Mother Nile

by Warren Adler

  He would always remember the first shrill cry of pain, entering his dream as if it were part of the scenario of some subconscious terror. Because of that, he did not awake instantly. Not that it would have helped. Salah’s men had swarmed over the encampment, cutting the throats of the guards on the high ground. By the time he and Malek realized what was happening, most of the men in the camp had been killed and the women and children rounded up and herded together with their animals.

  Zakki was lifted roughly to his feet. His hands were tied behind his back and, with Malek, he was taken outside.

  Salah was waiting for them. He had grown older, the lines etched deeper in his dark, leathery face. Zakki noted that many of his men carried Israeli-made Uzi machine guns.

  Standing in the circle of Salah’s men and the women and children that comprised Malek’s family, Zakki felt for the first time in his life the true taste of fear. His legs nearly buckled, although he was determined to show his courage and face down his attackers. Besides, despite the competition in the Sinai, he was a valuable business asset at the distribution end.

  “The fat one sends his greetings,” Salah mocked, spitting on the ground. Turning to his son, he struck him a glancing blow across his face.

  “Camel dung,” the old man cried. Malek dropped to the ground, prostrate before his father.

  “We must end this, Salah,” Zakki rebuked. “These feuds are not good for business.”

  “They are ended,” Salah said, smiling now, showing a mouthful of rotted teeth.

  “Then release me,” Zakki demanded.

  “Soon.”

  Behind Salah, partially veiled in a white gossamer fabric, a mark of special distinction, her green eyes peering above cheekbones burnished copper by the sun, he saw her. The eyes watched him, flashing their spite. It was only then that the facade of courage cracked, and he struggled to break free of his bonds. Salah signaled to two men who held him, stripped away his clothes, and tied his arms and legs to two split railroad ties.

  “No. Kill me,” he pleaded. Sensing his fate, he tried to will his mind to return him to the terror of his dream. He could at least wake up from the horror of it.

  Building up supports of stones, the men lifted the railroad ties and sat them in a position that lifted him off the ground. He dangled helplessly, spread-eagled between them.

  “You must not do this,” he cried. From somewhere, a glint of steel caught the sun and he could see the long knife in Isis’s hand, her grip tight and sure.

  “Kill me instead,” he screeched, but they were the last words to reach outside of him. Salah himself stuffed a gag of cloth in his mouth. He tried to stop himself from breathing. He writhed on the rails, feeling the bonds cut into his arms and legs. He stared, helplessly at the dusty ground, feeling the free swing of his genitals.

  Tell her not to, he begged Farrah in his heart, knowing that he could never earn her pity, not now or ever. He felt the burning slice of pain, the shock of agony. Finally, oblivion.

  ***

  When he opened his eyes again, there was only the pain, a terrible, all-encompassing sense of despair, beyond physical hurt, another dimension of excruciation.

  He lay on the ground. Malek had disappeared with Salah, Isis, and their group, and the mourning sounds of the women rose up in a loud ululation that expressed his inner feelings as well.

  He wanted to die, vowing that he would kill himself when he found the strength. He heard Ahmed’s voice.

  “They have gone,” he said. “Only the women are left. The other two are dead as well.” So they had left him, he thought, and had spared him his life to continue their business. He felt the sun’s heat in the tent where he lay. The pain gnawed at him, vibrating through his body.

  “She will pay,” Zakki said, turning to Ahmed.

  He lay there wishing for death, but the memory of Isis, her green eyes shining, the large knife in her clenched hand, the slicing motion, the pain, the blood, fixed itself in his mind, burning into his brain. But first her, Farouk’s daughter, Farrah’s little whore, he told himself. First Isis, he vowed, then Allah will provide.

  So his manhood had died, but miraculously something else was being born inside of him, something growing, rooted deep, fed by a rage so powerful that it created its own verdancy, a lushness of hatred so rich and fertile that it infused him with renewed life. He felt it surge, felt the tide pull his new persona into its vortex, a new incarnation. He would postpone death for a while.

  In a few days, he found the strength to travel. He was determined now to spend whatever he had, money and energy, to satisfy this monumental maw of revenge, hungering with the power of its own self-propelled greed. There it was again, the joy of greed. Allah’s vengeance would be nothing compared to the vengeance of Zakki. Life became purposeful now, more focused. Once again, they had humiliated Zakki. But Zakki was alive. He would give them his own private hell.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  His immediate plan was clearly defined, first to settle the score with Salah, then to find Isis and destroy her. Vengeance had given him the will to survive. The power of hatred had replaced the loss of his manhood and his hunger for revenge.

  All his energy was devoted to preparing his path of action. Through his Lebanon connections, he got word to Salah that he was once again prepared to do business, to consider the debt paid, the slate washed clean. Nearly a year had gone by.

  Word came back that Salah would be willing to talk. Once again, the protocol of the Bedouin world had become operative. Salah would be prepared to accept the obeisance. An enemy who acknowledges his defeat is no longer an enemy.

  It took months and considerable expense to work out his plan, knowing that the wily Salah would be on his guard. Treasure and sex would conquer squeamishness, and large amounts of it, unlimited amounts, could find its way to the root of conscience.

