by E. L. Pini
I handed O’Dri the small memory card. We listened together to the recording from Shabwah. They didn’t seem too interested in the part where Imad informed Anna of the arriving missile convoy. But the description of Taissiri’s clinic evoked a very different response.
“Catawampus!” declared O’Dri with his deep Southern twang, making me laugh and once again recall Django Unchained, where the mention of this imaginary demonic beast was used to terrify the slaves. I had seen the film during Tarantino Week at the cinema. I’d dragged Froyke to a marathon—Inglourious Basterds, Pulp Fiction and Django. He snuck away at some point, and the next day I returned with Nora to watch the Kill Bills. Around when Daryl Hannah tries to poison Uma Thurman, Nora decided oral sex was in order. After that, we went to her place, and there in her bed I confessed that as a boy, I’d wanted nothing more than to be a filmmaker, and if I could make movies, I’d make them “just like that guy Tarantino does.”
“Are you telling me you know who pulled off these bombings? And how?” O’Driscoll grumbled, his voice a mixture of anger and astonishment, as Bruno chuckled.
“If we assume the intel is good, then I’d say the answer is yes.”
“Mind telling the rest of the class just how the hell you have access to this girl’s intel?”
It was obviously a rhetorical question.
O’Dri’s phone rang. He picked up, hung up again, and informed us: “The prince just landed on deck one.”
“Put on your shoes,” Bruno whispered at me.
“Please. Like that Bedouin’s gonna bother wearing shoes,” I said, when O’Dri decided to retort.
“Glad you got to fly with Jule,” he snickered. “He’s the only pilot I’d trust.”
Scheisse. Of course, Abrasha also worked with the CIA. Froyke had once told me, “In this business, everyone works with everyone, and everyone’s a piece of work.”
Would the prince prove to be a piece of work? I hoped not. When lying is involved, politicians have the home-field advantage.
27.
O’Dri’s officer soon arrived, accompanied by the prince. I looked up and saw a guy more or less my age, holding a thin, elegant titanium briefcase, who wouldn’t look the least bit out of place leaving a business meeting on Bond Street. I was momentarily surprised. A part of me had expected an extravagant sheikh in a gleaming white gallabiyah. O’Dri warmly shook his hand and introduced us. The prince offered me a limp handshake, then smiled and asked, “Which of you is the primary source?”
Bruno and I simultaneously pointed at each other.
“Mr. Ehrlich.” The prince turned to me.
“Avner,” I corrected.
“Mr. Avner, you are the first man I’ve heard of who decided to take a tiny helicopter into the yellow devil and lived to tell the tale.”
He smiled appreciatively and apparently expected me to carry the conversation from there. I was horrified by how freely this info seemed to have gotten around. I glanced at O’Dri, perplexed. He was the only one who could’ve informed the prince, and he wasn’t supposed to know, either. The prince’s sharp gaze missed nothing.
“You are correct in your suspicions, Mr. Avner. Mr. O’Driscoll shared this information with me. But please be assured, he had nothing but good intentions. He is certain that we Arabs always appreciate heroic tales of men who ride a mighty steed into the heart of enemy territory—specially to rescue a beautiful woman. Shall we proceed?”
O’Driscoll and Bruno smiled, and I decided to stop beating around the bush. I handed over the memory card, which contained a concise presentation on activities in Shabwah, but the prince waved it away.
“No need for a presentation. We’re not starting a business together.”
I was getting worried. This prince didn’t seem like a pissed-off Saudi in the slightest.
“This deal is between you and me, and we will seal it with a handshake. Do you agree?”
“I’d be honored,” I replied and went on to outline the primary findings that had led us to Imad and the Shabwah camp.
“To my understanding, you are requesting a clear air corridor, for as much time as is required by your air force to wipe Shabwah off the face of the earth, along with several hundred Arabs.”
“Several hundred Arabs who mostly kill Arabs,” I blurted out, unable to stop myself.
“And what motivates you to invest time and effort in killing Arab-killing Arabs?” His eyes shifted toward O’Driscoll and Bruno. It was time to deliver the goods, set the bait.
