ARAB (9 page)

“Something you want to drink.” the woman said, sitting on an upholstered chair across from them.

“Thank you,” Nick said. “We just have a few questions. We understand you’re a friend of a woman who left here a few hours ago with her children.”

“You mean Safiya Ramzi?”

“The wife of a man called Shkaki.”

“The prisoner.”

“Where’d you get that?”

“I heard,” she said, again glancing at Habib, smiling a subtle flirtation.

“What can you tell me about him?”

“Nothing,” shaking her head. “It’s his wife I became friends with.”

“This is the truth?”

“Why would I lie? He wasn’t a very nice man. He was abusive.”

“To his wife?”

“And to his children,” again glancing at Habib.

“So you won’t mind telling us what you do know.”

“I know that his wife wanted desperately to get back to Khartoum. She wanted to be with her family. She was very unhappy here.”

“Who are the people who took her away?”
“She didn’t say, but I thought it was her brother and some men he brought with him. There were three of them. The way they bundled her off I thought she was using this chance to be free. She thought her husband was in jail and couldn’t stop her.”

“How did she know he was in jail?”

“Everybody knew. They were all talking about it.”

“Did you know the people she went away with? Did they live here?”

“One of them did.”

Nick asked a few more questions. What little she knew was mostly gossip about Shkaki. She denied ever having heard of Bashir Yassin.

Back on the second floor, Hussein obtained a key to Shkaki’s now emptied apartment. Among the bagatelle—a baby’s shoe, a worn toothbrush, a candy wrapper, some scattered papers—they found nothing that pointed to where the family of Shkaki had gone or who the people were who had taken them.

*

“And the man you saw with Uthman Ajami?” Habib asked Hussein.

“He drove too fast. I couldn’t keep up.”

“But you’re sure they talked about Bashir Yassin?”

“I don’t think they knew him. They knew Shkaki had tried to reach him.”

“For what reason?”

“I don’t know. I couldn’t stay near the wall. I wouldn’t have heard anything except that the other man had a loud voice.”

The old woman sitting on the front steps sucking candy said that Shkaki’s family had gone to Khartoum.

“And how do you know that?” Nick asked.

“Allah gave me ears,” the woman said. “I often use them.”

“You heard them talking?”

The woman bent her head toward her friend. They giggled.

“Do you know Bashir Yassin?”

“Is he married?” the woman asked.

Chapter Seven

LieutenantYousef Qantara, personal security assistant to Aziz al-Khalid, a thin man with a high, broad forehead wearing an immaculate bone-white uniform, sat across from Nick at a table in a small upscale restaurant in Garden City. He tapped his teeth with the mouthpiece of a carved ivory cigarette holder, a fastidious man who at the moment seemed ill at ease. That he didn’t like Nick was evident at their first meeting in Aziz’s apartment the day Amina had flown to America. At the time Nick thought that Joseph resented him because Amina had paid so much attention to him whom she hadn’t seen for many years. Yousef had watched her from across the room with wounded eyes. But Amina had been gone a week and the quiet hostility was still there. It’s because I’m an infidel and an intruder, now Nick believed.

“Nevertheless,” Yousef was saying, “our office should have been notified.”

“Before we picked him up, you mean?”

Searching Nick’s expression for sarcasm, Yousef said, “Even though you’ve been granted certain privileges, Mr. Palermo, you are still subject to our authority.”

“That’s
Colonel
Palermo,” Nick said, correcting the slight without a show of umbrage. He really didn’t give a damn what this guy called him, although he intended to be respected.

“Of course. I apologize. I meant no offense. It’s just … that I’ve never seen you in uniform. I suppose that’s what it is.”

Nick let it pass, aware that Yousef disliked Americans, especially American marines whom he viewed as ruthless killers. Although Yousef had mentioned nothing of this to Nick, he had voiced these sentiments to Nick’s friend Habib. Usually it was Habib he went to for these little discussions. It was interesting that this time he had come directly to Nick.

He watched Yousef lower the cigarette holder to a napkin and raise his coffee cup, wetting the fringe of his mustache as he sipped. He set the cup down and patted the mustache with a cloth napkin. The selection of this restaurant with its potted plants and ornate mirrors had been his. Nick would have chosen a streetside bistro: wouldn’t smell as good but the food would be the same.

