ARAB (8 page)

“Tell the manager we heard a peculiar noise in there. It may be an emergency.”

While Habib went for the manager, Nick put his ear to the door and rapped several times. No response.

“What emergency?” the manager said, almost running up the hallway, holding the key in front of him like a sword. “This is a respectable place. We never have trouble here.”

They entered a large room which was modestly furnished and air-conditioned. There were framed impressionist prints on the walls. As in most Cairo apartments, the windows were tightly shuttered to fend off heat and dust-like particles of sand.

They looked into a kitchen/dining alcove and two large bedrooms and saw no one.

“The sound must have come from the street,” the manager said, apparently relieved to find no obvious signs of trouble.

Nick pointed at the closed door between the bedrooms.

Habib tried the door. It was locked.

“If we break the door open,” he yelled to whoever was inside, “you’ll have to pay for it!”

“Oh, sweet God, don’t do that!” the manager cried out, both hands clasped as though in prayer before his frightened face.

“Come on out,” Nick said. “We just want to question you.”

There was a loud sound of a toilet flushing, then a woman’s voice. “Who are you? What do you want?”

Nick turned to the manager. “Thank you for your help.” The manager wanted to stay, but Habib walked him to the door.

A tall, good-looking woman came out of the bathroom wearing slippers, pajamas, and a flowing cotton robe. Her hair was turbaned in a towel. She smelled strongly of freshly applied cologne.

“How did you get in?” she asked, looking at the folder Aziz had given Nick. It identified him as an investigator for the department of interior. His picture was on it, but not his name.

“You left your door open,” Nick told her. “You should be more careful. Even in a nice place like this there could be unwanted intruders.”

“Yes,” Nuha said, with sarcasm. “I’ve noticed that.”

She pointed at a sofa and offered them coffee, which they both declined.

“I don’t like this intrusion,” she said, sitting opposite them in a large upholstered chair, making an elaborate show of crossing her legs, bringing a look of admiration from Habib. They watched her light a cigarette.

“Your friend, Bashir Yassin, was seen with you at a café near the Khan al-Khalili Bazaar,” Nick said.

“My friend? He’s not my friend. He stood me up. He insulted me. I hate him. I hope you hang him.”

“And why would we want to do that?”

“Because he’s a liar.”

“Okay. And when you were with him, he went off with someone.”

“A pig they call Diab.”

“Diab?” Nick glanced at Habib. Habib shrugged. “Who is he?”

“A mountain of pus.”

“And you haven’t seen Bashir since?”

“If I do, I’ll kill him. Then you’ll have a real reason for breaking into my apartment. What is the manager going to think?”

Nick didn’t care. He asked, “And why are you angry at Bashir?”

“He said he would take me out to dinner. He said he would bring me roses. He’s a liar. He has no honor, no consideration, no respect, no character. He is a worthless liar.”

“And he just walked off?”

“He walked out on a beautiful woman like you?” Habib said, his eyes round with wonder, getting a laugh from Nick .

She rose to the flattery, no doubt as Habib had expected. “More like he was led off,” she said. “They put him into a green car.”

“They?”

“There was another one waiting up the street. They put Bashir in the back seat—you know, held the door open and shoved him in.”

“And this Diab. How do you know him?”

“There isn’t a single woman in Cairo who doesn’t know that pig. Why don’t you arrest him? Is it only women you harass?”

“You’re being questioned, Miss Za’im, not harassed.”

“And you asked my permission to come in here, didn’t you.”

“We do what we have to do,” Nick said. Every day, he noticed, it became easier to pretend that he was a policeman.

“If I find him and tell you where he is, will you arrest him?”

Nick smiled. He got up and took a few steps toward the door. “I suppose you have no idea where Bashir Yassin is at this moment.”

“Try to imagine how much I care,” she said.

“Do you know where we might find this Diab?”

“Try the sewer,” she said. As Nick turned to leave, Nuha said, “You know a place called Lalime’s?”

Chapter Six

Uthman al-Ajami, a small man with a narrow face, a full beard, and small nervous eyes, was sitting with his friend Rashad Sabri, on a bench outside his villa. He was wearing a belted
dishdasha
and leather sandals. His legs were outstretched and crossed at the ankles. He was sucking on the mouthpiece of a water pipe, expelling smoke from his large nose.

