by Eric Meyer
"Fire a burst over their heads, but keep edging away from them. If they don't stop, shoot the bastards in the front rank."
We opened fire, three shots each. Twelve rounds sliced the air over the heads of the Egyptians, but the crowd kept coming, and I heard the unmistakable sound of men cocking the bolts on their AKs. There was no choice.
I shouted, "Hit them, but don't kill the Imam."
The second burst of fire smacked into the front of the crowd, and three men went down, causing the rest to pause. I glanced at Winter and knew then why she hadn't fired. She was targeting the Imam. Tactically, it was the correct decision. He was the ringleader. Politically, it was the worst possible move, and in religious terms was inviting a full-scale death match. I shouted at her, "No!" As I shouted, I lunged at her to try and spoil her aim. It was too late. She was an expert marksman, and she drilled two shots into the head of the Imam.
He fell to the ground, and we could see blood and brains leaking out of the twin head wounds. Silence descended on the entire street, as they digested the enormity of what she'd done. Passersby came to a halt and stood rooted in shock. It was so quiet; I could feel a slight breeze flowing through the buildings that surrounded us. There was no need to speculate about what they'd do next, so I gave the order to get out. We were lucky. They'd backed away, leaving the street clear for vehicles to start moving again.
"Run! Back to the truck, and get out of here. I'll cover you."
They ran. I threw myself to the ground to avoid the inevitable gunfire and sighted on the first shooter. It was one of the men from the rear ranks. He'd pushed through and was aiming his AK at the fleeing fireteam. I popped him with a couple of shots and lined up on the next man. Two more shots, and he went down, and I hit a third man. Even in the heat of religious fury, it gave them pause for thought.
There's one thing attacking a helpless boy dressed in girl's clothing. That's their idea of fun. It's a different story hitting on a man who can outshoot them, and is backed up by three more armed Westerners. The crowd's forward motion stopped again, and they started to move back. A half-dozen men picked up the Imam's body and started down the street, shouting and hollering. No doubt the message was a Westerner had killed him for no apparent reason, but not just any Westerner, a woman! The creatures they pronounced weak and inferior. He must be avenged! Kill!
I stayed where I was, and a few seconds later the truck reversed and came alongside.
"Get in!" Manuel shouted, so I jumped up and vaulted over the tailboard. Niall and Winter were covering me, their guns pointed at the crowd in case they tried anything. As soon as I was aboard, the driver threw the truck into forward gear and roared away up the street. A half-dozen shots cracked out as they vented their fury, but they were poorly aimed. At last, we rounded a corner and sped out of sight of the crowd's fury.
We reached the safe house, a small villa in the nicer part of town, or at least, the slightly less squalid part of town. The villa had an enclosed gated courtyard, with enough room for the truck to drive straight in. As soon as the driver halted, we vaulted out and closed the gates.
Winter led us into the building and showed us around. The CIA had done us proud. We each had our own comfortable bedroom, almost unheard of in the field. She went crazy when I insisted Isra had to stay with us.
"Like hell he does. If the little catamite wants a room, he can check into a hotel."
I stood my ground. "He gets a room, or we all leave. You know what'll happen if he goes out on the street. They'll be scouring the area for him. He has to stay, at least until the heat dies down."
She gave in with bad grace and disappeared into her room, presumably to shower and freshen up, or maybe she wanted to revise her top ten list of people to kill. I had yet to make up my mind about how high on that list we came.
I parked Isra on a couch in the sitting room and got his story. How the hell he'd turned up in some shithole town like Aswan, when I'd last seen him in Afghanistan? After all, they had plenty of shitholes, why come to Egypt to find another?
"An Egyptian businessman brought me back, said he wanted me to live with him. But his wife found out, and..."
"His wife," Manuel exclaimed. He'd come in and was listening.
Isra shrugged. "Sure. Muslim gay men often get married to disguise their sexuality."
"Nice for the wife," Manuel grunted.
"How do you think the boyfriend feels?" he shot back.
