Alien Affairs
Chapter 30

“Eddy says they broadcast at thirty-five hertz and you can detect them with a loop antenna connected to a laptop computer,” Carrie told her boss. “He says you need two of them to triangulate.”

“I thought triangles had three sides,” Turnbull said.

“That’s what he said.”

“Get his ass over here on the first flight.”

“Will do.” She terminated the call and turned to Eddy. “Your orders are to report to the consulate in Cairo with the necessary gear ASAP.”

“Are you coming with me?”

“Why? Are you afraid to fly alone?”

“Well, somebody’s got to work the second unit and I can’t see Director Turnbull schlepping around the streets of Cairo with a laptop and a loop aerial.”

Carrie saw his logic. She considered sending Paul but it was getting on toward the middle of the night and she felt reluctant to drop a surprise like this on him. “Okay, where do we get the equipment?”

“They should have it downstairs. As a department head, you’ll have to requisition it.”

“Let’s go. You pick what you need and I’ll sign for it.” While Eddy browsed the shelves Carrie checked flight availability with her phone. Air Canada had a flight departing Reagan International at 9:35. She was frankly astonished at how many flights there were to Cairo. Fortunately there was space available—she supposed the Egyptian political climate had a negative effect on travel there. Unfortunately there were no first class seats. She checked a few other flights with the same depressing result. The flight made stops in Toronto and Frankfurt, so clinging to the hope of an upgrade, she booked two seats in coach. “Only a Canadian would go to Egypt from Washington via Toronto,” she thought.

Eddy found all that he thought he needed. Carrie signed for it and told him, “I’ll meet you at the airport at seven. Air Canada 7353.”

“Air Canada?”

“Yeah, and the first stop is Toronto.”

“Bummer. Do you think I’ll need my Kananga outfit?”

Before she left Langley Carrie went to the pharmacology department. It was required that somebody be on staff around the clock. Apparently they were not required to be awake. Carrie rousted the sleeping pharmacist who jolted awake looking sheepish with a deep red crease on her cheek from the piping on the back of her office chair.

“I need something to make me sleep on an airplane,” Carrie said.

“Have you got a prescription?” the drowsy woman asked.

“I don’t have time to get a prescription. I’m leaving early in the morning.”

“This isn’t a candy store, you know. We don’t just hand out drugs to anybody who asks.”

“Look, I’m a department head.”

“Are you a doctor?”

“No.”

“Then I can’t help you.”

Carrie locked eyes with the woman and considered her options. She laid her phone on the countertop facing the pharmacist. “See what that says?” Carrie pointed to the contact labeled ‘Turnbull.’ “Shall I press that and inform the director that a certain Ms. Weaver is sleeping on the job?”

“You wouldn’t.”

“I intend to sleep on that airplane. Now, get your uppity ass back there and get me something good.”

Glowering, the woman swiped her ID card on the door lock and disappeared for several minutes. When she returned she slapped a pill bottle on the counter. “This is generic for Ambien ten milligrams extended release. It’ll put you in la-la land, but you have to sign the Schedule IV register.”

“Thanks, no problem.” Carrie looked in the bottle and saw six tablets before she signed for it.

At home Carrie only had time to shower and pack. She arrived at the airport and braced for the gauntlet of intrusion and inconvenience that not even CIA creds could allay. Eddy arrived late, of course, adding to her discomfort. He had a computer bag on each shoulder with a loop antenna strapped to them with bungee cords and pulled a black wheeled suitcase. His eyes were bloodshot but he still wore his irrepressible grin.

“Can’t wait to kick some Arab ass,” he said.

Thinking of the story she heard about Eddy’s Mali adventure, she asked, “You know we’re travelling on civilian passports. You don’t have your gun do you?”

“What do you take me for? You’re going to requisition one for me at the consulate aren’t you?”

Carrie felt queasy.

It was the flight from hell. There was a six-hour layover in Toronto. Carrie was nearly comatose as boarding time approached so she popped two pills hoping to sleep all through the eight hour leg to Frankfurt, but at the last minute there was an hour and a half delay. When they finally called for coach to board Eddy couldn’t rouse her. She was still a zombie when he got her to her feet and supported her by one arm down the jet way while he wrestled with the computers, her carry-on bag and purse. The flight attendant offered a baleful glare. After pushback the stewardess asked Eddy if it was going to be necessary to see if there was a doctor on board.

