by Jim Ingraham
As they walked to the door at the far end of the room, Jaradat said, “Remember, when you have done what I want, I will take you to a safehouse where you can live out the rest of your life in peace and comfort, no longer in fear of the police. In the meantime, my men will take you to that cemetery for your things, then bring you to a villa where you will be under my protection.”
Outside in the hall, Jaradat paused and looked intently into Faisal’s eyes, watching for a reaction. “The girl Bashir has recently been seen with,” he said, obviously having waited until the last minute to spring this, “is the daughter of Aziz Al-Khalid, Special Deputy to the Minister of the Interior.”
Faisal felt blood drain from his face. He stared hard at Jaradat, and Jaradat seemed pleased by what he saw. He turned and walked back into the large room and closed the door.
Faisal was weeping openly when he joined the two men outside at the car. He had intended to demand the return of his pistol and to find out who the woman was who had come with these men to the cemetery. But he could make no demands of anyone. He was totally absorbed in memories of his son. He got into the car with the two men who had picked him up. The woman was not with them. He allowed himself to be blindfolded. He could feel pain in his chest. He didn’t care. He didn’t care that these men had seen tears flowing down his face. All he could think about was the boy in the white sheets with the rope burn on his neck.
Since the death of his son he had not allowed the name Aziz al-Khalid to be spoken in his presence. He had shot a man once who had taunted him with that name.
*
The boy, Abdullah, had escaped to England and had been working two months in a London bakery when he was warned by a girl from a nearby pub that the police were looking for him. Other than the girl and the owner of the bakery, he had no friends in England. He had no money, no passport. No one knew he was wanted in Egypt for conspiracy in the murder of President Anwar al-Sadat. Although he was part of a group that had carried out the assassination, he was not with them when the president was shot.
He was innocent! He was an innocent naïve boy! He hadn’t even known that an assassination had been planned!
And there had been nothing Faisal could do. His organization had not expanded to England. The boy had no sanctuary. He had only a vague memory of a conversation with a Palestinian guerrilla who had told him about a professor at the London School of Economics. He remembered nothing about the man except his name—Professor Aziz al-Khalid. In desperation he contacted Professor al-Khalid and was invited to his home, was fed and given a bedroom to use. He believed he was safe! But when the boy was asleep, this jackal, this Aziz al-Khalid phoned the Egyptian embassy. Within days, the boy was in Cairo and, after weeks of torture and interrogation, he was hanged.
*
I am not dead! Faisal told himself. It is Abdullah who is dead. It is my son who has been dead these many years! And I sit here whimpering and feeling sorry for myself! Am I a woman? Am I an Afaf?
He tore the scarf from his face. “I don’t need a veil,” he yelled at the tall bearded man, who reached out to restrain him. “I am not a woman.”
The tall man pushed him back against the cushions, then released him. “Malesh,” he said, “It doesn’t matter.”
Faisal lay back in the seat, his heart racing, but not out of fear. Jaradat obviously knows about my hatred of Aziz Al-Khalid, and he probably wants me to murder the girl’s father. Has Aziz become an obstacle? He couldn’t buy his loyalty?
Faisal stared through tears at the neck of the driver, remembering the scarred and broken neck of the boy resting on the burial sheets—the innocent face, the closed eyes, the closed lips of his beloved son.
As the car entered the cemetery, Faisal searched the narrow streets. As he had hoped, there were no cars in sight, no people, just littered pavement and pale walls and small buildings shrouded in darkness.
The moment the car stopped and the tall man opened the door, that giant old friend Diab and three others stepped out of the shadows, all holding rifles. A fifth man jumped onto the hood of the car and aimed an Ingram submachinegun at the driver.
Faisal raised his chin and squared his shoulders. He was again a leader of men. He stood directly in front of the tall man, reached up and slapped his face. “You come to my house. You insult me, you filthy pig!” He slapped him again, aware that his men were watching. “You tell your colonel I will be respected! By him! By anyone he sends to me! You tell him that.”
