Arab

by Jim Ingraham

  Faisal went back to the sofa and stretched out his legs, leaned back and closed his eyes.

  “We’ll be here only a short time, then we’ll go back north. You were comfortable there,” Diab said.

  “There are no doctors there, and until Bashir Yassin….”

  “Don’t worry about Yassin. We’ll find him. He’s tamed, believe me. He’ll do whatever Jaradat wants.”

  “If he’s tamed, why did he run off?”

  “He’s scared, Faisal. He doesn’t know what’s happening to him. He doesn’t know why he’s been punished.”

  “And we expect him to kill? Will he kill? That’s what I want.”

  “He did once.”

  “So he says. But can we believe that liar?”

  “Let’s find out from Uthman. If he was connected, as he claims, to that group who brought the boy in from Gaza, he must know something about it.”

  “And maybe that’s why Yassin made the story up … just to get across the border. What kind of fool is this Uthman?”

  “We’ll find out.”

  “He works for the government!”

  “He’s paid by the People’s Assembly. I’m sure he’s paid by others. He works for whoever hires him.”

  “How do we know he didn’t want this meeting so he could tell the police where I’m hiding?”

  “It doesn’t matter. We’ll leave the minute he’s gone. You worry too much, Faisal. He’s too vulnerable to betray us. One word from us about his business with the insurgents and he’s a dead man. He knows that.”

  “You’re too soft, Diab, too trusting. Someday it will backfire on you.”

  Later, when Faisal’s security guard knocked on the door, Diab opened it a crack. “He’s here,” the guard said.

  Diab pulled the door fully open, stepped back and watched a white-haired man emerge from the staircase and limp in, a man neither Diab nor Faisal had previously seen although they had dealt with him indirectly many times.

  Faisal glanced at him from the sofa. “You brought my money?”

  The man pinched his nostrils. “What is this room used for?”

  “It’s just a room,” Faisal said.

  Diab regarded the man with disdain. “You’re sure you weren’t followed?”

  “Your chauffeur took great pains to be certain that we weren’t. In fact, he was quite amusing, darting in and out of alleys, little side streets. He’s quite a fellow.”

  Faisal got up and stood in front of a noisy air-conditioner eyeing the white cotton suit, the shirt and necktie. He watched the man lower himself into a straight-backed chair, prop a black cane upright between his knees and fondle the silver knob with bony fingers. He seemed nervous, eager to get this meeting overwith, intimidated perhaps by Faisal’s reputation for cruelty.

  “Who do you work for?” Faisal said.

  “Oh, many, many people,” flicking that off with indifference.

  “Right now, on this, who are you working for?”

  “I never know. It’s not the way it’s done,” dismissing the question.

  The paper-thin condescension infuriated Faisal. Who the hell did this limping runt think he was? Some kind of respectable businessman? He arranges murders! He’s lower than a pimp!

  “Who hired you to come here?”

  A little smile touched the man’s eyes, “Oh, they never say. I’m contacted by telephone. I send a man to a meeting place for instructions. I don’t know anything but what I’m told.”

  “And just what have you been told. And who told you?”

  “I don’t believe you’re listening, sir. I have no idea who I’m representing. I was asked to find out whether a certain young man, a pilot I believe, is ready. And I don’t know what is meant by ‘ready.’ I assume you do.”

  “A pilot? They said a pilot?” He glanced questioningly at Diab.

  “They said only a name—Bashir Yassin. I just happen to know he’s a pilot.”

  “But they didn’t say pilot?” Diab asked.

  The man cast a nervous glance at Diab, then leaned forward on his cane, placed his right hand on his knee and pushed himself to his feet. “I’m not here, Mr. Ibrahim, to talk about my business. I’ve been commissioned to ask how compliant this Bashir Yassin has become. I’m told that my principal will want him delivered soon. And I’m to give you this Vodaphone number.” He handed Diab a folded slip of paper. Diab tucked it into his shirt pocket.

  “Can you tell me the condition of Bashir Yassin? I assume he’s been ill.”

