The Bonaparte Secret (34 page)

Normal procedure, or had the Alexandria security police alerted Cairo? He knew Cairo’s security was among the world’s toughest if not necessarily the most competent. Instead of random checks, every passenger’s background as shown by his passport was scrutinized, his carry-on searched as well as x-rayed.

Either way, Lang had a problem. If he used the Roth passport, he would be risking instant detention. His own would lack the Egyptian entry visa, raising questions he certainly didn’t want to answer.

His back to the rest of the terminal, he studied the TV screen of arrivals and departures. There was an Air France flight to Paris that departed in the morning and a Heathrow-bound British Airways plane half an hour later. He could buy a ticket now in his own name, but that would not only involve the missing visa, it would also give any Egyptian official scanning airline computers five- or six-hours’ notice of his intentions if the Alexandria police had discovered his identity.

There was no line at any of the ticket counters, most of which bore “closed” signs.

Handing his Roth passport to a brightly smiling young woman behind the British Airways sign and logo, he said, “I hope you have room on your flight to London in the morning.”

He listened to the click of a keyboard before she looked up, smile still in place. “Tourist or first-class?”

“First- class.”

At roughly twenty cents to the Egyptian pound, the number representing the cost of the ticket was astronomical. Lang reached for his wallet and feigned surprise and embarrassment. “I seem to have left my credit cards in my other pants.”

She gave a shake of the head, still impressed by the fact someone would pay that sum of money to ride in comparative luxury for four and a half hours. “No problem, Mr. Roth. I have the number from your passport. Here it is back. I will note that you will pick up the ticket two hours before departure tomorrow morning. Your seat will be reserved until then.”

He thanked her and exited the terminal but not before stopping by the electronic billboard of hotels. At the cabstand, he directed the driver to deliver him to the nearby Novotel with an intermediate stop at a nearby pharmacy. He was familiar with the worldwide chain of inexpensive lodging, clean rooms and little else. At the desk, he gave his own passport to the sleepy desk clerk, who, as expected, simply swiped it through the copy machine without noticing the absence of a visa and returned it. Lang was betting if his papers were checked against immigration records at all, he would be long gone before the discrepancy was discovered.

He gave the clerk a healthy tip and requested a wake-up call. Once in his room, he searched his wallet for the international calling card he always carried but had not used in over a year. Manfred answered on the first ring. “Hi Vati! Where are you?”

Resisting the temptation to visit with his son, Lang said, “I need to speak to your mother. Right now.”

He sensed the little boy’s disappointment from the silence before he heard him calling Gurt. Unfortunate, but the longer he was on the line, the better chance the call could be traced by anyone with the minimal equipment and know-how to tap a phone.

“Lang?” There was anxiety in Gurt’s voice. “I could not get you on your BlackBerry.”

“It’s on a South Pacific cruise at the moment with emphasis on
south.
”

“I do not understand.”

“No time to explain. You and Manfred OK?”

“Yes. You?”

“I’m a moving target at the moment, but yeah, I’m OK.”

She told him about the men on the street and Miles’s thoughts. The whole thing fit uncomfortably snug with the cancelled credit card and the sudden unavailability of the driver Miles had provided. For whatever reason, the Agency was more interested in their silence than the help Miles had originally sought.

A sea change indeed.

“OK, here is what we’re going to do,” Lang said deliberately. “You and Manfred take a few days, go to the farm.”

The “farm” was a shack on farmland in middle Georgia Lang had purchased in a foreign corporate name some years ago. Its remoteness plus neighbors who were highly suspicious of intruders had proved it to be an invaluable hideout before, and Lang had improved it since its last use.

“We are having an ice storm here.”

“You are also having four-wheel drive on your Hummer. I’d risk the road before I’d depend on the weather to keep the Agency at bay. Next time they may send someone experienced enough to anticipate your tricks. And not to forget our Chinese friends. You can bet they still have us in mind. Oh yeah, don’t mention any of this to Miles.”

“You think . . . ?”