The man glanced at the rifle in Diab’s hands.
“My pistol,” Faisal said.
“I don’t have it. I left it back there. I just do what I’m told.”
“Now you will do what I say!” Faisal yelled. “You will tell me the name of the woman who came here with you.”
“I don’t know her. He doesn’t know her,” tilting his head toward the driver. “We never saw her before. She just showed us how to get here. As God—”
Again Faisal slapped the man’s face.
“You tell your colonel I want my pistol back and I want the name of the woman. I choose to do what he wants. Tell him that. And tell him I’ll contact him when I am ready. And don’t use my pistol. If it is used and it leads the police to me, you will die.”
Faisal was tempted to slap him again, but it wasn’t necessary. He had restored his honor.
“Tell the colonel not to look for me and not to send anyone here to hurt my woman. She is under my protection. Tell him that.” He waited a few moments to enjoy the feeling of being once again in command. “You can go,” he said. He watched the man hurry back inside the car.
When the car was gone, Faisal turned to Diab. “That hyena who was supposed to be guarding me. Where is he?”
“He was badly hurt. He is being treated.”
“Shoot him.”
Diab rested his great hand on Faisal’s shoulder and laughed, his fat cheeks jiggling, his shoulders rising and falling. “No, no, Faisal. It was my fault, not his. I should have relieved him. He was here more than thirteen hours. We can’t blame him.”
“He was supposed to protect me! I want him shot!”
Diab urged Faisal past the gate into Afaf’s enclosure, out of earshot of the men. “It would hurt us to do that. We have lost too many men. We can’t have any more defections, Faisal. We must show our men compassion and loyalty.”
“What about loyalty to me?”
“He was loyal. He stayed here. He tried to stay awake. We need more men, Faisal.”
“How will we get them? We have no money.”
“Look, I will reprimand this boy in front of the men. I will tell them you have spared his life. They will be grateful. It will build loyalty. They will respect you for understanding their difficulties.”
Faisal thought about it awhile. “Do what you will,” he said, grudgingly.
Diab gave him a one-armed hug. “Tell me what happened. I recognized that car, you know. And so did the men. One of them knows the driver. He knows where he lives. They call him Il-Gazzaar.”
“The Butcher?”
“Yes. Did you see Jaradat?”
Faisal told him everything.
“So he wants to keep his hands clean,” Diab said. “He didn’t hint who he wants killed?”
“He says it’s not for that. We’ll talk about it later.”
While Diab was bringing a car around, Faisal went inside where Afaf had his things in a bundle on the bed.
“I don’t need any of that,” he told her. “If it’s worth selling, sell it. If not, throw it away. I don’t care.”
“Where will you go, Master?”
“They found me a place. I will leave a guard here.”
“God will protect me.”
“Yes…. Well, in case He doesn’t, there’ll be a man outside.”
He gazed into the old woman’s eyes for a moment. He felt protective of her, even affectionate, and he couldn’t imagine where those feelings came from. “Tell Salima to stay out of my way. If I find
her, I will kill her.”
With head bowed, Afaf walked with him to the curtained doorway.
“You know where to find Diab,” Faisal said.
She nodded and gave him a slight bow. “Allah ma’aki,” she said. “May God be with you.”
He patted her hand and thanked her for having taken him in.
Outside sitting in a black Toyota he told Diab to keep an eye on her. “Jaradat does not want anyone to know about our meeting. He may think Afaf knows. He may try to silence her.”
“I will put a man here,” Diab said. When they were moving into the city, followed by a second car carrying the men, he asked, “So what do we do with Bashir Yassin?”
“He still lives at the home of Umm Sayid?”
“You have a good memory, Faisal. I’ll find out.”
“Treat him the way I was treated. Bring him to our new place. Frighten him immediately.”