“No,” he said, “my boss has been burning the candle at both ends, that’s all.”

Carrie was wide-awake in Frankfurt where they had a nine-hour wait before the four-hour leg into Cairo. They were forced through passport control and thus out of the secure area so they hired a cab, had a good meal—at least as good as German food gets—and then took a tour of the city.

It was ten in the evening by the time they cleared customs in Cairo and another hour in a taxi to get to the consulate. Carrie was ready to take another pill but worried that Turnbull might want to start searching immediately. Happily, the director had already retired.

In the morning Carrie and Eddy breakfasted with the director and the head of station—a man called only Palmer—who inquired as to what equipment was needed. Eddy said, “We need two cars with drivers and preferably the cars have sunroofs.”

Turnbull knit her brows in his direction. “Sunroof,” she snorted, “I suppose you want a minibar as well.”

“No, ma’am, but a side arm would be nice.”

“You’re going to locate the thing not recover it,” Turnbull said.

“You never know when an opportunity might arise. I do have vast experience at recovering alien virus balls.”

“Your shenanigans in Mali caused a diplomatic dust up. I don’t want you fucking up in Egypt too.”

Eddy held his peace.

None of the cars in the compound had sunroofs so the pair had to be content with holding the antennas out of the passenger window. The drivers were Keith and Alex, and so were naturally armed, which mollified Eddy, but only a little. After Eddy showed Carrie how to use the antenna and the software, Palmer warned them, “Keep your eyes open for motor scooters. Some asshole might zip by and grab your antenna thinking it’s something valuable.”

“Another reason for a gun,” Eddy said and Turnbull’s head snapped toward him with the fast becoming permanent scowl.

A radio wave with a thirty-five hertz frequency could pass through several hundred feet of water so the buildings of Cairo offered it no resistance, however the tiny antennas were only able to detect a hugely degraded signal, so the software had to compensate for the shortcomings of the equipment. Carrie heard the deep, sonorous beeping as soon as she powered on the laptop. “I found it already,” she told her driver.

“Are you sure?”

“Don’t you hear it?”

“Rotate the antenna.”

She did and the beeping got slightly louder. “Shit. I see what you mean. Okay, drive.”

Several hours later, after noting the relative strength of the signal, cardinal direction of the loop and the GPS coordinates of each location, she phoned Eddy and was surprised to hear that he was already back at the consulate. She had the driver return to the compound where she found Eddy at a desk with a map of Cairo spread before him.

“So let’s see what you’ve got,” he said. He entered some of Carrie’s coordinates into Google Maps to pinpoint the place the reading had been taken, then found the spot on his street map. Using the compass app on his phone to indicate the orientation of the antenna loop, he then drew a line along a straightedge. In a few minutes he had drawn two triangles sharing a common side. “Well, there you have it,” he said indicating the apex of the triangles opposite to the common side. “It’s either here or here.”

“What do you mean here or here? I thought you could pinpoint it,” Carrie said.

“I did, but when you aim the loop, you can’t tell whether the signal is coming from in front or behind.”

Carrie called the director while Eddy zoomed Google’s satellite images onto the two properties. One was a commercial building and the other a private residence on the bank of the Nile. Turnbull arrived with Palmer as Eddy revealed the facade of the commercial building with Street View.

Palmer said, “That’s a bakery.”

“Okay, how about this?” Eddy reverted to the aerial view of the residence.

“That’s a pricy piece of real estate. Give me a couple hours and I’ll send an Arabic speaking asset into that bakery and I’ll get some intel on who owns that house.”

After dinner Palmer reappeared. “The bakery is clean but we’ve got quite a bit on the guy in the house.” He laid a folder on the table and opened it. “He is Mohammed Khalfani, a colonel in the Egyptian army and a member of the Muslim Brotherhood.”

Turnbull said, “If he’s only a colonel and he owns a house like that, either he comes from money or he’s dirty.” She took a photograph of the man from the file and examined it.

“His father was a subsistence farmer, so that question is answered. Khalfani is thought to divert large caches of weapons from the army to extremists both inside and outside Egypt. Despite being active in the Brotherhood, he enjoys nightclubs and he has a weakness for western women.”

