Edge of the Heat 6 (9 page)

Sara sat back and let her thoughts go where they would. More human trafficking. On the other side of the world. The details changed but the stories stayed the same. It didn’t matter that these were Syrian women and not Mexican women. She would go in and clean house, even if it didn’t happen until after the mission. She already had the President’s promise that these particular women and their families could find refuge in the United States.

Sara closed her eyes and dozed lightly. The cab covered miles of dusty ground while her agile mind searched for connections and possibilities. She noted when the pavement turned to hard-packed dirt, but didn’t open her eyes. Her almost-awake brain saw the road from the sky, as a drone would see it from 50,000 feet.

***

Sara checked into the St Marin Inn, the unlikely tourist destination in the Sinai Peninsula. She was surprised to see that it was a modern building, and not some ancient church or fort transformed into a hotel. A steady flow of tourists entered the area before attempting to climb Mount Sinai, which many believed to be the actual mountain where Moses received the Ten Commandments, and because of this there were three hotels in the small town. Agent Farmer was staying here too, but he wouldn’t check in for an hour. She wanted no chance that they would run into each other. The other hotels were nicer, but this was the one they picked because the East-facing wing overlooked Musa-Elbenah’s house. As an added bonus, this hotel owners and staff had the most welcoming attitude towards Americans.

As soon as she entered her room, she went right to the window to see what kind of a view she had. From the top floor of the tiny hotel, she could see directly into the courtyard of the house that looked like a modern, tan villa to her. The walls looked to be made of solid clay or mud, and the rooms climbed on top of one another haphazardly, with the house itself framing and favoring the courtyard. Her view was as good as could be expected here. She just hoped it was good enough for her to pick out the most likely servant for her to impersonate.

She settled in for an afternoon of watching the house, pulling the tiny but high-powered telescope and her customized laptop from her luggage and taking them to the window. Sara took out her satellite phone and checked in. Agent Farmer said he had just received a report that the caravan driving back from the camp where the hostages were being held was two miles out. Sara thanked him and hung up, determined to finish her preparations before the caravan pulled into Musa-Elbenah’s home.

She opened a small plastic case that had been secreted deep in her luggage and began screwing together the pieces from inside it. This was her laser microphone. It would let her listen in on any conversations going on in the house. She set it up and turned it on, switching on her recorder at the same time. She trained it at the large window on the main floor and waited. Silence. She checked the other windows, but it seemed the house was empty. Did the entire household make the trek to the camp each day? Even the wives? Or were they inside relaxing. They couldn’t have to do much work with that many servants.

Just as she set up her last piece of equipment, the three vehicles pulled into the driveway of the house (villa, her mind kept saying). She watched closely and marked each person who got out. The first vehicle was a small truck with a homemade camper on the back of it. One man and one woman got out of the front seats. Sara watched in astonishment as six women climbed out of the back with large bags. She could not tell what they were full of. The women and the bags must have been packed on top of each other. Each woman wore the same color robe and a niqab. One may have been wearing a burka but Sara couldn’t be sure. The women dragged and carried their bags towards the house.

The next car, a small sedan with oversized tires had two men in the front.  Musa-Elbenah and a son? Or would he come home? Sara had an idea he was sequestered out there in the desert with the hostages. These two men took pots and dishes from the back of their car and carried them inside. And the last vehicle had one man in it. He carried nothing.

Voices rang inside the home. Sara heard a woman yelling and a man grunting. She pulled out her telescope and looked in the windows, marking the passage of the people from room to room.

As the afternoon wore on, Sara began to get an idea of the tempo of the house. She saw the women carrying laundry, washing dishes, and preparing food. The female servants wore the head coverings even in the house, which was going to make her job harder, but she wouldn’t worry about that until the morning.

As night took over, then deepened, the house quieted. After the last light went out, Sara laid down for a few hours of sleep, but she set her alarm for 3. She knew the servants would be getting up early, and she intended to be awake before any of them. Three lives, hers, Daniela Clarkson's, and Jon Taylor’s, hinged on what happened the next morning.

***

Sara came awake in an instant and padded silently to the window. No lights were on in the entire town. She sat down to wait. When the first light came on in the first window from the house below her, she turned on her equipment. She watched the servants get up one by one and start their day. One woman had an extra-large soup pot cooking on each of the four stove burners while she made bread. Another woman folded laundry and packed it into the large gray bags that had been in the back of the truck the day before. No one spoke.

Sara checked the time. The open-air market was scheduled to start selling food and trinkets in 45 minutes. She dressed herself quickly, strapping guns to her legs and a flat pack around her midsection. She sent a silent prayer up to anyone who was listening that at least one servant would come out of that house today before the caravan headed out. She wanted to be on it today. She knew the terrorists could decide to kill the hostages at any time.

She sent an email message via the satellite phone to Agent Farmer.
I am on the move. Tell me if someone leaves the house. Omit no detail about who and what they are wearing or carrying.
They had radios, but she didn’t want to talk into hers, just listen. She adjusted her ear piece, thankful for the veil that would easily hide it.

Sara pulled the veil over her face and looked at herself in the mirror. The guns strapped to her legs were wound in fabric. It made them harder to get to, but also harder to see under the dress she wore. She bent, knelt, squatted and twisted in the mirror.
Looks good
, she decided. She strapped her favorite knives to her ankles and the inside of her upper arms, and left the room for the open-air market.

A narrow corridor over burnt sand provided a walkway between buildings. Vendors opened shutters and placed food, jewelry, paintings, and clothing on both sides of her. A few women walked the corridor with her. Sara avoided their eyes.

