Vengeance: A Derek Stillwater Novel (Derek Stillwater Thrillers Book 8) (16 page)

Robert Mandalevo woke up to
find himself sitting bound to a chair. It looked like a bedroom in an apartment. There was no furniture except the chair. Blinds covered a single window. The floor was bare wood, the walls unadorned.

In front of him the unblinking eye of a camera on a tripod glared at him.

“You’re awake. Good.” Sheikh Hussein Nazif checked the video camera, which Mandalevo now saw was attached to a laptop computer. There were two other men in the room, although they wore scarves over their faces. They both carried AK47s. Nazif, however, wore a black skullcap, a taqiyah, with white embroidery. Otherwise he wore military-style boots, khaki trousers and a khaki shirt cut in a vaguely military style.

Nazif again held up the photograph of Derek Stillwater. “His name?”

“I don’t know him.”

“You lie. I can see it in your eyes. Very well. First, we will send a message to your government.” He took a sheet of paper, read through it silently, then held it in front of Mandalevo so he could read it.

“I’m not reading this.”

“I thought you might say something like that.” Nazif walked back to the video camera. He flicked a switch and nodded to his two men. They walked over to flank Mandalevo.

From behind the camera, Nazif said, “We are the Nazif Brigade. We are freedom fighters for all Muslims around the world. We have the U.S. Secretary of State, Robert Mandalevo. His actions on behalf of The Great Satan, the United States of America, make him a war criminal. He will be treated accordingly.”

He nodded at his men. Using the butt of his AK47, one of the man slammed it into Mandalevo’s stomach. Leaning forward as far as he could, Mandalevo groaned, gasping for air.

Then the other man punched him in the face. His head snapped sideways. Pain ripped through his head.

“We demand that the Egyptian military leaders, who are the lapdogs of the U.S. government, step down immediately and cede all control of the military to President Morsi. If this does not happen within twenty-four hours, we will kill Mandalevo.”

Mandalevo said, “That will never happen.”

“Then you will die. But that is only our final demand.”

Nazif tapped a key on the computer. “My first demand. You see before you an image of this man. He is a U.S. government agent, possibly with the U.S. State Department. He must be turned over to me within one hour. This man is a war criminal and murderer. He falls under Qasas and must be delivered to me within one hour or Robert Mandalevo will pay the price.”

He pushed another button on the computer.

Mandalevo said, “I am not familiar with Qasas.”

From his pocket Nazif took a scarf, which he wrapped around his face. From a sheath on his belt he drew a knife.

“In your law it is referred to as lex talionis.”

Fear clenched Mandalevo’s heart like cold claws.

“It is based,” Nazif said, stepping toward him, “on what you know better as an eye for an eye.”

One of the men gripped Mandalevo’s head in both hands, one on his forehead, the other under his jaw. Mandalevo started to squirm and thrash.

Turning to the camera and holding up the glittering blade, Nazif said, “This will only be the beginning.” He turned back to Mandalevo and raised the blade.

With the motorcycle in the
back of a dusty red Toyota pickup truck, Noa and Derek drove through the city toward Cairo University. He was charging his phone using the cigarette lighter. Suddenly a voice echoed in his earbud.

“Stillwater? This is Sholes.”

“I’m here.”

“The Nazif Brigade just alerted us to a live feed.”

He waved at Noa and she pulled the truck to a curb. “I’ve got my tablet. All I need is an address.”

Sholes read it off and Derek typed it in. “Have you got the
NSA
on this?”

“We’re not idiots.”

“Glad to hear it. I’m going to alert my team.” He texted Johnston and Konstantin the information.

A few minutes later the video started. The video ended with the one of the terrorists cutting out Mandalevo’s left eye. It abruptly ended.

Derek sat there for a moment, hands in fists, stomach tied in knots. Something burned deep in his gut, something red and hot and angry. Fury. In his ear came Irina’s voice. “I’m setting up a conference connection for the five of us.”

“Five?”

“You, Noa, Johnston, myself and Konstantin.”

“Go ahead.”

Everyone checked in a moment later. Derek said, “The
NSA
is going to go after the feed.”

