Reprisal (8 page)

Several men who had been eyeing this blonde, blue-eyed, sexy lady smiled when they heard this. It was plain that any one of
them would have given a lot to trade places with Richard Dartley as she threw
her arms about his neck and kissed him full on the mouth.

The taping may have been exhausting, as Sylvia claimed, but it sure had acted as a turn on for her also. As Dartley drove
to her Georgetown apartment, he felt her undo his belt buckle and unzip his pants. Next he felt her soft palm caress his lower
belly until he got a monstrous hard-on.

She massaged his dick and gave him some tender strokes that made the car fishtail. Then she went down on him, and he felt
her moist lips and tongue on the head of his cock. This wasn’t making the car any easier to steer.

Finally, he pulled into the parking lot of her apartment building and eased into a remote corner beneath a tree. He turned
the car engine off and let his body’s motor run at full throttle in Sylvia’s throat.

Omar Zekri was having bad dreams. They’d start out good, with Ali smiling and everybody happy. Then Ali’s face would begin
to disintegrate, in the middle of a smile, and the contents of his skull would leak like those of an overripe melon. Or worse
would happen. Omar had taken to staying awake, sitting up all night in an old armchair, taking cat naps, trying never to allow
himself to become immersed in deep sleep and those horrible dreams.

He even eased up on booze and coasted all day on beer, to calm his nerves. With the lack of sleep, he hardly had enough energy
to be nervous anyway. He just went from place to place, doing what he had to do, too sick to sorrow, too tired to think.

Awad and Zaid came around every day. Sometimes several times. He would bump into them in unexpected places. Sometimes they
would greet him and shake hands, as if they were very old friends or even cousins who had not seen each other for a long time.
Other times they would pretend not to know him. He could never tell what they would do. The only thing he could be sure of
was that no day would pass without his seeing them. Deep in his mind, he knew they were a more immediate threat to him than
his scary apparitions of Ali. The dead did not harm the living. Omar kept telling himself that. It was the living he had to
fear more than the dead. He was not afraid of Ali. The dreams were what he was afraid of….

He could not sleep.

Omar had expected to be tortured and killed when he admitted to Zaid and Awad that he collected information for the Americans.
Instead, the two men had given him three bottles of Scotch and a hundred Egyptian pounds. All he had to do in the future was
to pass the information from some of his contacts through Egyptian military clearance before he gave it to his American contact.
As they explained, he was now working
with
his own government instead of against it. He had nothing to fear now about getting caught for treason. Why then did Awad
and Zaid keep circling him like two sharks? Did they think he might be tempted, for more money, to tell the Americans how
some of the information was now being monitored by the Egyptians? Of course, Omar had considered this opportunity. He had
dismissed it as being too risky, considering what would happen to him if he disobeyed Zaid and Awad.

He wondered what Pritchett would do to him if he found out what was going on. Pritchett seemed pleasant enough, but so were
all American Embassy spies—or at least the two who had been his contacts before
Pritchett. They were trained to be pleasant and inconspicuous. No doubt they were trained also to deal with Egyptian informants
who double-crossed them. Pritchett would shoot him and push his body in the Nile. Which was not so bad, really, when he thought
about what Zaid and Awad said they would do to him.

“Thank you, ladies and gentlemen,” John Keegan said to the assembled reporters from the dais with the State Department seal,
signaling that the news conference was over. “I only have time for one or two questions.”

He pointed to a black woman.

“Sir, can you tell us why Defense seems to be going along with State these days on President Ahmed Hasan? Has President Reagan
told them to shape up?”

“Not to my knowledge, Charlayne. I think I am free to say that we are beginning to hear some heartening things from Egypt.
That is not to say that everything has changed overnight for the better, but there are definite, encouraging signs… that is
all I can say. I think that everybody sees now that we must be patient—that we must give President Hasan a chance. It would
be tragic if we prematurely withdrew our support for him and by so doing denied him the opportunity to return Egypt to a more
democratic society. Thank you.”

“Sir!”

“Sir!”

“What about Israel’s claim that—”

John Keegan smiled and quickly walked away.

