ARAB (20 page)

“Is it true? Aleyya is free?”

“I don’t know anything about that. I don’t know your Colonel Jaradat, and I have nothing to do with any plot to kill anybody. And right now I don’t want to talk about it. I just want to get out of here.”

“You know that Aleyya is free?”

“I don’t know anything about that,” watching the nervous man studying his face, maybe trying to decide whether to trust him.

Fat chance of that, Nick thought as he listened to the Pontiac start up, tires ripping through the sand.

Farouk came into the shack and sat where Diab had been sitting. He laid what looked like an old Smith and Wesson service revolver on the table, his finger inside the trigger guard, smoke leaking from his mouth around a cigar butt.

“Wondered what you were,” he said to Nick. “You kept me from getting what I paid for over there,” a hint of swagger in his voice, confident because he had a gun.

“I speak English,” Bashir volunteered, surprising Nick.

“Good. And thanks for telling me. I’m going to untie our legs. This guy won’t shoot.”

“He has the gun! He’ll kill us!”

“No. He won’t spoil it for the big guy. If Diab had authorized this guy to shoot us, he’d’ve yelled it at us as a threat. This guy won’t shoot.”

When Nick sat up and reached for the rope, Farouk knocked his chair over scrambling to his feet. “Sit down! You want to die?”

“Bend your knee up,” Nick said to Bashir, pulling at both their ankles. It took some tugging, but Nick managed to loosen the rope.

Farouk, shouting threats, backed into the sunlight, looked around as though for Diab or for a place to run.

“Come on,” Nick said to Bashir.

The revolver trembled in Farouk’s hand. He may have wanted to shoot, but his finger was not on the trigger.

Nick moved toward him. Farouk, backing away, tripped on a clump of sod, stumbled and ran toward men watching them from a beached felucca.

“Come on,” Nick yelled at Bashir in English. “Come on! I won’t hurt you.”

For a moment, watching Bashir come hesitantly into the sunlight, Nick thought the man would run, uncertain, maybe wondering what Nick intended to do. Because he had revealed that he spoke English, Nick hoped he had chosen sides, at least for the moment. He was obviously desperate.

*

Two hours of walking brought them hot and thirsty to a small bistro on a narrow street outside the city. Fidgeting in a hard chair, waiting to be served, Bashir said,

“I have a friend in Alexandria. The police are holding him.”

“I’ve heard.”

“Can you help him?”

“I don’t know. I don’t have much authority here. Or much influence. I can try.”

This Bashir was nothing like Nick’s projection of the man he had been looking for. He seemed reasonably intelligent, eager to be liked, eager to be helped, bewildered by what was happening to him. Nick detected no hint of deceit in him.

Maybe he was just a good actor.

*

“No cold drinks,” the woman said, waddling toward them, touching each stool along the bar to maintain her balance. Nick suspected she had one leg shorter than the other. He saw only three teeth in her mouth when she smiled. Shaggy gray hair hung to her shoulders.

“Bottled fruit juice,” Bashir said.

“Apple, lemon, some kind of berry juice?”

“That’ll be fine,” Nick said. “The berry juice.”

“Just don’t drink the water,” Bashir said.

“I know. It’s funny Diab mentioned those worms in the canal water. I guess it’s one of the reasons Amina wants to study medicine. She told me she hopes to eradicate it. You knew her at the university in Alexandria, didn’t you?”

Bashir waggled his hand. “More or less. She told me she wanted to become a doctor.”

“There’s a name for that sickness?”

“Yes, they call it
bilharzia.”

Bashir’s eyes suddenly brightened. “Now I know who you are! She spoke of you, knew you in London,” his face awakening like a child’s, suddenly happy.

“My father and her father were old friends,” Nick said.

“It scares me you might think I’d kill Mr. Khalid. Is that why you were looking for me?”

“No. Diab doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”

“You really are CIA?”

“Yes, and I know you didn’t kill any rabbis in Israel.”

“You know that?”

“Yes.”

“Then why have you been looking for me?”

“To be truthful,” Nick said, “I don’t know,” surprised to hear those words come from his mouth. He wanted to befriend this man. How else could he hold him? Playing dumb wouldn’t help. “The people I work for want to talk to you. That’s all I know.”