Diab laughed and patted his big hand on Faisal’s knee. “Ah, Faisal, it’s good to be back in action. This assignment comes just in time! Jaradat will pay us a fortune for doing this!
“The good times are back, Faisal! The feasts! The women! The joys of the flesh! Allah’hu Akbah!”
Chapter Three
Colonel Jaradat, smiling in triumph, gazed quietly at the small man sitting across from him. Esmat Bindari, an official at Cairo International and a close friend for many years, also in a white shirt and linen suit, seemed equally pleased.
“So, apparently you have decided to take advantage of that bit of information.”
Jaradat shrugged. “Why not? If it produces nothing, we will have lost nothing. If it succeeds, our fingerprints will not be found on it.”
“I can’t wait to announce this to the Executive Council,” Esmat said. “By the way, when is the meeting?”
“Not for weeks. And, until everything is in place, we announce nothing … not a word, Esmat.”
Esmat nodded. “Of course.” Chastened, he changed the subject. “Is this Faisal Ibrahim as near death as they say?”
“He doesn’t look well, but who knows? It doesn’t matter. If he accuses me, who will believe him? You could accuse me, and who would believe you,” he said, laughing, reaching across the table, tapping Esmat’s hand, assuring him that he was only teasing.
A servant came into the room and placed a small bowl of fruit in front of the guest, Esmat, another in front of the colonel, blessing the room with the fragrance of pears. Tasseled toothpicks stuck out of each juicy piece.
“Just the thing,” Esmat said, lifting a cube of pineapple, inspecting it. “The enzymes aid digestion,” popping the fruit into his mouth.
“You’re sure we have three weeks?” the Colonel asked.
“At least. Our man in Jordan said they don’t expect those new planes until the end of next month. And that extends Bashir Yassin’s leave of absence for at least six weeks. No one has reason to miss him. They’ll want him in Amman for a few days before the planes arrive. He’ll have to set things up, maybe reacquaint himself with the literature. But between now and then, he’s at our mercy, so to speak,” laughing, sucking the juice of the pear.
“And how will he explain his injuries?”
“Who’s to notice?”
“The police. I’m told even Yousef Qantara is looking for him.”
“That’s only because of Aziz’s daughter. It’s routine. Bashir means nothing to the muccabarat. And if Yousef should notice bruises on the man, so what? He’s a nobody. People like him are always getting into fights. Besides, I’m told that Bashir is very resourceful, and well trained. He’ll think of something.”
“When do you intend to meet him?”
“I’ve invited him to lunch. To keep him happy, I can mention that he might be assigned to work on the president’s new jet. But I just want to get a sense of who he is. We can’t afford to invest our security in a fool.”
“Indeed,” Jaradat said. “You say the muccabarat knows nothing about his having flown several times to Brazil? How could that be? If I could find out, why couldn’t they? Is my intelligence so much better than theirs?”
“You found out about this Helene Bryce,” Esmat said.
“And I’m sure they know about her.”
“Perhaps, although I’ve seen no indications of it. All the information is right in the records. They just didn’t look.”
“Then again, you with all of your resources didn’t know she was being hunted by the Brazilian police.”
“I’m not infallible,” Esmat said. “It’s being cleverly handled by our man Phillip Nelson. Because she’s closely associated with the Saudi prince, they just want her to disappear, silently, in the night, so to speak. And that works for us. When she is flown out of the country, they’ll be helpless to chase after her. It’ll all work out splendidly, my friend, don’t worry.”
“Well, it sounds interesting,” Jaradat said, sucking on a fruit cube, eyeing his friend with amusement. “If we can foment rebellion without getting caught—” He raised both hands with a shrug. “What happens will happen.”
Like his own, Esmat’s family estate had been sequestered by Nasser and never restored although Anwar Sadat’s government had to a degree compensated them for their loss. But neither Anwar Sadat nor the current president could restore their position in the Egyptian social order. Only a massive social upheaval could manage that.
“Why the smile?”
