The Pharaoh Key

15

THEY REMAINED LOCKED in the gym as the evening lengthened. The food ran out quickly and there was only water to drink, along with a single bathroom whose plugged-up toilet soon became a foul nightmare. Nobody told them anything. The survivors huddled, confused and frightened, on the hard floor.

As the last of the afterglow died in the gym’s clerestory windows, Garza said, “I don’t know about you, but I’m damn hungry. No one is being fed. God knows what’s going to happen to them. I still think we ought to bribe our way out.”

Gideon shook his head. “Bribing them only puts us more in their control.”

“Maybe we should just escape.”

“Shalateen’s a small town. We need to operate openly here to outfit our expedition. We can’t do that if we escape.”

“What’s it to be, then, Einstein?”

“Bullshit. I’ve been thinking about it over the last hour or two.”

Gideon laid out his plan. When he was done, Garza said: “I don’t think it’s going to work. The risk is too great.”

“Got a better idea?”

Garza hesitated. “No.”

“Then trust me. Bullshit is my area of expertise. This will work.”

Gideon went to the locked door of the gym and shook its crash bar, peering out the grimy meshed-glass window. “Hey!” he cried. “Hey! Someone! Hey!” He pounded the door with his fist, but no one arrived.

He glanced around the gym and saw some stanchions propped up in a far corner. He went over, picked one up, carried it to the door, braced himself, then drove it through the window with a crash.

He cupped his hands and yelled out the shattered window: “Hey, come here! Now!”

A moment later two guards arrived at a run. They unlocked the door and, yelling in Arabic, seized Gideon. Garza rushed up to them. “We want to see Captain Farouk!” he demanded. “Captain Farouk!”

The guards seized him, too. He struggled, ramming one guard with his shoulder and sending him sprawling. More soldiers came running up, and the two were quickly immobilized. They were frog-marched down one hall after another until they came to a closed door. A soldier knocked and a voice called them in.

They were back in the interrogation room, with Captain Farouk still seated at the table. He rose, face red. A loud conversation in Arabic ensued and then Captain Farouk turned angrily from the soldiers to them. “What is the meaning of this?”

Gideon made himself look and sound as calm as possible. “I’ll tell you the meaning of this, Captain. I lied to you earlier.”

“What lie? You will be punished for perjury!”

“You asked why we were riding that ferry. We’re not adventure travelers.”

“What are you, then?”

“Undercover CIA operatives. Working for the highest levels of your government.”

There was a short silence. Then the captain began to laugh. “CIA! That is rich! Where are your credentials? Why haven’t I been informed?”

Gideon began to laugh along with him. “You’re only a captain. You’re not high enough in rank to have been told. Your superiors are keeping you in ignorance.”

The captain lost his smile.

“If you don’t believe me, contact your superiors. Send an inquiry up the chain of command.”

Captain Farouk hesitated. “So what were you doing on that ferry?”

“Following a cadre of terrorists. We’re fairly sure they sabotaged the ferry—as a reprisal against the government.”

The captain said nothing, his face slowly draining of color. He then nodded at the soldiers to release their grip and dismissed them, leaving Garza and Gideon alone with him and a single aide-de-camp.

“You are saying the sinking was a terrorist act?”

“Yes. And by keeping us here you’re interfering with our mission. I wonder how your superiors will react to that?” Gideon pointed to the phone on the captain’s desk. “Call them. Go ahead—call your commanding general.”

“Let us not be hasty,” said the captain. His face reflected insecurity and doubt. Gideon could see the captain was weighing his claim to be CIA: it could be true, but then again it might not be. The entire scheme depended on the captain being careful and pragmatic; a man who took no chances. Sending a query up the chain of command would be very risky; the request itself would raise questions and could create far more trouble for the captain than simply going along with Gideon’s story. At least, that’s what Gideon hoped.

“Why didn’t you give me this information earlier?” the captain asked.

“Why do you think? We were maintaining our cover. And for obvious reasons, we carry no credentials; as you’re probably aware, CIA operatives never carry them while working undercover.”

“I cannot be held responsible for what I did not know.”

Gideon softened his tone. “True. But from this moment on, Captain, you are responsible.”

No response.

“This, by the way, is my colleague Manuel Garza. I believe he gave you a false name earlier.”

The captain, Gideon could see, was wavering. Now was the moment to be aggressive. He walked up to the desk and placed his hands on it, leaning forward into the man’s space, the soft tone vanishing. “My colleague and I must continue our mission, undisturbed. May we count on you for help? Your cooperation now will be noted at the highest levels later.”

“What kind of help do you mean?”

“You’ll release us and lose all evidence of our presence on the ferry. This is to protect you as well as us. You’ll overlook our activities in Shalateen, which will be brief and not cause any trouble. We will be gone within days, maybe less.”

“And the sinking of the ferry? If this was a terrorist act, what am I supposed to do?”

“Proceed with your investigation as normal. Although I would strongly advise you to treat the survivors well, feed them, and release them to their homes. Continued detention could become a scandal and a propaganda issue exploited by the terrorists.”