Bashir wasn’t convinced; in fact, he looked disappointed. “I’ve never killed anyone,” he said. “Never.”

“I believe you,” Nick said, thinking about all the innocent-looking boys, even girls, who had blown themselves up in their naïve reliance upon their religion. Appearances could easily be deceptive. From what he knew, Bashir had lied his way into the country, had been bounced out of orbit by the difficulties of the Middle East. From briefings he had received, he knew that Bashir had lived by his wits all his life.

“I came to Cairo to learn about the arms business,” Bashir said. “I was told Faisal Ibrahim knew more about buying and selling ordnance than anyone alive. I wanted to learn from him.”

“I understand,” Nick said, a good story, plausible, but was it the truth? If this man works for the government, he must be in this country legally. There must be records. Why have the police been able to learn so little about him?

Chapter Sixteen

They were waiting for the driver of a pickup truck who had promised to give them a ride. Two boys were playing kick pass with a soccer ball on the street in front of them, dust squirting under their feet. An old woman in a black robe limped past them pushing a baby carriage filled with old clothes.

“Is it true what Diab said?” Bashir asked.

Nick shrugged. “About Colonel Jaradat? I don’t know anything about him.”

“They took me to the hills—”

“I’ve heard about that.”

“But not for punishment,” Bashir said, pausing, maybe disappointed that Nick didn’t invite him to elaborate. He thanked the girl who placed a bottle of juice in front of him and another in front of Nick. “It’s how they prepare assassins,” said with a sheepish smile, embarrassed by the absurdity of it.

Nick couldn’t believe the CIA was involved in a plot to murder Aziz al-Khalid, a man notoriously friendly to the United States and to England. But it was conceivable that Colonel Jaradat might want Aziz dead. It was widely believed that Jaradat, like leaders of the Brotherhood, hoped one day to control Egypt. The murder of a man like Aziz could cause widespread rioting, creating opportunities for a takeover—witness the assassination of Benazir Bhutto in Pakistan and the political turmoil it caused.

“What have you been told?”

“Nothing,” Bashir said. “It’s all been crazy. They’ve told me nothing.”

“And you know for a fact it was Faisal Ibrahim who sent you to Mokattam?”

“But I don’t know why if it wasn’t to prepare me…. It’s the kind of thing they do.”

“At least some of what Diab said could be true,” Nick said, watching a dog out on the road sniffing at a crumpled soft drink can. A girl kicked the can away.

“What part?”

The dog scratched his ribs, then trotted into an alley.

“This new assignment you have,” Nick said. “Your friend at the airport, Takfeer Ali, mentioned you were in England learning about jet aircraft.”

“Avionics—electrical stuff.”

“Why’d they pick you?”

“I don’t know.”

“Was it for this new assignment?”

“I guess so. I was told to report to Rifaat Nasr. He’s in charge of the president’s—” Bashir’s mouth opened as though in sudden disbelief. He stared hard at Nick. A sound barely audible leaked from his throat.

Nick leaned toward him. “You okay?”

“Diab must be right!” a bewildered inquiry in his eyes.

“About what?”

“How did I get an assignment like that except through influence? It was Esmat Bindari told me! Esmat Bindari! He’s in charge of everything there! He would never … I mean, I’m just a mechanic, a nobody!”

“He told you personally about this assignment?”

“Yes! He invited me to lunch! Why would he? I’m nobody!”

“He sent you to England?”

“That came in a memo from Personnel. They gave me papers—flight information, a passport, a big package of stuff. I couldn’t believe they picked me. I never thought—” Bashir stared at Nick. “You know how long it takes to get a passport? They got me one in hours! Hours!”

The admission was startling. Records would have to be checked—date of birth, place of birth. Could that stuff be faked? Had to be. But for now, let it ride. Talk to Isaac about it. Don’t alienate this guy with too many questions.

“What’d you say this man’s name was?”

“Bindari, Esmat Bindari. He’s a top official at the airport. I don’t know what he does there, except he’s in charge of things.”

“Okay,” Nick said, deliberately tucking the name into his memory bank, again leaning forward. “Listen, Bashir. I know you don’t know me, but I want you to trust me. I am not interested in hurting you.”

“What else can I do? Everybody’s looking for me. I have no place to go.”

