Mother Nile

by Warren Adler

  To the child, he had been a pariah from the beginning. She had shrunk away from him, shivering with fright, like a dog who remembers the torture inflicted by a stranger. In his mind, he laid away special plans for the girl, waiting for the day when nature would make her a special prize. With her mother’s green eyes and what would eventually be her lush figure and her father’s smooth, white skin, she would be the emerald in his diadem. It would delight him to present her to the greediest maw of them all.

  As Zakki expected, the visit of Bordoni would not be Farouk’s last attempt to recapture the lost domain. But even in Nasser’s sanitized Egypt, the reality of human fallibility was observed, as always, in the breach. Nasser was too absorbed in his pan-Arab fantasies and, finally, his own megalomania to look too deeply behind the curtain of internal reality. Man needed even more manufactured dreams to escape his dismal reality and, as always, officials well-lubricated by baksheesh looked elsewhere for culprits. It became impossible for Farouk and his Mafia henchmen to gain a foothold in Egypt, although they had greater success in setting up a rival to Salah in the Sinai.

  The ’56 war was a brief annoyance, although it politicized Zakki, to the extent that he was not anxious to see the Israelis spread their self-righteous, justice-ridden influence. They were too intense, too incorruptible, too efficient.

  “Nasser had better keep them out of here,” Salah had complained to Zakki during the latter’s visit to the Bedouin chieftain in 1957. “They are bad for business.”

  Salah was having his own troubles by then. One of his sons, Malek, had thrown in his lot with the Farouk-supported Mafia and, using his father’s connections, had established his own smuggling operation.

  Malek was, if it were possible, greedier than Salah, certainly crueler, with a lust for gold, power, and fleshly pleasures more gargantuan than his father’s. Farouk, of course, knew the way to the man’s heart and, advising his Mafia mentors, was making the going difficult for Salah. More insidious, as well, Malek was aware of where his father kept his secret caches of gold and weapons, and had attracted a band of cutthroats whose loyalty was well assured by these spoils.

  No government authority dared to penetrate the morass of the Bedouin world in the Sinai. It existed as a kind of special dispensation of history.

  Like wild animals, they had never been domesticated by any government. They existed as if no other world existed, living out their lives in their own timeless way, carting their families and their animals through the wastes of the Sinai, pitching and unpitching their tents, nesting briefly in the sparse shadows of any scrubby oasis, oblivious to the march of history or technology. They were a monument to their own stubborn self-denial, and were, therefore, allowed to operate in their own isolated orbit.

  Their durability gave them a concession to be left to their own devices. It was one of the great oddities of their history that they did not increase in numbers, despite the obvious fertility and maturity of their women, who were as much chattel as the scrubby animals given to their charge. One could only assume that they practiced a mysterious kind of population control. No one dared speculate how this was done.

  During the ritual of their annual meetings, Salah would hint at confrontations, but only in vague, sometimes mystifying terms. Zakki saw signs of it in the armed guards that ringed the camp, even in the site that had been chosen, no longer on open land, but deep in the low hills where men could scan the horizon from high vantages. There were also more obvious signs in the depletion of hashish bales carried by the caravans, despite increasing demand and a sophisticated distribution system that reached southward into Black Africa, westward across the Sahara to Libya, Tunisia, Algeria, and Morocco, and northward to Europe and beyond.

  In a few years, it became apparent that, somehow, Farouk and his partners were besting him. This was, he had learned, a business that could not operate except by monopoly, and he decided that the time had come to take some definitive action. He had to make a deal with Malek.

  Isis’s time had come.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Isis was surly and sullen, mocking him with her green eyes. As was the practice, Herra had given the girls sleeping pills and they had slept under the truck’s canvas during the journey from Cairo to Suez, dozing fitfully on the launch from Suez, awakening finally as they were transferred to the waiting camels in the Sinai.

