Light of the Desert

by Lucette Walters

  He did not care that the prized Turkish rug he had received from a Jordanian diplomat was getting soaked.

  Breathing heavily, he moved behind his huge oak-carved desk and sank into his massive high-back leather chair. He leaned over, opened a drawer, and pulled out a thick folder.

  Out in the hall, Moustafa was the last man in the procession that followed Mr. Fendil to his office. He suddenly slipped on the slick wet floor and went flying, landing heavily on his behind. Quickly, Moustafa looked around, straightened himself up, and smoothed out his trousers. It would have been terribly embarrassing if any of his peers saw him. He knew they always thought of him as being clumsy and not as bright as they thought they were. Luckily, they had all gone inside Mr. Fendil’s office. He rushed to join his companions and entered Mr. Fendil’s office, as one of the partners was about to close the heavy mahogany double doors.

  Farid Fendil selected the twenty-four-karat Dunhill from his desk and flicked it a few times, to no avail. He reached in the deep pocket of his garb and produced another solid-gold lighter. He flicked the wet lighter several times in frustration. Standing to his right, the old Sheik Abdullah Kharoub offered him his cardboard matchbook. Mr. Fendil accepted it, tore out a couple of matches, and in one stroke, a tall flame ignited while everyone watched.

  Mr. Fendil set fire to some papers he pulled out of a folder. Moustafa knew they must be his daughter’s documents—birth certificate, perhaps pictures he had once treasured—all proof of her existence.

  Standing behind his partners, mesmerized by the flames, Moustafa watched with clenched teeth.

  The sinful girl was where she deserved to be—in hell … and he was free.

  CHAPTER 8

  THE RESCUE

  Nageeb lifted his sister’s body from the pool and rushed through the women’s wing, down to another corridor and through a hallway. Noora’s head swayed from side to side inside the black veil, and one arm dangled limply.

  Nageeb headed to the room that had once belonged to their grandmother, the beloved Sultana, who had died in her bed six months before.

  Kettayef appeared behind Nageeb. With a trembling hand, he turned the knob and pushed the door open for Nageeb and their sister, while his eyes darted in all directions to make sure no one saw them.

  “Lock the door!” Nageeb commanded as he laid Noora on the rug at the foot of their grandmother’s four-poster bed. Despite the chill in the room, he was sweating profusely.

  Kneeling beside his sister, he unwrapped the bloody black shawl from her face while his little brother stood behind him, sobbing.

  “Get my medicine bag. And dry clothes. Hurry! Let no one see you.”

  Kettayef was already out the door.

  Noora’s face was unrecognizable. Her nose had been smashed. Her beautiful eyes were now swollen shut. The badly bruised lids were turning a grisly purple color.

  How could he have allowed this to happen? He prayed to Allah for mercy. He held his sister’s limp hand to his chest, unwilling to believe his beloved Noora was gone. He thought he felt a pulse.

  Do something, a voice urged deep within his soul.

  He began to perform CPR.

  She did not respond. He tried again. Again and again, more aggressively, desperately trying to get her to breathe. It was hopeless. No! She had to live. Still she was not responding.

  Kettayef returned with an armful of clothes and his brother’s medicine bag. His chest heaving from running so fast, he dropped his load and locked the door.

  Hopelessly but persistently, Nageeb tried to resuscitate his sister. He thought he heard his brother speak. Again.

  “Sh-shokran, ya Allah…” the boy whispered.

  Nageeb turned briefly to his little brother. “Why are you thanking God?” he asked bitterly. Faintly at first, Noora groaned, and finally coughed and vomited a large puddle of water onto the floor.

  “Yes, yes, ya Allah! Indeed … Thank you, God. Thank you for hearing our prayers … thank you for saving our sister …” he sobbed.

  Sultana’s room had a private door with stairs that led down to the kitchen. The passageway had been built for her convenience, so she would not have to take the long way around the mansion. Abdo used to meet her downstairs and drive her, usually in the middle of the night, when she was needed to assist a woman during childbirth.

  Nageeb had almost forgotten about the staircase. He had watched the carpenters build the addition when he was a boy.