“Well, we can expect him to have around the clock security both personally and for his house,” Turnbull said still looking at a sixtyish Arab who needed to shave.

“The house is a fortress and he never travels without an entourage,” Palmer said.

“Damn, I wish I hadn’t let the Israelis go. How are we going to get into the house with what we’ve got to work with?”

“You’re going to have to get an invitation.”

“Do you know which nightclubs he frequents?”

“He has two or three favorites. We can put a tail on him and let you know which one he picks.”

“All right then, Carrie, you let him pick you up and take you home.”

“What? Why are you always trying to make me the bait in a honey trap? I can’t do something like that.”

“Of course you can. You’re a natural.”

“You might do better with somebody quite a bit younger.”

“The guy’s over sixty. You’ll look like a hot young chick to him.”

“I’m a damned linguist, not an undercover operative. Get somebody with experience.”

“You’re the only western female we’ve got here.”

“The last time the subject came up you were a female.”

“I’m way too old for him. Besides, I’m the director, remember?”

Eddy said, “You can handle it. Look at the way you wrapped Deshler around your finger.”

“I could talk to Deshler. I don’t speak Arabic.”

Palmer said, “He graduated from Cambridge.”

“Do you want to get the canister back?” Turnbull said.

Carrie looked exasperated. “What do I have to do?”

“That’s my girl.”

The following night Khalfani was followed to the Tamarai, a club popular with young westerners. Palmer dropped Carrie and Turnbull a block away from the entrance. Predictably the place was crowded, noisy and smoke filled.

“I can’t breathe in here,” Carrie said. “It smells worse than the aliens.”

“So move fast.”

Carrie hadn’t known what to expect. The place was ultra-modern with lasers flashing above the dance floor and pop music blaring. She hated it. There were hundreds of people, mainly young. She felt extremely out of place.

“Look,” Carried said shouting, “they have a terrace. Let’s look out there.”

The terrace overlooked the Nile and was quite beautifully done. The air was somewhat clearer and the music slightly attenuated. Turnbull spotted their quarry at a crescent shaped table with two presumed bodyguards. The table was large and there were several empty seats. “Let’s take the table in front of him. You face him and make eye contact.”

The table was a sort of glass box that was lit from below. It illuminated her face. “The shadows from below are going to make me look like Frankenstein’s monster.”

“You look lovely,” Turnbull assured her.

A waiter took drink orders. Carrie ordered scotch. As the waiter left the table Khalfani flagged him and said something to him, and then he spoke to his bodyguard who rose and approached the two women.

“Would you ladies like to be Colonel Khalfani’s guests? He had your drinks transferred to his account,” he said with a strong accent.

Turnbull said, “Certainly. We must thank the colonel.”

Carrie took the seat next to Khalfani while Turnbull made a point of sitting to her right, pointedly avoiding the empty chair on the colonel’s opposite side. Introductions passed all around including the two bodyguards, Assim and Khalid.

“And what brings two charming American ladies to Cairo?” Khalfani began the small talk.

Carrie replied, “Sightseeing. We came to see the pyramids.”

“Well, there are many more sights to see beside the pyramids. Have you seen them yet?”

“No, this is our first night here.”

“I see. And have you pre-arranged tours?”

“No, we like to freelance.”

“Perhaps you would permit me to offer a private tour.”

“This is moving fast,” she thought.

The drinks came before she answered and Khalfani offered them a toast. Assim and Khalid drank cokes. Carrie took a big swallow and patted her lips with the cocktail napkin. “So, Colonel—”

“Please, call me Mohammed.”

“Okay, Mohammed, are you an active duty colonel?”

“Yes, I’m attached to the anti-terrorism task force.”

“Sounds dangerous.”

“That is why Assim and Khalid accompany me and they are a very good reason why you should accept my offer of a private tour of the monuments. Two American women alone in Egypt might seem an easy target for thieves and terrorists.”

“Oh, my, well, what do you think, Georgia?”

Turnbull said, “It is very generous of you, Colonel. How can you replace the time?”

“I am the colonel after all.”

“Of course,” Carrie said. “They certainly have a lovely view of the Nile from here.”

“Ah, if you like this, you should see the view from my terrace.”

Carrie finished her whiskey and set the glass on the table with a thump.

“May I offer you another?” Khalfani said.

“Please.”