  Seven camels moved them for hours through the dry, barren land. Malek’s men, somber in their checked kaffiyeh, their automatic weapons held at the ready, brought up the front and rear. Ahmed, the one Nubian bodyguard allowed for Zakki, eyed them with sinister annoyance.

  Isis sat with him on one of the camels. Behind him on another camel sat the other two girls, frightened and confused. They were ten years old. Isis was eleven, already showing the first signs of her female maturity.

  “Where are we going?” she asked. She had, Zakki knew, become attached to Herra, too attached, and Herra had given her up with obvious reluctance. He had repeatedly warned her of undue sentiment.

  “They are human beings,” she had protested whenever she had to part with any of the girls.

  “They are merchandise,” Zakki had responded, signaling to the men who watched over them that it was time for another persuasive lesson. Sentiment, Zakki knew, was the enemy. Who knew that better than Zakki?

  He had not given a second thought to any of the girls he had provided as gifts to Salah. Some he had recognized on later visits. Others had disappeared, perhaps bartered for food and animals, absorbed elsewhere into the Bedouin society. Oddly enough, they were a commodity never in short supply, and he never ceased to marvel how easy they were to acquire. Some he used for his own purposes, but never the best of the lot.

  “For you, my little princess, we have a special treat in store,” he told her.

  She looked at him with abject detestation. He would have preferred her to be rebellious or visibly frightened, yet he was comforted by the thought of what she was about to become. “Soon, Farrah,” he told himself, regretting only that Farrah would not be there to bear witness. Farouk, he knew, would have enjoyed the impending spectacle.

  Yet he refused to let himself be carried away by this satisfying little act of retribution. Revenge, of course, had its psychic pleasure, but he must not let it interfere with his alertness. He was here, after all, to pursue a sensitive business transaction.

  They arrived at Malek’s camp after nightfall. Carpets had been laid on the floor of his commodious tent. Malek seemed to live better than his father, or was simply showing off to Zakki, who presented him with a chest of gold ingots and a bag of precious stones. Malek looked at the cache with greedy joy. As always, they went through the elaborate ritual of salamats and handshakes. Food had been especially prepared. A roasted lamb within a roasted goat, bowls of rice, and sliced oranges were laid along the carpets. Both men exchanged shukrans and blessings, and Malek spent much time kissing his right hand, a sign of humility for his guest.

  After they had eaten, Zakki called for Ahmed, who helped bring in two large crates, which he opened with a crowbar.

  Zakki drew out a Russian gun and hefted it in his hand.

  “Something from the big bear,” Zakki said. “Nasser wanted you to have them.”

  Malek laughed, playing with the gun’s mechanisms, caressing the barrel.

  “Does my father have this?” he asked, abruptly.

  Zakki shook his head, knowing that was where the bone of contention lay. Malek, obviously, was trying to best his father.

  “So, he is getting too old,” Malek said, leaning against a pillow and dipping his dark fingers into a bowl of plump olives.

  “That, too,” Zakki said, implying that his father was no longer the man he was.

  “The wops say they are very powerful now.”

  “Not here,” Zakki countered. “In the States. Only Malek makes them seem powerful here. You
should stay with your own. Make it up with your father.”

  Malek spat out a pit on the carpet, a tangible reaction. But Zakki pressed his plan.

  “You are his blood,” Zakki went on, appealing to Bedouin vulnerability. Tribal blood feuds went on for as long as five generations. A family quarrel carried with it an element of guilt, which Zakki exploited. Zakki watched him contemplate the impact. It was, after all, just a charade now. Malek was ready for a reconciliation on his own terms. The only catch was that Zakki had never discussed this with Salah. Malek must be induced to eventually believe that his father had betrayed him. Zakki had learned the protocol of these strange people. The confrontation, Zakki reasoned, would almost certainly end in bloodshed, with Malek victorious.

  “Besides, I will raise the price,” Zakki said. Already, he had raised the price to his wholesale distributors. The objective was monopoly, to force out Farouk and his Mafia.

  “And my father will retire as leader?” Malek asked. Distrust was endemic in this society.