Salazar grimaced and walked out. He had a way to go before he saw which way the world was going, sexually, anyway. Isra told me the rest of his story. He'd been kicked out with no money, no passport, just the clothing he'd been wearing at the time. Hardly suitable in a country where the Muslim Brotherhood is gunning for just about everyone who doesn't fit their narrow moral definitions. I told him to clean up, and later maybe we could help him find some clothes more suitable to wear while he was in Egypt.
"You'll buy me a new dress?" he gushed.
"A shirt and pants would be better."
He shook his head. "No way. What kind of a girl do you think I am?"
I gave up and took a shower, but kept the same clothes on. This was Aswan, so the grubbier and sweatier you looked, the more you were anonymous. As anonymous as any Westerner could be. We returned to the spacious living room, and Manuel brought in a jug of iced water. Winter joined us, looking cool and elegant, as if she was about to saunter out on a Parisian boulevard.
"Well, that almost screwed everything up," she began, "It was stupid going to help the queer boy. What's he doing in Egypt?"
"He thought you were in Afghanistan. It was as far away as he could get."
She ignored me, regarding me with amusement. "It wouldn't have happened if you've left it alone."
I knew I wouldn't get through to her. Why would she worry if some kid who'd been helpful to us in the past were massacred on an Egyptian street? She probably thought 'compassion' was a French perfume.
"As I recall, it was killing the Imam that really annoyed them. Don't go popping any more shots at their religious leaders. Next time they may tear you apart."
She opened her mouth to object but stopped when the door flew open, and Joel Turner strode into the room wearing an angry expression. He still wore the same battered, brown goatskin flight jacket, and it occurred to me he probably slept in it.
"Which of you stupid fuckers killed that religious man? You know the whole town is in uproar? The Brotherhood is going crazy."
Winter attacked back. "I had no choice. He was trying to persuade half the city to murder us."
He shook his head. "Jesus Christ, there are armed groups wandering around the town, looking for the four Westerners. They nearly lynched me on the way in."
She shrugged. "They'll calm down in a few hours. Have you heard anything about Mullah Mukhtar?"
He looked at her in irritation. "Maybe. We got word he's due to talk at a local mosque on Friday. You know, Friday prayers when they like to stir up trouble. The problem is we don't know which mosque, or even if it's in this town. It's like looking for a needle in a fucking haystack."
She glanced at me. "You have to find the place. It could be our best opportunity to end this fast, so I suggest you get started. What's you first move?"
It didn't occur to her she'd made if doubly difficult to ask around, by shooting one of their Imams. Normally, they regarded any Westerner with suspicion. Now, they were likely to shoot first and ask questions after. I gave her a long, hard stare.
"We'll let you know."
She nodded. "Make it soon. I'll see you later. I have some matters to attend to. Major Turner, I'd like you to come with me."
"Sure."
He followed her out of the room, and they went outside. We heard the gate open and close as they left the villa.
"What do you reckon that's all about?" Manuel asked.
"Nothing good, that's for sure. We need…"
I stopped as Isra walked into the room. He'd done his best to repair the
damage done by the Imam. His dress was fastened back together. He'd managed to glue the heel of his boot, and his hair and makeup were again immaculate. He helped himself to a cold drink and smiled shyly at us.
"I want to thank you for doing what you did. We parted on bad terms before, but now I'm grateful you were there when I needed you. If there's anything I can do to repay you, you only have to ask."
I doubted his gratitude extended to Winter Moss. Deep down, I knew if he ever got her alone, he'd do his best to claw her eyes out. But I had an idea. There was something he could do, probably something only he could do.
