ARAB (28 page)

As though to clear his head, he focused on the prisoner waiting in the steel cage in the basement on al-Gamaliyyah Street. He will talk. He will tell me what the Americans are planning. I will bring this information to Aziz al-Khalid and be vindicated!

Staring at the glass that separated him from the driver, he ranted: “You will tell me everything, you one-eyed son of a bitch, or you will never leave this building alive!”

Muscles in his neck tightened against his skull, giving him a headache reminiscent of fits of anger in his childhood, enraged by helplessness, screaming at his father after his father had left the room.

*

Upstairs in Colonel Palermo’s suite, Bashir turned off the television and leaned forward in the chair and lowered his face into trembling hands. He had caught only a glimpse of the man they said was American. The reporter didn’t name him. Bashir saw only his back when they loaded him into the ambulance. He caught a brief glimpse of Habib among the people in the background.

It has to be the colonel! And he’s bleeding! He’s been stabbed!

I can’t stay here! The police will examine his apartment!

I can’t go to the lobby! They’ll be there!

He glanced at the lighted numbers on a box on the television. It was after midnight.

Aleyya!

He ran to the phone, waited feverishly.

“I’m sorry,” he said, holding the phone to his ear. “I’m sorry. I’m at that hotel.”

“What? What time is it?”

“You haven’t been watching?”

“Watching what? You woke me up. I have to work—”

“The police are looking for me, Aleyya. You have to help me. I can’t stay here!”

He waited in a long silence, pressing his hand over pain in his chest. “Aleyya?”

“Yes, I’m here.”

He named the hotel and gave her directions. “There has to be a loading platform or something out back, maybe in an alley. It’ll be dark out there….”

“No, I’ll never find it. I know where you are. Go to the mosque just up the street. Wait in the shadows. You’ll see my car.”

He hurried down the emergency stairs and got lost in corridors below street level, choking on dust and unpleasant odors, almost tripping over a pail filled with gray soapy water. He found an old man wrapped in a rug just outside a small door.

“
Gehmi?”
he said. “The mosque?”

The old man rolled out of the rug and extended a frail arm, pointing down the alley.

He thanked the man.

He stumbled over broken cement at the end of the alley and ran toward the golden dome that rose against the faintly glowing sky.

He waited in shadows for nearly an hour before Aleyya found him. The minute he was sitting next to her in the car, she started scolding him.

“I told you, Bashir, there’d be trouble.”

“Don’t. Please. I have a headache. I’m tired.”

“What’s going on?”

“It’s too complicated, Aleyya. The truth is I don’t know.”

“I can’t let you stay in the apartment. The neighbors.”

“Can you bring me to the bus station? I’ll be fine. The American gave me money.”

“You trust him?”

“I have to,” Bashir said. He couldn’t see her face but knew she rolled her eyes. “Dear Aleyya. You are the sister I always wanted.”

““Here, take this,” she said, handing him her Vodafone. “I can use the one at the store. Tell
mama
you’re coming. She’s worried sick.”

When Aleyya’s car disappeared, he went inside the station and sprawled out on a wooden bench and told himself he would call Umm Sayid in the morning. And he would call his mechanic friend Takfeer. If the police were looking for him, the ticket clerk over there could have been given a photograph of him and told to report immediately if he attempted to ride out of the city. They might even allow him to reach Aunt Aida’s before arresting him.

No! He would ask Takfeer for the use of his truck.

*

The following afternoon Nick was sitting with Isaac Roach on a bench south of the city, Isaac toying with keys to the car that was parked outside the playground behind them, an odor of cologne drifting off his closely shaved face. Nick felt enclosed by the chorus of children’s voices and the lonely cries of gulls cruising the river. As Isaac talked of clashes he had had with Egyptian security forces, Nick watched tourists on excursion boats tossing food to the birds, enjoying their leisure, unmindful of the turmoil Isaac was occupied with.

“But it’s the reality we have to confront. Tell me, what made you volunteer for this madness?”

“Years ago? When I was a kid?” Nick smiled. “I was looking for adventure. I had watched a film about Marines assaulting the beach on Peleliu. World War Two stuff.”

“And when did you become disenchanted?”

Nick smiled. “You’re fishing for what?”