Captain Farouk nodded. “I understand.”

“We will naturally overlook your ill treatment of us, which is understandable given the fact we didn’t identify ourselves as CIA. But going forward, I hope we can be friends, Captain.”

The captain was sweating despite the air-conditioning. “May I ask what activities you intend in Shalateen?”

“We’re going to outfit a trip into the Hala’ib Triangle.”

“For what purpose? That is very dangerous country.”

Gideon smiled but did not answer.

“I would be glad to supply you with a military escort.”

“Thank you, but that won’t be necessary. We prefer to continue with as little notice as possible.”

The captain removed a white kerchief and dabbed at his brow. “Very well. You will be released immediately.” He barked an order to his aide, who went off and returned with Gideon’s passport.

“Thank you, Captain.”

“I hope,” said the captain, “that your activities will be as discreet as you claim.”

“You have my assurance that they will.”

They stiffly shook hands.

Outside, the sun had set over the purple peaks of the Gebel Mountains. There was a fragrant smell of smoke in the air, and the call of the muezzin echoed through the dusty byways.

“That was a pretty piece of work,” said Garza.

“I gambled that a mere captain wasn’t going to run inquiries up the chain of command about CIA activities in his area—that would open a can of worms, expose the ferry disaster, and lead to all kinds of trouble.”

“Clever.”

“I’m dying of hunger. You?”

“The same.”

“Let’s find some grub.”

Gideon looked down the dirt street, lined on either side with a jumble of mud-brick houses with doorways and roofs painted turquoise. The street they were on led into a commercial area, with vegetable and fruit sellers and cafés, their tables spread out under rickety awnings, some festooned with strings of lightbulbs. Men in galabeyas sat around in groups of two and three, drinking tea or coffee out of small glass cups and eating from plates of dates, fruit, and chickpeas in front of them. Now that the air was cooling off, the town seemed to be coming alive, the street busy with people, camels, and the occasional overloaded delivery truck belching and honking its way along. While a few people glanced at them curiously, they were mostly ignored. Gideon was aware that, after what they’d been through, they did indeed look like bums.

“One’s as good as another,” said Garza. “Let’s try this one.”

They entered a café with a cheerful porch illuminated by small lightbulbs. A waiter rushed over and, speaking Arabic in a piping voice, led them with elaborate gestures to a good outside table. They took their seats. The waiter stood next to them with a big smile, nodding.

“He wants a tip before he brings us the menu,” said Gideon, reaching into his pocket and removing a coin.

“Will this robbery never end?”

“I never knew you were such a cheap bastard.”

The waiter went into the café and came out a moment later, laying menus in front of them, written entirely in Arabic.

“Food,” said Garza. He pointed to an adjacent table laid with many plates of unknown dishes. “Bring us that. And tea. Tea.” He pantomimed the act of drinking.

The waiter swept up the menus and soon returned with cups and a pot of tea, followed by a series of plates at irregular intervals—chickpeas, lentils, macaroni, boiled okra, fava beans, lamb kebabs, and flatbreads. They stuffed themselves in silence. Gideon felt like he had never been so hungry in his life, and their prodigious appetites brought wonder and joy to the face of their waiter as they consumed dish after dish. The meal ended with honey-drenched baklava.

The waiter started clearing their loaded table.

Gideon said, “Hotel?”

The waiter scrunched up his face in incomprehension.

“Hotel.” Gideon made the universal gesture of laying his head down on his hands.

“Alfunduq,” the waiter said, nodding in comprehension, and disappeared into the café. He returned with a much-soiled color photocopy of a brochure for what was presumably a hotel, with a map showing its location.

Gideon paid for the meal—six dollars—and they set off, map in hand.

“You see?” he said to Manuel. “That tip is now paying off.”

After a few twists and turns they arrived at the adobe building pictured in the flyer, with a faded doorway, a portico, and a mud façade covered in round blobs that appeared to have been thrown against the wall, where they had subsequently stuck. A sign in Arabic was affixed above the door, with the English words below: TOURIST HOTEL.

“You realize,” said Garza as they paused in front of the hotel, “that those things stuck to the wall are pats of shit. Drying, it seems. I guess that’s what they cook with around here.”

Gideon peered at them. They were indeed balls of dung, fresh blobs at one end, drier ones at the other, and marks on the wall where some had been recently removed. “Welcome to the Shit Hotel.”

They went inside, entering a lobby of faux-marble tiles, many cracked, exposing mud brick behind. A man behind a wooden counter greeted them warmly, gesturing them over and pushing a guest register toward them. With many noddings and signs they managed to book a room on the third floor, with two beds, at eight dollars a night. They immediately went up to the room and, without further ado, lay down on the beds. The window was open and a blessedly cool breeze wafted in, stirring the faded curtains. Beyond a jumble of roofs and mud chimneys lay the dark flat waters of the Red Sea.

“Tomorrow,” Gideon said, “we start outfitting the expedition, find a guide, and work out our cover story.”

But Garza, he saw, was already asleep.