplicity seemed irrelevant compared to the things Loeb needed to discover about himself.

At the height of an Arabian summer he’d have to achieve the impossible—fly into the hellish wasteland of Rub al-Khali and get her out alive…or die trying.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Les Mason
• Release date: Aug 19, 2015
• ISBN: 9781516304462

Book preview

In the first week of June 1967 a war broke out in the Middle East that came to be known as The Six-Day War.

Heralded as the swiftest, most instant victory in the history of modern conflict, the essence of that victory condensed into a few early morning hours, when a vastly outnumbered Israeli air force effectively eliminated the air power of four powerful Arab nations. With unopposed mastery of the sky, a ground victory became inevitable.

But the real victory went much deeper. The Six-Day War was a lightning war, made possible by superior military intelligence. Not so much a clash of weapons, as a clash of minds.

We begin in the early hours of Monday, June 5th 1967

ONE

INTO THE ABYSS

If she were able to step back—reverse time for an hour or two—it would strike her as strange how flat and normal things were just prior to a cataclysm. In retrospect, the ennui would seem absurd.

But she could no more step back than put a hold on time itself. Each event had clicked silently, relentlessly into place and delivered her to this moment. The hand was already moving—about to give her the ungodly push.

***

While boredom sent others drifting to sleep with heavy eyelids, it had the precise, opposite effect on Mandy Vercandi. Late as it was, almost two A.M., Mandy remained wired and awake. Sleep seemed out of the question. She’d tried reading, but found her mind kept wandering, causing her to lose track and constantly recap. In the end she admitted defeat. The distraction had much to do with being completely alone in the huge hotel suite for the first time.

When her parents traipsed off to the Emir’s pompous midnight reception in the usual mood of dreary resignation, sparing her the tedious ordeal of tagging along, it seemed like a merciful break. They would make plausible, yet nonetheless untrue excuses for her, and the Emirate’s assembled dignitaries would express how much her charming presence was missed.

Such a crock.

With only five weeks in Abu Shafrah, already Mandy yearned to be back in Cairo enjoying some semblance of freedom. After two years in the Middle East, assisting her father and broadening her education, she thought she understood the fundamentals of fundamentalist Islamic culture, despite seeing it through the warped and distrusted eyes of the Westerner—the kafir. Yet the more she understood, the more places like this theocratic hellhole made her wish for the bliss of ignorance.

These obligatory junkets through the "backwater petroleum emirates" as her father, The Special U.S. Diplomatic Envoy to the Middle East, privately called them, were perhaps interesting at first. But now a familiar restrictive pattern had established itself. Unlike the integrated districts of Cairo, here she could never walk the streets unescorted—that was unthinkable. Even suitably guarded by their State Department security agent, the question of appearance alone presented dire problems. Female European dress, although tolerated in closed diplomatic circles and in the boardrooms of petro moguls, the mainstream populous on the city streets reviled any show of femininity. This was an extreme religious state, where law and faith combined into a single, unaccommodating milieu. The warnings had been clear. If you were seen as an unbeliever—unobservant of the Sunni Muslim code—then publicly it was safer not to be seen at all.

The air-conditioned limousine she rode in everywhere felt like a hermetically sealed envelope, ensuring the cultural discovery of these places remained inaccessible. Clandestine forays into the neighborhoods, perhaps cloaked surreptitiously behind the hijaab or batula mask, were unthinkable and forbidden. One glimpse of her pale blue eyes would end the deception instantly and plunge her into more trouble than fast talk of diplomatic immunity could ever overcome. In Abu Shafrah, diplomatic immunity was strictly a theory. Not to be put to any real test.

Never more so than now, with international tensions set so high. She’d felt it for a while—a nervous crackle in the background. It whispered the American Diplomatic Corps may not be the safest of occupations in the Middle East during these very troubled times.

Once night fell, there’d be little to do in the El Mahara Hotel. During daylight its surrounding grounds mercifully extended to the coast and a private mile-long beachfront promenade. But after nightfall even the cooling breezes off the Persian Gulf were denied her. A special curfew, extending along the entire coastline from Doah to Dubai, barred all from the shore—guests and hotel staff alike.

The suite felt unbearable this night. Sluggish twin ceiling fans seldom kept the hot, moist air moving from the open loggia-style balcony that faced onto the inner courtyard. Pitiful by design, the El Mahara remained the only hotel Abu Shafrah had to offer dignitaries, despite the Sheikhdom’s sudden aggrandizement from a gush of newfound oil wealth. Its inadequate air-conditioning seldom worked, even when influential guests complained bitterly—as her father had done on repeated occasions. Of course alcohol was nowhere in sight, nor were any other forms of decadent Western recreation. It would seem the Sheikhs’ notorious reputation for over-indulgences were only fully enjoyed when everyone else suffered boredom and discomfort.