* * *

Dartley had no trouble at Cairo International Airport. He was required to change $150 into Egyptian currency at the official
rate, since he did not have a visa (Malleson hadn’t wanted to stretch things by applying for a genuine visa with Dartley’s
fake credentials in the name of Thomas Lewis). As Dartley passed out of customs, he picked up a map to the city at the Tourist
Office desk. He was not being observed. Then he took a black-and-white cab to the Nile Hilton, where a room had been reserved
for Mr. Lewis.

So far he hadn’t noticed any anti-American displays, and certainly the Hilton, Sheraton and other American investments had
not been seized like they had in Iran. Dartley’s problem was that he now had to make a move, but in what direction he couldn’t
tell. There was no reason why doing one thing was better than another, so far as he could see.

Egypt was a signatory to the Nuclear Non-Proliferation Treaty, and thus was open to the inspectors of the International Atomic
Energy Agency, the United Nations’ body charged with halting the spread of nuclear weapons. The inspectors checked nuclear
inventories, affixed seals to prevent diversion of material for unauthorized use and scanned millions of photos taken by sealed
automatic cameras they installed in the plants.

But there were ways around these inspectors. For example, Iraq was thought to have made plutonium for bombs secretly from
its big stockpile of natural uranium. Natural uranium in the form of yellowcake was not something the agency inspectors kept
track
of. The yellowcake had been secretly refined in a hot-cell laboratory that Iraq had bought from Italy. The refined uranium
was then irradiated in the reactor, between agency inspections, to produce weapons-grade plutonium. Israeli warplanes interrupted
that project. France had supplied the reactor and fuel to the Iraqis, and they were supposed to have technicians on the spot
to stop all irregularities. Dartley could sympathize with the French. They had been made to look like fools on two scores—first,
the Iraqis had apparently tricked them, and then the Israelis had showed themselves to be more alert and more decisive.

Since those times Iraq had gotten bogged down financially in its war with Iran; the revolution in Iran had more or less put
an end to nuclear research there; and Libya was still unsuccessful in its attempts to buy readymade atom bombs. Dartley could
see the Egyptian point of view. There were no longer ties between Egypt and Israel, and if Egypt could develop a nuclear capability,
the country would regain its leadership of the Arab world. That was an understandable aim, and even an acceptable one had
it not been for the fact that this would put the near-ultimate weapon of destruction in the hands of Ahmed Hasan and the Light
of Islam mullahs.

The Viscount had done his homework all right. Dartley’s head was now filled with facts, but facts were one thing and what
to do with them was another. He had been immediately attracted by the list of Egyptian scientists who had recently returned
from abroad. Malleson identified one among them as by far the most important, a Mustafa Bakkush. If he
could be located, the bomb would not be far away. He was an internationally famous man and would not be so easy to hide. There
would be talk. Certainly, asking around for a man would be easier than for a bomb.

Dartley lay back on the bed in his luxury room at the Nile Hilton and wondered how to start. It had been easy to use his bogus
identity as a wheat expert at the airport, but it might be quite difficult with knowledgeable people. His best bet would probably
be to pass as a tourist, keep his mouth shut, and hope people wouldn’t spot him as an American—a wild hope, he knew.

The phone rang.

It was a Mr. Pritchett to see him. Dartley knew no one by that name, yet had him sent up to his room. Whoever this turned
out to be, Dartley wanted to face him behind a closed door.

“Pritchett, from the embassy.” The stout, red-faced man with blue eyes shook Dartley’s hand and flopped into a chair. “Got
anything to drink?”

“No,” Dartley said in an even voice to the sweating man. “You didn’t say which embassy.”

In reply, Pritchett produced a plastic-encased ID card.

“I’m not here on American business,” Dartley snapped.

Pritchett shrugged. “You know, before Hasan kicked out Mubarak, the U.S. was making long-term, low-interest loans to Egypt
to buy American wheat. Two hundred and seventy-five million bucks’ worth.”

“You afraid I’ll teach them how to grow their own so they won’t want any more from the Middle West?”