  Kettayef opened their grandmother’s armoire and removed a few folded sheets. Nageeb wrapped the sheets around Noora and gestured at an ornate chair across the room. Kettayef had never before noticed the doorknob above the embroidered chair. He quickly pushed it aside and turned the knob.

  “The light! Should be on the left!”

  Kettayef switched it on.

  Nageeb quickly carried her down the stairs. Kettayef followed, glancing around in disbelief. He had never seen this passageway before.

  Nageeb rushed through the kitchen, while Kettayef switched off the light and closed the door behind him. He’d always thought this door was for one of the broom closets. Two maids with their backs to them were engaged in a lively conversation. One was washing dishes while the other was on a stool, carefully stacking china platters in a high cupboard.

  Before the maids could see what was going on, Nageeb and Kettayef had run out through the kitchen service door and halfway across the large sun-drenched cobblestone courtyard.

  Under the shade of the huge mango tree, not far from their father’s garage, they found Abdo, who had just finished polishing Nageeb’s black Mercedes. In the bright sunlight, the car sparkled like a tinted mirror.

  Abdo looked up and saw Nageeb. At first glance, he smiled, but then his face fell.

  “Open the trunk!” Nageeb whispered breathlessly. There was no time for explanation.

  Abdo opened the back door.

  “The trunk, the trunk!” Nageeb begged.

  Abdo reached under the driver’s seat and popped the trunk open.

  Nageeb laid his sister inside. He lowered the lid but did not snap it shut. He moved close to Abdo’s ear while Kettayef dumped a load of dry clothes and his brother’s medicine bag on the passenger seat.

  “Pray for me,” Nageeb urged with a trembling voice.

  Still surprised, Abdo nodded.

  “Nageeb …” Kettayef was standing behind Abdo.

  Abdo turned and stared at Kettayef in disbelief.

  The reality of his little brother’s newfound voice finally sinking in, Nageeb grabbed Kettayef by the shoulders. “You can speak,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion.

  “S-s- … save her …” the boy stuttered shakily.

  “I promise,” Nageeb managed to say.

  With tears cascading down his cheeks, the trembling Kettayef nodded. “Allah ma’ak …”

  Abdo watched in a daze as Nageeb drove away from the mansion’s service entrance. The trunk lid flapped, and the car disappeared in a thick cloud of dust. He turned back toward the kitchen door and noticed the maids chattering nervously. Abdo guided them back inside.

  “Everything is fine,” he assured them.

  The maids nodded respectfully.

  “What was Nageeb carrying?” one maid asked.

  “I don’t know. Was he carrying something?” Abdo asked.

  “He came through so quickly,” another maid replied.

  “Nageeb is a doctor now,” Abdo said sternly. “He will have emergencies to run to … It is not our place to question. You understand, of course, right?” he said to all the maids.

  “Tab’aan,” they all agreed and nodded respectfully.

  On the opposite end of the mansion, one by one, the Men of Faith and Justice were kissing Mr. Fendil’s hand.

  Farid invited the sheik to remain in his office while the other five men were told to dispose of the body, clean the mess—erase all evidence.

  They knew everything that was going on in the Fendil househo
ld—at least they assumed they did. They knew that Mr. Fendil’s wife, Yasmina, was busy taking care of their youngest daughter, who had a severe case of the chicken pox. They knew the boy was in a special school—an educational institution for children with some kind of disability.

  The other daughter, Zaffeera, was with her mother, tending to the youngest child. Zaffeera’s behavior was reported as respectful, and she was seen always with her head covered and her eyes kept low. She was the exact opposite of her shameful sister. They had all seen the photos of Zaffeera in London, her face contorted with embarrassment, the night she tried to get her drunken sister inside their apartment building.

  When Farid Fendil retired to his private suite to change into dry clothes, the MOFHAJ men assumed his son, Nageeb-the-doctor, did the same.

  Sheik Abdullah Kharoub went out to the royal blue Lincoln Town Car that waited by the entrance of the Fendil mansion.

  The chauffeur and a stocky woman named Magda were stationed at the front door. She wore a dark brown suit with a long, straight skirt that reached the floor, and masculine brown leather shoes. Her short-cropped hair was covered by a scarf. Formerly a nurse and a prison guard, she was the only female associated with the MOFHAJ group.