Mandy could no longer abide these insincere autocrats whom she perceived as caring little for the education and betterment of their own people; squandering huge, windfall profits by relentlessly soaking up Western luxuries in deference to hospitals and decent schools—basic services they could easily afford to implement. It had become harder each day to switch on the diplomatic smile, even for her father’s sake.

She thought again of Nathan and Charlotte and sighed to herself. Mr. and Mrs. Nathan Vercandi were destined to endure yet another interminable midnight reception at the Emir’s court, which invariably threatened to drag on well into the dawn hours. These nocturnal soirees were often held late in an effort to avoid the merciless daytime temperatures that sometimes soared into the stratosphere, rendering Western visitors drained and useless without their beloved freon.

The book slammed closed. Tonight she wouldn’t sleep a wink—not until her mind was right.

With the suite securely locked behind her, she stepped into the corridor. Her father’s diplomatic papers and signals filled the bureau in the sitting room and some were highly sensitive documents, albeit worthless to an uneducated thief bent on basic plunder.

The elevator descended to the mezzanine level. An all-night café overlooked the main lobby and reception area, with small wrought-iron tables positioned close to the balustrade. From here she could study the comings and goings of the hotel night staff and other insomniac guests like herself.

Although quite new, the El Mahara had been styled along traditional British colonial lines. Solid marble columns and much potted greenery blended with cane and rattan, brass fittings, polished tile and mahogany trim. They served with fine-cut crystal and bone china crockery. Meticulous attention to detail prevailed everywhere, yet sadly attention to the basics, like air-conditioning and plumbing, remained deplorable. A façade.

Aside from the Arab waiter, the café remained deserted. Without being asked, he fetched a carafe of decaffeinated coffee and placed a tray of hors d’oeuvres in the center of the table. The day manager had left standing instructions. She requested chilled mineral water instead of the coffee and leaned on the heavy mahogany rail. Everything below looked still until a porter’s footsteps clipped along the marble tile, became silent as they traversed one of the lush Persian rugs, then tap-tapped again as he came into view from behind an enormous potted palm. He bent over, talking to someone that she couldn’t see, seated between two columns just under the mezzanine overhang, and handed off what looked like a set of car keys. A white hand responded with a gratuity, then the turbaned porter retreated the way he came.

A Caucasian guest. Late arrival or departure? Probably departure. Getting a very early start. Likely driving to Dubai or Qatar while the night air remained cool and the coast road unblocked by ramshackle trucks. Lucky to be going somewhere at least.

Mandy tried a pastry thing with some sort of paté in the center. Not good: fish-based and salty. She wasn’t the least bit hungry, just another symptom of boredom.

The elevator became active again. She heard the whine as it passed the mezzanine floor on its way down, then the rumble of the doors below. Two middle-aged Westerners in lightweight suits crossed the lobby. One toted a blue B.O.A.C. flight bag slung over his shoulder while the other carried a briefcase. What had previously only been a white hand revealed its attachment: a bald American type wearing wide suspenders, carrying a sport jacket slung over one arm. After a few words the trio began making for the main entrance where it could be assumed a hire car sat waiting.

Mandy had already decided she would do a prod if a good target presented itself.

She let them get halfway across the main floor. With her chin propped on her arm she focused hard, centering the concentration on the short hairs at the back of the bald man’s head.

Most times targets would stop and gawk about with a bewildered expression in total confusion, the typical reaction she expected.

Baldman turned out to be a better than average target—much better. Her contact locked on solid while his two companions remained oblivious and unwavering.

Baldman turned, mouth lolling open like a child when it first realizes it is alone and lost. Had he stopped moving everything would have been fine, but the unfortunate boob kept right on trucking, looking everywhere but in his direction of travel.

When Mandy recognized the impending collision she cut off. She intended harmless fun, not a spiteful act resulting in real injury. A split second too late Baldman saw the low coffee table and collected it, wrapping his arms around a huge lampshade as if he were embracing an obese dance partner. The entire flailing mess went for a dive, followed by a dreadful crash. Mandy winced and turned away quickly. Oops!

Running feet and raised voices ensued. The waiter went to the balustrade and looked over. Slyly Mandy ventured a peek. Baldman had survived okay; the other two were helping him up and brushing him off, no doubt wondering if their associate suffered some sort of coordination problem that would necessitate reallocating the driving chores. The only casualties seemed to be the smashed table lamp and an aspidistra on its side with potting soil scattered across the Turkoman rug. Eventually the fussing subsided. Baldman gave one last suspicious scan of the lobby before being bundled through the main revolving door by his embarrassed companions.

