Again, more brake lights appeared, forcing Mona to stomp and skid into a fishtail, searching for another break in the traffic.  This time it was a low-lying mound covered in neatly maintained grass and flowers which were utterly destroyed when Mona plowed over them and down the other side into a small parklike setting and past a sculpted fountain, leaving deep grooves in the perfectly maintained sod behind her.

Still, the Rover followed over the mound with little difficulty, briefly scraping the edge of the fountain.

Back onto a broad thoroughfare, Mona again pressed the gas, passing several cars traveling in the same direction.

An opening appeared next to her when an adjacent car slowed to make a right turn, and Mona swerved into it.  Then, moments later, another space materialized when another lane began to accelerate, briefly expanding the distance between cars.

One by one, small gaps appeared, allowing Mona to either squeeze or force her way into them, keeping the larger Rover behind her by several lengths until she reached another intersection and accelerated just in time to make it through the stoplight, which changed from yellow to red, forcing the trapped Rover behind her to slow with the other vehicles.

She turned at the next available street and then sped up and turned again—then again and again, until she was sure her pursuers would have too many options for the direction she’d gone.

Taking a deep breath, she calmly decelerated and turned into a parking garage entrance, where she paused to take a ticket and then continued inside and up two ramps before finding an open spot.

She fumbled for her phone and was starting to dial when she stopped at the third digit.

Was it safe to call the police?  Or did Saad have connections with them, too, like at UNICEF or a dozen of other agencies?

Exactly how safe was she?

She jumped when her phone dinged in her hand from a text message.

It was Ammon from her office.

Have information on the airplane ID numbers.

The identification numbers.  She’d almost forgotten.

She pressed a button and dialed his phone number.

“Hi, Mona,” he said, answering immediately.  “I have the information you wanted.”

“Yes.  Thank you, Ammon.”

“The plane charters from a small private airport called Ahlan about five kilometers from Giza.”

Mona listened intently, her gaze on the garage’s concrete wall in front of her car.  “Say that again?”

“I said it’s a charter plane not far from Giza.”

“Do you have an address?”

“I do.  And a phone number, which I already called.  A woman there said that plane was chartered by some Americans today.”

Mona blinked.  “Americans?”

“That’s what she said.”

“Did she say where they went?”

“The pilot wouldn’t tell her.”

“Why not?”