Arab

by Jim Ingraham

  “I can’t let you stay in the apartment. The neighbors.”

  “Can you bring me to the bus station? I’ll be fine. The American gave me money.”

  “You trust him?”

  “I have to,” Bashir said. He couldn’t see her face but knew she rolled her eyes. “Dear Aleyya. You are the sister I always wanted.”

  ““Here, take this,” she said, handing him her Vodafone. “I can use the one at the store. Tell mama you’re coming. She’s worried sick.”

  When Aleyya’s car disappeared, he went inside the station and sprawled out on a wooden bench and told himself he would call Umm Sayid in the morning. And he would call his mechanic friend Takfeer. If the police were looking for him, the ticket clerk over there could have been given a photograph of him and told to report immediately if he attempted to ride out of the city. They might even allow him to reach Aunt Aida’s before arresting him.

  No! He would ask Takfeer for the use of his truck.

  *

  The following afternoon Nick was sitting with Isaac Roach on a bench south of the city, Isaac toying with keys to the car that was parked outside the playground behind them, an odor of cologne drifting off his closely shaved face. Nick felt enclosed by the chorus of children’s voices and the lonely cries of gulls cruising the river. As Isaac talked of clashes he had had with Egyptian security forces, Nick watched tourists on excursion boats tossing food to the birds, enjoying their leisure, unmindful of the turmoil Isaac was occupied with.

  “But it’s the reality we have to confront. Tell me, what made you volunteer for this madness?”

  “Years ago? When I was a kid?” Nick smiled. “I was looking for adventure. I had watched a film about Marines assaulting the beach on Peleliu. World War Two stuff.”

  “And when did you become disenchanted?”

  Nick smiled. “You’re fishing for what?”

  “The causes for your lack of enthusiasm. I think you know where Bashir Yassin is.”

  “I don’t. I thought I did, but I don’t. And unless you can obtain the release of Habib Rahal, I may never know.”

  “That I can’t do. That door is closed to me. Maybe your friend Aziz can manage it.”

  “You’re sure it was Yousef Qantara who took him?” Nick asked.

  “That’s what I’ve been told. After the ambulance left, the police were questioning Habib. Qantara pushed a cop aside and stuffed Habib into his car. There are several likely places where they may be holding him—”black sites,” they call them, where captives are held for interrogation. I expect to find out but it’ll take time. What’s never been explained to me is how this man Shkaki got into the country. Was he flown in?”

  “I don’t know. I had no idea he was back in Egypt. He must’ve had help.”

  “Why would he be at your hotel? I don’t buy co-incidence.”

  “I didn’t send for him, if that’s what you’re getting at.”

  Isaac laughed. “Never occurred to me. What I mean is, Was he there to kill you?”

  “I don’t know. But who would send for a known fugitive to come all the way from the Sudan…?”

  “We have no proof he escaped to the Sudan,” Isaac said, “only a woman’s word. Maybe he’s been here all the time.”

  “I suppose that’s possible.”

  “I’m just wondering why anyone would want you dead. Besides looking for Bashir, are you cooking up something else out there?”

  “I’m looking for a way to get the hell out of here.”

  “But you’re free to leave. If the loss of Habib—and don’t kid yourself: they could keep him out of circulation for a long time. So if you can’t locate Bashir Yassin without his help, what’s keeping you here?”

  Chapter Twenty-two

  They were in the study overlooking the garden where a giant fig tree towered above a gate in the black iron fence that surrounded that side of the property.

  Jaradat asked, “And this is a recording of the original broadcast?”

  “Yes,” Esmat said. He was bent over the TV cabinet, his hand on the black wooden surface, a hand, Jaradat noted, that left a sweaty imprint when he removed it, making Jaradat wonder why, in this air-conditioned room, Esmat’s hand was sweating. He watched Esmat snapping buttons on the remote and wondered whether he really liked this man. Everyone seemed to think so. Newspaper articles paired them together like brothers. Jaradat shrugged and watched the television screen light up on Colonel Palermo on a gurney being placed into an ambulance.

