Free The Cairo Code by Glenn Meade Page A

“Why have we come here?”
    The man switched off the engine. “Come, you’ll get your money.”
    He got off the motorcycle, leaned it against a wall, and strode inside the warehouse. Evir reluctantly went after him. The building was a ramshackle, cavernous place littered with bits of rusting scrap metal, the concrete floors covered with puddles of watery oil. There was a dented oil drum in a corner, a storm lamp on top. The man lit the wick and tossed away the match.
    The warehouse was flooded with soft yellow light. The man took a thick envelope from his pocket, waved it in his hand. “Before I pay you, I need to ask you some questions. Did you take anything else from the safe?”
    Evir saw the man study him intently. His eyes seemed to burn into his face. “On the lives of my children, I did only as you told me.”
    The man continued to stare. “You’re quite sure you’re telling me the truth?”
    Evir felt uncomfortable, a ripple of fear down his spine. “You said to photograph every document I found in the safe. I did just as you asked. And now I want my money.”
    â€œHave patience. And you’re certain you told no one about our arrangement?”
    â€œNot a soul. May Allah cut out my tongue if I lie.” Evir told the truth. “Besides, you warned me of the consequences.”
    The man nodded, satisfied, and smiled. “Good. There’s just one more thing.”
    Evir frowned. “What?”
    The man put down the envelope and reached into his pocket. When his hand came out the smile was gone, and Evir saw a curved Arab blade with a white ivory handle, a savage-looking thing like a metal claw.
    â€œI can’t let you leave. You know too much and you’ve seen my face.”

5
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CHESAPEAKE BAY, VIRGINIA
12 NOVEMBER, 8:50 A.M.
    The sun was hidden behind dark rainclouds that morning as the vast gray bulk of the battleship USS Iowa, all fifty-eight thousand tons of her, the pride of the U.S. fleet, dropped anchor five miles off the Virginian coast.
    Captain Joe McCrea watched from the bridge as the tug came heading his way from the shore, bobbing through the gentle swell, escorted by half a dozen naval vessels prowling around it like protective mother hens. McCrea had received the signal twenty minutes ago, telling him the VIP passengers were ready to join his ship. One among them was certainly the most important he had ever carried on board a vessel under his command in over twenty years’ distinguished naval service, and McCrea knew he was about to undertake the most challenging mission of his life.
    He turned to the young lieutenant at his side. “Make ready to bring the passengers aboard.”
    â€œYes, Captain.”
    McCrea put down his binoculars as the lieutenant went down to the main deck. The Iowa was like a miniature town in itself, with a crew of two and a half thousand men. It bristled with an impressive array of heavy guns and anti-aircraft weapons, its decks and platforms covered an area of over nine acres, and despite its vast size it could travel at a speed of thirty-three knots, the fastest vessel in its class. Out in the Norfolk Sound, scattered on the gentle gray waves, was her escort, six more vessels with a deadly array of firepower, and their sight was a reassuring one to McCrea that morning. This might not be the biggest armada in history, but it was definitely one of the most vital and secret. He checked his uniform, then made his way to the lower deck to greet his passengers.
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    When the tug finally pulled alongside, McCrea saw at least a dozen people cramped in the stern, civilians and naval personnel. There was a flurry of activity as sailors on the landing boom grabbed lines and made ready. Because of the height of the Iowa, there was a sheer drop of almost thirty feet from the lower main deck to the sea. A small boom extended down towards the waves to enable boarding,