W. E. B. Griffin Rogue Asset by Andrews & Wilson

CHAPTER ONE
Marriott Mena House Hotel
Giza
Cairo, Egypt
March 15, 10:11 p.m.

"You Americans and your conspiracy theories," the Egyptian ambassador to the United States said through a laugh. "I don't know how these crazy rumors get started, but I can assure you extraterrestrials were definitely not involved. Ingenuity and manpower-that's how the pyramids were built."

U.S. Secretary of State Frank Malone, who at six-foot-four and two hundred and forty-five pounds towered over the ambassador, smiled at the comment as he looked past the manicured courtyard and palm canopies at the four-thousand-year-old marvels in the distance. From the outdoor balcony of his Pyramid Suite at the Mena House, he could see both the Great Pyramid and the Pyramid of Khafre atop the Giza Plateau. He shifted his gaze from the pyramids to Ambassador Gamal. Malone had thrown out the "Did aliens really build the pyramids?" comment to see how the man would react. The comment was clearly a joke, but it was also a test. The fifty-nine-year-old Malone, a self-made millionaire and the retired CEO of Malone Construction Ltd., had come to believe that everything in life was a test. Every task, every conversation, every interaction-no matter how insignificant or mundane-was an opportunity to rise or fall. Gain or cede. In this case, the Egyptian had proven himself to be affable, quick-witted, and someone who knew how to handle a curveball.

"As a former construction man, I can appreciate more than most why the Great Pyramid is the Seventh Wonder of the World," Malone said, contemplating how in the hell the ancient Egyptians had managed to stack more than two million limestone blocks, each weighing two-and-a-half tons, forty stories in the air without cranes and excavators. Blood, sweat, and bone built the pyramids, and he wondered how many slaves had died to fulfill the grand narcissistic desire of a man who believed himself a god.

Thousands? Tens of thousands? More?

"Minister Pasha is very much looking forward to meeting you this afternoon," Gamal said, referring to Malone's domestic equivalent-Egypt's newly appointed minister of foreign affairs. Pasha was Gamal's predecessor, serving as ambassador to the United States before being promoted. This was the typical diplomatic career progression in many countries, where the U.S. ambassadorship served as the ultimate litmus test and stepping-stone for promotion to the head of a nation's international affairs.

"I'm looking forward to meeting him, too," Malone said. "I understand he and my predecessor did not see eye to eye on most issues."

Gamal laughed politely. "It is true-there was great tension with the last administration, but now, with President Cohen's commitment to global diplomacy, Egypt is looking forward to renewed opportunities for dialogue and mutual prosperity."

Mutual prosperity? Malone thought, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. Translation-the reestablishment of the United States' historically generous Egyptian foreign aid package that the previous administration unceremoniously gutted.

"I'm glad to hear the minister feels that way. Egypt offering to host this summit to discuss the Middle East becoming a Nuclear-Weapon-Free Zone demonstrates-"

A hand forcefully grabbed him by the upper arm, stopping him mid-sentence.

"We've got a problem, Mr. Secretary," his security lead, Jack, said. "Time to go."

Movement in Malone's peripheral vision caught his eye-fast-moving, black-clad shapes flooding the courtyard outside his balcony.

"Jack, what's going on?" he asked as Jack pulled him away from the window.

The explosion knocked Malone off his feet and his enormous body hit the hotel room floor hard. He groaned, dazed, body alit with pain. The last time he'd felt like this was in the Rose Bowl, when Oklahoma University All-American defensive end Lamar Goodall had bulldozed him from the blind side and given him a concussion headache that lasted for a week.

Squinting, he coughed and scanned the room. Debris was strewn everywhere. Gray smoke and plaster dust swirled all around him, while tiny burning embers floated lazily toward the ground, reminding him of dust motes illuminated in a shaft of sunlight. Where a wall had once been, separating his suite from the one next door, now stood a charred and gaping maw. Had somebody been in that room? He tried to remember . . . wasn't that supposed to be Boaz Sharon's room, the Israeli minister of foreign affairs?

Automatic weapons fire reverberated outside and he heard shouting, but it all sounded funny-muffled, like his ears were filled with cotton. He rolled onto his stomach, then tried to press up to his hands and knees.

"Secretary Malone, are you injured?" a voice said, urgent and yet very far away.

"I don't think so," he tried to say, but what came out was a hoarse, pathetic croak.

"We've got to go, Mr. Secretary," the voice said, this time closer as strong hands gripped him under the armpit and pulled him up. "Right now."

Malone channeled his younger, college quarterback self, grunted, and got to his feet. As he did, a surge of adrenaline dumped into his veins-burning off the brain fog and making his lethargic body suddenly feel ten years younger. He looked right, where the Egyptian ambassador had been standing just seconds ago.

The Egyptian was now on all fours, crawling toward the bathroom.

"Gamal!" Malone shouted.

The ambassador froze and looked at Malone with wide, panicked eyes.

"You're coming with us," he said in a tone that left no room for debate.

Gamal nodded, scampered to his feet, and fell in behind Malone as Jack scanned over his weapon. They backpedaled away from the wide-open balcony doors toward the hotel room door leading to the inside hallway. A second explosion, this one farther away than the first, reverberated outside.

"Get low and hold here," his security lead said, gesturing quickly with his non-shooting hand to the space next to the door. "I augmented your detail with some shooters, former SOF and Ground Branch guys. They know how to handle themselves in combat and put together an emergency exfil plan for situations like this."

Malone nodded, crouching as instructed beside the doorframe.

While Jack conducted a rapid-fire tactical exchange over the radio-packed with acronyms and terms unfamiliar to Malone-a gun battle erupted outside. From his current vantage point, he could no longer see the courtyard, but the shooting sounded like it was just outside the balcony.

"We're going now," Jack said, opening the hotel room door.

Two vaguely familiar looking bearded Americans in plain clothes flanked the door. Both men were in tactical kneeling postures, wore headsets with boom mikes, and were sighting over assault rifles with optics packages. Seeing their steely, battle-hardened composure and slick tactical hardware, Malone suddenly felt a helluva lot better than he had just two seconds ago.

"One has the package," the younger of the two operators said, chopping a hand forward. "Maverick is moving toward the rally point."

They moved as a five-man, diamond-shaped unit-with one shooter front, Jack, Malone, and Gamal in the middle, and a shooter in back covering their six. The lead operator advanced in a tactical crouch, quickstepping so rapidly that Malone had to run to keep up. Viewed only from the waist up, the operator looked like he was riding on a conveyor belt, his torso gliding at uniform speed and elevation down the corridor.

"Just got a report the tangos are dressed as security personnel," the operator said over his shoulder.

"Shit," Jack said with a grimace.

"How you want to play this, boss?" the operator came back, the meaning of the query not lost on...