  “Stop it there,” Jaradat said. “Notice what we have.” He pointed at the screen. “That’s Yousef Qantara himself standing two people to the left of the American’s assistant. What’s his name?”

  “The assistant? Habib Rahal.”

  “Yes. Advance it now. There. Stop it. What do you see?”

  “I don’t….”

  “The moment the ambulance drove off, Yousef Qantara pushed that woman aside and hustled Rahal into his waiting van. He paid no attention to him while the American was watching. Then he manhandled Rahal…. That has to mean something, Esmat.”

  “Why was the muccabarat there?”

  “Excellent question. And not once did I see Qantara consult with the city police. They wouldn’t know who the victim was. It couldn’t have been their report that alerted Qantara. He had somebody watching that man. He knew he was there before this happened. He expected it to happen, I’m sure of it.”

  “You think, if the reporter is right, if it was Rahal who killed Shkaki….”

  “Yes. Very clearly Qantara did not want the American to know that Rahal had killed him under orders from the muccabarat. Yousef Qantara is a sneak, exactly the type the secret police cherish.”

  “And,” Esmat said. “he treated Rahal roughly because he knew he was being televised. He didn’t want people knowing that Rahal was his undercover deputy.”

  “So it would appear,” Jaradat said. “And that of course means that Aziz al-Khalid doesn’t trust these Americans any more than we do. Otherwise Yousef Qantara wouldn’t have the temerity to place a watch on a CIA operative who was supposedly a friend of Aziz.”

  “We can’t overlook that Shkaki….” Jaradat paused, studied Esmat’s face. “It was you, wasn’t it, who sent for him?”

  “Through Uthman al-Ajami. I’ve never contacted him personally. He doesn’t know who I am.”

  “So how did the muccabarat know he was here?”

  “You think Uthman is working both sides of the street?”

  “Can we afford not to think so?”

  “He works for the People’s Assembly,” Esmat said. “I’m sure he enjoys doing them favors.”

  “Let’s give it some thought. Clearly he knows more than we want him to know. And if he’s working with the muccabarat he’s more than dangerous.”

  “He could be easily disposed of. He lives alone in an unguarded villa.”

  “What would we lose?”

  “Possibly someone no longer useful to us,” Esmat said.

  “Worth considering.”

  “Damn!” Esmat said. “We had such perfect plans.”

  “Maybe Allah is disappointed in us.” Jaradat laughed, dusted something off his knee. “This won’t, of course, affect our relationship with Helene Bryce. Whatever happens, we need her money. Let’s see how this plays out. In the meantime, we have Bashir Yassin to deal with. He must know what happened to Shkaki. I can’t imagine he’s still in that hotel.”

  “We’ll find him. He has a friend. She’s like a sister, I’m told, works in a shop near Maydan at-Tahrir. Maybe she can be persuaded….”

  *

  Helene used the stump of her cigarette to light a second cigarette and crushed the stump in the ceramic ashtray. Her hand was shaking. She was frightened, exhausted after a fitful night of terror. They know I’m here! They know Shkaki was in Cairo to help me!

  “My God! What’s going on?” She realized that Shkaki had been killed only two days after Nelson had promised to contac
t him. “He couldn’t have been out of the country. He was here! He was looking for me!

  “Oh, sweet Jesus, now what do I do! Esmat Bindari will be here any minute. I have no one to help me! What do I do?”

  She hauled smoke deeply into her lungs, nervously tapping ash into the ceramic tray with a long forefinger.

  Think!

  The American was fighting with Shkaki and an Egyptian policeman saved him. Why was the policeman there? With the American?

  Do they know that Shkaki was looking for me? How did the Americans learn of it?

  Obviously the Egyptian police are working with the Americans, and they’re looking for me!

  How would they find out?

  The airport! The pilot! Why didn’t they listen to General Saraaj? Why didn’t we land in the desert? Is this Esmat Bindari really allied with Saraaj’s people? Did he have Saraaj killed?