“Naw. I was just showing off my knowledge. I couldn’t give a shit about wheat.” Pritchett mopped his brow with a large red
handkerchief. When he saw that his host still was not going to offer him a drink, he went on, “Mr. Lewis, I want you to keep
your eyes and ears open wherever you go and report anything unusual to us at the embassy.”

Dartley cursed silently. Contact with the American Embassy was the last thing he wanted. He said, “I’d certainly be pleased
to help any way I can. However, I can’t jeopardize my work for the United Nations by seeming to be an… agent or whatever for
the American Embassy. Even talking to you here would probably be enough to have me expelled from the country.”

“You don’t have to approach me directly,” Pritchett said hurriedly. “We needn’t ever talk again. It would be better that way.
Here, memorize the name of this Egyptian. You will find him at that location at that time every day of the week. He is very
dependable. Write what you wish me to know. Verbal messages become confused. Sign it with a code name. How about N. Hilton?”

“Great,” Dartley said. After some small talk, he eased him out the door.

Pritchett wasn’t such a fool as he pretended to be. After all he had known of Dartley’s arrival in Egypt within three hours.
Somehow he had learned that his name was Thomas Lewis and that he worked for CIMMYT. Obviously Pritchett had an informant
in Immigration, and obviously Pritchett was CIA. He hadn’t pressed Dartley to collection information, just left it to his
patriotic duty. CIA method of operation.
Dartley made up his mind. Thomas Lewis was going to disappear from the Nile Hilton that very night.

He would get moving right away. That Egyptian would be a start. He looked at the piece of paper Pritchett had given him. The
Egyptian would be there in about an hour. Outside the Mahmoud Khalil Museum, opposite the exit gate of the Gezira Sporting
and Racing Club, on Zamalek Island in the Nile. The man’s name was Omar Zekri.

“No, no, it is enough that I pick up messages for Mr. Pritchett,” Omar Zekri was saying in his high-pitched voice and unusually
accented English as he and Dartley walked along a dusty residential street. “I see no reason for me to have talks with people.
It is not expected of me. You give me your message. No more. It is not reasonable.”

Dartley let him go on complaining so long as he kept moving. The big houses along this stretch of the roadway were behind
walls, and they walked beneath fragrant trees which leaned out from behind the walls, giving shade. They were alone.

Dartley interrupted the Egyptian’s complaints. “I want to know where the scientist Mustafa Bakkush is located.”

Omar paused and looked at him in surprise. “At Cambridge University in England. That gentleman considers himself too important
to stay among us humble Egyptians.”

Dartley shook his head. “He’s been back now for a while. That’s common knowledge. You make money from knowing what’s going
on. I’ll pay.”

Omar began uncertainly, “I will make enquiries—”

“No, you won’t,” Dartley barked.

“Why not?”

“Because you’re not going to get the chance to. Either you tell me where I can find Bakkush or you die right here where you
now stand.”

“No!”

Dartley grinned. “Why do you think I brought you down to a quiet, lonely place?”

“But Pritchett—”

“Fuck Pritchett,” Dartley said. “Pritchett works for me. He’ll just have to find someone new after you’re gone.”

Omar’s lips were trembling. “Don’t hit me! Mustafa Bakkush works somewhere out in the desert, no one knows where or what he
is doing. I have heard he is working on a nerve gas.”

“That’s not his technical background.”

Omar gestured. “I do not understand these things well, but I think you are right. He is more splitting the atom, right? Who
knows? What I can tell you is this, and no more: He comes into Cairo two days a week and meets with scientists and engineers
from here and Alexandria. They all gather at the Citadel. I stay away because it would be dangerous to be seen lurking there.
I am too shaky in my present position already. But I do more than this for you. Yes, I think I can.” He waited, looking at
Dartley expectantly.

Dartley took out a wad of American bills, peeled off three twenties, and handed them to Omar.

“I think this is worth more,” Zekri said politely, unable to keep his eyes off the wad of paper in Dartley’s hand.

Dartley peeled off two more twenties and handed them to him.

“An engineer who works at a government plant down in the Delta has attended some of these meetings. He helps me with things.
But he will want much money. Here? At this place? Tomorrow? I will bring him. His English is bad. At this time? But remember
you must pay for everything he tells you.”