Mandy stuck her face in the glass of mineral water to quell any giggling. Perhaps she should have gone to the Emir’s reception after all? On second thoughts, no, she wouldn’t do that to her father, Nathan’s job was difficult enough. As if he needed a mischievous, bored teenager with special talents that neither he, nor Charlotte, could ever suspect were there.

The game was too easy and quite discovery-proof. Tonight had been no challenge at all. It worked over far greater distances than the pathetic lobby of the El Mahara. In fact Mandy had no clue how far this cerebral prodding would reach if she really tried. She’d always perpetrated it on people she could see—within visual range—to observe cause and effect. After all, what would be the point of the mischief if she couldn’t enjoy the result?

Get to bed, Mandy and stop behaving like an infant.

***

When she arrived back at the suite it became obvious there would be no sleep yet. Her restlessness seemed more heightened than before. She meandered about the spacious sitting room, absently touching familiar commonplace items, eventually wandering through the open double doors of her parents’ bedroom.

A floor-length tilt mirror stood beside Charlotte’s dressing table. Mandy stood before it in her partly unbuttoned A-line dress and pulled the light blond hair back from her face. Both her parents were fiendishly handsome people and Mandy knew how outrageously she had profited from their union, but Nathan had difficulties and mixed feelings. She’d become too much for him.

Mandy Vercandi. Jesus, what a colossally stupid name. What were they thinking of? I suppose if I’d been a boy child it was even money they’d call me Randy.

Mandy touched her lips. She’d never deliberately try to shock her father. Doubtless Nathan found his baby’s sudden and spectacular flowering into full-blown womanhood delightful and amazing... but also unnerving.

Nathan the giver, Charlotte the teacher. The silver spoon and more. I can have anything, yet still I complain and cause disappointment.

Narcissistically she studied the perfect oval, high cheekbones and the pale cornea of her eyes. Iridescent eyes that could dazzle—startle. Her mouth held the optimal shape for her classic bone structure. Not too wide nor pouty, containing expensive, orthodontically perfect teeth with just the right overbite to give the red lips their seductive curve and set.

Surely the right mouth for such an elegant silver spoon.

Idly she ran her hands slowly down the sides of her neck and onto her shoulders, touching the straps that pressed into the lightly tanned skin. At nineteen her breasts were still developing, yet full enough to balance the curve of her hips above long slender legs. Legs that gave her the poise and stride to carry these lavish proportions with grace. She offset her weight onto one leg and turned the other outward. Long bones, both from hip to knee and knee to calf—another legacy from her six-foot-six father? Oh, Mandy, really!

Her mind wandered. Jesus, how those barbarians watched when she accompanied her parents to the palaces and courts, mentally undressing her before she’d barely been introduced. It wasn’t their predatory eyes she minded so much, she’d become immune to the stares, more the thoughts and culture behind the eyes.

In the final analysis she represented a heathen unbeliever—a sexual object. In earlier times there’d have been no polite bowing and smiles from these people.

Lightly her fingers unhooked the rear clasp and felt the dress loosen. She shrugged her shoulders and let it fall to the floor. A light sheen of perspiration added a glow in the subdued light. She’d done it numerous times before: assessed her full-length reflection. This appreciation of her developing new self seemed akin to the special mental contact—not something she could properly comprehend, but it contained no shame or guilt. Hormonal maturity had bloomed late, yet release had to be strong and regular now—now the urges came so maddeningly frequent.

Her hand moved.

To the Arabs of the Backwater Emirates, the mere thought of female self-gratification paralleled extreme blasphemy. The barbarous circumcision of female children, although officially denied now, had not gone away. Mandy knew the denials were all patently untrue.

She’d done it in Cairo restaurants and other semi-public places when it became possible to manipulate herself unseen, and wondered if the somewhat stuffy company had ever clued-in to her flushed impropriety—of course her oblivious parents never did.

"You’re looking a little peaked tonight dear. Hope it’s not that dreadful stomach flu."

Cairo aside, she knew these titillations were a truly dangerous game in this extremist part of the world. Perhaps these trips along the knife-edge of disaster were little private protests. A way of giving the Moslem bastards the finger, while giving it to herself.

Each breath followed more rapidly. She pictured the strong Arab boys that worked the embassy grounds in Cairo’s diplomatic district, recalling parental warnings about Arab youths spreading their mysterious infectious diseases, calculated to deter any notion of congress with these lowly creatures. Unthinkable!

Unthinkable, hell! The more dangerous and forbidden, the more excited she became.

Why couldn’t Nathan and Charlotte acknowledge her sexuality instead of being so intimidated by it?

Her right hand slid inside the lacy fabric, then under and between her slightly parted legs. Tonight there was plenty of time—plenty of time.

