Her? The Messiah? Really?
Rebecca shrugged, or at least that was all he could tell with her covered head to foot in black.
"Davidson isn't joining us?" Talli asked as he picked up one heavy-ass briefcase.
"No," Brandt admitted. "He is setting up across the street to get our backs." It was a good thing Talli had dark skin. Otherwise, it would be way too easy to notice his cheeks flush. Brandt threw him a bone. "Don't worry. You are going up on the roof to guard our front."
And hopefully you'll be close enough you can actually hit something.
Talli crisply nodded, unaware of Brandt's true feelings. Perhaps, after they ended this mission, it was time to send him back to sniper school or something. It wasn't fair to him or the team to have one functional sniper and then Talli.
As their "sniper" headed to the freight elevator, Levont hit a button on a much more upscale keypad. Two other men joined them as they waited for the elevator. Both were dressed in Western-style business suites. Brandt was pretty sure they spoke Plattdeutsch, a lower-class version of German. Which made sense. The Germans had a vested interest in natural gas. Egypt was not blessed like some of its northern neighbors with huge oil reserves. No, Egypt's main export was natural gas.
And since the Russians started jacking up the price of natural gas to Europe? Suddenly, Egypt had a whole new bargaining position.
The bell dinged. Brandt stepped out of the way for Rebecca, but Levont blocked him, indicating for the businessmen to enter.
Crap. You are in Egypt, Brandt.
Woman, especially such traditionally dressed women, walked behind their men. A fundamentalist man would never allow a woman to enter first. Pull it together.
He nodded to Levont, thanking him for the etiquette save. He also kept his hand firmly planted at his side. The instinct to put his palm on Rebecca's back really gnawed at him. His mother would be so disappointed he wasn't being a gentleman. Instead, he followed Levont into the elevator. Rebecca waited, then entered and put her back to the wall, bowing her head. She clearly had been to Egypt before. She seemed to know the customs better than he.
The other two men got off on the sixth floor. Levont punched the button for the penthouse, which given they were in Giza was only five more floors up. As they were lifted upward, Levont opened his briefcase and handed Brandt his gun. Quickly, he tucked it into his waistband, then straightened his clothes just before the elevator door opened.
To his surprise, they were greeted by an elderly gentleman dressed in Armani.
"Ah, Dr. Rebecca Monroe, to finally meet!" he exclaimed in a thick Middle Eastern accent.
Rebecca really, really hated it when people knew who she was. Since he knew her to be American, it made no real point to continue to wear the niqab. She pulled off the garmet, shaking out her ponytail as the man guided them into the affluent office.
The desk was made of solid mahogany and the floor covered in a thick Oriental carpet. The view through the office windows was a full 360 degrees of Giza. To the west, you could make out the pyramids and Sphinx. To the east, Cairo sprawled out into the distant smoggy desert. The Nile lay between the two. To think this view had been enjoyed by businessmen and pharaohs. The ancient capital of Egypt was due south at Memphis. Civilization had called this region home for millennia.
Brandt stepped in front of Rebecca. "You know who I am. Who we are."
The man's neatly trimmed beard parted in a smile. "Of course, we have been expecting you."
Rebecca could feel Brandt's muscles tense. This wasn't at all how this was supposed to go.
"And you are Dr. Nyura Saramias?" Rebecca asked.
The man nodded vigorously, leading them over to a wet bar. "We do not frequently have guests that drink alcohol. However, I have brought in fine brandy and whiskey."
Clearly, the guy was not exactly clear on what Americans really drank or when.
Levont broke away from the group, checking out the rest of the room.
Nyura just smiled. "Ah, yes, please check. But be assured, after this long, we have our antibugging protocols down."
We?
Then Rebecca noticed a figure standing behind the desk. Her burka seemed to blend in with the mural of the Middle East that covered the back wall.
"My wife," Nyura stated as he urged them to sit.
None of them did.
"How did you know we were coming?" Brandt demanded, apparently deciding small talk was not needed.
The man ignored his question. Instead, he looked to Rebecca. "What do you think of her? Is she the one we have sought for so long?"
"I don't know," Rebecca stated. At least being able to tell the truth.
