Noel Hynd - Countdown in Cairo

“No. Of course not,” she said. “And I’m not an official inquisitor. The local man allowed me a few minutes with you, just to satisfy myself.”

“Pretty generous of him,” Cerny said. “What did you have to do in return?”

“Ask nicely,” she said, dishing it back. “What occasions this is that I saw an old friend of yours the other day. And after a conversation with him, almost everything fell into place.”

“What old friend?” he asked, as if surprised to learn that he had any.

“Yuri Federov.”

Cerny shook his head.

“He’s still alive? I’m surprised.” He snorted.

“I’m going to describe to you my sense of the big picture,” she said. “I don’t suppose you’ll want to comment, but I’m going to entertain you with it, anyway.”

“Suit yourself.”

“It was the Russians who put you up to getting rid of Federov, didn’t they?” she began. “They sent you to the United States many years ago, back when Vladimir Putin was holding together remnants of the old KGB. Sell a little bill of goods here, another one there. You were Putin’s man in Washington and Langley-or more likely one of Putin’s men-going all the way back to the 1990s when you first appeared hawking your bag of tricks. Didn’t much matter who you were selling out to start with, did it? Langley was always buying the act. But then, as years went by, and the goals got bigger, every person you compromised was in some way inimical to Vladimir Putin.”

He shifted on his cot. There seemed to be some swelling on the side of his head, and he kept touching it.

“I even reviewed all the cases you worked, right up to the one about Dr. Ishraf Kerwidi, the fellow who went out the window in London. That served a whole host of interests, didn’t it, Michael? Putin. The Israelis. Maybe even the Americans.”

“Kerwidi had it coming,” Cerny said.

“By your way of thinking, I’m sure he did,” Alex said.

“You might want to watch out for open windows yourself,” he added, “if you keep making enemies all over the place. Got to be people who think you have it coming too, Alex.”

“Just like the people around here think you have it coming as well.”

“What does that mean?” he asked.

“I just wouldn’t want to be you right now,” she said.

“Who would?” he asked with a final dash of irony. “Certainly not me.”

“So then I would be correct?” she said, glancing at her watch and backtracking. “You were a Russian agent, going back at least a decade. And the whole operation in Kiev was put forth primarily to take Yuri Federov out of the picture for Putin. I talked to Yuri about this. He’s not well, by the way. Federov, by his own admission, had become too powerful following the Ukrainian gas crisis of 2005. So in a strange way, American interests and Russian interests-Putin’s interests-merged. He was on the US hit list for gangsterism, arms dealing, and tax evasion. But worse for him, he was on Putin’s hit list for just being too powerful. So you came to the CIA with a plan to take him out. First by an assassin in Rome who hit the wrong person. And then later in Kiev.”

Cerny exhaled a long breath, one of resignation.

“It was an easy sale,” Cerny said. “The CIA wanted Federov gone. Who really cared if Putin wanted him gone too?”

“Poor me. Poor Robert. Poor everyone else who got killed in Ukraine that day. We were all caught in the middle,” Alex said. “Do you remember a Colombian cocaine lord named Pablo Escobar?” Alex asked.

“Sure, I do,” Cerny answered.

“Escobar once planted a bomb on an Avianca-jet-just to kill one specific person,” Alex said. “The plane blew up and eighty-six people died. Collateral damage. That’s what we’ve all been. Collateral damage for the games nations play.”

“That’s how life is. You’d do the same if you were assigned to do it.”

“No, I wouldn’t,” she said. “I’d like to think, in fact, that there’s a special place in hell for people who do things like that.”

“Well,” said Cerny. “I told the inquisitors everything, so why shouldn’t you know too? So I serve a few years in prison. Putin’ll get me back. They always do. That’s all I’m going to say.”

“That’s all I’m going to ask,” she answered.

By then, time was up and Alex had had quite enough. Two military men in blue berets were at the cell door. They clanked the door noisily and said something in Arabic that Alex didn’t understand. She was more than ready to leave. The door opened with a metallic groan.

She left the cell without saying anything further. If Cerny had anything more on his mind, and she was sure he did, he wasn’t going to talk about it.

One of the guards accompanied her back down the hall. Alex had the impression that the guard spoke none of the languages she knew, so she didn’t attempt conversation. Tony was sitting on a desk in the entrance area, his jacket off, his shoulder holster and weapon exposed. Once again, Alex knew the drill. By this time, it seemed to her, she knew too many of the drills. Tony would continue on with her and deliver her to the airport. Operations were like that. As soon as one was rolled up, the CIA liked all the players out of the country as quickly as possible. Once she got back to Washington, there would be a lot to talk about. Yet most of it she wouldn’t be able to even mention-not to her friends anyway.

Outside, two SUVs were waiting in the scorching sun, both with their motors running. Tony walked her to one of them. He opened the back door for her. As Alex stepped up to slide in, she saw the form of a man in the back seat. He was bare-headed with sandy-hair and sunglasses. He wore a beige linen suit. He had been waiting for her.

Handsome devil, he was. Voltaire.

“I didn’t think I’d see you again,” she said. “On the other hand, I was sure I would.”

“Oh, I wasn’t sure myself,” Voltaire said. “But you were of great value here in Cairo, so I wanted to see you off personally. There’s a final bit of business, then we’ll get you to the airport.”

She waited. “What sort of business?” she asked.

“You’ll see.”

He engaged her in small talk for several minutes, and she gained the impression that he was stalling. Then she saw why. While her SUV and the neighboring one were poised and ready to go, a third vehicle swung into the driveway. It was an armored car. Green, the color of Islam, but with no markings.

“Welcome to the world of espionage,” Voltaire said softly. “And what would the world of espionage be without payback?”

“I’m not sure I like it,” she said.

“What? Payback?”

“No. The world of espionage.”

“Ah! Who does? Often it’s like a disease. You didn’t choose to have it, it found you. And you’re in it now, my dear lady,” he said. “And you do excel at it. You have your own assets, your own nascent network. I’m very favorably impressed. Back and forth you went to Europe. You used the database in Washington as you worked; you helped us reel in some troublesome people here. You really did a formidable job. I’d work with you again any day.”

“Is that a compliment?”

“It could be construed as one. How’s that? Take it as an expression of praise only if you wish.”

Voltaire motioned to the armored car. The rear door opened. No one got out. Two security people stood around the vehicle with machine guns, however.

“What am I watching?” she asked.

“The final act. We have our instructions from Washington.”

She kept silent. Half a minute later, two guards brought Cerny out in wrist manacles and leg chains. They frog marched him to the armored car and roughly pushed him into the back. One of the guards went into the back with him, presumably to chain him to a seat. After a moment, the guard came out.