***

Nathan Vercandi detected movement out the corner of his eye, but never reduced his smile or broke attentiveness away from the Abu Shafrah administrative head of state.

Salah, the US State Department security agent, closed on the head table, moving urgently, yet trying to appear casual at the same time. No doubt, Emir Gamal al-Rahshid Hourani would also notice Salah’s swift progress across the marble-floored banquet hall, but gave no outward sign. Charlotte Vercandi remained busy talking to Rahshid’s wife, Ashiah, while trying not to perspire too copiously.

Rahshid finally looked up as Salah presented himself, affording Nathan the opportunity to do the same. Protocol was better served when Rahshid broke off any conversation first. Salah made a brief apology for the interruption then slipped Nathan a folded square of paper. Nathan curtly excused himself and turned to Salah as he unfolded the slip.

It contained a portion of a decoded teletype communication.

CAIRO. DEPARTMENT OF STATE, SECURE.

It read simply:

IT HAS STARTED. RETURN IMMEDIATELY.

The security agent discreetly bent close to Nathan’s ear and murmured: Transport is already being arranged, sir.

Nathan replied with barely a nod. He tucked the slip into the top pocket of his white tuxedo while Salah began a smart return across the banquet hall and out the double doors, passing between two ceremonial soldiers who held their yataghan sabers menacingly at the ready.

Charlotte now began watching all this closely while still half engaged in conversation. Her attention gradually drifted from Ashiah’s incessantly banal smalltalk. All throughout the evening she’d been obsessed by the memory of gin-over-ice—straight with a twist. Couldn’t get the infernal taste of it out of her mind.

Nathan turned back to Rahshid. Rahshid’s eyebrows went up, his dark, moonlike face contrasting sharply against the checkered kaffiyeh frame. Not bad news, I trust?

Fakery, Nathan mused. Rahshid already knew something intense brewed on the diplomatic front. Information gathering had been the Emir’s main reason for organizing this charade.

Summoned back to Cairo, I’m afraid, Minister. We must leave immediately. Most likely a false alarm, but these days who can tell? He smiled at Charlotte. And just when the ladies were getting along so famously.

He noted the faint expression of relief in her eyes. It had taken Charlotte a long time to get the hang of polite diplomatic banality, and still found sustaining aimless tattle a strain. A diplomatic shortcoming Nathan never tired of.

Following the usual round of profuse apologies and regrets, sprinkled with handshakes, supplication gestures and general bowing and scraping, the entourage shuffled through the palatial white columns toward the parade ground-sized courtyard. Salah already stood beside the rear door of the limousine, only opening it at the last moment to preserve the cooled interior.

With Nathan and Charlotte installed into the rear compartment, Salah slipped in beside the driver and the Cadillac pulled away immediately. The tires made a crunching sound on the green crystalline driveway. Directly the car exited the perimeter of the palace the driver turned the headlights to high beam and accelerated to sixty miles-per-hour, speeding along the palm-lined boulevard that led to the coast. Nathan pressed the control button on the armrest for the divider glass. Salah twisted in the front seat.

Details! Is this what I think it is? Nathan demanded tight-faced, knowing the security agent would be in possession of the full communication.

Reliable intelligence out of Tel Aviv. He passed a decoded printout through the open partition. "The Israelis have issued go codes to all their forces. Our ELINT intercepts are confirmed. Preemptive Israeli air strikes are scheduled for sometime around dawn—we can’t be more precise than that—but their targets are everywhere, from Ras Banas to Amman. Full scale attacks. They’re throwing everything in. Nasser is still blockading the Gulf of Aqaba, but the USS Liberty should be off the coast of Egypt in another 24 hours. Our interests will have reliable communications even if things go bad for Israel."

Nathan shook his head. That fool, Nasser. The Israelis have him just where they want him.

Salah commiserated. He can’t back down since he ordered the UNEF out altogether. He’s caught. Détente’s falling apart everywhere. There’s no doubt, sir, the war is on. So far we know of targets in Egypt, Jordan, Syria and Iraq.

What are the Syrian targets?

The betting is the Israelis will try to take the Golan Heights in an all-out assault.

Is the ambassador still in Cairo?

No, sir. Mr. Nolte flew out less than an hour ago. London first; then he’s on his way to Washington. Be there sometime in the afternoon.

Nathan turned to Charlotte whose face had drained of all its color. UN will likely be into emergency session before we arrive back in Cairo. Directly we land I want you to take Mandy and get over to Miles Copeland’s place. Pack what you need and expect to be on a plane out of Egypt inside of one hour.

Charlotte gripped his hand. Will it be very bad this time?