We needed someone to tour the local mosques and keep their eyes and ears open for word of Mullah Mukhtar. It would have to be someone who could fit in, someone who could blend in, unnoticed in this male dominated society. Women in Egypt, as in any Muslim country, were treated as second-class citizens, weak, stupid, and useless. As a result, they were usually ignored, beneath consideration. Especially when they wore the ubiquitous black robe and full veil, with only their eyes visible. Inside the voluminous garment, they could go where no Westerner could go. It had to be a girl. A veiled man would look ludicrous and be uncovered within seconds. And it had to be someone who spoke Arabic. There were only two candidates for the job, Winter, and Isra who could pass as a girl. We could forget Winter, so that narrowed the field down to one. I explained what we wanted. He shook his head, holding up a hand as if to physically stop me from speaking of it.
"Impossible. There's no way."
"Isra, you spend your life masquerading as a girl. You're a Muslim. All you need to do is attend a few mosques and see what you pick up. That's all. There's no need to do anything dangerous."
He looked around wildly at us. "You don't understand, do you? I can't stand those black robes and veils. They make me look hideous."
We chuckled. None of us had thought of that one. Eventually, after a great deal of persuasion, and the offer of several hundred American dollars, he agreed.
"I'll need some money to go out and buy myself a gallebaya and full veil."
"You'd better buy a pair of shoes. If they see those 'fuck-me' boots peeking out under the robe, it'll be a dead giveaway. And I mean 'dead'.
He looked down. "It's a shame. I love these boots, but I guess you're right."
I gave him the money and he went away. I'd be tempted to ask Niall or Manuel to accompany him but guessed it could be even more of a risk, with tensions running high against Westerners.
"Is there anything else we can do?" Niall asked me, "It's a long shot, asking Isra to spy on the mosques for us."
I nodded. "You're right. We can go out singly and ask around the bars, see what we can pick up. I'd sooner not go in a group, in case we're recognized."
We all changed into different clothes. I put on denim jeans and a battered bush jacket so that with the addition of a baseball cap, I looked like something between a student and an aid worker. Which was my intention. I tucked the Ruger into my waistband but left the other weapons in my room. I was scouting for information, not heading for an assassination, and if I ran into trouble, the Ruger made plenty of noise. People tended to think twice when they heard gunshots.
Niall and Manuel both looked different, and although I'd seen it before, I smiled at Manuel's disguise. With his swarthy complexion, he looked almost Middle Eastern, and now he wore a turban, together with a crumpled linen suit and a collarless shirt. He looked like a businessman from Istanbul. It should keep him safe. Like me, Niall had opted for the impoverished aid-worker look. Jeans and a matching jeans jacket, over a T-shirt with the legend 'Give Peace a Chance'. Yeah, right.
Maybe we were a bit old, but what the hell? In these days of high unemployment, older students were more numerous than ever. We left the villa, agreeing to meet back there in two hours. It wasn't ideal, walking the streets and lowlife bars alone. But after Winter had drilled two holes into the Imam's head, we had little choice. Any group of Westerners would attract attention. At least we each had our cellphones, so if we had problems we could call for help. Theoretically. If they came at you out of nowhere, crowding you in and holding you under their guns, they won't likely to be polite about allowing you one phone call before they took you away. Or killed you.
I had a stroke of luck early on. They tried to pick my pocket in a scam as old as Noah's Ark. I'd stopped to look at a small map I carried when a seemingly well-dressed Egyptian approached me and asked if he could give me directions. I grabbed his assistant, a young boy, as the kid's hand dived into my pants pocket and tried to remove the wallet. With my other hand, I snatched out the Ruger and covered the older man. I nodded toward a darkened doorway and shepherded them inside. Aswan was full of dark doorways, more than you can count. This particular one stank like it had been used as a urinal, which at least would keep anyone else from sticking their nose in to see what was going down, unless they needed a piss.
I gave the man in front of me a cold stare. "Tell your boy to stop struggling, or I'll break his arm."
The man, a short obese Arab, baldheaded, and dressed in a cheap threadbare suit that any self-respecting thrift shop would have consigned to the incinerator, at first looked blank. He tried the usual ploy, 'I don't speak English.' As he'd just asked me if I needed directions, it was a poor attempt.