Johnston:
NRO
won’t work with me, but I’ve got a friend that owns a commercial satellite company. He’ll have high-res images of the area in a matter of minutes.

Irina: I’ll work on the website feed. In the meantime, I can load a map for you, track things as we go. Konstantin is coordinating. Where to next?

Noa: Cairo University.

Derek: I need anything you can pull on Imam Yusuf Effat. He’s faculty at Cairo University. I was working on his background when we took off for Russia.

Johnston: I’m on it.

Konstantin: I’ll have my people check as well. Do you need anything else?

Derek: Satellite feeds on where that van might have gone ASAP.

Johnston: Should be soon.

Derek: We’re off then.

Noa pulled the truck back into traffic and they headed to Cairo University.

Halfway to the
university, Konstantin said in his ear: I’ve uploaded a file on Yusuf Effat. But he’s no longer teaching at the university. He took a leave two years ago. He’s running a charity out of an office building.

“Give me a synopsis.”

Konstantin: Bachelor’s degree in political science, Cairo University. Four years in the Army, overlapping Nazif. Then a doctorate in political science at Cambridge, where he may or may not have become radicalized. Runs a charity.
Al-Muhammadiya
, which means Muhammad’s Way, more or less.

Derek pulled up the file on his tablet and looked at the photo of Yusuf Effat. Middle-aged, bearded, Egyptian. A round face and round wire-rimmed eyeglasses, so throw in a turban, he might look like a bearded Egyptian Gandhi.

Noa said, “What does it do?”

“Runs mosques,” Konstantin said. “Delivers sermons. Directs money to some orphanages and to poor people. It’s affiliated with The Egyptian Brotherhood, like most of the Islamic charities
in Egypt.”

“Is it legitimate?” Derek asked.

“That’s a hard call,” Konstantin said.

Johnston’s voice came over the channel. “Our people say yes and no. They wash a lot of money through the charity and some of it does go to orphans and poor people, but a lot of it seems to go to schools that train Islamists.”

“Got an address, people?”

Irina: I’ve uploaded a map for you.

Derek pulled it up and showed it to Noa, who studied the map and nodded. She did a U-turn and headed back several blocks, then took a left, heading away from the university and toward the city center.

Al-Muhammadiya
was located in a three-story office building. The charity was on half the main floor, the other half belonging to something Noa translated to be White Star Website Development Corporation.

They stepped into
Al-Muhammadiya
and found themselves in the entryway to what looked like a cubicle farm, with dozens of people talking on phones in front of computer screens. It was all in Arabic, but Derek noticed Noa’s expression change subtly.

A young woman in a black slacks, a tan and black long-sleeved blouse wearing a blue hijab, sat at the front counter. Her face was visible and her eyes were large and brown with long lashes and a pretty smile. She and Noa exchanged comments in Arabic.

The receptionist picked up a phone, punched a number and spoke briefly to someone. Noa’s eyes narrowed.

Feeling uneasy, Derek moved his hand closer to the gun at his back. Noa saw the motion and shook her head slightly.

A moment later Imam Yusuf Effat appeared wearing robes and a keffiyah. He looked at Noa with distaste, turned toward Derek and in excellent English said, “How may I help you? You are American, correct?”

“I’d like to speak with you about Sheikh Hussein Nazif.”

“What about him?”

“Where can we find him?”

“I’m sure I don’t know. Now leave.”

“I understand that you are a friend and advisor to Mr. Nazif.”

“Who are you? Why are you here?”

“I’m with the U.S. State Department,” Derek said.

“You have no jurisdiction here. I do not have to speak with you.”

“That is true. But you really should.”

Effat snapped his fingers. “Credentials. Let me see your credentials.”

Derek handed over his State Department
ID
. Effat read it. “Dr. Derek Stillwater.” He studied Derek for a moment. “What do you do for the State Department, Doctor?”

“Special Investigator. Are you aware that the Nazif Brigade has kidnapped Secretary of State Mandalevo?”

“I know nothing about this.”

“How can we get in touch with Nazif?”

“How should I know? I knew this man years ago when we served in the military together.”

“And you haven’t been in touch with him since?”

“Of course not.”

“Not in the last couple weeks?”

“No. Absolutely not.” He turned to glare at Noa. “And who are you? You are not American.”