Nathan drew her hand to his mouth and kissed the knuckle beside her wedding ring. The UN will stop it before it goes too far, but I want to take precautions. I can handle things in Cairo better if I know you and Mandy are safe. He turned his attention back to Salah. I want full cover on them, Salah. When I say so, get them out of Egypt—fast! Use whatever’s available.

Salah nodded and Nathan raised the divider glass.

***

Mandy could feel the inevitable tremble in her legs, which she pressed together ever more tightly. Standing somehow made the impending crisis fuller—more intense. The panties were pushed down over her thighs, and if it weren’t for the way she pressed her legs together, the skimpy garment would have fallen about her ankles long ago. She squirmed and rubbed, sometimes probing harder, sometimes backing off—riding the ragged edge of ecstasy as long as she could.

Unfortunately the small preceding sounds failed to register through the near delirium.

At the exact moment of climax she heard a gasp, and somehow realized it had not come from within herself. When the mirror came back into focus Mandy saw both her aghast parents standing at the bedroom door behind her.

She couldn’t turn round; her legs were shaking. Perhaps it was just as well.

Immediately Nathan cleared his throat with an exaggerated rumble and turned away, fading back into the sitting room. Charlotte remained rooted at the doorway for a moment watching a red flush spread over Mandy’s face and exposed bosom in the mirror’s reflection. Slowly Mandy withdrew the hand from her crotch and pulled up the damp underwear.

At first both were too awkward and embarrassed to speak. Mandy couldn’t believe it. Her parents shouldn’t have been back for hours, those godforsaken receptions always continued to the threshold of dawn. She started to say something but Charlotte cut in and silenced her. Damn you, Mandy! You embarrassed your father, she snapped.

Mandy sucked in a short breath. Her mother never swore, not even mildly.

Charlotte moved beside her, thrusting forward the silky robe that had lain discarded across the bed. Of course Mandy knew her inevitable sexual maturity had occurred to Charlotte, but not quite so graphically as this. She’d morphed into someone more physically attractive than anything Charlotte could have dreamed. Not the innocent beauty Nathan preferred to see.

Take a shower, Charlotte ordered abruptly, we’re leaving right away.

Leaving? Why? What’s happened? Mandy managed to croak, wondering if a simple orgasm could be sufficient cause to break off an important diplomatic engagement.

There’s an emergency. We have to return to Cairo... it’s the Israelis; it’s war, Mandy. We knew it might happen. Oh God, what a terrible mess.

Mandy could see the distress in Charlotte’s face had not been all her doing. So it was war after all... How exciting!

She took her shower and dressed in traveling clothes, a blue ruffled blouse and gray romper pants in the new flared style, then sheepishly confronted her father and apologized.

Nathan uncomfortably brushed aside the apology and busied himself sifting through the paperwork, trying to pretend he’d noticed nothing. Two Arab valets appeared and began packing the trunks and cases, supervised by a vigilant Salah who had removed his jacket, revealing large sweat stains on his shirt and the intimidating 9mm Sig automatic slung in the leather shoulder holster. It took another hour before Nathan finally finished making emergency phone calls, being very careful how he spoke on the open lines. Mandy understood some of how this worked. American oil interests in the region would understand the gist through prearranged references apprising them of the situation, albeit innocuous sounding dialog to the casual eavesdropper.

Unchanged from their formal attire, Nathan and Charlotte did one final sweep of the rooms, checking that no important documents or valuables had been overlooked, then hustled Mandy down to the lobby and the waiting limousine.

***

In the hour before dawn, Abu Shafrah airport remained closed to normal traffic. Armed guards ushered the black Cadillac limousine, flying the U.S. State Department pennant, through the transit gates and onto the service apron. The only plane in sight turned out to be an old DC3, sitting near the main runway, its navigation lights blinking. Nathan lowered the divider glass.

Where’s the executive? Nathan snapped irritably, pointing to its empty spot on the apron.

Salah looked confused and perplexed. The absence of their twin-turboprop was the last thing he expected. I’ll find out what’s going on. Please stay in the car, sir. He quickly exited and double-timed across the apron towards a group of unmotivated airport officials standing near the entrance to the minuscule transit lounge.

Right away an argument seemed to erupt. Two more men, one dressed in a suit, the other in coveralls, joined in and something got passed to Salah. Then the familiar figure of their American pilot emerged from the lounge and appeared to limp across to the gathering, whereupon Salah began a heated exchange with him. Soon everyone had become animated and confrontational.

Oh, Lord. What’s gone wrong now? Nathan sighed in the complete silence of the limousine. Both Charlotte and Mandy looked at him. Charlotte had become ever more nervous, but Mandy bubbled, secretly delighted by the nighttime adventure. After five weeks of solid boredom, mostly confined to the El Mahara, this felt like a prison break.

