by Jim Ingraham
“Not much, really. He said we were to find him and deliver him to the Israelis where he was wanted for murdering three rabbis in Jerusalem.”
“He said three rabbis?”
“Yes. And now that he’s escaped…. You know about that.”
Aziz raised a hand. He apparently knew but wanted to talk about something else. “Would it surprise you to know that there is no outstanding warrant for a Bashir Yassin in Israel and no record linking a man of his description to the murder of any rabbis? Would that surprise you?”
“You’re saying…?”
“I want to think that this man you call Richard lied to you about Bashir.”
“That wouldn’t surprise me.”
“Have you lied to me, Nick?”
Nick paused and Aziz easily read the hesitation. “No, but I have withheld important information.”
He had to say that. It was the truth, and he had to give this man as much of the truth as he could. Bile rose to his throat and he tried to melt it with the Perrier.
“You know I’ve taken risks,” Aziz said.
“I know.”
“Did you know that Yassin was not wanted by the Israeli police?”
“It’s what I was told. I didn’t question it.”
“But you must’ve questioned why they would send a lieutenant colonel of the marines to Egypt just to do a minor favor for the Israelis.”
“No. Half of what they do doesn’t make sense. They’re a strange bunch. I didn’t question it maybe because I wanted to get away from the killing … if that’s ever possible. I guess I should have.”
“You were selected for this … whatever it is you’re here for … because of our friendship. So I’m forced to ask what is it they really want? Why you? Why me? What are they after?”
“They’re after Bashir Yassin. I don’t know why, and that’s the truth, Aziz. I’ve been told to capture him and notify them that I have him. They’re supposed to give me further instructions.”
“And then you’re supposed to turn him over to the Israelis?”
“That’s what they said.”
“This man you call Richard?”
“He’s my contact.”
“If the description of him you gave me is valid, he commonly goes under the name Isaac Roach. He’s a CIA field officer, as you said. He’s been roaming around this part of the world for years.”
He sipped from his bottle, wiped knuckles over his lips. “So the question now is what do we do? Yousef will learn of this. It came through Interpol and will get circulated, maybe even to the president.” He raised a hand in futility. “I may be ordered to expel you.” His hand took on a slight tremor as he lowered it.
Nick said, “From the very beginning of this I’ve felt like shit—”
Aziz shook his head. “That’s not important. What matters is what happens now. We both have loyalties, and the least of them is our loyalty to each other.”
“I understand,” Nick said. “If you kick me out of Egypt, it’ll be a gift. I’ve hated this assignment from the onset. I’m no good at lying or deceiving my friends.”
“We’ll have to stop seeing each other. Any order to deport you would have to come from the president. Maybe to save embarrassment, you might decide to leave on your own. Yousef knows you have immunity from arrest, so I don’t know what he will do. You probably have a few days, maybe even a week, before this caves in on you.”
“Habib?”
“He’s on his own, a civilian. If he wants to continue helping you, I suppose he has every right to. But Yousef may put pressure on him….”
“He already has.”
“I’m not surprised. And he probably tried to corrupt him into betraying you in some way.”
“I think Habib would quit before he’d do that.”
Aziz gave Nick a long thoughtful look. “I’m sorry it’s come to this, Nick. We’ve been friends a long time. Maybe when this is all over….”
Nick gave that a weak smile. They both knew “this” would never be over, at least not in their lifetime.
Nick thought about Amina and Sana. He might never see either of them again. It was sad. He hated what had happened to the world. Why the hell couldn’t people leave each other alone? Whatever happened to “live and let live”?
Aziz made a hand signal. The chauffeur opened the door and Nick got out. Aziz handed the chauffeur a cold bottle of Perrier. The chauffeur handed it to Nick who walked to the corner and gave it to Habib. From the front seat of his truck Nick called the number he had been given and asked for Richard. The man he now thought of as Isaac Roach came to the phone. They agreed to meet.
With Habib doubtless wondering what had gone on in the president’s car, they drove in silence down the long road to Cairo. Nick explained nothing. Habib would get a version of what had happened from Yousef. Continuing to use Habib was a betrayal and it sickened him. But he couldn’t hope to find Bashir in this massive, overcrowded city without Habib’s help.
Aziz had brought up the question of loyalty. He had said that loyalty to one’s friends was less important than loyalty to … to what?
These misguided children over here are surrendering their lives to a myth. What am I setting aside my integrity for?
*
Within the hour Nick was sitting across from his CIA contact in the coffee shop on the roof of the Fontana Hotel. Isaac Roach, still referring to himself as “Richard,” was smiling.
“We’ll deny everything, of course,” Isaac said, holding a flame to the tip of his cigarette, then sliding forward on the chair so that he could pocket the lighter. He usually affected manners of refinement but occasionally gave himself away with moves like that. Beneath the patina of respectability lay the personality of a thug.
“Until they pick me up?” Nick said.
“Oh, that won’t be for a while. A lot of channels to go through.” He dragged on his cigarette. “Yes, and, as to Bashir Yassin, we also know that he did not leave Egypt but was thrown off that shrimp boat in Marsa Mutruuh, spent two days in a hospital there and boarded a train for Cairo.”