He snapped his fingers at the waiter and pointed to the empty glass. “Do you care to dance, Carrie?”

“To tell the truth, Mohammed, this music is a little too fast for me.”

“If we were on my terrace we could be listening to Sinatra.”

She wanted that scotch to hurry and get there. How long should she play hard to get, she wondered? Did he really think that after ten minutes she was going to get up and go home with a total stranger? Mercifully the drink arrived and she pretended to let it distract her. Over the rim of the glass she inspected her prey. He was no Omar Sharif but he had shaved. The dead air was getting awkward. After rejecting ‘Do you come here often,’ she said, “Do you have any Michael Bublé?”

Mohammed’s eyes widened. “Well, of course. Shall we go?”

“What about my friend?”

“Oh, don’t worry about me,” Turnbull said. “You kids have a good time and I’ll see you back at the hotel.”

Carrie felt her insides drop. “I guess.” She took another big swallow, stood and clutched her purse in front of her in a defensive posture.

Khalfani stood and said to Turnbull, “Please let me drop you at your hotel.”

“Oh, no, thanks, I think I’ll try a little dancing.”

“As you wish.” He touched Carrie’s elbow and they followed the two heavies to the exit.

Assim drove and Khalid rode shotgun. In the back of the Mercedes Khalfani pulled Carrie close to him. She had to force herself not to lean away from him but she could not lean toward him. He seemed to accept what small progress he had made. At the house Khalid got out of the car and deactivated an alarm, which Carrie noted. Assim pressed a button above the console and a massive double gate swung inward.

“Your house is a fortress,” she said sliding across the seat to look out the window at the twelve-foot tall walls.

“In Cairo one must take precautions.”

Driving through the gate she felt panicky and gave thought to jumping and running, but she regained control and took a deep breath. Their escape plan suddenly seemed a little iffy. Khalfani unlocked the enormous door and pushed it open. The place was done in what Carrie said to herself might be called Moorish modern. White polished marble floors were laid with Persian rugs and through the arched end of the foyer she saw a wall of glass.

“This way, my dear,” he said, “you must see the view.”

Well, it was spectacular. The terrace stood perhaps seventy feet above the river. She could smell the fetid mud of its banks.

“Mohammed, this is out of this world. You must give me a tour.”

“By all means.” He showed her around the palatial house while she was trying to discover where Assim and Khalid were hiding and to replace an escape route. Naturally, the tour ended on the terrace outside of the master bedroom suite. “May I offer you something to drink?”

“Do you have any wine?”

“Red or white?”

“White, please.”

“Certainly, come this way.” He led her through the sliding door into the sitting area of the bedroom and took a bottle from a wine cooler. He stepped behind a small bar to pull the cork and said, “Make yourself comfortable.”

Carrie sat opposite him on a barstool. He poured two glasses that she noted were Baccarat Crystal. Walking back around the bar he stood annoyingly close to her and put his hand on her leg. She stiffened but endured it and took a sip of wine.

“So, Carrie dear, how do you replace Egyptian hospitality?”

“Fast paced.”

He laughed a little. “I think we have chemistry.”

“I bet you say that to all the women you bring here.”

“None of them are like you.” He took a remote from a side table and aimed it at the wall. Music began to play. It was not Michael Bublé. “Let us dance.”

She placed her purse on the bar and fumbled with it a bit. She pulled out a Kleenex and dabbed at her nose. “The cool air is making my nose run.”

He took her hand, put the other around her and pulled her tight against him. She laid her left hand on his shoulder, still clutching the Kleenex, and followed his none too smooth steps. Not a minute into the song she felt his hand slide up her back and begin to pull down the zipper of her cocktail dress. When she felt his touch on the bare skin at the small of her back she jabbed the auto-injector that was wadded in the Kleenex into the side of his thigh like she had practiced with Eddy before leaving the consulate. He squawked and slapped at her, missing, and staggered away from her, then spun and reached for her before crumpling with a feeble and incoherent sound.

Carrie’s heart was pounding. She did not bother to check Mohammed. They had told her that the drug should render him unconscious for four hours. She didn’t care if it killed him. Now all she had to do was replace the sphere and walk out with it past Assim and Khalid. She began to search praying that she did not replace that he had a walk-in safe.