“The causes for your lack of enthusiasm. I think you know where Bashir Yassin is.”

“I don’t. I thought I did, but I don’t. And unless you can obtain the release of Habib Rahal, I may never know.”

“That I can’t do. That door is closed to me. Maybe your friend Aziz can manage it.”

“You’re sure it was Yousef Qantara who took him?” Nick asked.

“That’s what I’ve been told. After the ambulance left, the police were questioning Habib. Qantara pushed a cop aside and stuffed Habib into his car. There are several likely places where they may be holding him—”black sites,” they call them, where captives are held for interrogation. I expect to find out but it’ll take time. What’s never been explained to me is how this man Shkaki got into the country. Was he flown in?”

“I don’t know. I had no idea he was back in Egypt. He must’ve had help.”

“Why would he be at your hotel? I don’t buy co-incidence.”

“I didn’t send for him, if that’s what you’re getting at.”

Isaac laughed. “Never occurred to me. What I mean is, Was he there to kill you?”

“I don’t know. But who would send for a known fugitive to come all the way from the Sudan…?”

“We have no proof he escaped to the Sudan,” Isaac said, “only a woman’s word. Maybe he’s been here all the time.”

“I suppose that’s possible.”

“I’m just wondering why anyone would want you dead. Besides looking for Bashir, are you cooking up something else out there?”

“I’m looking for a way to get the hell out of here.”

“But you’re free to leave. If the loss of Habib—and don’t kid yourself: they could keep him out of circulation for a long time. So if you can’t locate Bashir Yassin without his help, what’s keeping you here?”

Chapter Twenty-two

They were in the study overlooking the garden where a giant fig tree towered above a gate in the black iron fence that surrounded that side of the property.

Jaradat asked, “And this is a recording of the original broadcast?”

“Yes,” Esmat said. He was bent over the TV cabinet, his hand on the black wooden surface, a hand, Jaradat noted, that left a sweaty imprint when he removed it, making Jaradat wonder why, in this air-conditioned room, Esmat’s hand was sweating. He watched Esmat snapping buttons on the remote and wondered whether he really liked this man. Everyone seemed to think so. Newspaper articles paired them together like brothers. Jaradat shrugged and watched the television screen light up on Colonel Palermo on a gurney being placed into an ambulance.

“Stop it there,” Jaradat said. “Notice what we have.” He pointed at the screen. “That’s Yousef Qantara himself standing two people to the left of the American’s assistant. What’s his name?”

“The assistant? Habib Rahal.”

“Yes. Advance it now. There. Stop it. What do you see?”

“I don’t….”

“The moment the ambulance drove off, Yousef Qantara pushed that woman aside and hustled Rahal into his waiting van. He paid no attention to him while the American was watching. Then he manhandled Rahal…. That has to mean something, Esmat.”

“Why was the
muccabarat
there?”

“Excellent question. And not once did I see Qantara consult with the city police. They wouldn’t know who the victim was. It couldn’t have been their report that alerted Qantara. He had somebody watching that man. He knew he was there before this happened. He expected it to happen, I’m sure of it.”

“You think, if the reporter is right, if it was Rahal who killed Shkaki….”

“Yes. Very clearly Qantara did not want the American to know that Rahal had killed him under orders from the
muccabarat
. Yousef Qantara is a sneak, exactly the type the secret police cherish.”

“And,” Esmat said. “he treated Rahal roughly because he knew he was being televised. He didn’t want people knowing that Rahal was his undercover deputy.”

“So it would appear,” Jaradat said. “And that of course means that Aziz al-Khalid doesn’t trust these Americans any more than we do. Otherwise Yousef Qantara wouldn’t have the temerity to place a watch on a CIA operative who was supposedly a friend of Aziz.”

“We can’t overlook that Shkaki….” Jaradat paused, studied Esmat’s face. “It was you, wasn’t it, who sent for him?”

“Through Uthman al-Ajami. I’ve never contacted him personally. He doesn’t know who I am.”

“So how did the
muccabarat
know he was here?”

“You think Uthman is working both sides of the street?”

“Can we afford not to think so?”

“He works for the People’s Assembly,” Esmat said. “I’m sure he enjoys doing them favors.”