“Acting as ombudsman for the government?” Rashad said. “Isn’t it dangerous?”

“What isn’t these days?”

“But handling complaints against government officials?”

“If the complaint is against someone powerful, I set it aside. If it’s against a man of little consequence, I act on it. I have to satisfy an occasional grievance or I lose my credibility.”

“With the people or the People’s Assembly?”

“Oh, I have no problem with the legislature. Some members dislike me, I’m sure. But I provide valuable information. That is my principal function, of course.” He removed the pipe from his mouth and wiped the mouthpiece on his robe.

“‘City eyes’ at the edge of the city,” Rashad said.

“Oh, my network extends into every corner of
misr
, I assure you.”

“And you get paid at both ends?”

“I make a living,” Uthman said, tiring of the topic. “So, tell me, why did Shkaki want to find this pilot, this Bashir Yassin? Was it for himself? Is he flying off somewhere? How could he get clearance? He’s an alien, a criminal.”

“My man wasn’t close enough to hear. He heard the American accuse Shkaki of making the call. He didn’t hear anything more. But he knows that Shkaki spoke to someone about getting funding from Syria. Maybe this Yassin is connected to that.”

“But he’s certain Shkaki was taken to the army base in Helwan?”

“He followed them.”

“And you have men there?”

“Of course.”

Uthman remembered that a unit of the army that had gunned down Anwar Sadat had been purged, but the loss was only temporary. “I don’t imagine Shkaki can be broken,” he said, “but letting the police have him would not help our cause.”

“There could be an accident….”

“No. He’s too valuable. Can’t you spirit him across the border?”

“It can be arranged,” Rashad said.

“And Khartoum will send someone to replace him?”

“That’s up to them, of course. But they will be urged to make contact with you.”

“And if you learn anything more about the American—”

“Of course,” Rashad said.

“Is he CIA? You say his father—”

“I don’t know. All I know is he’s a long-time friend of Aziz al-Khalid and that he attended the university here.”

“And the man with him?”

“An old friend of his father, possibly an agent of the
muccabarat
.”

“If this American is CIA,” Uthman said, “then we should be concerned. Was my name mentioned?”

“No.”

“Anyone I may be representing?”

“No. If my people knew of your connection to the insurgency, I’d’ve been told. They know nothing beyond what Shkaki has been doing.”

“And do they know about my Saudi prince?”

“They know nothing of him. They assume the money is coming from bin Laden. He’s still their hero…ever since the American imperialists invaded Somalia. He spent his money well in that country. They adore him.”

“Good. Let them think all of this comes from him.”

Uthman leaned back and closed his eyes. After a moment, he asked, “How soon can you arrange for Shkaki’s release?”

“Tomorrow evening soon enough?”

*

The recorded voice of the muezzin had faded into the shadows when Hussein lifted his bicycle from the stack of empty cartons in the alley. He watched the man come out of Mr. Ajami’s gate and get into his car. He would follow him, hopefully get a closer look at him, maybe learn where he lives, and for the second time have information that Habib Rahal will pay for. This has been a good day.
Allah’hu Akbar!

*

The following evening, after sharing a meal with Habib and dropping him off at his apartment, Nick went south to the army camp in Helwan. He had little else to do, and maybe Shkaki would loosen up a bit. If he knew Bashir, maybe he knew this Diab. It was worth a shot.

Flashes of war invaded his mind, as they often did, unwanted and without warning—the screaming mouth of a child clinging to the body of its dead mother, intestines dangling from her burst belly. Out of the war zone or in, the images tormented him.

He yelled curses at the windshield and slipped a CD into the slot on his dashboard. For the remainder of the ride he listened to the rollicking piano of Ramsey Lewis.

At the short road leading into the base camp, he was startled by lights from military police cars darting everywhere like frightened bats, flitting over his windshield as he edged into a parking lot. Uniformed men were crowded at the entrance to the station, their backs to him, all of them straining to see inside. A large man with angry eyes thrust both palms at Nick and yelled something Nick couldn’t hear. He shut off his engine and got out of his truck and showed his folder, cringing at the sound of grinding gears in a truck moving behind him.