“So the people out there in Abu-Awekila are growing beards?”

The question seemed to take Yousef by surprise. “Was my visit to Sinai in the news?”

“I guess it must have been,” Nick said. Actually he had heard about Yousef’s trip from Aziz al-Khalid.

“They have respect for their religion,” Yousef said. “I don’t fault them for that.”

“You’ve had problems with them?”

“Why do you ask?”

“No reason,” Nick said, laughing, wondering whether the job makes men like Yousef Qantara paranoid. “Just making conversation.”

“These are young men whose religion has rescued them from despair.”

“But you’ll put them in jail,” Nick said.

“If they have committed crimes, of course.”

“Like Shkaki.”

“Shkaki is a foreigner. Whether he’s motivated by religion we may never discover … since you allowed him to escape.”

“Come on,” Nick said. “I turned him over to the army. It’s not my fault—”

“You should have notified me before you went after him.”

And, had I done that, you would not have allowed me to talk to him outside of your presence.
Aloud Nick said, “There wasn’t time. Do you know how many rubber stampers we have to go through just to reach your office? We found out he was in that building and we went there. Look, if he hadn’t tried to contact this Bashir Yassin, I wouldn’t give a damn about him. I’m not intruding on your turf.”

“That’s not entirely true, is it.”

“I’ve told you why we want Yassin.”

“Yes, and your cause has been approved by Mr. Khalid. But I still have responsibilities. I don’t enjoy working in the dark.”

“But you agree that Habib and I have to work alone on this.”

“I agree that your activities must be kept secret. I don’t agree with the wisdom of it, but I respect the authority of Mr. Khalid.”

“And of the president,” Nick said, wanting to get that in. How thin these expressed loyalties were, he didn’t know. What he did know was that Yousef Qantara played his game close to the belt. Like a lot of Egyptian officials he was standing tiptoe on a fence, ready to drop to the winning side.

“Have you learned anything new about Bashir Yassin?”

“Not much,” Yousef said. “Men who work with him at the airport say he’s originally from Gaza. Apparently he hasn’t admitted that, but they detect Gaza in his accent, they say.”

“And they have no idea where he is now?”

“That’s what they say. They suspect he’s in trouble and are lying to protect him. We have ways of getting past that.”

“Then it’s not just his relationship with His Excellency’s daughter that you’re interested in?”

“We want to find him.”

“And turn him over to us?”

“A curious use of the word. Who is
us
?”

“His Excellency and me,” Nick said, unintentionally implying that Yousef was not included as “one of us.”

“That, of course, is a decision for his Excellency to make. I am just a policeman. I follow orders.”

Yousef patted his mustache, folded the napkin and placed it on the table next to his cup. He spent a moment smoothing a wrinkle on the tablecloth with long tapered fingers. He edged his chair back, preparing to leave.

“We’ll keep you informed, Colonel. Never fear.”

“I appreciate your help,” Nick said, pushing his chair back, walking with him past empty tables toward the cashier “This is on me.”

“The ‘cultural attaché’ has an expense account?”

Nick laughed. “It’s for my protection. It was his Excellency’s idea.”

“You require diplomatic immunity?”

“You never know,” Nick said. He didn’t blame Yousef for being skeptical. If he had Yousef’s job, he’d question why a Marine combat officer had been sent from Afghanistan to catch a Palestinian criminal wanted by the Israelis. He’d wonder, as Yousef evidently did, why Nick was really here. Aziz seemed to trust him, but Nick wondered whether Yousef fully trusted Aziz.

*

That evening Habib Rahal, sitting alone in his apartment, was suddenly alerted by a movement in the hallway. Whatever it was it prompted Habib to lean from his chair and snap off the television. He walked into his bathroom and fitted on his eye patch, opened the cabinet drawer and allowed his hand to linger over the grip of his pistol. When a hand rapped on the outside door, he closed the drawer and stepped into the front room.

“Who is it?”

“Lieutenant Yousef Qantara.”

Shit! With quickening heartbeats, Habib said, “Just a minute,” glancing around to make certain nothing in sight would bring shame or criticism upon him. He took a deep breath and strode to the door.

