Tracks (15 page)

Ortega reached Eilat via Tel
Aviv not twelve hours subsequent to being informed of the situation by
Sam.  There was an Iberia flight, via Barcelona, and from Tel Aviv a short
Arkia flight to Eilat where he was met at the small airport by David Kessler
who had arranged for a car and accommodation at the luxurious Princess Hotel on
the North shore.

Flying over, low above the
Arava plain, a vast desert prairie bordered by the Judas mountains of Israel to
the West and the Edom, or Red mountains of Jordan to the East, Ortega could not
stop admiring the magnificent views provided of the Dead Sea and just before
landing, the Red Sea, encompassed by towering cliffs on both the Eilat and
Aqaba sides.

A dry heat wave welcomed him
as he stepped off the small turbo-prop plane, the hot wind stinging his
face.  Kessler met him at the gate, introduced himself as an acquaintance
of Mai-Li and rushed him to an air-conditioned rental car he had secured. 
Kessler talked as they drove through the busy streets of the small tourist
town, which represented Israel’s southernmost settlement and border to Egypt
and Jordan.

“I’ve made some inquiries,”
Kessler said in good English.  “It appears your colleagues left Dahab in a
hurry four days ago, but never made it to the Eilat border.  There’s a
wall of secrecy surrounding the affair which is peculiar even by Egyptian
standards.  Normally we can persuade a few of them to show good faith and
talk, but not this time."

Ortega
nodded to indicate he understood and Kessler went on.

"The
next best source is to inquire with the Tarrabin, a large and mostly friendly
Bedouin tribe in the area, but I’ll need a bit more time to recruit them.”

Though accustomed to hot
Spanish weather, El Chino was just catching his breath from the extremely dry,
hot climate he had just flown into.

“Could they be being held by
Egyptian authorities?” he managed to blurt out.

“One possible scenario,”
Kessler answered.  “But if I may ask for the nature of their venture, it
could help us determine their whereabouts and the kind of threats they may be
facing.”

Ortega and Sam had already
agreed to disclose everything to the Israelis who they felt would be in the
best position to help.  It was even less of an issue with Kessler who knew
the nature of their business from his encounter with Mai-Li’s case in Thailand.

“They were after a Frenchwoman
who was jailed trying to free her abducted son.”  Ortega explained. 
“We were working the case for a while, but something drew her here in a hurry
and she was caught.  Our colleagues, Jack and Christine, flew in to try
and resolve the matter and have now disappeared themselves.  There was an
attorney named Abdullah in Dahab Jack was intending to see.  We know that
much.  We’ve tried phoning him but he doesn’t answer.”

“Is there a surname for this
Abdullah?”  Kessler asked, smiling ironically.  “There are a million
Abdullahs in Egypt.”

“He didn’t leave a last name,”
Ortega confessed, “though I doubt there are a million attorneys in Dahab.”

“If he’s an attorney at all,”
Kessler remarked.  “In any case, I’ll do some more sniffing around while
you get some rest.  I’ll have to leave town tomorrow morning.”

He dropped Ortega off at the
Princess’s reception and sped away in the rental.  Ortega quickly found
refuge in the vast, air-cooled, lobby area, a modern panorama with marble
floors and biblical decorations.  An exquisite, bronzed attendant named
Odelia checked him in, upgrading his room to the Agamemnon suite on the top
floor where he arranged his belongings, took a long look at the magnificent
view of the Red Sea and the sun setting over Eilat, took a shower and went to
sleep.  It was just turning eight in the evening.

A loud bang woke him in the
middle of the night.  He checked his watch.  It was two thirty. 
Someone was banging on his door.  Disoriented, he opened the door to find
a young bellboy looking up at him with a note in his hand.  Ortega reached
for it but the boy held back.  Ortega understood and reached for some
loose coins off the night table. 

He tipped the boy and got the
note.  It read: “Pick you up in the lobby at half three.  Bring
passport and cash. 
Kessler”.
  The phone
call had been received just a few minutes before the boy had appeared at his
door. 

Ortega showered again and
dressed quickly.  Kessler appeared in front of the lobby in the rental car
at the appointed time.

 “Is this the way you
normally greet your guests in Israel?” Ortega remarked as he stepped into the
car.

“Only the important ones,” Kessler
replied humorously and sped away into the night.

“I’ve arranged for you to go
to Dahab immediately but you must return no later than this time tomorrow
night.  Are you up to it?”

“Why at this time of
night?”  Ortega queried.

“We have a border control guy
who’ll let you through without asking too many difficult questions.  His
shift ends at six.  Then there’s a Bedouin who will escort you to Dahab
and show you around. Did you bring passport and money?”

Ortega nodded.  The
narrow road curved past the port of Eilat on its way to Taba, the border
crossing.  They were there fifteen minutes later.  Kessler escorted
Ortega to the Israeli side where he was let through quickly.  He
approached the Egyptian side hesitantly stopping to fill in the customs and immigration
forms.  There were a few people present, mainly young adventurers and
backpackers moving along lethargically at the ungodly early hour. 

Ortega stepped up to the booth
to find a scrawny border official with slit beady eyes dressed in beige colored
uniform with unrecognized insignia, too big for his scrawny shoulders.  He
had an unsettling demeanor constantly looking over his shoulder as if someone
was after him.

He scanned the Spanish
passport, comparing Ortega’s face with the photo, reached for an official seal
and firmly stamped the passport, the metallic noise echoing in the near empty
chamber.

Ortega moved along, stepping
into the darkness, out of the lighted customs and immigration hall, to the
somewhat cooler but still oppressive atmosphere, where a line of government
offices in beat-up old caravans waited.  Various fees were collected
before he was allowed to walk another mile and physically pass the fence into
Egypt, where a line of weather-beaten European-made vehicles offered taxi
services.