Salah returned at a run; the front of his white shirt glowed brightly in the car’s high beams. When the door clicked shut he turned and delivered the bad news.

Another coded message came through to the embassy a few minutes ago. Cairo International Airport is definitely on the target list. Embassy operations are predicting that in two or three hours all civilian flights will be cancelled over Egypt. The Egyptians will shut down every airport and decree any aircraft crossing their borders will be fired on.

Charlotte gave a slight gasp.

There’s another problem. Our charter pilot seems to think there’s something going on he should know. He doesn’t have any details, but he suspects I’m holding out on him. He’s refusing to fly into Egypt unless he gets certain assurances.

Nathan grunted, That would be more money I presume?

Salah nodded. And plenty of information. We can’t stroke him, he’s too clever by half. Also the guy looks sick—real sick. I’d say he’s in no shape to fly anything right now.

How long do our people in Tel Aviv say this mess will last? Nathan sighed, half knowing the answer.

They’re predicting a minimum of twenty-four hours. Israeli jets will start showing up on Egyptian radar screens by first light. It looks like we have exclusive on this, nothing has been passed to Egyptian intelligence and they’re still unaware of the impending attack. Unless the UN can get a cease-fire agreement in effect quickly, transportation problems could go on indefinitely. Frankly, sir, no matter what we do we’ll never make it into Cairo before the shooting starts.

Damn this! Nathan rubbed his mouth. Any suggestions? It’s imperative I get to Cairo today.

Only one, sir, from your friend Sandy Hollis at Petrochem Exploration and Trading, and it’s real risky. Personally I don’t recommend it.

I might have known Sandy would anticipate this situation. Let’s hear it! Nathan fired back, not disguising his impatience.

Salah pointed through the windshield at the DC3. Through an arrangement with Mr. Hollis, Aramco have offered to fly us back in one of their transports. It has the range to cross Sudan and Libya; we’re pre-cleared to do that. We can refuel at Benghazi, then fly along the Mediterranean coast and see if they’ll let us land at Alexandria.

And if they don’t?

That’s the risk, sir. Our choice is: go in anyway, under a mayday call and hope ground defenses around the naval base don’t get trigger happy, or head for Nicosia.

Son-of-a-bi... Sorry, dear. Nathan fell silent for a moment, eyes closed, rubbing his temple. You’re right, Salah, it’s one hell of a risk, but I’ve made my decision. Tell the Aramco people I’ll take them up on their kind offer, only I’m going on alone. I want you to stay here with Charlotte and Mandy—

Nathan! Charlotte retorted.

Now, dear, you’ll both be perfectly safe with Salah.

"Good God, Nathan! It’s not our safety that frightens me."

Look, Charlotte, you know what’s at stake here. Besides, the crew of that plane are not about to commit suicide. They’ll get me there if they can. It’s an acceptable risk for me to take.

Mandy’s heart dropped like a stone. She knew this meant Nathan would get all the excitement while she continued to be cooped up in the El Mahara, for God knows how long, with a distraught mother and an edgy bodyguard.

Salah spoke candidly to Nathan. What if this thing escalates? Once Saudi is drawn in, this whole area could be a war zone.

Nathan’s mouth took a hard set. Make sure that slippery pilot of ours sticks around—threaten him if you have to. If things get bad here, fly the girls to any safe port—I don’t care where it is—just get them out. I’m trusting you with their lives, Salah.

The agent nodded; his boss had spoken.

Nathan knew his duty in Cairo now overrode everything else. Salah had one job to do: keep Mandy and Charlotte out of harm’s way.

Charlotte’s protests were ultimately futile. Assisted by the chauffeur, Nathan took a single bag from the trunk and a briefcase. Mandy watched the final scene from a favorite old movie play out under the blanket of night as if it were in black and white. The splutter and roar of radial engines coming to life; the kisses and hugs; the reassurances. But this time the hero left the heroine standing on the desert airfield.

Only one word repeated in Mandy’s mind—Bullshit-bullshit-bullshit!

TWO

LET THE KILLING BEGIN

Salah wisely removed the pennant from the front fender and began negotiating with the chauffeur for access to a less conspicuous automobile. His apprehension wasn’t baseless—terrorists could be anywhere now—and he saw no sense traveling about the city in a vehicle that amounted to an open invitation.

As they drove towards the El Mahara, Mandy and Charlotte fell silent. Charlotte had begun to cry—short sniffles that she tried to conceal from Mandy. Typically the nighttime streets and boulevards were deserted.

The ogee archways of the hotel’s main entrance could be seen far off to the left, as the car climbed the slight rise. The El Mahara’s floodlit gardens, with their tropical abundance, splayed out to welcome them back, but to a crestfallen Mandy, it might well have been a huge Venus Flytrap.