The anger melted. “Sorry, sir. I didn’t….”

“What’s going on?”

“A shooting. The desk sergeant…. Three men in there were shot.” He waded into the crowd, his long arms pushing men aside. “Make way here for His Excellency!” bowing as Nick strode past him, amused by the honorific he wasn’t entitled to.

Nick was stopped inside by an army lieutenant who peered intently at the photo on Nick’s folder, then at Nick’s face while Nick looked beyond him at the blood-soaked shirt of the desk sergeant sprawled in his chair, his mouth gaped open, his dead eyes looking at nothing. Beyond him, a few feet down the hallway a man in street clothes was on one knee examining the body of a soldier. Another uniformed body was sprawled on the floor beyond him.

“It happened suddenly,” the lieutenant said. “They burst in and started shooting.”

Nick ran down the corridor to the holding cell in back. The door was open. Shkaki was gone.

Back at the desk he asked the lieutenant, “Were any of these people witnesses?”

A soldier who called himself Ahmed, said, “I was outside when it happened. All I saw was a black car leaving the compound.”

“A license-plate number?”

“It was gone in a second. I couldn’t see.”

“You’re stationed here?”

“Yes.”

“You knew about the man in back?”

“I wasn’t told who he was.”

While the lieutenant was writing something in a small notebook, Habib rushed inside, out of breath. “I got this on my monitor.”

“He’s gone,” Nick said, taking Habib by the arm, leading him into the parking area. “You know where he lives?”

“Shkaki? No. But my man Hussein. Yes.”

“I’ll follow you.”

They drove north the several miles to Darb al-Ahmar in Cairo and stopped in front of an old stone building. Nick almost stepped on a dead rat as he got out of his car. A barefoot girl was leaning against the building, idly turning pages of a magazine. She watched the two men go inside, only mildly curious.

Two women sat on wooden steps in the airless downstairs hallway.

“We’re looking for Hussein,” Habib said. “He owns that bicycle out there. You know him?”

One woman looked at the other, an older married woman, a
muhagabah
, as though seeking permission to speak. The older woman slid across the step to make room. “Upstairs,” she said. “Second floor.”

“Is he home?”

The woman raised both hands and shrugged, glancing at the younger woman. They both laughed.

Hussein came to the door in a stained galabiyah
which, from the looks of him, he had probably been sleeping in. There was an old woman in the chair behind him. The room smelled of fried fish and unwashed bodies. Instead of inviting them inside, Hussein stepped into the hall and closed the door.

“I heard,” he said. “I saw one of the men. He carried the youngest child out to a large white van. I didn’t get a plate number. The wife and the other two….”

“What are you talking about?”

“The family of Shkaki. Isn’t that why you’re here? I thought … I was going to contact you,” glancing nervously at Habib, then at Nick, afraid he had done something wrong.

“They’re all gone?”

“No more than an hour ago.”

“You have any idea where they went?”

“No. I don’t know them personally. I’ve always avoided them,” looking to Habib for approval. He stepped past them. “This way,” he said, urging them to follow. They had to work their way through a cluster of women on narrow stairs that led to the third floor. At the end of the hallway, Hussein stopped and knocked on a door.

“This woman knows Shkaki’s wife. She may know….”

The door opened and a woman in her early forties looked out at Hussein, then at Nick and Habib. “Yes?”

There was an edge of defiance in her eyes. She seemed to assume they were police, barely glancing at Nick’s folder. She apparently saw something in Habib’s expression that amused her. Her hair was not covered by a scarf.

“May we come in?” Nick said, tucking the folder into his jacket pocket.

The woman, still amused as she looked at Habib, stepped back.

Hussein was the last to enter the apartment. It was modestly furnished. Amateurish framed floral paintings on the walls, a worn sofa the three men were invited to sit on. Hussein, rather than squeeze into the space between the two others, lowered himself to the floor, folding his legs in front of him, grinning as though pleased to demonstrate that he accepted this position of inferiority.