"Please, sit," Nyura insisted.
Awkwardly, Rebecca sat down and urged Brandt to do the same. Levont, however, seemed pretty intent on standing guard by the door.
"I know that you are worried," he said, "but my only concern is for the girl. And to make sure that she does not fall into the Disciples' hands. I will help in any way that I can."
Rebecca could feel Brandt's distrust wafting off of him. It beat against her skin. She could only imagine what Nyura felt. The sergeant was a lot of things. A delicate negotiator was not one of them.
"I assume that you would want something in return," Rebecca stated.
Again, the man's bright smile illuminated the room. "Of course, of course."
"And that would be?" Brandt rumbled.
"A strand of hair," he said. "That is all."
Before Rebecca could answer, Nyura's wife moved across the room, offering them tea in dainty porcelain cups.
"If you will not drink my whiskey, please, have some tea."
Rebecca took the cup but had no intention of drinking it. Brandt waved off the woman.
"I asked," Brandt pressed in that tone of his that threatened violence if he wasn't answered, "how did you know we would come here?"
"You really do not know?" the man asked, looking to each one in turn. "The girl, she sent word two weeks ago." Off their shocked looks, he chuckled. "I am only teasing. A little Messiah humor, sorry."
This Nyura was definitely not what Rebecca had expected. For one thing, they were in a room filled with light. That right off the bat was weird. These conversations usually took place in caves or run-down tenement buildings. And certainly not with someone as forthcoming as Nyura appeared to be.
"If the stand-up routine is over," Brandt stated, "would you like to answer my question?"
The man sombered, but not much. "The earthquakes were our first indication the Messiah may be ready to reveal herself."
The older man, his hair more salt than pepper, smiled that smile of his. Perhaps it charmed some. Rebecca seemed to be buying into it at a least a little, but then again, everyone knew her soft spot for older gentlemen.
This guy hadn't stayed alive this long without some serious ability to manipulate. The congenial yet affluent facade had probably served him well over the years. Not today, though. Brandt smelled a rat. Like, literally. There was something off about the office. The smell of fresh paint was one of them. Someone had gone to a lot of effort to make this space feel occupied, but Brandt doubted if it had been used for more than a week.
There was another smell. An odor that made him nauseous and hungry at the same time.
"Once Dr. Monroe found the Viking runes in Iceland," Nyura explained, "I knew that it would only be a matter of time that you would come knocking on my door." The man leaned back in his chair. "Then, of course, once the Disciples kidnapped you and sent men into the Congo after a little girl, well, we do understand our arithmetic. One plus one and all."
"And if we refuse to give you the girl's hair?" Brandt asked. With a man this skilled at spy craft, there was no reason to beat around the bush.
Nyura glanced to his wife, indicating he would like a refill on his tea. He took a nice long drink, then sighed. "Americans. Always the bottom line. Always testing the size of our relative reproductive organs. How big a stick am I wielding? That is what you wish to know?"
Okay, Brandt would have put it another way, but he could roll with it. "Yes."
"As I said, I only have the girl's welfare at heart."
"Bullshit," Brandt said, gaining the first frown for the day from Mr. Saramias. "I'm a decent, moral guy," Brandt went on. "And even I don't have only the girl's welfare at heart. I've got to balance the safety of my team, my superior's orders, and a whole crap load of regulations."
Nyura leaned forward, far more intense. "Ah, that is where we differ, Sergeant. I have no superiors. No regulations. And no team. I have me and my life's work, which is centered around this Messiah. She is my only concern."
Brandt glanced to Rebecca. What harm would giving him a single hair cause? Nyura could have taken the girl in the parking lot if they had really wanted to. Yet something tugged at Brandt's gut. If somebody wanted something this badly, it invariably was far bigger a deal than they let on.
So why hadn't they taken Vakasa when they could have? Did they stay their hand, as Nyura had stated, due to safety concerns, or was this impressive office just a front? Were they incapable of pulling off the grab?
"You supplied Bunny with this address," Rebecca stated breathlessly as if she had just had an epiphany. Brandt liked it when she had epiphanies. It meant his brain didn't have to work overtime understanding what in the hell was going on.
CHAPTER 14.