Two hundred yards from the turn-in, the limousine slowed dramatically then came to an abrupt stop. Charlotte leaned forward, wondering why they hadn’t continued to make the sweep into the long hotel driveway. Something lay in the road ahead, partly illuminated by the headlights. Salah placed a cautionary hand on the chauffeur’s shoulder and spoke into his ear.

What is it? Mandy whispered, but her mother only shook her head, indicating she had no more idea than Mandy.

Salah turned. It looks like someone in the road. Could be a hit-and-run accident or something else. Please, on no account get out of the car. Salah unlocked his door and stepped out. The chauffeur immediately locked it again and sat silently as the agent began approaching the white shape. The car’s headlights sent infinite shadows fanning along the curving roadway and across the immaculate lawns. Salah already held the automatic at his right side and divided his attention between the curled shape and the immediate surroundings. He took one more careful glance about before going down on one knee to make a quick examination of the body. It took no more than a few seconds.

On his way back to the car he broke into a run. After slamming and locking the door, he said, It’s one of the hotel valets. Dead. Neck’s broken. No other injuries that I could see. No skid marks in the road.

Charlotte placed her hand to her mouth while Salah set the safety on the 9mm and tucked it back into his armpit. Oh, the poor man. You can’t leave him there. What if another vehicle came along and didn’t see him? You must get someone.

Sorry, madam. I’m not leaving you alone for a minute. We’ll drive on up to the hotel and let them take care of it.

Can’t you at least pull him off to the side?

His reply was a signal to the driver and the raising of the divider glass. All discussion had ended. In matters of security, politeness took a back seat to expediency. Mandy looked at Charlotte and shrugged. She’d never taken to Salah in the two years they’d been in the Middle East. If he had to fight and die for them, he would, without a moment’s hesitation, but she knew training and professional pride provided the impetus, not any emotional attachment to his wards.

The car started to pull away, steering around the huddled corpse. Charlotte craned her neck to get a closer view from the side window. As she did so, the floodlights that illuminated the hotel grounds to a level approaching daylight, began going out. They extinguished in waves; allowing the moonless night to march across the lawns and driveways like an advancing black tide, until the entire building forecourt blacked out.

The car stopped again with a slight jerk, its wheels turned in the direction of the entrance, high beams stabbing forward, lighting up the grotesque El Mahara signboard.

Salah seemed very unsettled, and quickly prompted the driver to engage reverse. No doubt the discovery of a dead valet, followed by the sudden blackout of the hotel grounds proved too ominous for the security agent. In such situations his book response would always be the same: fast retreat and regroup. Charlotte reached for the switch that controlled the divider glass, the full skirt of her evening dress rustling dryly against the gray broadcloth seat.

As her finger touched the backlit panel a deafening clatter of gunfire erupted, drowning out the crash of shattering windows. Brilliant flashes of flame stabbed at the car from both sides. She saw the chauffeur lurch back then forward as shards of broken glass showered over him. Salah was struggling to free the gun from its holster when the closed divider panel went fully awash with crimson goo.

For a few moments everything remained still. The only sounds were frantic shrieks emanating from the rear of the limousine. Charlotte and Mandy huddled on the floor, clutching at each other in absolute terror. Then another sharp crash split the silence and glass sprayed into the passenger compartment, cutting Charlotte’s bare shoulders. The rear door was flung wide, automatically turning on the courtesy lights. A voice in Arabic said, There are only women here!

Mandy caught a glimpse of stocky legs, half-covered by a Kaftan, before she was grabbed by the arm and hair and pitched from the car as if she weighed no more than a sack of groceries. Sprawled on the concrete roadbed, she tried to crawl back to Charlotte when a heavy boot viciously stamped down on her spine, knocking all the breath from her lungs. She recalled being dragged again—more commotion—doors slamming around her; the rattle of a noisy engine, but remembered very little after that. At some point she passed out.

***

To the northeast the dawn had split the horizon. Nathan, still in his tuxedo, eased out of the thinly padded jump seat and picked his way forward toward the open cockpit door where he could see the pilot speaking into his microphone. The co-pilot noticed Nathan’s approach from a reflection and turned his head. The flightdeck had a greenish instrument glow in contrast to the star-studded blackness beyond the windshield.

Be careful, sir, the air’s still rough at this altitude.

Nathan nodded to the second officer and wedged himself against the doorframe. Where are we?

"If you’re talking about sovereign airspace it’s a good question. It’s possible we’ve crossed into Saudi Arabia. The Emirate borders are mostly undefined as you probably know. Our heading is due west; that should put us south of Mecca in three hours—it’s the only way any of us unbelievers will ever see that place. Riyahad lights may be visible to the north if there’s no early morning cirrus, otherwise it’s just a hellovalot of desolate sand down there. They call it the Empty Quarter. Pretty boring stuff."