  “Tell your ‘principal’ that Bashir is ready to do whatever he wants. But first I will be paid. Tell him that. Tell him I will take half my pay now before I deliver Bashir to him.”

  Uthman seemed to absorb every word, his expression tight with apprehension. He nodded vigorously, nervously. He was standing at the door, his hand on the knob, a contrived smile on his face. As though eager to escape, he opened the door. Women’s voices filled the staircase.

  “Close the door!” Faisal yelled.

  Startled by the command, Uthman hesitated. He staggered back when Diab reached across him and pushed the door closed.

  Badly frightened, the man said, “I don’t know anything. I’m just a facilitator.”

  Diab dropped a hand on Uthman’s shoulder, leaned down and whispered to his face. “Who pays you?”

  Uthman pulled back as though in pain.

  “You’re an expendable man, Mr. Ajami,” Faisal said. “Yes, we know your name. We know many things about you. A word from us and this little world of yours will collapse.”

  “Or the police might find your corpse rotting in this room,” Diab said.

  “My god! What kind of people are you? I can’t tell you anything! I don’t know anything! I never do! It’s not how it works!”

  “What are Jaradat’s plans for Bashir Yassin?”

  “Jaradat?”

  “You think I don’t know who sent you?”

  “You mean Colonel Jaradat?” He seemed truly confounded.

  Diab raised a foot and kicked the cringing man’s knee.

  Howling in pain, bent over, grasping his leg, Uthman yelled, “I’m just a facilitator!”

  “How do you get paid? Don’t you know who pays you?”

  “I receive a money order from an Austrian bank. No signatures.”

  “Does Jaradat want Bashir Yassin to kill anyone?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about? Please!”

  “You know Yassin. You know he’s a pilot. What else do you know about him?”

  “I know he’s wanted by the Israelies? I know he killed three rabbis in Jerusalem.”

  “How did you know that?”

  “Please! I’m trying to help you. I facilitated his coming into Egypt.”

  “And who told you to do that?”

  “I don’t know! I don’t question people who seek my services. I was told he needed asylum. He was a boy. It was years ago.”

  “Well, you’ll know who told you this,” Faisal said. “If you tell the police where I am, I’ll feed you to swine. You understand?” Faisal turned away in disgust. “Get him out of here.”

  Diab tightened his hold on the man’s shoulder. “Those women on the stairs will not remember us. But they will remember a white-haired man coming alone into this room. Lots of old men come alone into this room.”

  “Please!”

  Diab opened the door, flattened his hand on Uthman’s back and pushed him into the hall. He watched the limping man make his way slowly down the stairs past the women.

  An hour later, on the highway going north to Zagazig, Faisal said, “You have to promise me, Diab, on the soul of God, that you will see that Bashir Yassin kills Aziz al-Khalid. I don’t care what Jaradat wants. It’s the man who betrayed my son I want dead. You must promise me, Diab.”

  “Of course, I promise,” Diab said. “But nothing’s going to happen to you. You’ll see it. You have many years….”

  Faisal leaned back, adjusting the white k
affiyeh he had put on his head to disguise himself. “You have any idea where Yassin went? He has to be in hiding from the police. Why are they looking for him? Why did they go after that boy?”

  “I don’t know. I know only that his name was mentioned by Captain Ajami when they were at that house.”

  “The boy didn’t see him?”

  “The boy knows nothing about Bashir Yassin. He’s just a stupid—”

  “So where is he? How about that place he stayed when he got that airport job? The two women who took him in? Or was that a lie?”

  “He needs you, Faisal. When he finds out the police are looking for him, and not just the city police, the muccabarrat. They searched his apartment. He’s a fugitive. He’s in this country illegally. You’re the only refuge he has. He’ll come back. He has to come back.”

  “The infection? How bad is it?”

  “She said it’s almost healed. He has those pills, but they’ll run out. Don’t worry. He’s healthy enough to do whatever we want. He’s been tamed, Faisal. He’s an ambitious man. He knows he can’t betray you. He loves the good life too much to go off on his own. He has no contacts, no money. He has to please you to survive.”