  Sheik Abdullah Kharoub nodded to his two protégés as he walked out into the bright sunlight.

  Someone handed him his sunglasses while the chauffeur hurried to the MOFHAJ car and drove it right to the front steps. He then hurriedly opened the back door for the sheik. Magda stood behind the chauffeur, respectfully asking him to wait for the others, who were bringing the body.

  On the opposite side of the house, Kettayef flew up the private stairway, as Abdo followed. Bath towels were neatly folded in a linen closet in their late grandmother’s bathroom. Kettayef tossed a few towels to Abdo. Quickly, they wiped away the bloody smears and puddles along the pathway of Nageeb’s escape, through the corridors where adult men usually never ventured. Kettayef closed the sliding door, which led to the entrance of the women’s wing. That door was normally left open. When it was closed, it became part of the wall. It was not a secret door, only an architectural afterthought, to give the women privacy.

  Kettayef and Abdo finished cleaning the floors as footsteps were heard rapidly approaching from another corridor. The moment Kettayef closed the private women’s sliding door, the MOFHAJ members arrived at the indoor pool. Fearing the men may have seen him, the boy ran back up the stairs to his grandmother’s room with Abdo behind him, and they locked the door.

  Fiddling with his cellular phone, Moustafa stopped a few feet from the pool. His phone seemed to be out of power.

  “Give me your battery!” he demanded of one of his partners, without looking up. He frowned as a thought crossed his mind. “Did you bring the bag?” He was handed a new battery. He had a difficult time fitting the charged battery into his cell phone. He looked up at his partner. “How do you think you can take out a dead body without the proper body bag?!”

  The other two men looked at each other blankly.

  “We need towels!” Moustafa huffed. “Do I have to be the only one who has to think of everything?!” He punched buttons on his cell phone and pressed the receiver against his ear. “Magda!” he said with authority. “Get the body bag from your trunk. Bring towels. And find me bed sheets. I’m sending someone over to you right now.” It felt good to give orders.

  As one of the men rushed out, Moustafa and his other partner approached the pool, where they were astonished to find no trace of Noora’s body.

  *

  Nageeb took every shortcut he knew through the old section of Al-Balladi. He stopped at a deserted, narrow alleyway, where dilapidated structures awaited bulldozing to make way for new construction. He knew that area well. His father had bought this four-acre lot, where Bedouins had brought camels to sell since ancient times. A gust of dusty wind whistled through the narrow passageway, as if spirits were chanting eerily. Nageeb hopped out of the driver’s seat and raised the trunk lid, then lifted his sister in his arms. The white sheets that were wrapped around her were splotched with blood. He placed her across the back seat of the car and checked her pulse, blood pressure, and pupils again. All were as good as could be expected—except one pupil was dilated. He carefully palpated her face, mouth, head, and neck. Nothing except her nose was broken, and one tooth was chipped. But her mouth, face, and head were cut, swollen, and seriously bruised. He cleaned her wounds and rolled a towel to form a pillow under her head.

  He quickly changed into the dry clothes Kettayef had left in the front seat. Nageeb was amazed at his little mute brother, who had acted with such calm intelligence at this terrible time of crisis. Thanks to Kettayef, he would be able to pass through town, and if anyone saw him, since he was well known in their town, there would be nothing unusual or suspicious about his appearance. He realized he was still in his wet loafers and socks. From the glove compartment, he retrieved the kid-leather driving shoes Abdo had once given him. Nageeb never thought he would need such decadent luxury. He was thankful now, but as he drove, he wondered where he should go. Where would there be a place to hide and take care of his sister? A hospital was out of the question.

  The cellular phone in his Mercedes chirped, jarring every nerve cell in Nageeb’s body. He hesitated. But he had to answer it. He prayed it would be Abdo.

  “Allo?” he asked, sweating heavily.

  “Nageeb?” His father’s voice came sharply through the static.

  Nageeb’s blood drained to his toes.

  “Where are you going? Where is the body?” his father demanded.

