by Jim Ingraham
“There’s something else I want to talk about,” Isaac said, deliberately, it seemed to Nick, changing the subject. “I brought all of this speculation about Bashir Yassin to a friend in Quantico.”
“Marine or FBI?”
“A technical consultant. When I mentioned that Bashir’s training in avionics was focused on air-conditioning systems in the new Lear Jet, he came up with a name you’re probably familiar with.”
“What name?”
“Payne Stewart.”
“The golf pro?”
“The one who died in a Lear Jet due to a malfunction of the air-conditioning system. Everyone in the plane died of asphyxiation and the plane just kept going and going and going until it ran out of fuel and crashed. Remember that?”
“And you think…?”
“Bashir Yassin wasn’t tortured in Mokatam just to get him to fly across the Atlantic.”
“I’ve thought about that,” Nick said.
“And, come to think of it, your friend Aziz al-Khalid often flies with the president. So you may be right. Another reason for getting our hands on Bashir. And that man you chased down, the one who escaped to Khartoum…? It wasn’t simply that he was trying to reach Bashir Yassin that we wanted him. It’s that he was instructed to do it by our friend Uthman al Ajami who we believe was acting on behalf of General Saraaj.”
“Saraaj was involved in this?”
“Involved in what?”
“Whatever the hell is going on! Why are you being so fucking cagey? Why not tell me?”
“I don’t know what’s going on. Maybe it’s nothing. That’s why I want to question Bashir Yassin. He’s in the middle of whatever it might be. He could be the key to everything. And we can dig it out of him.”
“Torture him the way Ibrahim did?”
Isaac gave that a dismissive shrug. “We don’t torture.”
“Yeah, I heard Cheney say that. It’s un-American.”
Isaac laughed.
Nick told himself to settle down. This guy was a pain in the ass but maybe he’s trying to be straight with me. “The muccabarat has to be wondering why Saraaj was killed.”
“Complicated, isn’t it,” Isaac said.
“And they think I’m involved in something subversive because I let Shkaki get away?”
“Probably. I don’t know who ‘they’ are. Maybe it’s just Qantara. I’m not sure he isn’t reporting to someone other than Aziz.”
“Like who?”
“He’s a kind of closet fanatic. We know he attends meetings of various subversive groups. He probably calls it investigative snooping. But it could be something else.”
“I wonder how much of this Aziz is aware of.”
“I’d love to know. So ask him.”
*
Chapter Nineteen
Hours later in a hotel in Cairo Esmat Bindari stared into the reflection of his eyes in the bathroom mirror as he hitched up his pants, warning himself that the woman in the room out there was not to be underestimated. She didn’t look like a prince’s courtesan. She had neither the face nor the stature he imagined such a woman would possess. But who was he to judge? He didn’t like women.
“The Americans call you ‘Rio Rita’?” he asked, coming into the room.
“So I’ve been told,” idly fingering skin inside the open collar of her wine-colored blouse, dropping her hand to the varnished wooden arm of her chair, crossing a leg at the knee, allowing a flat-heeled shoe to dangle off her big toe.
“Your Arabic is almost flawless,” he said.
“The prince insisted.” She kicked the shoe off, watched it clatter against a chair leg.
“And he’s now on his ranch?”
“Smelling the horses,” scratching her knee.
“Why would he want to kill you?”
“He wouldn’t. He doesn’t. That’s just something Nelson cooked up. He was afraid the pilot might baulk if he thought Americans were after me. I don’t know what he told the pilot, who, by the way, is very handsome, but stupid. He hardly said a word to me, couldn’t look me in the eye, and when he did it was like a mouse swapping looks with a cat.”
“And Nelson is not your husband?”
“Hardly. He’s one of the prince’s flunkies.”
“He said you were his wife.”
She reached down and kneaded her foot. “I can’t imagine why. I’m not anyone’s wife and never was.”
“Did somebody really take a shot at you?”
“I made that up to put a spur into Nelson.”
“To impress him?”
“Something like that. Look, why don’t you cut this bullshit and tell me why I’m here? It’s been three days.”
She raised a closed hand to her mouth and coughed up something from deep in her chest, reached for a tissue and spat into it. Unlike every woman he had ever known, she didn’t seem to care what people thought of her. Crudeness of this sort, he believed, was not unexpected in people of a nation of lower-class immigrants. And she was American. Her face held that arrogance typical of the breed.
“The Americans are here, you know,” he said. “Like the muccabarrat, they’re looking for your pilot. They assume he knows where you are. They probably think he’s involved.”
“And what is it they think he’s involved in?”
Her manner changed. A coldness invaded her expression. She wanted answers.
“You don’t trust me,” he said.
“I don’t know you, Mr. Bindari. I know only that you claim to have been an associate of General Saraaj. For all I know, it might have been you who had him killed.”
“But he died in a highway accident.”
“So they say.”
“Why would I have wanted him killed?”
“I don’t know, but in all the months of correspondence, he never once mentioned you. Why is that? I didn’t hear your name until Nelson showed up.”