  “What if he finds out it’s Jaradat behind this? He’ll want to please him.”

  “He has no future with Jaradat. He knows his future is with you. He has no contacts. There’s no one out there he can trust.”

  Faisal took a deep breath, his hand on his chest as he slid his buttocks forward, lowering himself on the seat. “I’m too old for this. I’m sick. I’m retired. Why can’t they leave me alone?”

  Chapter Eleven

  The sun was still a few degrees above the warehouses when Bashir asked the farmer to stop the cart. “Here,” he said, tapping the farmer’s ragged sleeve. “I’ll get off here.”

  They were outside a row of small houses on a dirt road in Abu Qir, a fishing village east of Alexandria on the Mediterranean coast. His friend, Foad Kishk, an engineer at the nearby naval shipyard, lived in a two-story house just down a narrow lane. Bashir had been here many times, lived with Foad briefly while attending college.

  “Your companionship has been a pleasure, friend,” the farmer said, wiping sweat off his face, grinning.

  “Thank you. You have been very kind.”

  “Take care of that foot.”

  “I will.”

  “Es Salaam Aleiku.”

  “And peace be with you,” Bashir responded.

  He felt baked. The earth was an oven.

  He looked around disheartened at trash and garbage littering the road. The air smelled of chemical odors from fertilizer plants up wind. Although home to several famous seafood restaurants, this was a filthy village. He remembered bringing a girl from the university to the beach here, hoping for a beautiful afternoon, only to find the storied white beach stinking of sewage that flowed openly over the sand.

  He hoped to find Foad at home. He dreaded spending time with Foad’s mother, a toothless old lady who mumbled and moped around the small cluttered apartment, suffering some kind of dementia. She would sit in the corner of the room mumbling incoherently, occasionally breaking into laughter. When Foad had tried to move her out of this squalid village, she had screamed and banged her head on the wall and refused to budge. Both Foad’s sisters had moved out. His father had died years ago. There was only Foad to look after her.

  Bashir found his friend in an empty lot, head and chest under the raised hood of a pickup truck.

  “What gives?” he said in English, a greeting from the old days.

  Foad raised a hand to the underside of the hood and backed out, not smiling, not laughing, his face gleaming with sweat. Foad was a robust man, usually playful. But not now. “Get in the house!” he said, taking Bashir’s arm, hurrying him across the street into the narrow doorway of his building.

  “What’s wrong?” Bashir said.

  “The police. They’re looking for you,” pushing Bashir ahead of him past a staircase into a room in back—a shop that smelled of oil and burnt rubber. A grimy window looked out onto a stained fence. Walls were crammed with tools and shelves of supplies, the floor crowded with pipes and pumps.

  Foad closed the door, his eyes wide with distress. “What have you done?”

  “Nothing!”

  “The police were here.”

  “The police?”

  “They think you’re in the area. What have you done?”

  “Nothing! I swear. I’ve done nothing! How would they know I am here?”

  “You’ll have to hide. You’ll have to get away. You can’t stay here.”

  “You sure it was the police?”

  “They were in uniform. They came in a cruiser. Of course I’m sure.”

  He had grown a beard and mustache. Although they hadn’t met in more than a year, they had kept in touch by phone. He looked older, the hair above his forehead thinner. But the chemistry was the same, the feelings of affection.

  “Can you get me something to eat? I’m starved,” Bashir said.

  Foad pointed at Bashir’s foot. “You’ve been hurt?”

  “It’s nothing.”

  “Here, sit, sit,” He pulled a chair from under the workbench. “I just baked a chicken. Beer all right?”

  “I would love it,” Bashir said. He held onto Foad’s arm. “What did they say?”

  “You know how they are. They explained nothing. They asked for you. That’s all. Have you been here? Stuff like that. Why are they looking for you?”

  He was a generous, unselfish man. The worry on his face was for Bashir, not for himself. They had met years ago at a United Nations camp for refugees where Foad was a volunteer counselor. They had been friends ever since. It was Foad who had helped him become a mechanic.