“The camp serves as a base for missile convoys, sending out Iranian missiles to the Gaza Hamas and the Hezbollah Shiites. They’re creating a route for the Iranians leading all the way to the Mediterranean. According to our latest intel, they’re about to receive a large shipment of Yakhont missiles and SA400s. You don’t want that, any more than we do.” I tossed the seasoned politician his mostly accurate carrot.
Now came the stick. I spread my arm in a wide arc to include O’Driscoll and Bruno as I concluded, “We would all be exceedingly happy if the Saudi Royal Air Force would handle this assignment.”
Bruno and O’Dri suddenly seemed very pale. The prince decided to deliver the knockout punch. “That is precisely our intention,” he said. “The Royal Air Force will solve this problem to everyone’s satisfaction.”
An awkward silence settled over the room.
O’Driscoll shattered it, eventually. “Hang on, let me get this straight. Are you refusing our request for a clear air corridor for the Israeli Air Force?”
“Not at all, just the contrary,” replied the prince. “We will supply you with a secured corridor, and the Royal Air Force will handle the assignment.”
I felt like we’d begun to establish an understanding and said that, while the corridor was open, I expected the Royal Air Force craft to remain grounded. The prince objected, “reminding” me that even if we did receive the air corridor, this did not mean that the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia was relinquishing its sovereignty, and continued to quietly and confidently describe what he assumed would be our distributed force and plan of action.
“Two F-16 bomber quartets, similar to those flown by the Royal Air Force. One fuel tanker, one electronic jammer, two rescue helicopters.” He placed the titanium briefcase on the desk and opened it. Inside were standard-issue Royal Air Force stickers, a memory card and some diagrams.
“I assume that your ‘primary sources’”—he added air quotes, smiling—“will inform the appropriate parties that the Royal Air Force performed the bombing.”
“You have no reservations about taking responsibility for dozens, maybe hundreds of Muslim Arab casualties?” I asked.
The prince shook his head. “Power begets respect,” he replied decisively.
I tried to wrap my head around the new situation. I wasn’t willing to take the risk of one of their pilots suddenly snapping, deciding to take the opportunity to shoot down some Jews. I knew Froyke wouldn’t risk it, either. But the weathered politician read me like an open book.
“Our Royal Air Force will not be grounded. However, your electronic countermeasures could, most likely, neutralize any nearby radio and radar systems.”
The prince got to his feet. We all followed. He offered me his hand, and this time he shook forcefully, confidently. “You must know, these Arabs—all they understand is force,” he said, smiling. “So be sure to give them hell.”
28.
Imad’s black Range Rover pulled into the sandstone-lined driveway next to a dingy blue truck. Najib’s Café, deep in the desert in Atbara, Sudan, seemed to float in midair, carried on the dusty heat rippling up from the baked earth. Najib came out to greet them, his rotund form wrapped in a brown pinstriped suit, a thin Iraqi mustache adorning his upper lip, and a set of golden teeth gleaming under it. From his left ear down to his cheek, the skin was strangely smooth and oily, indicative of a
cheek transplant—compliments of an Israeli phosphorus bomb. He hurried over to hug Imad and offer his condolences for Husam and Hamid. A large waiter with jet-black skin arrived, carrying a golden tray with a coffeepot and cups. Najib waved over a young man who approached them and stood next to Imad. The resemblance—at least in height and body structure—was striking. Najib nodded, and the young man and Imad took their clothes off. Imad handed over his clothes to the double, instead wearing his red keffiyeh and gold-embroidered black agal. When he was done, he looked at his watch.
“Okay! Twenty seconds, give or take, and it’s time for our photoshoot. Smile, everyone.”
The group left the café, smiling. Imad’s double led the way, with the bodyguard—Hamid’s replacement—at his side, followed by Yasser the driver. Imad stayed behind, in the entrance to the café.
“Now!” Imad ordered, and the group collectively looked up, as if they could see the satellite. Yasser took off his pants and bent over, mooning the heavens. “Tilhasi tizi—lick my ass, ya America.”
“El-anza—you jackass,” said Imad from the doorway. “They need to see your face.”