“Perhaps the prince?”
“No. The prince never heard of you.”
“You’ve been in touch with him?”
She gave that a cold face. “The timing, Mr. Bindari. Doesn’t it seem odd that the general should die just as I am about to come here under his protection? I assume, given your position, it was you who arranged the switch to the Cairo airport.”
“Which, of course, proves that I knew about the general’s plans. We worked on this for months.”
“There are many ways to get information, Mr. Bindari, especially for someone in your position. But that doesn’t interest me. My concern is how quickly you changed the destination of the flight. Nelson thought the changes may have been made before the general died.”
“Which would suggest that he made the changes and I had nothing to do with it.”
“Or that you made the changes in anticipation of his death.”
“Why would I do that?”
“You tell me.”
She found an irritant on her lower lip and scraped at it with a polished fingernail. Her teeth were too large, her face too long, her hair, looped behind her ears, too obviously dyed. She may have been more attractive when young, but it was hard to imagine her ever having been a prince’s courtesan. Prince Fahd raised horses: maybe he preferred women who looked like them.
“Would you get me a cigarette?” she asked. “They’re on the counter in the kitchen.”
The request enraged him. I don’t fetch things for people, he wanted to say. But he got up and went into the kitchen, found a package of Marlboros and brought it to her. She extracted one cigarette, pinched off the filter and put the good end between her lips. She waited for a light.
“You don’t like filters?” he said, holding a flame to the raw end of her cigarette.
“I don’t like anything filtered.”
He watched her suck smoke into her mouth, pull it deep into her lungs and let it stream from her nostrils, her eyes all the while watching him with cold dispassion.
She leaned back. “Why do you suppose the general never m
entioned you?”
“No need to know, I suppose. How much of his plans did he share with the prince?”
“He dealt with me.”
“And shared all he knew with you? Doesn’t sound like him.”
“He told me many things but never mentioned you. But let’s examine something else. He must have had people in the desert to meet me. Was the landing changed to Cairo to avoid those people?”
“I changed your destination for my own convenience and your protection. Without General Saraaj, I couldn’t be sure what might happen at that desert airstrip. I was concerned only for your safety.”
“If you were working closely with the general, the people out there must have known you.”
“In an ideal world what you’re implying might be true,” Esmat said, “but here…. Even the general didn’t trust everyone. You could have ended in the arms of some very desperate people.
She smiled. “And maybe I have.”
“I want only what the general wanted.”
“And what is that?” she said. She waited for a response. None came, only puzzled silence. “My life has been threatened, Mr. Bindari. I arranged to come here under the protection of General Saraaj. Now he is gone. You say an American Marine is here looking for the pilot you sent to rescue me. Is he actually looking for the pilot? Or is he looking for me? Does he know I’m here?”
“I don’t think he has any idea that you’re in this country.”
“But he’s with the CIA, you said. And the pilot knows I’m here.”
“I don’t think you have anything to fear from the pilot. Trust me.”
“I’m trying to, Mr. Bindari. Believe me, I’m trying to.” She stood and walked to the window. He watched cigarette smoke expand over the glass in front of her. Clearly she was weary of the conversation and wanted him to leave.
*
Later, when Bindari was gone, Helene held the phone to her ear. “Phillip, is that you?”
“Who else?”
“Just say ‘yes,’ damn it!”
“It is I and I have been drinking, forgive me. This is an odd hour, you know. What time is it there?”
“Who gives a shit! Listen to me. I want out. This Bindari asshole is holding me prisoner. He’s no friend of the general. All he wants is money. I want out of here. That guy in Khartoum. How do I reach him?”
“Who’s that?”
“The one they chased out of Egypt. Got a funny name.”
“Shkaki?”
“Yes. Something like that. How do I reach him?”
“I don’t know. We went through a guy named Uthman al-Ajami. It’s how Bindari found us. I don’t know how safe this Uthman is. In fact, I wouldn’t trust him not to go straight to Bindari. Let me handle this. If Shkaki’s available….”
“You said General Saraaj trusted this Shkaki.”
“True. Aren’t there other friends of Saraaj up there?”
“He doesn’t have any friends, and you know what that means.”
“I’m sorry, Helene. I thought everything was on the up and up. Think the family might help you?”
“Sure, and put me on my knees and chop my head off. I’m a royal embarrassment.”
“Okay. I’ll contact Uthman. He owes me one. I’ll let you know. Just sit tight.”
*
Aziz al Khalid lowered the phone and watched his secretary leave the office, closing the door quietly behind her. Nick inhaled the lingering fragrance of her cologne.
“Arguably,” Aziz said, resuming what they had been talking about. “But you have no evidence of this.”
“But he was tortured!”
“I’m aware of that. And I know the particulars of his training. What you suspect may have merit. I’ll mention it to Yousef.”
“The woman Bashir brought in from South America,” Nick said. “Does Yousef know who she is, where she is?”
Aziz paused. “He hasn’t mentioned a woman, but…. I suppose it’ll appear in his report. What do you know about her? You saw her?”