"Last chance, buddy, otherwise I break both his arms. That'll be the end of his pickpocketing days."
He spoke in rapid Arabic, and the kid went still. I looked at fat man. He looked at me and waited to learn my next move. I said nothing because it's always best to wait out the other side when you want something from them, so he decided to speak. Amazingly, his English was good, especially for a man who couldn't speak the language.
"What do you want from me? Are you going to the police?"
I could well understand his concern. The cops would mean him and his son winding up inside one of their prisons. Egyptian prisons were dark, rancid places where inmates frequently went days without food or water. Sometimes they were left in perpetual darkness. They had a reputation as the blackest of black holes.
"Maybe. On the other hand, you could earn some money."
I saw his body slump as he relaxed. Right then, I knew he'd do anything to avoid incarceration. He glanced down at the boy and back at me, his eyes meaningful.
"What do you want?"
I grimaced, definitely not that. "I want information. In return, you can go, and I'll pay you fifty dollars."
It was probably as much money as many Egyptians earn in a month. I daresay if I suggested the night with his wife and daughters, he would have agreed.
"That's a lot of money. What information?"
"Mullah Mukhtar."
His face went white, or at the least as white as a pockmarked, swarthy Arab can go. His body was rigid with terror, and it struck me that getting any information on Mullah Mukhtar was likely to pose more than a few problems.
"I know nothing of this man. Nothing! I've never heard of him."
I nodded. "Okay then, let's go visit the cops. I'm sure they'll be pleased to see you."
Any color that had returned to his skin drained away again, although not as much as when I'd mentioned Mukhtar.
"Please, Sir, I have a wife and five daughters to support, as well as my son Ali. If you take me to the police, I will be ruined. The last time they arrested me they threatened to imprison me for many years if I was picked up again. I would be as good as dead." He wrung his hands, like an oily bazaar merchant trying to make a deal, "I'll do anything, anything at all, but don't ask me about Mullah Mukhtar."
"No deal, buster, but you don't need to worry about anyone finding out. I won’t be telling him."
"His people always find out," he muttered, "and then they kill the person who gave information."
"So you do know him."
His eyes widened and he nodded. "If it is the same man, yes. He came here from Afghanistan to talk in the mosques. I heard him speak. He wants to stir up trouble between th
e people and the Army. An evil man, it's best you stay away from him."
"An evil man? I thought he was a Mullah?"
"He is many things, so I hear, but I cannot..."
I interrupted him. "It'll be our secret. Tell me where I can find him. Now! It's that or the cops."
He hesitated for a few seconds and finally decided where his best interests lay, or at least, his immediate interests. "They say he will be speaking at the El Tabia mosque."
He poked his head out into the street and looked around nervously. There was no one lurking in the immediate vicinity, which was hardly surprising. I was about to pass out from the stink of stale piss. It had a deterrent effect on a level with an ICBM.
"When?"
Another hesitation. "You said one hundred dollars?"
"I said fifty, but if your information is good, I could maybe make it seventy-five."
The money didn't worry me, but the science of haggling is something of a fine art. Give in too easily, and they think they can get away with any line of bullshit.
"It is good, seventy-five dollars. Tomorrow late, at eleven in the evening.
23.00, a good time to make mischief. A time when the local cops were sitting safely inside their headquarters, knocking back a few cold beers and having fun with the local prostitutes which they'd rounded up earlier. I gave him his seventy-five dollars and let them both go. I didn't know whether to trust them or not, but it would be worth checking out that mosque tomorrow evening. His voice had the ring of truth when he spoke, or maybe it was the ring of terror.
My two hours were about up, so I went back through the dank, stinking streets to our villa. Arab men gave me vicious glances as I walked past their unkempt hovels. A couple of kids threw stones that missed, and women turned veiled faces toward me. It was impossible to know what they were thinking inside their black cloth prisons. Escape, maybe. Most women I'd known would have been thinking along those lines. Slavery was so damned monotonous, especially when they repeated the message week after week in the mosques.