“Sorry,” apologized Yasser. “My bad.”
“Fuck it, never mind. Your face, your ass—same difference…”
Yasser turned to the double. “Walk straight, stomach tucked, like you’ve got a massive stick up your ass.”
Imad laughed as the double got into the car in his place. The Range Rover headed out, toward Khartoum. The blue truck waited a beat, then discreetly followed. Both vehicles vanished into the yellow dust, leaving a fading cloud of dust in their wake.
“This is for you,” Najib cut through the silence, handing Imad a small travel bag with a flight ticket, a new passport and the keys to a new, white Range Rover that was parked under the pavilion in the café’s backyard.
Imad shifted the car into sports mode, hardening the suspension. Five hundred and ten horsepower in a light, strong chassis, with air suspenders—it felt wonderful, like gliding on a cloud. He lowered the window, letting in the desert night’s chill, and took a long drag from his Camel cigarette. These were his moments with Baba. His and his alone. Five hundred and ten noble, winged Arabian steeds, harnessed to Baba’s old Mercedes, pulling it through the air. The velocity slowly diminished, the horses moved in a sort of slow motion. Then the Mercedes was gone. So were the horses.
Imad floated alone, in a vast, curving sky. His arms were spread and he rolled, like a skydiver, toward the quickly approaching ground. Would his parachute open? Baba’s good hand stroked his head, wiped the sweat from Imad’s brow. Baba was there now, and so were the horses, and they were pulling Baba’s run-down Mercedes. Mom was sitting in the back, along with his three sisters and little Nasser. Baba was at the wheel. Imad was sitting on his lap, “driving” the car, which bounced wildly at every crack in the pavement. Each bounce banged the little ones’ heads against the roof of the car, to the sound of Baba and Imad’s laughter.
The family reached the Rafah border crossing, and Mom got off with the little ones. The taxi was already waiting to take them to Cairo. From there they would travel to Mom’s parents, in Saudi Arabia. The little ones waved goodbye from the other side of the border. Baba and Imad waved back. And now they were finally alone, just the two of them.
“I have a question for you, ya ibni. How do you get inside the car when the doors are locked, the window is open, and you don’t have your keys?”
“I reach in through the window…”
“You can’t, ya ibni, there a big Kalb inside. Grrr…” Baba growled and barked, and Imad laughed.
“What are you laughing about, little Kalb? Big Kalb’s gonna eat you.” His father picked him up and gently bit him on the cheek. Then he tossed him through the open window. “That’s how you get in.”
Imad bounced on the worn upholstery, sat by the wheel and growls, “Grrr… woof. Woof! Ta’al, ya baba, get in.”
Baba plopped into the driver’s seat. “Now drive.”
They drove back to Gaza. The horses were back, and they were galloping with them above the orchards of Khan Yunis, Deir al-Balah and, finally, Jabalia. Baba breathed deep, large breaths of the citrus-blossom-scented air.
“Breathe, ya ibni, breathe. This is the smell of angels.”
They arrived back home. Imad had already fallen asleep. Baba carried him in his arms, gently tucked him into bed and kissed his forehead. Then, suddenly—an explosion!
The house shuddered. Baba hurried to Imad’s bed. The butt of a rifle collided with his face, and he spat blood and teeth. The soldiers tied his hands behind his back, tied a blindfold over his eyes, and shoved him. Imad burst into tears. The intelligence sergeant took a photo out of his vest and examined Baba’s face.
“Yeah, it’s him… face looks a bit different, though.” The soldier laughed. “He’s so much prettier now, ain’t he? Confirmed ID!”
Baba tried to say something, looked up at Imad with eyes Imad would never forget. They seemed to cry, “Ya ibni, my brave Imad, why won’t you save me?”
The soldiers shoved him to the front of the house, urging him on with the butts of their rifles. A large young man with a kind face, who seemed to be in charge, handed Imad a chocolate bar with a red cow on the wrapper.10 “Sit over here, quietly. Someone will pick you up in the morning.”
There was a sudden burst of gunfire outside. A large explosion, yelling. The soldier ran outside, Imad on his heels. Baba’s corpse lay on a field stretcher. The large soldier gently turned Imad around and herded him back into the house. And Imad was filled with shame, and remorse, and not a single drop of fear.