“Let’s give it some thought. Clearly he knows more than we want him to know. And if he’s working with the
muccabarat
he’s more than dangerous.”

“He could be easily disposed of. He lives alone in an unguarded villa.”

“What would we lose?”

“Possibly someone no longer useful to us,” Esmat said.

“Worth considering.”

“Damn!” Esmat said. “We had such perfect plans.”

“Maybe Allah is disappointed in us.” Jaradat laughed, dusted something off his knee. “This won’t, of course, affect our relationship with Helene Bryce. Whatever happens, we need her money. Let’s see how this plays out. In the meantime, we have Bashir Yassin to deal with. He must know what happened to Shkaki. I can’t imagine he’s still in that hotel.”

“We’ll find him. He has a friend. She’s like a sister, I’m told, works in a shop near Maydan at-Tahrir. Maybe she can be persuaded….”

*

Helene used the stump of her cigarette to light a second cigarette and crushed the stump in the ceramic ashtray. Her hand was shaking. She was frightened, exhausted after a fitful night of terror. They know I’m here! They know Shkaki was in Cairo to help me!

“My God! What’s going on?” She realized that Shkaki had been killed only two days after Nelson had promised to contact him. “He couldn’t have been out of the country. He was here! He was looking for me!

“Oh, sweet Jesus, now what do I do! Esmat Bindari will be here any minute. I have no one to help me! What do I do?”

She hauled smoke deeply into her lungs, nervously tapping ash into the ceramic tray with a long forefinger.

Think!

The American was fighting with Shkaki and an Egyptian policeman saved him. Why was the policeman there? With the American?

Do they know that Shkaki was looking for me? How did the Americans learn of it?

Obviously the Egyptian police are working with the Americans, and they’re looking for me!

How would they find out?

The airport! The pilot! Why didn’t they listen to General Saraaj? Why didn’t we land in the desert? Is this Esmat Bindari really allied with Saraaj’s people? Did he have Saraaj killed?

Maybe it’s that Uthman character Nelson said was the liaison. He told the Americans! Oh, my God, I’m in trouble!” She tightened her fist, paced the floor in a fitful rage.

She was going toward the bathroom when someone knocked on her door.

She froze. That little bastard! He’s here!

She ducked into the bathroom and locked the door.

*

“Five people walked past me in the hall while I waited,” Esmat complained, wrinkling his nose against the stench of cigarette smoke.

Tough shit! Helene plopped into a chair, sitting on a drawn-up leg. “So let’s get right at it.”

“Of course, of course,” Esmat said, pleased that she seemed ready to co-operate. “That’s why I’m here.”

“So, what is the name of your group?” she asked.

“Group?”

“The people you represent.”

“Oh, I don’t believe General Saraaj gave us a name.”

“I thought you guys always tagged yourselves: ‘Soldiers of Allah,’ or ‘Heroes of Islam,’ titles like that.”

“That’s only for publicity. The last thing the general wanted was publicity. We have a massive following, I assure you.”

“But no name,” convinced now that he was a fraud. “Without one that’s on our list, I couldn’t possibly persuade my source—” That was a lie, of course. The prince’s gifts always went to a fake charity from which they were disbursed under her direction.

She changed position, putting both feet on the floor. “I’m sorry, Mr. Bindari. I don’t think we have anything more to talk about.”

His face darkened, a man unused to being thwarted, she believed. Well, tough shit. This was a shakedown, plain and simple, and he was sitting there aware that she was onto him. She didn’t doubt for a minute that he, or people he represents, were responsible for General Saraaj’s ‘accident.’ They killed him, and if they get anything out of me, they’ll kill me. Hoodlums, no different from the kidnappers off the coast of Somalia.

Almost a minute went by in silence while she searched his face for evidence of evil.

“And what do you propose to do?” he said.

“Oh, I’ll think of something,” she said, airily, getting up, faking a lightness of heart she didn’t feel, walking toward the door.

“You haven’t been happy staying here in this hotel, have you?” Esmat said.

She stopped. “What?”

“If you had friends in Cairo, other than me, you’d have gone to them or at least contacted them. And you haven’t.”

“I have all the friends I need,” she said. “Believe me.”