  Maybe it’s that Uthman character Nelson said was the liaison. He told the Americans! Oh, my God, I’m in trouble!” She tightened her fist, paced the floor in a fitful rage.

  She was going toward the bathroom when someone knocked on her door.

  She froze. That little bastard! He’s here!

  She ducked into the bathroom and locked the door.

  *

  “Five people walked past me in the hall while I waited,” Esmat complained, wrinkling his nose against the stench of cigarette smoke.

  Tough shit! Helene plopped into a chair, sitting on a drawn-up leg. “So let’s get right at it.”

  “Of course, of course,” Esmat said, pleased that she seemed ready to co-operate. “That’s why I’m here.”

  “So, what is the name of your group?” she asked.

  “Group?”

  “The people you represent.”

  “Oh, I don’t believe General Saraaj gave us a name.”

  “I thought you guys always tagged yourselves: ‘Soldiers of Allah,’ or ‘Heroes of Islam,’ titles like that.”

  “That’s only for publicity. The last thing the general wanted was publicity. We have a massive following, I assure you.”

  “But no name,” convinced now that he was a fraud. “Without one that’s on our list, I couldn’t possibly persuade my source—” That was a lie, of course. The prince’s gifts always went to a fake charity from which they were disbursed under her direction.

  She changed position, putting both feet on the floor. “I’m sorry, Mr. Bindari. I don’t think we have anything more to talk about.”

  His face darkened, a man unused to being thwarted, she believed. Well, tough shit. This was a shakedown, plain and simple, and he was sitting there aware that she was onto him. She didn’t doubt for a minute that he, or people he represents, were responsible for General Saraaj’s ‘accident.’ They killed him, and if they get anything out of me, they’ll kill me. Hoodlums, no different from the kidnappers off the coast of Somalia.

  Almost a minute went by in silence while she searched his face for evidence of evil.

  “And what do you propose to do?” he said.

  “Oh, I’ll think of something,” she said, airily, getting up, faking a lightness of heart she didn’t feel, walking toward the door.

  “You haven’t been happy staying here in this hotel, have you?” Esmat said.

  She stopped. “What?”

  “If you had friends in Cairo, other than me, you’d have gone to them or at least contacted them. And you haven’t.”

  “I have all the friends I need,” she said. “Believe me.”

  That he might be monitoring her calls brought a tremor to her knees she prayed he didn’t notice. But apparently he did.

  Watching her, pleased with himself, he said, “We know the royal family hates you. They think you’re responsible for corrupting the prince whom you represent. The Americans are looking for you. Eventually they’ll find you and fly you to America where you’ll face charges of treason.”

  She paused for a long moment, head down, then walked back to her chair, lowered herself into it, pressing her legs so tight against the front rail, her calves bulged. “And now, believing that nonsense, you are holding me for ransom. I’ve been kidnapped, is that it?”

  “Not at all,” as though frowning at an absurdity. “I can protect you. I can send you anywhere you want to go. The Americans don’t know you’re here. Otherwise they’d have arrested you. Right now, under my protection, you’re safe.”

  She despised this lying animal but he was right: she couldn’t stay in this hotel. She couldn’t escape on her own. Where would she go?

  With a slight tremble in her voice, she said, “Okay. I’ll try to help you. But you’ll have to show me good faith. You’ll have to get me somewhere the police can’t find me.”

  So long as he believes I’ll be here until this evening, I’m safe. But then what? I’d be an idiot to leave here with him.

  She watched him walk to the door.

  “Be ready tonight,” he said. “Have only what you can put into a small handbag. You’ll have to leave everything else here. Make sure you leave nothing that’ll identify you, especially papers that call you Mrs. Nelson. Bring toilet articles that might contain your DNA, like lip rouge and a hairbrush. We’ll leave together as though only for the evening. Wear your best dress.”

  “DNA…? What’s he talking about?” A shudder ran through her.