In the bedroom suite, expansive as it was, the only place something the size of the canister could be hidden was in the closet, which was as big as Carrie’s whole bedroom. From the racks hung military uniforms ranging from khakis to full dress regalia, white Arab robes with fancy headgear and another wall hung with western clothes. There was a wall of shoes in pigeonholes and an island with drawers of varying sizes but none large enough for the ball. She was about to leave the closet when curiosity as to the nature of the man dresses drew her to more closely inspect some of the long garments, not knowing what they were called. Admiring the feel of the silk, she held one out from the hanger and uncovered what she went through all this to replace. The alien canister was hidden behind the thobes.

Now what?

She got her phone out of her purse and called Turnbull. “I’ve got it. Get me out of here.”

“Carrie, listen to me. We can’t extract you with a helicopter. His security people have shoulder-fired missiles. You have to go out the front door. Eddy and Palmer are waiting for you.”

“His two goons are out there and the door is alarmed.”

“Call Eddy. He’s on site and may be able to tell you where the bodyguards are.”

“He may be able to tell me. Come on, I’m trapped here. Get me out of this place.”

“See what Eddy has to report. You got this far, you can go the rest of the way.”

“Oh, shit.”

She disconnected and punched Eddy’s number.

“Just walk out the front door and we’ve got you,” he said.

“First I’ve got to walk past Frick and Frack carrying this medicine ball, and if I succeed at that, the door is alarmed.”

“I just disabled the alarm.”

“How’d you do that?”

“Later. Now, just get out of there.”

“Oh, Christ Eddy, can’t you create a diversion to draw the guards away?”

“Where are you?”

“I’m on the terrace at the north end of the house.”

“Okay, I’ll make some noise at the south end. When you hear it go out the front door, Palmer is there.”

“Okay.”

It seemed like a lifetime. She set the heavy sphere on a deck chair and crouched in the dark for what seemed to be hours. The house was deathly quiet. She could hear her own heart beating and hoped that it would continue to do so. Finally, glass breaking and the sound of running footsteps. She seized the canister and moved along the wall of glass to the sliding door opposite the foyer. It was locked.

Frozen momentarily she fought panic. There had to be another way out of the labyrinthine bedroom suite. She returned to it, stepping around the unconscious Mohammed, found the actual bedchamber, which had three doors. One opened into a dressing room and continued into the cavernous closet, another gave into the bath and the third led to another sitting area, but that room had another door yielding to a hallway. She had become somewhat twisted but felt sure turning to the right would lead her to the center of the house. Passing several doors that she left untried, she reached the foyer. The hall continued on the opposite side and there was light coming from that wing of the house. A figure stepped into that light. Carrie moved quickly toward the door but Khalid sprinted for her.

“What are you doing with that?” he demanded.

“Oh, it’s a little gift from Mohammed for services rendered.”

“It’s for the Palestinians.” He grabbed her arm and took the canister. “Where is Mohammed?”

“He’s sleeping.”

“Come, we will see.” He started to pull her toward the hall.

She snapped open her purse and in a heartbeat her hand shot out of it with the other auto-injector, which she slammed into his forearm. It was not as good a target as a thigh muscle and he continued to hold her by the upper arm. Fearing for the canister’s integrity, she fought him for it counting seconds until the drug reached his brain. When he relaxed and the metal ball came free from his grasp, she fell backward with it landing hard on her chest and knocking the wind out of her. That hurt but it did not take long to scramble to her feet and make a run for the door.

By the footlights on the driveway she saw the massive gates swinging inward. She kicked off her heels and ran. Then there was Eddy sprinting toward her. He relieved her of her burden and they both continued to run the short distance to the street where Palmer stood by the driver’s side of the armored Range Rover. Eddy dived in first with the canister, Carrie slid in right behind him and slammed the door just as Assim appeared at the gate and emptied a clip against the side of the car. Bullets smacked against the thick polycarbonate windows making Carrie instinctively flinch as Palmer accelerated.

When she could breathe a little closer to normal, she said, “Your diversion took long enough.”

“Crap, it wasn’t easy climbing the damned twelve-foot wall.”

“Well, thanks. How did you disarm the alarm and open the gate?”

Grinning he took a small monocular from his pocket. “I looked over the big guy’s shoulder.”

“Pretty clever. Do me a favor.”

“What?”

“Zip my dress.”