  The body?! She’s your daughter! “I am taking it to the desert where we buried Grandmother,” he said, keeping his voice as steady as he could.

  “Whaaat?!” his father’s voice bellowed through the receiver. “Not there! It is a holy site. Listen, my son! You … you must return. Immediately.”

  “Yes, Father.” Like hell I will!

  Noora began to moan in the back seat.

  Nageeb was about to enter into the downtown traffic. The business section of town consisted of just two blocks of immense limestone and marble buildings. Sounds of motorcars and motorcycles helped muffle Noora’s moans.

  “I ask you please, Father, this is a family matter that needs to be addressed by the men of our family, in all due respect,” Nageeb said, speaking a language his father would hopefully understand.

  There was a long silence at the other end of the line. Finally, Farid Fendil said, “Yes. It is a family matter.”

  Nageeb sighed. He heard his father muffle the phone.

  Nageeb assumed that at the other end of the line, his father was being interrupted by the sheik, that self-proclaimed leader of the fundamentalist group.

  “Since you are already on the highway,” his father said after an endless silence, “go to the airport. We want you to …” he paused. He was breathing harder into the receiver.

  Nageeb could tell he was puffing on his pipe, probably trying to figure something out.

  “Who’s in the car with you?”

  “I beg your pardon, Abuya?” Nageeb asked. He made a sharp turn and entered an alleyway to avoid the traffic jam on the main boulevard. In the one-lane alley, he found himself stuck behind a shiny Jaguar that had stopped for a flock of goats. The flock was led by an ancient-looking shepherd in a ragged gray garb, and he was obviously in no hurry.

  “Nageeb! Answer me!”

  “Pardon me, Father, what did you say?” Nageeb asked, searching for some valid excuse. He pressed all the buttons, rolling down all windows, hoping the outside noise would muffle Noora’s moans.

  “Who’s in the car with you?”

  “Goats! I mean, out there. Ahead of the traffic.” He turned on the radio. “Yes. That’s right. There’s … up ahead, a flock of goats!”

  “What street are you on?”

  “I took shortcuts to avoid the traffic and here I am. I was just heading out of the city. And now I’m stuck behind
a bunch of goats.”

  The shepherd up ahead had difficulty controlling his bleating, frightened goats, while the metallic green Jag in front of Nageeb’s car began honking impatiently.

  Nageeb tucked the receiver between his ear and shoulder to free his hands so he could grab his medicine bag.

  “Ibni. Answer me, son. Where are you exactly?” his father demanded.

  “Well, let me see exactly …” Nageeb stalled while Noora moaned louder. He jabbed a syringe into the rubber seal of a small glass vial. “I … I am, ah, just outside of the boulevard.”

  “Which boulevard?!” Farid Fendil sounded impatient.

  “El-Khartoum, Father,” Nageeb lied.

  “You’re already that far?”

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  “What are goats doing in the middle of El-Khartoum Boulevard at this hour?”

  “Not in the middle, Father … just beyond, outside of …”

  “Hold … hold the line.” Farid Fendil muffled the phone again. Apparently, he was interrupted once more. After a moment, he returned to the phone: “All right. Go straight to the airport. By the time you arrive, a helicopter will be waiting for you. He’ll take the load, and you will be flown to Aqaba.”

  “The goats are going crazy, Father. I can barely hear you. Let me get out of this traffic jam and I’ll call you in just a few minutes.”

  “Ya ibn,” he said, sounding more eager. “I’m calling you from my private line. So listen.”

  “Yes, Father.”

  “Someone will be waiting for you. You will be flown to Aqaba,” he repeated. “Is that understood?”

  “Yes, Father.” Nageeb replied, understanding absolutely nothing.

  The goats finally trotted out of the way, and the Jaguar zoomed off, coating Nageeb’s windshield with a layer of yellow dust.

  “I am on my way,” he said, feeling like a robot responding to an incomprehensible command.

  “When you get to Aqaba, you will see a black limousine. A man whose name is…” Farid muffled the phone then spoke again. “His name is Youssef … YOUSSEF, the chauffeur in that limousine will be there, waiting for you. When you arrive, they will take it from you.”