“No. Habib was told about her. Neither of us has seen her. We know she was not allowed to get off the plane in Casablanca and that arrangements apparently had been made here in Cairo to take her directly to the cab stand and drive her away.”
“Arrangements?”
“The driver turned people away until she showed up.”
“And Isaac Roach told you this?”
“His people are looking for the driver.”
Aziz appeared to be troubled by what Nick was saying. Whether he suspected Yousef of withholding information, Nick couldn’t tell. Probably not.
“I’m sure Yousef is aware of this,” Aziz said.
“He doesn’t trust me,” Nick said.
“Yousef? Oh, he doesn’t trust anybody, not even me, I suspect,” and he laughed.
“He wants Habib to spy on me.”
“I don’t think it’s you he doesn’t trust. It’s the CIA, and you work for them.”
“So why haven’t I been deported?”
“It’s on the president’s desk. That’s all I can say. It’s all I know. Officially you’re what you have been, a cultural attaché to the American embassy, free to come and go as you please. A move against you, if it should get in the news, would be a move against the United States of America. Only the president could order that.”
After a while, their talk drifted from the problems of Egypt to reports from Amina now at Harvard. She was having a great time, apparently. She loved the freedom American women enjoyed. It astonished her that male and female students were permitted to share the same living quarters.
Downstairs, Nick retrieved his cell phone and his pistol at the security desk. He drove to his hotel, wondering what he had just learned.
*
With legs drawn up, chin on his knees, Bashir sat with his back to the wall watching the two men who had just entered the room.
“You must forgive me,” said the man who had brought him across the tarmac. “I had an emergency call and completely forgot,” reaching down, helping Bashir to his feet.
He thinks I’m a stupid fool, Bashir told himself, letting go the man’s hand, wiping his palm on his pants leg as though to rid himself of a contaminant.
“The police have been swarming all over this building,” the man said, leading Bashir to the door where a second man in jeans and sweatshirt was waiting. “That woman you brought here. She’s some kind of fugitive, I guess. They were looking all over for her … and for you. They’d’ve put you through hell if they’d known you were here.”
“So you kept me in hiding?”
The man didn’t answer, aware probably that he had contradicted himself—either they forgot him, which Bashir doubted, or they deliberately kept him hidden.
“They’re gone,” the man said, stepping hesitantly into the narrow hallway. “We’ve got a place, a villa where you’ll be comfortable.”
“Why can’t you just leave me alone?” Bashir said. “I don’t know you. I don’t trust you. Just leave me alone,” conscious of a surging will to defy these people, to defend himself, sick of cringing before people he didn’t respect. All his life he had been afraid to assert himself. No more!
When Bashir tried to pull away, the man caught his arm. “We don’t want the police to find you. We’re not your enemy.”
“Then let me go!”
The man gave his friend a look. The friend grasped Bashir’s other arm. “Don’t give us trouble. We’re here to help you.”
“Then let me go!” Bashir said, ripping his arm free.
No longer pretending to be friendly, they hustled him to the stairs, caught him when he stumbled, lifted him by the arms and carried him to the foyer.
“Your name is Anwar!” Bashir yelled. “I remember. You came with the police that time! I remember!” And he remembered that Anwar was related to someone in the main office. He didn’t know who. It hadn’t seemed important.
He recalled the face of Esmat Bindari in the door
way. He felt frightened. Nothing made sense. Wasn’t Bindari his friend?
What’s going on! Why has everyone gone crazy?
Anwar opened the outside door. The cart was ten feet away. Terminal workers were less than a hundred feet down the building, a little cluster of them arguing, arms flying, voices trumpeting. He broke free of Anwar’s grasp and ran to the men.
“These people are trying to hurt me!” he shouted.
The men, four or five of them in work clothes, didn’t know what he meant. Anwar wasn’t coming after him. He and his friend were driving off in the cart.
“You all right?” one of the men said.
Bashir nodded, still out of breath.
“Who are they?”
“I don’t know,” Bashir said. “They found me in the building.”
“Ah … unauthorized. Yes, they’re being very careful these days. You work here, don’t you? Think I’ve seen you.”
“Is there a way out? I don’t want to go up front. I don’t want them to find me.” He trusted these people. They were workers like him.
“That door you came out. It goes to the garage. You can find the street from there.”
None of the mechanics in the garage paid attention as he walked past the grease pits, past the cars outside. Within a few minutes he was on a sidewalk waving at a group of young men piling into a convertible.
“I need a ride!” he yelled.
“Come on!”
*
Nick was in his bedroom cleaning his pistol when the phone rang. He set the pistol on the newspaper with the oil can and cleaning rag, reached to the table and raised the phone.
“Sorry to disturb you, Colonel. A man here says you know him, but he won’t give his name.”
“What’s he want?”
“Said he was here before. I don’t remember him.”
“What’s he want?”
“To come up.”
“And he won’t give his name? To hell with him,” and he hung up.
He had finished cleaning his gun and was in the bathroom washing his hands when he heard voices in the hall, then someone pounding on his door.