“To what do I owe this honor,” he said, smiling as the tall man brushed past him, eager, apparently, to escape the darkened hallway.

“I have wine,” Habib said, unaccountably nervous, ashamed of it, although a visit from so high an official to his residence was plenty of reason for apprehension.

Yousef curtly dismissed the offer, apparently offended by Habib’s pretense that this was a social call.

He was in civilian clothes—gray slacks, dark gray jacket, white shirt, no necktie. His gaze wandered condescendingly about the room as Habib pushed magazines across cushions on an old sofa, making a place for Yousef to sit. Yousef reluctantly lowered himself to the soft cushions and sat with hands resting on his thighs.

A disquieting air of constraint filled the room.

“Well,” Yousef said, again looking around. “You seem to be quite comfortable here.”

“Yes,” Habib said.

“I guess a reliable pension is something to treasure, as I’m sure you treasure yours.”

Habib sighed, sinking back in his chair. Why does this prick want to frighten me? Take away my pension? Could he do it?

“You have family?”

“In Western Sahara,” Habib said.

“I see.”

“And you help support them?”

“I do what I can,” Habib said.

“Of course.” Yousef found something of interest on his thumb and picked at it for a moment, his eyes gravely attentive. He looked up. “You were assigned, years ago, to Colonel Palermo’s father, I believe.”

“On three occasions,” Habib said. “I was asked to be his guide.”

“And that was also with the approval of His Excellency, Aziz al-Khalid?”

“Mr. Khalid was a professor at that time.”

“And you became acquainted with Mr. Palermo’s son, who is now Colonel Palermo, the man you have been assigned to.”

“He was a student at the university.”

“I see. When you were given this current assignment, was it His Excellency who asked for you, or was it Colonel Palermo?”

“I don’t know. I think it was the colonel.”

“Because you were friends?”

“We became friends. Yes.” What’s this about?

“And His Excellency knows that you are trying to help the Israelis? You’ve had this directly from His Excellency? Or is it only Colonel Palermo who has told you this?”

“I’m sure he—”

“But Colonel Palermo has said that His Excellency approves?”

“I have no reason—”

Yousef raised a hand. “Of course. I understand. You trust Colonel Palermo. If he says His Excellency approves, then of course His Excellency approves,” and a complacent smile roamed across his eyes.

“You must know my assignment is authorized,” Habib said.

“Oh, I know a lot of things,” Yousef said, amused. “But let’s not dwell on this. Let’s talk about your search for this man Shkaki. Where did you hear about him?”

“An informant,” Habib said.

“And who would that be?”

“A man named Hussein. That’s all I know about him.”

“You know where he lives?”

“Only the general neighborhood. He contacts me whenever he has learned something he thinks might interest me.”

“And why did he think you’d be interested in this Shkaki?”

“I think he learned that Shkaki was trying to find a pilot.”

“For what reason?”

“He didn’t know. I had told him I was interested in finding Bashir Yassin. It was the name he apparently heard Shkaki use.”

“Then you had talked to him prior to this,” Yousef said.

“The Colonel and I have been asking many people about Bashir. I don’t know exactly how he learned of it, but I wasn’t surprised. He’s very resourceful.”

“I see. Tell me, Habib, why is your colonel interested in my visit to Sinai?”

The question startled Habib. “I didn’t know he was.”

“Oh, come now,” Yousef said, leaning forward as though to whisper, “I’m sure he has discussed this with you.”

“No.”

“He doesn’t tell you everything?”

Habib didn’t like the tone of this. He said nothing, studying the smile, trying to read into it.

“Haven’t you wondered,” Yousef said, “whether Colonel Palermo has a stronger reason for coming to
misr
than to deliver a mechanic to the Israelis? He’s a warrior as you were in your youth. He has to be important to the American intrusion into Afghanistan. He reports regularly to a CIA field officer right here in Cairo. Did you know about that?”

“He doesn’t talk about that.”

“I see. A ‘need to know’ kind of thing. Of course. And all you need to know is that this mechanic is wanted by the Americans—for murder, I believe. That’s what you’ve been told? And you believe it?”