Read Online Tsunami Connection by Michael James Gallagher - Free Book Online
Authors: Michael James Gallagher
Tags: thriller, Suspense, Historical, Mystery, Military, Young Adult, Politics, Jewish, teen, Terrorism, spy, conspiracy, Assassination
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on."
"I am never going to see my parents again, am I?"
"Open the locket, child. They are always with you.
TAHRIR SQUARE
March 21, 1992
Kabril Shafiq, a rare Coptic
Christian in an Islamic organization, sat alone in his office, watching the
growing street protests on closed-circuit television filmed from the rooftop of
the Egyptian General Intelligence Service (GIS) building in central Cairo.
Shafiq's job had always been secure by virtue of his
dedication and competence, as well as his father's high rank and long service.
His father had also had the foresight to give Shafiq an Arabic name, so that
his son would fit into the GIS more easily. "Now, who knows," he
mumbled aloud and to himself. He had put some money aside in case of
misfortune, but he was a purist, an agent's agent, although the pictures on the
screen above him gave him pause. It is all coming undone, he thought.
A dedicated teletype machine clattered. This particular
piece of equipment had rested unused for years, spent technology, retained only
in case all other message-making devices failed. Odd , he thought, that's
my Israeli counterpart's secret call sign and location marker. He rose,
glancing one more time at the madness, the anarchy, on the streets of his
beloved Cairo. He craved movement, anything to distract him from the maelstrom
rising up even to his high offices.
Shafiq snapped his antique British Army swagger stick under
his arm and then thumb polished his epaulets' single stars and eagle pips, signifying
his Lieutenant Colonel rank. Wistfully, he sighed and rolled on the ball of his
foot, turning smartly toward a full length mirror behind the door of his
office.
The GIS man slowly removed his uniform and stepped into the
clothes of a desert Bedouin. The rank odor of camel filled his nostrils as he
unsealed the large bag containing his outer garments. He wore a wrapped white
turban, a traditional, short Bedouin style striped garment, white pants with
buttons on the legs, often called a potur and a plain, long, light blue
shirt or gellabiya . Finally, his two sets of travel documents: one in
the personality of an Egyptian desert nomad offering tourist camel rides at the
site of the pyramids, the other the documents of an Israeli Bedouin from the
southern Negev. As well, he carried recently made pro-democracy and pro-Mubarak
identity cards in case of emergency. He kept all four different sets of
identification in separate pouches, conveniently located about his body under
his gellabiya or main garment.
These documents and cover clothes had been prepared and
regularly changed over the years. They were kept in his secure wall safe since
eight years earlier when he was working closely with his Mossad counterpart,
codenamed Antioch, on an ultra-secret project started by his father, a General
in the Mukhabarat, the Egyptian Secret Service. He checked his dedicated secure
cell phone. Sure, enough, there were map coordinates hidden in a text message
showing a real but unrelated phone number.
He quietly walked down twelve flights of stairs without
breaking a sweat. Years of discipline were paying off tonight. Before opening
the door to the car park, he put on a pair of skin-toned surgical gloves.
In the parking garage, he went directly to space number 86.
There was always a grey Mercedes Benz W123 parked in it. He had passed it many
times, often wondering if he would ever need to leave by the clandestine route
under the car. The keys to the Mercedes were in his gellabiya , secured
by duct tape. He ripped some tape from under his arm. Stuck under the tape,
there was a key. He slipped the key into the lock.
For an instant, the alarm appeared ready to start, but
instead, one soft sounding beep opened the door. He got in and backed the car
up about one meter, leaving it in the parking space, but away from the wall. He
stopped the car, got out, closed the door quietly, and his trained eyes panned
the garage. No one was leaving by car tonight. He was
"I am never going to see my parents again, am I?"
"Open the locket, child. They are always with you.
TAHRIR SQUARE
March 21, 1992
Kabril Shafiq, a rare Coptic
Christian in an Islamic organization, sat alone in his office, watching the
growing street protests on closed-circuit television filmed from the rooftop of
the Egyptian General Intelligence Service (GIS) building in central Cairo.
Shafiq's job had always been secure by virtue of his
dedication and competence, as well as his father's high rank and long service.
His father had also had the foresight to give Shafiq an Arabic name, so that
his son would fit into the GIS more easily. "Now, who knows," he
mumbled aloud and to himself. He had put some money aside in case of
misfortune, but he was a purist, an agent's agent, although the pictures on the
screen above him gave him pause. It is all coming undone, he thought.
A dedicated teletype machine clattered. This particular
piece of equipment had rested unused for years, spent technology, retained only
in case all other message-making devices failed. Odd , he thought, that's
my Israeli counterpart's secret call sign and location marker. He rose,
glancing one more time at the madness, the anarchy, on the streets of his
beloved Cairo. He craved movement, anything to distract him from the maelstrom
rising up even to his high offices.
Shafiq snapped his antique British Army swagger stick under
his arm and then thumb polished his epaulets' single stars and eagle pips, signifying
his Lieutenant Colonel rank. Wistfully, he sighed and rolled on the ball of his
foot, turning smartly toward a full length mirror behind the door of his
office.
The GIS man slowly removed his uniform and stepped into the
clothes of a desert Bedouin. The rank odor of camel filled his nostrils as he
unsealed the large bag containing his outer garments. He wore a wrapped white
turban, a traditional, short Bedouin style striped garment, white pants with
buttons on the legs, often called a potur and a plain, long, light blue
shirt or gellabiya . Finally, his two sets of travel documents: one in
the personality of an Egyptian desert nomad offering tourist camel rides at the
site of the pyramids, the other the documents of an Israeli Bedouin from the
southern Negev. As well, he carried recently made pro-democracy and pro-Mubarak
identity cards in case of emergency. He kept all four different sets of
identification in separate pouches, conveniently located about his body under
his gellabiya or main garment.
These documents and cover clothes had been prepared and
regularly changed over the years. They were kept in his secure wall safe since
eight years earlier when he was working closely with his Mossad counterpart,
codenamed Antioch, on an ultra-secret project started by his father, a General
in the Mukhabarat, the Egyptian Secret Service. He checked his dedicated secure
cell phone. Sure, enough, there were map coordinates hidden in a text message
showing a real but unrelated phone number.
He quietly walked down twelve flights of stairs without
breaking a sweat. Years of discipline were paying off tonight. Before opening
the door to the car park, he put on a pair of skin-toned surgical gloves.
In the parking garage, he went directly to space number 86.
There was always a grey Mercedes Benz W123 parked in it. He had passed it many
times, often wondering if he would ever need to leave by the clandestine route
under the car. The keys to the Mercedes were in his gellabiya , secured
by duct tape. He ripped some tape from under his arm. Stuck under the tape,
there was a key. He slipped the key into the lock.
For an instant, the alarm appeared ready to start, but
instead, one soft sounding beep opened the door. He got in and backed the car
up about one meter, leaving it in the parking space, but away from the wall. He
stopped the car, got out, closed the door quietly, and his trained eyes panned
the garage. No one was leaving by car tonight. He was
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