“I’m with Dr. Stillwater,” Noa said.

“You are Israeli.”

“You have a problem with that?” Derek asked.

“I do not have to talk to either of you. Leave now.”

Derek handed Effat a business card that had his title, name and cell phone number on it. “Call me if you hear from Nazif.”

Effat took the card by his fingertips, his nostrils flaring. “I assure you I have no contact with Nazif.”

“Well, in case you do.”

He walked out, Noa behind him. Outside, she said, “You didn’t pressure him enough.”

Not answering her, Derek said into his microphone, “You guys on it?”

Irina: I’m on it. There’s a lot of computer activity. Phones are harder from where I am.

Johnston: I’m in contact with
NSA
and State back here.
NSA
’s on both.

Derek and Noa headed for their truck. Lynn Sholes’ voice burst in his ear. “We’ve got a track on the location of the broadcast. Our embassy people are on their way. Where are you?”

Noa gave a location.

Irina: You’re six blocks away.

“Who is that?” Sholes snapped.

“My team,” Derek said. “Don’t worry about it. We’re close. We’ll go. We can recon. If we can go in, we will. Otherwise we’ll wait for the team. Make sure they don’t shoot us by accident.”

Sholes: Do it. We go operational as of now. I’m Eagle One.

Derek said, “Spear One.”

Noa said, “Spear Two.”

Sholes: Proceed. Out.

Irina: I’ve downloaded
a satellite photo of the building.

“That was fast,” said Derek.

Irina: Google Earth.

Derek looked at Noa, who said, “Spear One?”

“Tip of the spear.”

“Macho American. Whatever you say.”

He shrugged. “As long as it can be understood. You ready for this?”

They were two blocks away. Studying the satellite photo, they saw what looked like a single-story building. From where they were, they saw a labyrinth of buildings and narrow alleys, each more dilapidated than the next.

In their ear came yet another voice, this time in what Derek suspected was Hebrew. Noa answered and nodded to Derek.

“My people wanted a sit-rep.”

“What did you tell them?”

“We’re going to go closer.”

“Any advice?”

“Be careful.”

He nodded. “I don’t know what I’d do without the Mossad’s great advice.”

They crept into the alley that would lead them to the building. A few people were walking around, one older man in tan robes pushing a cart that seemed to carry reeds. Derek was mystified as to what they were. He studied the man carefully, looking for signs of weapons or a suicide vest, but the man seemed to be just what he looked like—an Egyptian man going about his daily business, whatever that was. Papyrus, maybe?

Turning the corner, they saw the building they were looking for. It looked abandoned. Studying the satellite image, he said into the mic, “Does it look like there’s a back entrance?”

Irina: Can’t tell.

Sholes: Our people are ten minutes out.

Derek looked at his watch. He had set a timer going since the video. Fifteen minutes until they did something else to Mandalevo

Looking at Noa, he shot her a question. She nodded.

“We’re going in.”

He and Noa edged toward the building, guns drawn. There were two windows on the second floor, but he saw no one at them. His heart raced in his chest, his breathing hard. Sweat rolled down his temples in the heat, his fresh shirt already sticking to his back and ribs.

Standing on either side of the door, Derek reached out and grasped the knob. It turned. He raised an eyebrow. Noa shrugged.

He gently pushed it open. Waited.

Derek indicated with his hands that he was going in low. He held up three fingers.

Two.

One.

Ducking low, he scuttled through the doorway, gun ready.

Nothing.

Sniffing, ears straining.

Noa crept in behind him, resting one hand on his back. He nodded and pointed to a door on the left. She tapped his back.

He slid up to the door. Noa pressed to the wall on the other side of the door. She reached out and checked the knob. Unlocked.

Derek nodded. She pushed the door open.

A blast exploded out of the open door.

Crouching down, Derek took a peek, dodging back.

“Well,” he said. “That’s interesting.” A hole about the size of a volleyball had been punched in the wall.

Holding up a hand for her to wait, he slipped inside the room. “Okay, come on in.”

Inside the room a shotgun had been rigged to a table with twine that went to the door. Opening the door pulled the trigger.

On another table were two things.

An open laptop computer.

And a bloody eyeball.