Nathan smiled at the cocky American who seemed to be the perfect age: too old for the Viet Nam draft, yet too young for involvement in Korea. What am I hearing—Texas?

Right-on, sir. Amarillo. Been flying down here for about nine months. Mostly shuttling oil rig crews to and from Istanbul.

After tonight you won’t be doing that for a while. Any other aircraft on radar?

Clear skies; nothing flying within fifty miles. Don’t expect to encounter traffic unless the Saudis send up a fighter patrol to check us out. I’m monitoring Riyahad Center, but they won’t bother us so long as we stay on course. We’ll get you there, Mr. Vercandi.

At that moment the pilot broke off his radio conversation, made a notation in his flight log and looked up, acknowledging Nathan’s presence. This is the easy leg. Right now it’s all about fuel.

Nathan nodded. The aircrew seemed to have been briefed on his portfolio and he speculated it had come from Sandy Hollis. Sandy tended to exaggerate. Nathan would be this decorated World War Two veteran and big shot in the Diplomatic Corps that needed a ride to save the world no less.

What’s your strategy when we approach Alexandria control? Nathan asked. He’d already advised the pilot on what to expect from the Egyptians.

To be honest, that’s largely a play-it-by-ear situation. It depends what is happening at the time. If they’re still under air attack, then frankly it’s a lost cause. We could get shot at by either side. At any rate, as soon as we approach the coast they are going to get very nervous. If they have fighters up we’ll get buzzed even before we enter their coastal airspace. That could go two ways. Once they have visual and satisfy we’re a non-military aircraft they may escort us down. On the other hand... Pilot shrugged as Nathan grimaced at the imagery. The trick is to avoid any unnecessary risks. Egyptian defenses may take a shoot-first approach on any intruder so we monitor as much Arab radio traffic as we can. We’ll have plenty of fuel to divert to Cyprus in the event they label us hostile.

Nathan seemed satisfied by the logic. Okay, Captain, you’re the boss. Sounds like you’ve had experience with these guys before.

I’d say some. A lot of it is cat and mouse, and he winked at his co-pilot.

The second officer cut in. Jack’s been flying independent down here for best part of fifteen years. Remembers the Suez crisis well.

The pilot pushed the battered 19th Bomber Group cap up from his forehead. "Those were the days! If you had your own kite, a guy could make some real change back then." He laughed, crinkling up the weather-beaten eyes.

Nathan mused to himself but left it, not wanting to serve witness to any glee-ridden contraband activities that may still be ongoing.

We have a small galley at the rear by the head, the pilot continued, changing the subject. No booze unfortunately. The company insists on that rule because the A-rabs spot-check all aircraft from time to time on the runways. Without steward service we generally rough it and help ourselves, he said, grinning at Nathan’s ridiculously formal outfit. So, can I assume it was a good party, sir?

With slight annoyance Nathan pulled open the bowtie and unfastened his collar. Diplomatically speaking—a disaster. People like me are supposed to stop this part of the world going to war. I should have been in Cairo all along.

A half hour passed. The ride smoothed out as the Dakota slowly gained more altitude. Nathan recognized the fuel conservation tactic: a gradual climb to the most economical ceiling. The indirect route to Benghazi would be at the limit of the unladen DC3’s range.

Nathan had barely settled into a seat with his second coffee when the co-pilot beckoned him back to the flightdeck. As he entered, the co-pilot handed Nathan his radio headset. The captain tapped his earpiece, indicating that Nathan should listen to the call. Abu Shafrah tower communicated in English as always.

For Nathan’s benefit the captain said, Abu Shafrah Center, please say again.

A vital message relayed from Sandy Hollis. There has been a terrorist attack near the El Mahara hotel. Three people are reported dead, including the chauffeur and bodyguard. Please inform Nathan Vercandi his wife and daughter are missing...

The captain looked at Nathan, who seemed momentarily paralyzed. An air pocket caused the plane to lurch. Nathan clutched at the co-pilots headrest to stop himself falling backwards and came out of the shock.

Turn it round! he bellowed. Get this damn plane back there!

***

Mandy’s head rolled from side to side, occasionally bumping against something soft, then something hard. It remained pitch black inside the Volkswagen mini-van. A makeshift plywood bulkhead boarded off the driver’s compartment. They were traveling fast over uneven, ungraded road, causing the van to lurch violently when it struck ruts and potholes. A cloud of dust spewed behind them like a wake. She’d become afraid to move deliberately as pain seared into the middle of her back, but the motion of the van made it impossible to remain still. Since returning to consciousness she found she could move her arms without