“I’m not thinking anything; I just don’t want to take the risk that you and Manfred get stuffed into some Agency hideaway until whoever is calling the shots thinks different. I’ll call you on the neighbor’s phone when I can. Oh yeah, don’t use your BlackBerry. There’s a good chance somebody can triangulate.”

Lang hung up to a background of Manfred indignantly demanding to speak to him.

He woke up minutes before the call, the growling of his stomach reminding him he had not eaten since . . . when? Breakfast on the plane yesterday? Putting aside the growing protest, he carefully disassembled the Browning. He put the metal barrel component in his shave kit and distributed springs and catches among his shirts. Clips went into the shoes in his bag. In Egypt, firearms were prohibited, whether in carry-on or checked baggage. Breaking up the recognizable components of the weapon should defeat the curious eyes of the x-ray machine trained on even checked baggage. Ammo he sealed in plastic bags that he hoped would frustrate any sniffing mechanisms, chemical, mechanical or canine, looking for explosive compounds. He could only hope he had no need of the gun before his departure.

His next task required somewhat more care. Using a razor blade purchased at the pharmacy last night, he cut the page from the Roth passport bearing the Egyptian visa. Noting the page was the one with a picture of a Mississippi River boat on it, he razored the same from the real U.S. passport. Now the tricky part: using just a touch of the paper glue he had also bought at the pharmacy, he substituted pages. The alteration was not going to withstand careful inspection and it surely would be detected by electronic means upon reentry to the States, but that was not his problem at the moment.

He stopped in the lobby long enough to help himself to luscious-looking figs, dried dates and nuts from the hotel’s small breakfast buffet. His stomach cried out for more substantial fare but he did not have the time.

Back at the new airport, he joined the tourist-class line in front of the Air France counter. As he shuffled his bag along, he noted the British Airways desk thirty or so feet away. Two uniformed and armed security police were checking the passports of every male in the queue. Two men, conspicuous in their dark suits, watched. Lang thought he recognized Major Saleem before turning his back. Given the opportunity, he would bet the gate from which the plane to London was to depart was equally well covered.

Finally at the front of the line, Lang purchased what he was told was the last available seat on the Paris flight, paying with his American Express card. He hated leaving a record. The Chinese had proven adept at following him by credit-card receipts, but the alternative was more immediate: buying a ticket without prior reservations and paying cash almost guaranteed drawing the attention of either the security or drug-enforcement people.

Almost as unpleasant was the thought of checking his suitcase. Modern transportation had made it possible to have breakfast in New York, lunch in Paris and baggage in Tehran. Plus, standing at airport carousels waiting to determine the winners and losers in the luggage lottery tied him to one place when circumstances might dictate faster movement. Checked bags, though, did not get the thorough inspection carry-ons did. If he wanted the Browning in Paris, he had little choice.

He reluctantly watched his bag disappear on the conveyor belt. He’d get out of Egypt and worry about his problems later. The answer to some of them might well be in Paris.

472 Lafayette Drive, Atlanta
The previous evening

Gurt was also dealing with luggage, piling it into the maw of the Hummer in the garage. She had no idea how long she, Manfred and Grumps would be gone. The hour was late and the little boy was up past his bedtime. The novelty of a reprieve was beginning to wear off, leaving him cranky.

“Vati wouldn’t talk with me,” he said irritably, referring to Lang’s brief phone call. “I want him to come home!”

Me, too.
But Gurt made soothing sounds. “He will be home soon enough. But while he is gone, we will drive to the farm.”

The child brightened. “Can we go fishing?”

There was a small pond on the property from which Manfred took great delight in catching bream with his own small fishing rod. He was less eager to eat them, however, resulting in most being thrown back.

Gurt had a brief picture of standing in the winter wind waiting for some unfortunate fish to find the worm-baited hook in the muddy water. “We will see.”

Manfred’s face squeezed into a pout. He was old enough to recognize the expression as meaning he would likely be told no, later.

A tapping on the garage door prevented potential unpleasantness.

“Mrs. Reilly?”

“In a moment,” she answered, recognizing the voice of Jake of the security service. The hapless Randy had been furloughed with the beginnings of a bad cold.

“Let me in.”