“How’d you know that?”
“He used a debit card.”
“He came back here?”
“We don’t know. He’s cagey. He knows the police are after him. There are many stops along the way.”
“Does he know we’re after him?”
“He probably doesn’t distinguish us from the police.”
“Well, before we get into that,” Nick said, “why did you give me that bullshit about the three rabbis?”
“It’s what we were given. Considering who gave it to us, I suspect the lie, if it is a lie, and I’m not convinced of that … but if it is, it originated with Yassin. I suppose he thought it would endear him to the people who brought him across the border. And that, I’m informed, involved Uthman al-Ajami in some way. He has become a very busy man. You know of him?”
“The name,” Nick said. “I know that Shkaki was trying to contact him. He works for the government or something. But I don’t give a shit about him or any of the people he deals with. That’s your problem. All I want to know is why you want Bashir Yassin. I’m going to lose Habib, you know. Without him I don’t have a chance of finding Bashir. Habib knows this city. If I do get my hands on Yassin and lose Habib, where the hell am I supposed to tie the man down while I call you?”
“We’ll have to revise that. In fact, I suppose I’ll have to tell you…. You know, we’ve just never been sure how close you were to Aziz al-Khalid.”
“That’s a goddamn insult!”
“Yes, you have a right to think so. But in my business—”
Nick waved that off. “So why do you want him?”
“When I mentioned Uthman al-Ajami. I noticed you didn’t flinch.”
“As I said, all I know is he’s the guy Shkaki was trying to reach.”
“And nothing more?”
“He’s a lookout or something for the People’s Assembly.”
>
“And you know he’s linked somehow to the Sudanese insurgents who are coming into this country.”
“I know nothing about that and don’t give a shit. Those are your problems.”
Isaac smiled. “I think you’re more interested than you pretend to be.”
Nick coldly watched burning tobacco move through cigarette paper toward the man’s lips, like the fuse on a firecracker. He engaged Isaac’s eyes. He said nothing.
“You don’t know he flies airplanes for Uthman?”
“What about it?”
Toying with a coin he kept bouncing on the table, Isaac said, “You want to know why we are using you, as you say.”
“It would help.”
Isaac laughed. He held the coin between thumb and forefinger, studied it a moment, then, with an air of complacence, resumed the bouncing.
“You ever hear of a General Saraaj? He’s a staff officer, something to do with Army personnel, nothing, at least officially, to do with military ordnance.”
“Never heard of him.”
“Well, I suppose you wouldn’t. He’s become active in an area that, so far as we can determine, has nothing to do with his official duties. You know about that airstrip in Sinai that was … no, I suppose you wouldn’t. It was used for training new pilots and has been closed for at least two years for budgetary reasons. Now this General Saraaj has reactivated it. He has sent men out there to repair the landing area. We don’t know why. No other high-ranking members of the military have been out there. Only Saraaj.”
“And you suspect him of what?”
“Who knows?” Isaac said. He removed the ivory holder from his mouth, removed the stump of his cigarette and dropped it into the remnants of his coffee, blew air through the holder and tucked it into his shirt pocket.
“And what’s this have to do with Bashir?”
“He’s a civilian pilot who has just been given additional training to fly jets. It is inconceivable that he will be assigned to fly the president’s new plane. So why was he singled out for new training? Before you entered this picture we knew he had made flights to Brazil for Faisal Ibrahim, which would make him known to authorities over there as a legitimate visitor.”
“And what’s the connection?”
“Perhaps there is none. But things have been happening. Unusual things, like the punishment that’s been inflicted on him. I assume you know about that?”
“Punishment? No. What do you mean?”
“Well, we just got wind of this. It hasn’t been confirmed. But allegedly Bashir was taken to the hills of Mokattam and tortured.”
“Tortured?”
“Tied up with pigs and beaten.”
“Who would do that?”
“We think Faisal Ibrahim. And if that’s true, it means he works for Faisal. It’s an old trick. They use it to punish people. Maybe that’s all it means. But it connects him to a gang of thugs. You have to be careful, Colonel. You’re not dealing with innocents. These are dangerous people.”
“And you brought me all the way down here to pick up this jerk when you could’ve just hauled him in off the street.”
“You’re missing the subtleties, my boy.”
“I must be.”
“Who else could get the Egyptian authorities to look the other way while we search for Yassin? You are uniquely qualified.”
“And all of this is just information gathering, fattening the data base. How does Colonel Jaradat fit into this?”
The coin stopped bouncing. “Why do you ask?”
“It’s just that his name keeps coming up.”
“Yes, I heard about that. The woman at the cemetery.”
“You must have ears all over the place,” Nick said.
“It’s my job. Do you know anything about this woman? I believe she called herself Salima.”
“Not a thing.”
“Have any reason to know why she was found floating face down in the Nile?”
“Aw shit. Really?”
“It’s got the attention of the muccabarrat.”
Although Nick didn’t know the woman, except for that brief encounter in the City of the Dead, learning she had been murdered deeply saddened him. So many people were losing their lives for no good reason.