Giza, Egypt 9:03 p.m. (CAT) Rebecca watched as Nyura's expression went from affable to guarded. "Yes, yes, we did plant it for her to find."
She had read Bunny's e-mail. Rebecca had followed the logic tree that had gotten them here. But now that Rebecca was sitting in this luxurious office with a man offering to spill all of the Disciples' secrets for a bit of Vakasa's DNA, the trunk of that tree felt like it was branching off at a odd intervals.
Obviously, Brandt was worried about the man's motives. That he would either take the DNA by force or not give them the knowledge he'd promised, even after they handed over the hair. Rebecca felt the deception went far deeper than that.
The dynamic between husband and wife, for one. If he truly was a Disciple, that meant he was Jewish-hardcore, super-traditional Jewish. Which his wife was. For Arab visitors, Rebecca could see why they would keep up the Muslim traditions. But in front of Brandt and her? Why? Why not take off the burka?
It felt as though she were in the middle of the play Hamlet. That this scene was staged for some benefit, only Rebecca couldn't figure out for what purpose. In her mind, she traced back the lines of logic.
The Viking article by Nyura that she and Bunny followed. The anagram name switch. The German building.
Wait. Only the last name was switched. The first name seemed intact. Her Arabic was seriously rusty, but wasn't Nyura...?
"Nori," Rebecca blurted.
The woman couldn't help but turn in her direction. The woman tried to cover the recognition of her name by spilling some tea, but Rebecca had no doubt what she had uncovered.
"What just happened?" Brandt asked, jumping to his feet.
Rebecca noticed that Nyura's, or whatever his real name was, expression lost its joviality.
"Nyura is a unisex name," Rebecca stated. "Like an American 'Terry.'" She looked to Levont, who nodded his agreement. "Nori is the feminine nickname most women go by."
"So," Brandt said, his eyes flicking back and forth between the man and woman, "the real doctor is her?"
"I believe so," Rebecca stated.
In response, Nori lifted the burka up and over her head to reveal a crisp business suit. Unlike her husband, with his more Arabic features, Nori's nasal ridge was far more prominent, along with a higher forehead. A far more classic Jewish phenotype. Her dark-black straight hair was only lightly peppered with gray. Her eyes, though, showed her age. As a matter of fact, she looked perhaps a decade or two older than her husband. Lines etched the corner of her eyes. Wrinkles zigzagged her forehead.
Was this what Rebecca would look like if she continued to chase religious mysteries? A face filled with regret and purpose?
"What gave me away?" the older woman asked as she straightened her dark-navy-blue jacket.
Rebecca nodded to her feet. "Ultimately, your shoes."
She had unconsciously noticed the click of heels when the woman walked around the room, offering the tea. Then Rebecca saw a blue leather top to a rather expensive set of shoes peak out from under the burka. Women in burkas just didn't wear upscale heels.
"We were in such a rush..." Nori said with more than a twinge of sadness.
"Does somebody want to explain what the hell is going on?" Brandt demanded.
The woman moved from behind her husband's chair to stand next to him. "The first thing I must tell you-"
Then the woman grabbed her stomach, nearly doubling over.
Brandt's gun flew up. He scanned the windows. Not a single bullet hole. And looking closer at her white dress shirt, there was no blood. Another ruse? Rebecca rushed over to help hold up the woman.
"Well, perhaps the first thing I must tell you," the woman said, "is that my dearest husband appears to still be loyal to the Disciples."
Retraining his aim, Brandt focused on the husband. "I have no idea what she means, but it isn't sounding very good for you."
"He has been poisoning me for weeks," the woman spat out. "And I believe he gave me the final, fatal dose this morning once we heard you would arrive."
Brandt might have thought she was faking, except for the fact her skin went gray as she struggled to breath. You couldn't fake that level of shock. "Rebecca, get away from her."
"The good news, though?" the woman said, then coughed heavily. "I returned the favor."
The man's eyes dilated as his hand went to his stomach. "The tea?" he questioned, then spasmed. "You bitch."
He rushed his wife before Brandt could intervene. He needn't worry, though. The old woman buried a hidden knife up to the hilt into her husband's chest.