29.
The shrill voice of the announcer at the airport snapped Imad back to reality. He chewed on his lower lip. If he could just find that gigantic Jew who had murdered his father.
Dr. Zechariah el-Masri quickly passed through passport control and the exhaustive security checks and boarded Nova Airways flight 920, from Khartoum to Riyadh. The airplane he boarded was empty.
“This way, please, Doctor el-Masri,” said the stewardess politely before taking him to business class. A security guard built like a tank was guarding the entrance. Imad slapped him on the shoulder, and the tank, who’d known Imad from Shabwah, smiled and invited him inside. Imad approached the sheikh, hugging him and kissing him on both cheeks before taking the sheikh’s hand and kissing it as well. The sheikh turned a smartphone screen toward Imad.
“Look,” said the sheikh.
The camera that was shooting the video was mounted on the landing skid of a Mi-24 helicopter, which kept popping into the shot. The battered blue Unimog truck was slowing down on a thin strip of asphalt cutting through the golden dunes. It turned around and came to a stop, positioned across the road. Imad didn’t know what was coming, but he was fairly certain he would hate it. Silence surrounded him when the video came to an end, the final frame showing both the blue Unimog and Imad’s black Range Rover on fire, charred bodies littering the asphalt around the wreckage. It took Imad several seconds to digest.
“Imad Akbariyeh al-Nabulsi is dead,” said the sheikh. “Long live Doctor Zechariah el-Masri.” He handed Imad a briefcase, a business card for Dr. el-Masri, CEO, whose company imported and marketed medical equipment, and the keys to a Porsche, adding, “The newest model. You’ve earned some fun.”
“My men?”
The sheikh was silent.
“My men?” asked Imad again.
“No one survived. Not even you. You died in an aerial assault. Your DNA was scattered at the location—it’s already on its way to the American labs. And you… you are as free as a bird…”
Imad’s hand moved toward that gun that wasn’t there. He took a deep breath, wondering if the sheikh had taken advantage of the opportunity and eliminated Yasser and his security team just to weaken him. That was probably the case. He noticed that the sheikh didn
’t offer the appropriate condolences for the deaths of Husam and Hamid, who had served as the sheikh’s eyes and ears.
The sheikh seemed to read his mind, as usual, saying, “The cause is bigger than either of us. I’m getting off in Riyadh, and from there I’m off to Islamabad. You stay here until the dust settles. Najib will take care of anything you might need. When the time is right, we’ll send you to Berlin—Doctor von Stroop is already there, by the way. You can keep her busy.”
The sheikh flashed a dirty little grin. “Impressive girl. Excellent lineage.”
Desire fluttered through Imad’s body. The sheikh went on, “Doctor Taissiri will be waiting for you there as well. They’re looking for him up in our caves. I scatter breadcrumbs around, they keep looking.”
The sheikh smoothed his face from the traced of the grin, fell silent for a moment, and then looked straight into Imad’s eyes. “You are now in charge of our most significant operation since 9/11. We will flood Europe with these stuffed shahids, and any other country that harbors infidels. After that, if you decide you want Palestine, I will personally support you—financing, men, ammunitions, anything you want.”
“When do we start?” asked Imad, hoping the sheikh would leave him time to meet the sultan before Berlin.
The sheikh smiled cheerfully. “Tawil sabrak, Tawil sabrak… il-ajaleh min elshitan. Extend your patience—haste is the devil’s work. First we let your death sink in. Rest for a week or two, maybe a month. I’ll let you know when you can go see your fräulein.”
Excellent, thought Imad—this is my chance. And he hoped that the sheikh would fail to read his mind, just this once.
In the middle of the night, Imad got into his Porsche and drove to Atbara. There, in a junkyard in the middle of nowhere, he was supposed to set the car on fire, burning the final forensic evidence on earth of the existence of Imad Akbariyeh. The sheer elegance of this beautiful machine gave him pause. There might be another solution. Najib, perhaps, could give the car a thorough cleaning and look after it for him.