  Zakki nodded. “Have you ever known Zakki to lie?”

  Malek looked at him shrewdly, rubbing his bristled face. He stretched, lay against the carpets, and smiled, putting aside thoughts of business. Zakki knew what that meant.

  “I have a special gift,” Zakki whispered. “Farouk’s daughter. His blood.”

  Malek’s eyes opened wide. His tongue washed over his lips, which formed a broad smile.

  Farouk’s exploits with women were legend, worthy of deep respect in this milieu. Zakki made an obscene gesture with his fingers and Malek sat up, his body rigid in anticipation.

  “Farouk’s daughter?”

  “Better than the soup of a thousand pigeons,” Zakki said, enjoying the buildup of suspense. He called to Ahmed, who had been waiting near the entrance of the tent.

  Isis suddenly appeared. She was washed and perfumed and dressed in a red veil, a deliberate harbinger of excitement. Zakki was pleased with her preparations.

  “Come here,” Zakki ordered. The girl came forward obediently. He caressed her tight young buttocks. “Surely, she has her father’s hot blood.” He watched the color rise in his host’s face.

  Malek reached out and pinched her. Startled, crying out with pain, she pushed his hand away. She started to back away, but Malek was after her like a lion, gripping her arms and holding her helplessly against his body. She squirmed and struggled furiously.

  “Farouk’s daughter,” Malek squealed, grabbing her by the hair and bending her head back.

  “I told you,” Zakki said. “The best.” Farrah, you cunt, he cried within himself, remembering his humiliation, fueling his sense of retribution. He stood up, but Malek reached out and held his arm.

  “Stay,” he said. “Are we not brothers?”

  Zakki nodded, smiling at the trapped Isis, caught in the vise of Malek’s grip.

  She continued to struggle, although Malek had, by now, pinned her down with his legs as well. Quickly, he ripped the veil from her, then the rest of her covering, leaving her naked. Her flesh glowed pink in the light from the kerosene lamps.

  “Delicious,” he cried, inspecting her fledgling womanly parts. “Not a hair on it yet.”

  He took one of her arms and roughly twisted it behind her back, making her wince with pain. Inexplicably, she did not cry out, perhaps fearful of greater harm. Then, he lifted his robes and, leaning against the pillows, displayed a large, erect organ, its head moist and glistening, revealing his advanced state of excitement. Isis looked at it, then turned toward Zakki, her green eyes misted with anger and humiliation, imploring help.

  Zakki’s response was to show her his own erect organ, which he thrust in her face. She turned her head away, but Malek had increased the pressure on her arm, making her groan with pain.

  “You must taste it, my darling. It will be good for you,” Malek said, his throat gurgling with pleasure, as he thrust her mouth against Zakki’s organ. Instead of kissing it, she gagged, and Malek laughed uproariously.

  Zakki grabbed her arms and, holding her head tight against his organ, watched as Malek kneeled between her legs and rubbed the head of his penis against the hairless opening.

  Isis closed her eyes tight and bit her lip as Malek pressed against her, grunting and shoving, until he had forced himself into her. He drove his body forward in a quick thrust. Isis screamed and shivered as the organ entered her to its hilt. Resting, momentarily, Malek looked up at Zakki in triumph, then began oscillating his buttocks.

  Resigned now, Isis’s body slackened. Malek’s pleasure came swiftly, accompanied by noisy gasps. He seemed proud to be showing off before Zakki.

  “Sweet,” he said, withdrawing his spent organ.

  Blood seeped from the girl’s vagina, and Malek tapped Zakki’s naked thigh, offering the girl, who now lay, legs spread, her thin chest heaving with pain and humiliation. In a moment, Zakki was in her, watching the girl’s green eyes, open now in horror, as she watched him. Every pore of his body had opened as he battered her insides, feeling his body fill to overflowing with the pleasure of his victory, the joy of this vengeance.

  “Farrah.” He could not keep the word from ejecting itself, along with an excruciating eruption of pleasure. It rolled over him in long, delicious waves. This, he was sure, was the ultimate reward of revenge.