She walked the marketplace once, then wound her way back to the driveway of Musa-Elbenah’s home, walking past it to the hotel, and then out the back to the market again. She circled the path continuously until Farmer spoke in her ear. “Three women and one man leaving. The women are all wearing dark dresses and dark niqabs and carrying cloth bags that appear to be empty. The man is wearing a white dishdasha, no head covering. The man is getting in the small car. The women haven’t left the driveway yet.”

Sara blessed him silently. That was a good report. Maybe he had just needed some time to warm up to the mission. She hit the button on her radio so he would know she heard and quickened her steps. She wanted to fall in behind the women. Her plan depended on them separating.

The radio crackled in her ear again. “One more woman leaving. She is running. The other women have turned right towards the market. This last woman is wearing the same dark clothing and head covering. Stand by.”

Sara turned a corner and could see three figures in front of the house she’d been watching. A fourth ran swiftly out of the driveway and caught up with the women. Sara walked quicker, wanting to be close enough to hear their conversation.

“There’s something strange about the last woman,” Farmer said in her ear. “She is walking directly behind the others, very close, and she keeps reaching out to the woman in the middle but not touching her. She seems indecisive. Oh, never mind. She has the middle woman’s attention — OH!” The transmission broke and Sara held a finger up to her ear. Ahead of her, the women seemed to have stopped. Sara slowed.

Farmer came back on the radio talking swift, his voice pitched low. “Well, no wonder she was indecisive. The poor girl. When she got the middle woman’s attention, that old b-word turned around and hit her.”

Sara’s eyes widened.
Did he really just say b-word?

The radio crackled again. “The b-word is yelling at her.”
Yep, he said b-word
, Sara thought, a ghost of a smile crossing her lips for an instant. “Now she’s pointing her finger at her. And now she threw something at her. I can’t tell what it is. The poor girl on the ground is grabbing it up. Is it paper? Everyone is walking again.”

Sara could see them. The three women that originally left the house together were in front, and the girl or woman who ran after was a few steps behind but seemed to be purposely falling even farther behind.

Good
, Sara thought.
Perfect
. Now they just needed to separate. And then Sara would swoop in. Sara knew if she had to take a few hits from that old b-word, she would. It would be easy.

Ahead of Sara, the four women entered the market. The first three walked straight on, but the woman at the rear went right immediately. Sara followed. The woman walked swiftly, pushing her way through the crowds that had appeared suddenly. Sara hurried until she was a few steps behind. The woman stopped at a stall with large ropes of meat hanging in front of her. In a surprisingly strong voice, she called out for 10 pounds of something red and dripping. The man wrapped her order and she moved on, secreting the meat in her bag.

Sara followed her for four more stops. She got spices, fruit, more meat, and pig’s feet. Sara watched her shove the last package in her bag and decided it was time to move.

Sara pulled the Arabic phrases she wanted to use from the back of her mind and rehearsed them. Then she stepped forward quickly. “Al anesah, Al anesah,” she cried, grabbing the young woman’s sleeve. “Miss,” she said again in Arabic. “Your Mistress, she needs you, it is an emergency!” She grabbed the young woman by the hand and pulled her through the milling people buying their wares for the day.

“What, what is it?” the young woman asked, struggling to keep the pace that Sara was setting.

“No time, you must hurry, your mistress is sick and needs you,” Sara said, almost running, projecting panic into her words.

They burst out of the crowd and Sara pulled her towards the hotel. Sara held down the button on her radio under her dress so that Farmer would know she was coming. “She is here, your mistress, she was taken here,” she hissed over her shoulder at the young woman, finally reaching the hotel and starting up the stairs to the top floor. The woman’s feet pounded loudly on the stairs. Sara winced but knew it couldn’t be helped.

When she reached the top floor she saw Farmer’s door standing open.
Bless him
, she thought again as she pulled the woman inside. Sara pulled the woman all the way into the room as Farmer shut the door behind them. Sara caught her breath and watched the woman’s eyes as they took in the empty room, except for the obviously American man in the corner. The woman’s eyes widened in fear and she shrank backwards against the wall, her hands clutching at the one chair in the room and putting it between her and Sara.

Sara held up her hands and started speaking in rapid Arabic. “It’s OK. Your mistress is not here. I lied to get you to come here because I need your help. We will not hurt you. We are going to help you. You have my word that we are going to help you and get you out of that house. We are going to help you find a new life where no one hits you and you can make enough money to support yourself. We just need some information from you.”

The woman shrank farther into the corner and shook her head no. Sara could only see her eyes under the niqab, and they were filled with fear and disbelief, and possibly resignation. As if this had happened to her before. Sara hoped she didn’t start screaming.

She kept trying to calm the woman, talking to her, and asking her name. She offered her a chair, then offered her a soda and some fruit. The woman only stood in the corner, looking stricken.

Sara knew they probably didn’t have much time before the woman was missed by the other servants or the wives. Sweat trickled down her back. If they could just get her to say her name! Agent Farmer stood by the door, watching Sara. She didn’t know if having him come forward and talk to the woman would be a good idea or a bad one, but she was almost ready to ask him to try.

Sara tried one last time to connect with the woman. “What is your name?” No response. The woman pushed into the corner and closed her eyes. “Are you Aisha?” Sara hesitated but the woman did not do anything. “Are you Tira?” Her eyes flickered open and contemplated Sara, then she squeezed them shut again.