  *

  When the door was closed behind him, she waited in the chair and pushed negative thoughts from her mind, her lips contracted firmly against her teeth. She gave a great sigh and strode to the bedroom and unzipped the canvas bag that contained her personal items. For several long seconds she gazed at the jar of sodium pentobarbital Nelson had given her. Was it enough? Would it kill her? She stared at it as at the muzzle of a gun, heart pounding.

  She didn’t want to die.

  She hid the bottle under a package of tissues and closed the bag. She removed a small card from a side pocket and carried the card to the bedside desk. She punched numbers into the telephone. She heard two rings, then a voice saying,

  “The Embassy of the United States of America. How may I help you?”

  I’ve done nothing illegal, she told herself. I work for a man who donates to charities. They can’t make a case against me. They have no evidence.

  *

  Around seven-thirty that same evening Captain Huzayfi stood before his bathroom mirror admiring the necktie his wife had selected for him—conservative blue with golden threads weaved through it, exactly the tone he wanted—caution with a dash of gold.

  “Please hurry,” his wife said from the top of the stairs. “I hate walking in late.”

  She was picking lint off his sleeve on the sidewalk waiting for the cab when the Captain’s cellphone buzzed.

  “I don’t believe it,” his wife said, gritting her teeth.

  Out of habit the captain stepped away from her to take the call.

  “My apologies, sir—”

  “Never mind that. What is it?”

  “I have the taxi driver.”

  “Where are you?”

  “On Shari Aysha at-Taymuriyya.”

  “Then take him into the station there. Don’t tell him why, and don’t let anyone else talk to him.” He glanced at his wife who was watching. “Change that,” he said. “Are your lights flashing?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is he a flight risk?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Then hold him there. Don’t question him. I’ll be right over.”

  His wife didn’t scream, didn’t lash out at him. She contented herself with giving him a punishing look of disappointment.

  “It’s all right,” he told her. “It’s not far out of our way. It’ll take me only a minute.”

  He patted her knee when they were in the cab. She pushed his hand away.

  *

  The driver who had spirited Helene Bryce away from the airport, a thin man with slanted eyes and a beard, was standing with the uniformed policeman
outside the police car no more than a hundred yards from the Garden City station.

  “I believe your name is Ali,” the captain said.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Thought I recognized you. Good work, Ali.” The captain turned to the cab driver. “You’re not under arrest and you won’t be if you answer my questions. You know who I’m talking about?”

  “Yes. He told me,” pointing at Ali. “I was only doing what a man hired me to do. I didn’t know him. He found me at the cab stand….”

  “We’ll get all of that later.” He asked Ali, “You’ve seen his credentials? You have it all…?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Turning back to the driver, he said. “Where did you drop her off?”

  “The Meridien Hotel on Rawdah.”

  “Was she with anyone?”

  “No. She had a large bag and a smaller one.”

  “All right. Don’t leave the city. You’re not in any trouble, but we’ll want you for questioning.”

  He told Ali to let the man go.

  As he drove across town, he phoned Nick and told him where he might find Helene Bryce. “Whether she’s there, I don’t know. But it’s where the cab driver dropped her off.”

  *

  At the “black site” Yousef listened with disbelief as the woman told him what had happened. He dismissed her but could not expunge the message she had given him. Their prisoner had tried to escape, she had said, and the man named Hafiz had Tasered him. Never in her experience had using a stun gun killed anyone. It had become a standard method of persuasion, she explained, obviously nervous, fearing his wrath, he supposed.

  And within his stern exterior, he was bristling with fear and indignation.

  The air in this ancient room smelled of crumbling cement walls and centuries of dying insects and breeding mice.

  The moment he saw the body, lying supine on the floor with the shirt torn open to the waist, he knew the woman had been lying. Clearly visible, even beneath the chest hair, were six puncture wounds. A seventh and eighth wound were on the belly.

  “He tried to escape. I had no choice,” Hafiz said, pimples on his face seeming to glow with surging blood, his eyes fearful.