  The process, repeated a number of times that night, never quite reached the awesome heights of that first time. Exhaustion and pain had taken the fight out of her and, by morning, she lay in a whimpering heap by the side of the tent, like a discarded piece of rotted fruit.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Journeying to Cairo the next day, he felt expunged, as if he had finally shed some terrible disease. He was also delighted with the business results, certain that Malek, better armed now than Salah, and goaded by the prospects of greater wealth, would reach the ascendant position.

  Zakki, in his new role, thrived on turmoil, welcomed it, courted it. His own wealth was multiplying, and he was laundering the profits from the hash trade in a variety of investments throughout the world. He was able easily to buy his protection and confederates. He also enjoyed the excitement of it. He had, after all, added another dimension to greed, had embellished the game by once again besting Farouk.

  But Farouk, licking the wounds of his defeat in Italy, and apparently pressured by his partners, would not or could not give it up. Nor could he woo the Lebanese dealers, masters of intrigue and dissimulation, into a Mafia alliance. The Lebanese, particularly the Maronites, had parceled the business out among themselves, and, protected in their enclaves, had successfully warded off attempts by the Mafia to make inroads, at least at that level of the distribution process.

  As a protected species, the Bedouins moved at will across the old overland routes. Salah had apparently accepted his fate, unwilling to risk a direct confrontation with his son, refusing, as Zakki knew he would, any movement toward détente, inflaming the son.

  Malek’s reaction was complicated. He had, as he had agreed, shaken the mantle of Farouk and his Mafia confederates. Then, he had attempted a détente with his father, who, as Zakki had imagined, refused. He would never abdicate his role as leader.

  Indeed, Zakki had told Salah that his son was ready to assume a secondary position. Thus, each felt betrayed by the other, a fact that suited Zakki’s purposes. For the sake of business, the feud had to be resolved, and it could only be resolved by violence. Each believed that Zakki favored the other’s ascendency, and Zakki continued to follow the time-honored protocol of visitation and gift giving.

  On his next visit, he had asked Malek what had happened to the green-eyed girl. A broad smile lit Malek’s face. The memory of their frolic had bonded their relationship. But he was fuzzy on the question of the girl’s present whereabouts. He had, he remembered, passed her on to a cousin, who had traded her for two goats to another Bedouin family.
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  Malek reached over and grabbed Zakki’s genitals in a traditional ancient Arab show of affection.

  “It was the best sport ever,” Malek said. Zakki nodded, returning the affectionate gesture. Later, they repeated the performance with another of Zakki’s “gifts,” but it was not the same.

  Early in 1965, a wave of hit-and-run raids between Salah’s and Malek’s men had temporarily disrupted the trade routes. Zakki had been expecting it, requiring him to return to the Sinai with more arms for Malek’s men, to assure his victory over his father. It was the kind of mission that had to be done, both clandestinely and in person.

  With three men, a dozen crates filled with Russian automatic weapons, and thousands of rounds of ammunition, Zakki arrived in the Sinai, oblivious to the impending events that would subsequently change his life.

  Malek was less playful, more harassed. There had been a series of murders. Some of his hidden caches had been robbed. He had captured and tortured one of his half brothers, still loyal to his father, and learned that Salah had made contact with Farouk’s agents.

  “He is a stubborn old man,” Malek said sadly. “I should have killed him years ago.”

  It was obvious that the man was depressed. He had other complaints as well. Nasser was sending waves of fedayeen, a euphemism for saboteurs, into Israel, and building up his Sinai armies. It was disruptive, although the Bedouins were rarely bothered by the soldiers. Israeli patrols, too, were roaming the border areas with greater frequency.

  “The damned desert is getting too crowded,” Malek told Zakki gloomily.

  Zakki spent most of his time trying to cheer the man up, recalling their moments together. But that night, Malek was beyond redemption, and finally both men retired together in Malek’s tent.