“The Americans,” Jaradat said. “Their naivety. I wonder whether they actually believe they can turn this quagmire into a thriving colony just by forcing us to hold elections. But so long as they keep sending us money, who cares?”
“They can’t be that naïve. It’s probably for home consumption.”
“Why do you suppose General Saraaj is willing to risk his reputation waiting at that military base for this woman? By the way, where is it?”
“In the valley south of Landl,” Esmat said. “It’s been virtually abandoned as a training facility. No one is regularly stationed there. It’s an ideal spot for someone with Saraaj’s authority to sneak a woman into the country undetected.”
“Civilians can’t use it?”
“Right.”
“And Helene Bryce. Are we sure we can find her?”
“Phillip Nelson will meet Yassin at the airfield and take him to her. It’s all arranged and paid for. He wouldn’t dare betray us.”
“But he would betray Helene Bryce?”
“He’d have no reason to. He’s working with a very unstable man, remember. She fronts for the prince and handles his charities, but he has other women who can do that. He feels snug in that jungle retreat. I see no reason to worry. He is the personification of indolence.”
“And how long have you held that expression in your cheek?”
Esmat laughed, wiped something off his mouth, “We know where that aircraft will be at all times. She will board the plane in Porto Alegre, southern Brazil. At his stop in Casablanca the record will show his single passenger did not leave the aircraft. We can’t avoid having that mentioned. But better that than have them see her. Then he will come straight here from Morocco.”
“Straight to Cairo, you mean. Not to that desert airstrip.”
“If the general is out of the way, yes, here to Cairo. That will save us a lot of bureaucratic nonsense. Bringing her to Cairo makes far more sense. “
“So we eliminate Saraaj. What about Yassin? What are your plans for him?”
“A bullet to the brain down by the banks of the Nile.”
Jaradat nodded. “Quietly at night, of course. And we’ll have a taxi available at the airport to whisk Helene off?”
“While Bashir is in the office handling the paper work. He won’t have any idea what has happened to her and probably won’t care. His only concern is the money we have promised him.”
“And what of that?”
“He won’t need it,” Esmat said.
Jaradat laughed. “You’re very eager for action, aren’
t you.”
“Will there ever be a better time? The Americans are exhausting themselves in Iraq and Afghanistan. They won’t be inclined to send troops here. And the British have become skittish,” laughing at the witticism. “This is our time, Mustapha. Our time. We can’t waste it!”
“I suppose you’re right,” he said, although his demeanor suggested something less than enthusiasm.
“You don’t object to my meeting with Bashir?”
Jaradat shook his head. “No, but be careful.”
“I’ll have a man there to follow him when he leaves the restaurant. From now until D-Day we’ll know exactly where he is.”
“Well, let’s get this going,” the colonel said. “Let’s hope Faisal Ibrahim knows what’s best for him.”
“His defiance doesn’t trouble you?”
“That’s nothing but pride. He’s dying, Esmat. He doesn’t want problems.”
Chapter Four
At that moment across town, Bashir Yassin was sitting with his friend, the woman who had found a home for him when he was evicted from the government housing complex. They were at a table in a sidewalk café in Ismailiyyah near Groppi’s Corner House, a meeting place selected by Aleyya because of the French atmosphere in this busy downtown section of Cairo. She loved it here where she could see apartment houses with French balconies, French windows, shops with French names. She could buy French newspapers here if she liked. Bashir had never understood her fascination with the French. She disclaimed any desire to go to France; she would spend her entire life in Cairo, she often said; but the dream was hiding in her timidity, and one day he would fly her to Paris. He would do that in payment for her many kindnesses to him. He could never repay her for persuading her mother to take him in as a boarder.
“They have an excellent patisserie here,” he said. “How about some French pastry?”
“Coffee’s fine,” she said. “I’m fat enough.”
He laughed. She was far from being fat.
She started laughing. “You are a naughty boy,” waving her forefinger like a windshield wiper in front of his eyes.
