“If that’s what it takes.”

“Well, that isn’t going to happen. An As-Salam ambulance has already been called.”

“As-Salam? You mean El Salam.”

“No, I mean As-Salam. It’s a private ambulance service. If you dial Egypt’s version of nine-one-one, they only send out a public ambulance that’ll transport to the nearest hospital. I figured we would want her to be taken to the El Salam hospital where the other injured are.”

“No way. If she’s not talking now, I want her close when she starts. Have her taken to the Anglo-American Hospital.”

“But that’s not close. That’s the other side of town.”

“It’s close to the embassy, and that’s where I want her.”

“Fine,” said Harvath, anxious to be rid of Morrell so he could tend to Meg Cassidy. “I’ll ride over in the ambulance with her.”

“No you won’t. I’ll send one of my people to keep an eye on her. I want you down in the containment area conducting interviews right now. And don’t try to buck me on this one.”

Harvath knew why Morrell wanted him interviewing the passengers. As a matter of fact, there were probably two reasons. Number one, it was tedious as hell and Morrell wanted to stick it to him. Number two, it had been scientifically proven that the highly and specially trained U.S. Secret Service agents were exceptionally capable of detecting microexpressions. These were facial expressions that manifested themselves when a person was under psychological stress, such as from lying, harboring an intent to do harm, or, most pertinent to the current situation, trying to conceal one’s true identity. The expressions lasted for only a fraction of a second and were therefore incredibly difficult to detect. The Secret Service had never revealed how their agents were trained to pick up on these subtle facial cues. It was a closely guarded secret and part of what made the U.S. Secret Service the greatest protective force in the world. Obviously, Morrell planned to get his money’s worth out of Harvath.

The interview process was long and drawn out. At one point, Harvath thought they had a hit, but it turned out to only be a passenger hiding the fact that he was smuggling American cigarettes and whiskey in his suitcase. Judging by the looks on the faces of the Egyptian customs officers, Harvath figured the contraband would never make it as far as the evidence locker.

Once all of the passengers had been interviewed, Scot wandered over to the adjacent hangar, where the bodies of the hijackers were lined up along the floor, covered by tarps. He looked each one over. What he saw didn’t surprise him. The bodies were all those of Middle Eastern men in their twenties to thirties, with dark hair, dark skin and eyes. He was sure that if he went through their pockets, each would have a copy of the Koran. Harvath felt for the Muslim people. Islam was an honorable religion that was unfortunately rotting from within. Like it or not, the radicals gave all Muslims a bad name.

In fact, if blame had to be laid for the modern decay of Islam, the Saudi royal family was the perfect group to begin pointing the finger at. In an attempt to shore up their sovereignty, the Saudis had helped to promote one of the most radical forms of Islam, which an overwhelming majority of the world’s Islamic terrorists followed.

Harvath continued to look at the bodies, wondering if one of the men was Hashim Nidal himself. Something-he didn’t know what-told him he was wasting his time.

Scot was interrupted by a Delta operative, who told him that the Delta commander wanted him in the EgyptAir clubroom for a debriefing. When Harvath arrived, Morrell and his people were nowhere to be found. “Where’s the SAS team?” he asked.

“Back at the embassy. They took the mayor and Bob Lawrence with them,” said the CO.

“What about Ms. Cassidy?”

“They were going to take her to a nearby hospital for further observation.”

“And the debriefing?”

“We’ve already got a statement from Morrell, so I guess they plan to do their own debriefing at the embassy.”

“That’s just great. What about the rest of the passengers? What if there’s a hijacker mixed in there, after all?”

“Apparently, a few consular affairs officers have already been dispatched from the embassy to sift through them once again.”

Consular affairs officer was one of the CIA’s smokescreen titles for U.S. Embassy employees who were really covert, CIA in-country operatives.

“Those guys are as thick as thieves,” said Harvath.

“Yup, and they don’t play well with others.”

“Tell me about it. I’ve gotten to see it firsthand.”

“That’s exactly what we are going to talk about,” said the CO as he gestured for his men to take their seats. “All right, let’s get this coffee klatch rolling. I’ve got a feeling the after-action report from this job, especially Agent Harvath’s actions, will be studied for a long, long time.”

When the debriefing was over, Bullet Bob and some of the other Delta operatives were preparing to take the remainder of the SAS team’s gear over to the embassy and they offered Harvath a ride. As far as Scot could tell, his job at the airport was done. Morrell had left without giving him any further instructions, so the embassy sounded like as good a place as any to find out what their next move would be. Harvath retrieved his duffel from the back of Bullet Bob’s Suburban, changed back into his civilian clothes, and tucked his pistol into his waistband beneath his shirt.

26

Cairo was an amazing city. The official population was around eleven million, but when outside workers streamed into the city during the day, the numbers shot up to between sixteen and seventeen million. It was an eclectic mixture of old and new. Donkey-drawn carts shared the streets with shiny new Mercedes as men in business suits shouldered their way down sidewalks with men dressed in the traditional robes known as galabiya. Egyptians referred to Cairo as Umm al-Dunya, “the mother of the world,” and Harvath was no stranger to it. He had been here many times. It was a city that you absolutely loved or hated, and Harvath loved Cairo. Though he wasn’t crazy about Egypt’s politics, that didn’t stop him from appreciating its people and their incredible culture.

The row of Suburbans sped down the paved street, passing side streets that were nothing more than sand. Sand was everywhere here, and dealing with it was part of life in a desert. Egyptians went so far as to wrap bedsheets around their parked cars to help keep them free of it. It wasn’t pretty, but it was practical, and that was the mentality of the Egyptians. They did the best with what they had.

The team slowed down as they got further into the city and were caught in the snarl of one of Cairo’s inevitable traffic jams. As far as Harvath could see, there was nothing ahead, but a sea of aging Fiat and Peugeot sedans. Drivers leaned on their horns rather than using their blinkers to indicate lane changes. A family of six, piled into an old 1940s motorcycle complete with sidecar, sneaked past them on the right.

At el-Geish Square, Harvath could make out the Gate of Conquests and told Bullet Bob to pull over.

“What for?” he asked.

“I’m gonna get some breakfast,” replied Harvath.

“Why don’t you wait until we get to the embassy and have something there?”

“Because I’m hungry now. Listen, find Morrell and tell him I stopped off for a bite and that I’ll be there shortly.”

Bullet Bob radioed the other drivers and the caravan came to a stop. Harvath got out of the Suburban and walked around to the driver’s side window to thank his friend. He stuck his hand in and they shook.

“What’s this? No baksheesh?” asked Bullet Bob.

Baksheesh was slang for “tip.”