Dick Stivers - Cairo Countdown

In the other half of the case, a battlejacket of Kevlar and steel wrapped an Uzi and a bundle of magazines. Gadgets saw a second weapon, a silenced Beretta 93-R, with custom shoulder holster and several magazines of subsonic rounds.

Gadgets snapped open the second case. He found radios, electronic units, ammunition. Taking out one small device, he switched on the power and pulled out an antenna. He turned in a circle slowly, waving the antenna at the walls of the hotel room. He touched the antenna to the telephone, walked into the bath, then returned to the Egyptian and waved the unit over him.

"I got no electric cooties!" the guy said.

"Supercool," Gadgets commented. He took a hand radio from the case, keyed the transmit. "Man Number Three speaking… Who's out there?"

"I am," Carl Lyons answered.

"You swept your room yet?"

"This is your International Fluid Technology sales representative," proclaimed the voice of Rosario Blancanales.

"Both of you," Gadgets interrupted, "don't talk until you've checked your rooms. In fact, forget it. I'm in 505. Meet me here. Have your assistants watch the equipment."

"You one paranoid hombre," the Egyptian told him.

"You got a name?"

"Mohammed. You can call me Mo. I'm talking the Arab talk for you, driving your car, showing you the sights. Mr. One-Hand told me this might be a real party, wild times. He said you guys are hardcore cowboys."

"Who do you work for?"

Mohammed grinned. "You! Ask me another tough one."

"Your name Mo as in Mossad?"

"Who's that dude?"

"Okay, that's cool. You look Egyptian. I guess you speak the language like one?"

"I am one, man. I talk it mucho perfecto. Want to hear?"

"Hope you speak it better than you do English…"

Mohammed shammed offense. "Hey, wait a minute..."

Knuckles tapped the door. "Later. Right now, take a walk."

The jiving Mohammed gave Blancanales and Lyons a quick salute as he left. Lyons squinted an eye at the young man, then closed the door and locked it.

"Konzaki include those Armburst rockets in your CARE package?" Blancanales asked.

"Sure did. Rockets, Uzi, Kevlar battlesuit with trauma plates. I think we're into something heavy here..."

"How do we verify those three kids?" Lyons interrupted.

"My man had the right id," Gadgets answered.

"What identification?"

"There…" He pointed to the equipment in the aluminum cases.

"Not good enough."

"We'll talk to Katz," Blancanales told them. "I want to know exactly what goes on. Immediately."

"Conference call." Gadgets pulled another radio from the case, selected a frequency. "The Wizard calling," he said into the mouthpiece. "Team waiting. Wizard calling…" Repeating his code, Gadgets checked his watch.

"This is Phoenix One," Yakov Katzenelenbogen answered in his upper-class English soldier's accent. "I trust you had a pleasant flight."

Lyons leaned to the radio to cut off the pleasantries. "Request positive identification of assistants. Absolute positive."

"I watched the young men enter the hotel. I assure you of their identity and trustworthiness."

Blancanales squatted beside the bed and reached for the radio. Gadgets pointed to the handset in his pocket. "Use your own. Your signal will be relayed to Katz."

Keying his hand radio, Blancanales asked: "Is there surveillance? Can we meet for a conference?"

"No! Coded radio only. We cannot risk a meeting. Allow me to explain…" He briefed them on the destruction of the secret U-2, then the ambush of the CIA squad. As he detailed his investigation of the incidents, the three men of Able Team looked to one another.

When the ex-Mossad agent — the unofficial leader of Phoenix Force — voiced his conclusion, the words came as no surprise. "I believe the Muslim Brotherhood has penetrated the Central Intelligence Agency."

In a taxi moving through the traffic of Sharia el-Corniche, Lyons monitored Katz speaking with an Egyptian in Arabic, the conversation meaningless to the ex-LAPD cop. Limousines and little Fiats, crowded buses with young men riding on the bumpers and hanging from the windows passed the slow-moving taxi. On the curb, tourists leaving hotels waved for the taxi. Abdul the driver waved back, indicating Lyons in the back seat. To the west, the late afternoon sun flashed from the Nile.

"You three Yanks are lucky," Abdul told Lyons. "This is the tourist season. If Colonel Katzenelenbogen didn't have the friends he does in Cairo, this operation would be much more difficult for you. Hotel rooms, rental cars, trustworthy translators…"

"Yeah, helps to be tight with the Mossad, right?"

"Sir! As I told you before..."

"Cut the crap. You're Israeli. Who else could say Katzen… Katzenelen… Katzenelenbogenlogen! I mean, I work with Katz, and I can't even say his name."

"I speak several languages. It is a gift from Allah."

"Yeah, yeah. Let's just keep it straight. You know who I work for, and I know who you work for. I don't mind an allied effort here."

"I can only repeat, sir, that I am an Egyptian."

"Like I said, allies." Lyons ignored him, keyed his hand radio. "Wizard. Politician. We're turning off the Nile Boulevard. We're passing…" He leaned forward to Abdul. "What's the name of that hotel there?"

"Shepheard's. We're leaving the Corniche, turning east at the Sharia el-Hamy…"

"We'll be at the embassy in less than a minute. You got them in sight?"

Gadgets answered. "Jam time. Some bus lost a wheel. The cars with Katz and the station officer and Sadek are still on the embassy grounds. Pass up this street and go on to the next boulevard, circle back. You catching Katz's conversation clear?"

"Sure, loud and clear, hearing every word. But don't understand nothin'. What's the point of..."

"Be cool, man. If Katz wants us to hear something, he'll say it in English. That Parks guy — the assistant to the dear departed station chief — his Arabic is way bad, so we'll hear English again when he gets back in Katz's limo."

Blancanales's voice came on. "Ironman, you're impatient. Just relax, tough guy. Play tourist. People pay money to come here. Could be mucho worse."

"Like how? We don't know the language. We don't know the city. We don't know who we're after. All we can do is follow Katz and a crew of CIA screw-ups and wait for those ragheads to hit them…"

"Like I say," said Blancanales. "Could be much worse…"

"Like how?" Lyons demanded.

"You want to cruise around in that limo?" Gadgets asked. "Cruise around waiting for an RPG to come through the window?"

"Ah… yeah, you got a point. We're turning on the boulevard. Hey, Abdul, what's the name of this street?" Lyons asked.

"Sharia el-Qasr el-Aini."

"Yeah, the main drag. What did they just say in the limo?"

"Parks is back," Gadgets answered. "They're on their way to the airport."

"Ironman," Blancanales's voice came over the hand radio again. "Keep your distance. Tell your driver to start for the airport."

"Will do. Over."

Behind an old bus, Gadgets watched diesel smoke swirl around the taxi. The bus driver and several passengers crowded around the rear of the stricken vehicle. Two men rolled a wheel through the bumper-to-bumper traffic, weaving between cars, imploring drivers to back up, motioning other drivers to halt. But it was purposeless. The rear axle of the bus had snapped. In front of Schwarz's taxi, the bus driver argued with the passengers, waving his arms, motioning for them to leave the bus. Drivers trapped in traffic screamed at the bus driver and the drivers around them. Horns sounded in an unending cacophony.

"I tell you," Mohammed said in the front seat, "these people, they loco. The bus, it breaks down. They think a horn will make it go. These streets, they crazy place."