Right now what Nick wanted was time. Because it was possible that Bashir was involved in a plot to assassinate Aziz al-Khalid, Nick wanted to hold onto him, convince him he was a friend, coax some truth out of him. He would not leave Egypt without knowing that Aziz was safe. He would never forgive himself if even unknowingly he had become part of a plot to harm Aziz. And it would be meaningless just to tell Aziz some people wanted to kill him. He’d need specific information—who is involved and how they plan to do it. If he were now to turn Bashir over to Isaac Roach, he’d be put on a plane and flown back to Afghanistan, helpless to warn his friend.

“You know a man named Shkaki?”

“No”

“He tried to reach you.”

“I never heard the name. Who is he?”

“He’s an insurgent, a recruiter.”

“I’m not one of those! I don’t know any of those people! I’m just an ordinary guy! I don’t have anything to do with politics! You have to believe me!”

“Okay,” Nick said, gesturing to calm him down.

“I don’t know what’s happening,” Bashir said. “I tried to find Rifaat Nasr at the airport, but he was on leave and no one in his office knew anything about my new assignment. My friend Takfeer was arrested because he didn’t report meeting me. The men I talked to…. The police made them agree to tell them if anyone came and asked for me. I don’t know what to do! I can’t go anywhere! All my friends get arrested! I don’t have my car! I didn’t do anything! Why am I treated like a criminal?”

“I don’t know,” Nick said. “For now I want you to stay with me. You can shower, take a nap on the sofa, anything you want. I’ll try to get your car.”

“You won’t turn me in?”

“I have no reason to.”

“But you’ve been looking for me. You’re with the police.”

“I won’t turn you in. You’ll be free to go, just as you are right now.”

“And you wouldn’t come after me?”

“I just want to talk to you,” Nick said. “Things I don’t understand. I’m as confused as you are. But one thing I’m clear on: Diab lied to you. I have no plan to hurt you. I’m not your enemy.”

How many times he must have heard that from Americans. And how many times had he been warned not to believe it.

Nothing in Bashir’s expression told Nick anything except that Bashir was scared.

*

For the entire ride into the city in the hired pickup truck, neither man said a word. The desk clerk at Nick’s hotel no more than glanced at them as they crossed the lobby to the elevator.

Nick managed to have food sent up from the restaurant. Bashir was clearly nervous, sitting with a tray in his lap, eating in silence. They heard a call to prayer and both ignored it. Just to liven things up, Nick asked about Nuha, about the life of single women in Cairo.

“I promised her roses,” Bashir said, and the memory seemed to sadden him.

*

An hour later, Habib, who had just arrived, was at the small table in the kitchen, toying with Nick’s car keys, fingering the small tag from the rental yard. “And it was all a lie? He isn’t wanted by the Israeli police?”

“I don’t blame you for being confused,” Nick said. “But it’s what I was told. They said I was to find him,” glancing into the other room where Bashir was at the window gazing down at the street several floors below, “and deliver him to the Israelis. I was stupid to believe it.”

Habib glanced reflectively at Nick, then looked into the other room at Bashir—an old soldier having trouble absorbing what he had just learned.

“I may have a couple more days,” Nick said. “I’ll know more after I’ve talked with my contact. If you want to quit this job, I won’t blame you.”

Habib dismissed that with annoyance. “I thought it was wrong,” he said. “Why bring you all the way here from Afghanistan? There had to be another reason. But I trusted you. I knew you wouldn’t lie to me. I knew your father’s son wouldn’t lie to me.”

Nick couldn’t detect any uncertainty in Habib’s expression. “If you want to pull out….”

“No,” Habib said. He tossed the keys to Nick. “When Yousef came to me the other night….”

“He’d been told?”

“I don’t know. He didn’t mention anything like that. It was a warning. He tried to scare me. He wanted me to spy on you. But I don’t work for him.”

“While I’m gone, talk to Bashir. Make him feel comfortable.”

“If his car is in the pound, I can get it.”

“Later,” Nick said.

Habib walked him to the door.

Outside in the parking lot Nick phoned Isaac Roach, no longer thinking of him as “Richard,” although he asked for “Richard.”

“Not the Fontana,” Isaac said. “There’s a coffee shop near the Canadian embassy in Garden City. A sculpture—actually a bas-relief—of a lion out front. I forget the name of the street.”