“And if I bring Yassin in, what happens when you’re through with him?”
“You needn’t concern yourself with that,” Isaac said.
“He’ll become just another casualty of war?”
Mild amusement touched Isaac’s eyes as he again slid his ass forward on the chair, this time to pocket the coin.
“Does Habib know you are out of favor?”
“I don’t think so, not yet.”
“Yousef Qantara probably won’t be informed right away. So you have time. And you know how to reach me.” He removed a white envelope from his inside jacket pocket, tossing it onto the table as he got to his feet. “In case you’re running short.”
For some reason Nick felt unclean reaching for the envelope. What the hell am I involved in?
Chapter Fourteen
Bashir Yassin squeezed his seven-year-old Chevrolet into the small space off the alley and carried the box of groceries down the flattened clay past running dogs and heaps of garbage and putrid odors rising from an open sewer, carefully avoiding anything that would soil his new slacks and polished shoes. Dust from the desert floated through the stagnant air held motionless by walls of four-story buildings rising straight up from the pavement. Loud music and radio voices shrieked from open windows as noisy children and barking dogs darted past him down the cluttered alley.
“Good morning, Bashir!” a woman called from a balcony. “Is that for me?”
“For Umm Sayid,” Bashir said.
“Aah! Why should Umm Sayid have all the luck? You should have married my Hoda. You would be bringing me the groceries,” and she laughed that toothless guffaw that used to sicken him.
He tilted his head and smiled at the woman whose ugly daughter he had spent weeks avoiding, stumbling occasionally over her in the darkened hallway of Umm Sayid’s building, stationed there, he suspected, by this ambitious, domineering woman.
As he raised his eyes to sheets and shirts and underwear dangling off the balconies and closed his brain to the piercing shrieks of children and yapping dogs, he wondered why Umm Sayid persisted in living in this cesspool.
“Just a few blocks from here, it’s better. Just up the street you could have a second-floor apartment with an air-conditioned room.”
“And who can afford that, fancy pants?” she said. “Even if I could, my friends would hate me. I’ve lived here all my life, Bashir. I am content here. My beloved Ahmad lived here,” and tears filled her eyes at thoughts of her first-born who had died in the very room Bashir now brought groceries to—neither a kitchen nor a living room, an everything room with baskets, he called it—clean but cluttered. A patina of gritty sand filmed the cushions on the sofa, the television in the corner, shelves above the sink. Everything except beds filled this room—the cold-water faucet, the single light bulb hanging off the ceiling, the woven baskets into which Umm Sayid was now storing the loaves of bread Bashir had brought her.
“I will stay here, God willing, until I die,” she had told him a thousand times.
He watched her close the basket and go to the sink. As she looked at him, squeezing water from a towel, her eyes narrowed. “What’s wrong? Why are you limping?”
“It’s nothing. I tripped and scraped my knee.” Not wanting to talk about his injuries, he said, “Have you seen Aleyya?”
“You’ve lost weight. Are you eating? What are you eating?”
He laughed. “It’s nothing. I’m fine. Does Aleyya still live here?”
“She’ll live here forever,” the woman said. “Why, you think she’s found a lover?” She threw her head back and laughed. “I don’t know what’s the matter with her. She needs a man to take care of her.”
“They don’t think that way anymore,�
� Bashir said. “They’re emancipated now.”
“Aah….” She waved that off with disgust. She had married at eighteen and had tried with all her heart to love the man her mother had selected for her. But he was a fool. First it was other women, then it was hashish and whiskey and spending all his free hours with his friends. Umm Sayid locked him outside one evening when he came home drunk. She never saw him again. There were rumors he had been seen piloting a felucca near Port Said. She didn’t care. She reported his disappearance to the police. They promised to keep a lookout for him, which she knew meant nothing. She took a job in a shoe repair shop on Ahmed Oran Street to support her family and worked there until the arthritis crippled her hands. Now she lived on subsidies from the government and the largess of Bashir, whom she had taken in as a boarder when Aleyya asked her to.
With his buttocks wedged into the edge of the sink, Bashir watched the woman pry the lid off a basket. She was gaining weight, her face had taken on a puffiness that worried him, but she claimed to be in good health. “The doctor said I’ll live to be a hundred,” she had told him.
“And when did you see him last? Was it about that swelling in your ankles?”
“It’s what he tells all the women—’stay off your feet,’ like we have servants to run errands for us. He has servants. That’s why he over-charges us.”
“Truly, when did you see him last?”
“I don’t know. The other day. It doesn’t matter.”
He laughed. “You should see him…and maybe lose some weight.”
“Don’t be impertinent,” she said, pushing him aside so that she could wash her hands. She was a big woman, like most of her friends. Too much starch in her diet, he suspected.
“Is there anything else you need?”
“You are going?”
“I have work. Tell Aleyya I was asking for her.” He kissed Umm Sayid’s cheek.
“You are a good boy,” she said. “Umm Amir’s husband says he heard you are chasing after the daughter of some government big shot. He said the police were asking questions about you. Why don’t you take Aleyya’s friend Sakeena? She’s always liked you, you know.”
“I’m not ready for anything like that.”