Turning off the lights that would have illuminated the garage like a theater’s stage, Gurt pushed the button to lift the door. “What . . . ?”

Jake ducked under the door before it had fully lifted and pushed the “down” button with one hand, waving a device that looked like one of those used by security screeners at airports. “Just want to sweep your car.”

“Sweep?
Ach!
Of course. For homing devices. I cannot see how someone could have gotten in here . . .”

“You went to the grocery store yesterday. It’s possible we didn’t see someone hide a bug.” Jake was waving the device around the SUV’s perimeter, a Merlin of electronics with his magic wand, casting a contemporary spell. “Can’t be too careful.”

Moments later, the Hummer backed out of the garage, tires crackling on ice, and the door rolled shut. There was a certain security in being in a vehicle that was larger than some pickup trucks. Its very mass was the reason she had selected a car whose appetite for gas was insatiable and whose very size made it difficult to park. Its weight, she felt, formed the maximum protection for Manfred, securely strapped in his child seat. He would be unharmed in a collision with anything smaller than an eighteen wheeler. As the SUV reached the street, a Cadillac Escalade pulled in behind and another took its place. Gurt knew four armed men were in the following vehicle. They would stay in her wake until certain she was not being followed. She had insisted a car remain in front of the house to give the appearance of normality. Over Jake’s protests, she had also demanded the escort be broken off at a prearranged place if there seemed to be no need for it.

Four husky men in suits driving a shiny black SUV with tinted windows would draw as much attention in Lamar County as a painted fancy woman in the local Baptist church.

In the car’s mirrors, Gurt saw lights blink once, a periodic signal that the vehicle behind was Jake’s. The security men followed her through a tortuous course that took advantage of Ansley Park’s meandering streets and byways. So far, no other vehicle had joined the two, but Gurt was not satisfied. She took another tour of homes to be certain.

She made a left on Piedmont Road, one of the main streets of the northern section of the city. The traffic was moderate, making a tail difficult to spot. When she pulled through a service station to reverse course, only Jake’s vehicle followed.

Once southbound on the interstate, she was relieved to note the ice had melted except for a few dark patches along the exit lanes. The rhythm of the tires soothed her and put Manfred asleep in his child seat. Grumps snored from the back. Every two minutes, the blink from Jake. He was still in place behind her. Twice she exited the expressway only to drive back up the entry ramp and reenter.

No one other than Jake followed.

Once outside I-285, the perimeter surrounding the city, traffic became decidedly lighter, but it still would have been difficult to notice a car following them.

Aware of the problem, Gurt exited the four-lane, choosing a two-lane state highway instead. As shabby storage buildings and truck stops melted into a semirural landscape, there were a series of flashes in Gurt’s mirrors. Two plus two plus two.

Jake had picked up a possible tail.

As planned, she hit the accelerator, sending the big car rocketing down a short straightaway before braking for a curve. Jake’s headlights were fading quickly. He was slowing to block whoever might be following.

Gurt rounded the curve, praying she was now south of the effects of the ice storm. At this speed, she would not have time to avoid the slick patches. She shifted into four-wheel drive. Thanks to modern technology developed on the Formula One circuit, she would sacrifice no speed and be less likely to wind up in a ditch. But she was no Michael Schumacher; sooner or later she would have to slow down if road conditions did not improve.

She need not have worried—the decision was not hers.

Accelerating out of yet another curve, her headlights painted what she first thought was some sort of mirage: Two cars were pulled across the road. One had the markings of a local sheriff’s department, its Christmas tree of lights flashing malignantly. The other was an unmarked sedan, its very anonymity threatening. As she streaked closer, she could see two men in uniforms. Four others wore dark windbreakers with yellow lettering:
FBI
.

Charles de Gaulle International Airport
Roissy (just outside Paris)
10:42

Lang was in the CDG 2, the airport’s second terminal, waiting for the Metro train into the city. He had much for which to be thankful. His passport had received no more than a glance, his bag had not ventured off on an excursion of its own and he was clear of Egypt. Apparently there was no international “want” on him, not yet anyway. He guessed Major Saleem would query the English authorities first, unwilling to admit the British Airways reservation had duped him.