Ortega stood a minute,
hesitating, studying the line of cars.  The sun was just coming up over
the cliffs to the east, spreading majestic light over the Gulf.  A young
Arab in Galabia and a Kafiya approached him first followed by few of the taxi
drivers.  Before anyone was close enough to hear, the young Arab mentioned
Kessler’s name.  Ortega relaxed, nodded in concurrence and followed the
young man.  The band of taxi drivers, hoping for a fare, stopped in their
tracks and quietly watched them go through to an old Peugeot station wagon
already running.

The ride to Dahab took four
hours.  Jamal, the young Arab, had explained in very lame English, that he
was a Bedouin with the Tarrabin tribe, asked by some friends to show the
Spaniard around and return him back to the border at night for a flat fee of
three hundred Egyptian liras.  Ortega paid all of it up front in US
dollars with promise of an extra incentive of fifty dollars for Jamal if they
actually managed to locate his friends.   They stopped for gas and
passed an Egyptian military check point, thirty kilometers out of Taba at which
time Jamal invited Ortega for morning tea at a Bedouin Shack by the
water.  They sat and watched the peaceful Red Sea emerge into the
stillness of the morning.

Dahab was hot and dry, the
market relatively quiet when they reached it.  Most tourists were still in
their beds or having breakfast at such early hour.  
Those who were up before eight that morning opted for the beaches.
 
The locals were just setting up their stands.

They walked around for a while
getting the feel of the place, stopping here and there to inquire and chat then
drove to the Katarina Inn where Ortega hoped he could find an end of a
rope. 

The reception manager became
suspicious and worried at Ortega’s request to collect whatever belongings Jack
and Christine may have left behind.  He called the shift manager who was
forced to wake up the hotel manager who had stashed some items under lock and
key.

“They left in a hurry,” the
hotel manager told Ortega as he led him to a small storage room in the
basement.  “They left in the middle of the night without even checking out
leaving cash on the night table to pay for their
stay.”       

“Why would they do that?”
Ortega asked.

“They may have been trying to
flee with that woman who was with them.”

“The
Frenchwoman?”
Ortega put in as casually as he could,
secretly praying for a break.

“She may have been
French.  They had released her from the local jail.”

“Why flee?”  Ortega
pressed.  “Were they in danger?”

“She was ordered to leave
Egypt three days after the trial. Your friends volunteered to escort her.”

“So how many days passed
before they left.”

“That is what’s strange. 
They disappeared a day later leaving all this behind.”

He opened the storeroom and
pointed at a bundle on the ground.  The suitcases had obviously been
stripped of any valuables and taken.  What
was
left were some undergarments, a few clothes, shoes, some books and two empty
shower bags.

Ortega went through the pile
finding nothing significant.  The hotel manager refused to allow him to
take the possessions arguing he had no real proof he, Ortega, was legally
connected to the departed party.

They continued their search
for clues in Dahab finding Abdullah, the attorney, apparently certified and well-known,
in his coffee shack by the beach, playing backgammon or Shesh-Besh as
its
known in the region, with the proprietor, who sprang to
his feet and disappeared as they entered.

Abdullah, seemingly not
surprised by the intrusion, offered them a place opposite him on an array of
Persian rugs and cushions surrounding a low coffee table.

The two men acknowledged the
Egyptian, thankful of finding solace from the heat, and dropped to the floor
facing him.  The café owner reappeared with a tray of mud coffee in
small china cups and a bottle of water.  They all helped themselves and
settled back on the cushions.

“I hear you are looking for
the black American and his friends,” Abdullah opened ceremoniously showing off
his clout in his domain.

“What can you tell me about
their visit here?”  Ortega asked.

“I was hoping you might
enlighten me,” the attorney retorted angrily in surprisingly fluent English,
“and explain their insulting disappearing act!”

“
Señor
,
we know less than you.  We’ve lost contact with them.  I know Jack
contacted you before he left.  Can you help me find them?”

“I provided them with legal
services and got the Frenchwoman out.  My reward was to find out they
disappeared without paying my fees.”

“
Señor
,
there must be a logical explanation.  I work with Jack and I’ve never
known him to stand anyone up.  Something must have happened to scare him
away or he would have paid you your money.”

“You are Spanish?” Abdullah
half stated, half asked suddenly, changing the subject. 

Ortega nodded his head.

“You trust the American?”

“Si
Señor
. 
With my life,” Ortega replied.

Abdullah reached for another
cigarette and took a sip from his coffee eyeing both Ortega and Jamal.

“Why are you helping him?” he
blurted out at Jamal in Arabic.

“He pays,” Jamal answered
without hesitation.

“His Majesty won’t like it,”
Abdullah said, referring to the judge.

“He is Egyptian,” Jamal stated
simply, referring to the fact the Tarrabin Bedouins did not much respect
Egyptian law or follow Egyptian ways.

Abdullah switched back to
English to address Ortega: “Your friends disappeared one day after the
Frenchwoman was released into their custody.  Chief of Police Halil is
investigating the matter.  That’s all I know.”

The Spaniard studied him
carefully.  He did not believe him. 

“I’ll pay your fees if you
give me more information.”

Abdullah grinned
mischievously. “My price is high.”

“Name it,
Señor
,”
Ortega challenged him.

“One
thousand American dollars!”

“That depends on the
information,” Ortega said, reaching for some bills stashed in his pocket, money
he had exchanged in advance in Spain before leaving Barajas airport.

Catching a glimpse of the
cash, Abdullah’s attitude seemed to transform.  Ortega counted ten
hundred-dollar bills and spread them on the table in front of him, out of the
attorney’s reach.