  “I swear, Foad. I’ll leave. I don’t want to give you trouble.”

  “I can hide you until tonight,” Foad said. “We’ll get you away.”

  He made Bashir promise not to leave while he went upstairs for food.

  “Do you have some heavy socks. I hate to ask.”

  “How did that happen?”

  “I’ll tell you when you come back.”

  And later, while eating chicken and drinking cold beer, he told Foad what he had gone through.

  “But I thought Faisal Ibrahim liked you.”

  “I’ve been kidding myself. I wanted to believe he had given up all that criminal stuff. He’s a dying man. I thought he wanted to make peace.”

  “You thought he had gone religious?” Foad laughed, skin wrinkling outside his eyes. “Faisal Ibrahim? We talking about the same guy?”

  Bashir shrugged. Foad watched him remove two socks and a soiled bandage from his foot, bathe his foot and wrap it in a clean towel. Foad secured the towel with duct tape.

  “You ought to have a doctor look at that.”

  “I’ll be all right,” Bashir said. He shook a pill from the vial of antibiotics, swallowed it with cold beer.

  Later over cigarettes and coffee, they talked about Faisal and Bashir’s now shattered plan to take over the arms trading.

  “I see him now as an embittered old man. He never respected me. I was never anything special to him. I know he wants me to kill someone. It’s how they do it. They try to break your spirit.” He gave the implausibility of that a sheepish giggle.

  “Assassin? You?”

  “What else?”

  “It can’t be that,” Foad said, laughing. “He probably just wants to punish you for that Istanbul fiasco.” He was perched on a stool at the workbench, dragging on a cigarette. “You’re the last man on earth anyone would pick to do a killing. You won’t even step on cockroaches,” amusement lingering in his eyes. “I can’t picture you in Istanbul trying to sneak one past some British agents. You’re a geda, a regular guy, not one of these crazies!”

  “I thought they were Germans,” Bashir said, joining in the laughter, feeling better now that he had eaten, now that he was with his friend.

&nb
sp; “But none of that explains what the police want,” Foad said. “Maybe just a follow-up on that other stuff—about the girl. Do they know you worked for Faisal Ibrahim? Do they know he’s in the country?”

  “That has to be it. Maybe they think I can lead them to him. But why come here?”

  “They came here before, remember? About the daughter of Aziz al-Khalid. Can’t Uthman al-Ajani protect you? He has big connections, you said.”

  “He’s too vulnerable. I’m nothing to him. He can get other pilots.”

  “You take too many chances, Bashir.”

  “Maybe they’ve found out that Faisal Ibrahim is in Cairo. Maybe they think I know where he is.”

  “You should avoid people like that, Bashir. The police could hold you in custody for months. They don’t have to prove anything anymore, ever since Sadat.”

  “So what can I do?”

  Foad suddenly got up. “Wait here a minute. I just thought of something.”

  He left the shop and was gone ten minutes. He came back carrying a wooden crutch. “This will help,” he said.

  It was old. The padding on the arm piece was worn.

  “Thanks. Where’d you get this?”

  “A guy down the street.”

  “He doesn’t need it?”

  “Not any more. He’s dead.” He lowered himself onto the stool at the bench, got a cigarette from a pack and put flame to it. “I’ll call this guy who owes me. I just remembered he’s going down the coast, I think to Algeria.”

  “I don’t want to go there.”

  “No, no. He’ll drop you off.”

  “I don’t have a passport.”

  “You won’t need it. You won’t leave the country.”

  He lifted his Vodafone from a drawer and went outside.

  When Foad stepped back into the shop, he said, “It’s done. He’ll pick you up tonight. He’s a shrimper. It’s a good-sized boat.”

  “And what will this cost you?”

  “Nothing. I told you, he owes me.”

  “Tonight?” with sinking heart. “I don’t know, Foad. How can I trust this man? Why not take me somewhere in your truck. I could find a hotel room.”

  “The truck’s not running. The engine froze up. You got money? I could give you some.”