  Assembling the usual array of gifts, he also collected twelve prepubescent girls to present to the Bedouin chief. This, he knew, would be a sure sign of his total capitulation. The girls were not sedated during the trip, their nervousness allayed prior to entering the launch that would bring them across the Suez into the Sinai. With childish delight, they fingered the unusually heavy, but gaily decorated jewelry Zakki provided.

  “It will make you all even more beautiful,” he told them, as he carefully fastened ankle bracelets, neck and waist decorations, and earrings on each of the girls. It pleased him to see how much enjoyment the trinkets gave them.

  He had recruited a number of well-paid Nubians. They were armed to the teeth, and carefully hidden during the journey into Salah’s redoubt. Technology had not made even the remotest inroads into their society. The camels moved with their special grace along paths that their ancestors traversed for centuries, oblivious to the crated arms and explosives that they were hauling into the heart of Salah’s camp.

  Nor could they possibly understand, even if they had known, that Zakki had outfitted another caravan with men and weapons, who waited in the shadows of a nearby wadi, a reserve force to ensure Salah’s destruction.

  Salah greeted him as if nothing had occurred between them. The old man, Zakki knew, hid his contempt with the same craft that Zakki hid his hatred. In the crowd milling about the encampment, he saw Malek, who nodded, his eyes ridden with defeat and the same hint of naked contempt, as if Zakki had violated some immutable law of nature by willing himself to continue living.

  Zakki ignored the unspoken insults of father and son. He would prove to them that the measure of a man was not merely in his cojones.

  Isis, as expected, was nowhere to be seen. It was obvious to him that Salah would be hiding her out of sight at such a critical moment of reconciliation. Zakki understood. This was business and there would be no point in providing a living memory that might induce the rupture to continue.

  Sooner or later he would attend to the matter
of Isis’s fate. But he did not linger long over this. Nothing must destroy the pleasure and precision of his plan. Isis’s moment would come. He was certain of that.

  The men sat cross-legged, facing each other across the carpet, as always strewn with the symbols of mutual hospitality. In front of them were heaping plates of lamb and rice.

  “We must put all differences behind us, Salah,” Zakki began, after they had performed the obligatory rituals. Through the entrance of the tent, he could see that Salah’s men had relaxed their guard and were mingling with the girls, ingratiating themselves, although observing the strict protocol of the camp. Salah chooses first. Zakki, as always, had picked the prettiest girl child for Salah’s pleasure, and after they had sparred in the time-honored business way, he got up and had one of his men bring in the girl.

  Salah nodded, pleased with the choice, although he could not resist the opportunity to remind Zakki of his loss. Zakki’s expression gave no hint of his inner feelings.

  “I am sorry, my friend,” Salah said solemnly, although his eyes could not hide his amusement. He patted the carpet beside him and the girl sat down next to him. The little gifts had placated the girls considerably. Salah continued to talk while he fondled her.

  “The wops do not understand us as Zakki does,” Salah said. “They only understand money. There is more to life than that.” He turned toward the girl and, bending over, kissed her hair.

  “Does Farouk ever come?” Zakki asked, innocently. Salah looked up at him.

  “Never,” he said. “Not like in the old days. Only Zakki knows how to do business.” It was, Zakki knew, convoluted reasoning. The cost of doing business had just risen considerably, but Zakki had paid little attention to the matter. His mind was elsewhere.

  “I am very tired, Salah,” Zakki said. “The journey was tiring. I am not as well as I was.” The remark was pointed, a deliberate reference to his own aborted manhood.

  Salah nodded, dismissing him with a profuse display of thanks. He was pleased with the interview. Any suspicions Salah and his men may have harbored had dissipated.

  ***

  Outside, the desert air had cooled. The girls had been divided among the men, and the women and children were bedded down near the animals for the night. He moved freely now that his guards were involved in other pursuits, joining his men in a tent at the periphery of the encampment.

  Earlier, they had unloaded the crates from the camels and placed them in what seemed like a helter-skelter pattern. Zakki had rehearsed them well.

  He looked at his watch. By now, the caravan in the wadi had begun to move toward the encampment. The men in the encampment would be taken by surprise. Everything had been coordinated to the second. They would see the hot blue tongue of Zakki’s rage.

  Inside the tent, the Nubians squatted around a smoking fire, waiting for the moment. The explosives were in place, the fuses ready.

  In an odd way, he welcomed the confirmation that Isis would be hidden somewhere outside the encampment. There was cause for rejoicing even in that. Pursuing her would extend the purpose of his life.

  What else was there to live for? Death to Farouk. Death to Salah! Death to Isis? He had lost the trail of Farrah, who had miraculously escaped. But her blood had returned to him with the sudden arrival of her son. It was a gift from Allah.

  Salah provided him and his men with the hospitality of tents for sleeping and they repaired for the night while the enemy in the encampment frolicked until satiation. The operation had been costly. But what was money for, if not for this?

  Inside of himself, he felt the familiar tingle of his excised sexual energy, certain that in the shuddering moment that began the planned attack something similar to an orgasmic tension would be released. He did not sleep, but waited for the agreed deadline in the first light of false dawn.

  In the half light, he watched as the second hand of the watch made its last circular journey. His caravan of men and arms were poised to erupt. The moment had come.

  The fuses were lit and the encampment exploded in an earsplitting cacophony. Shrieks of human and animal pain rang in the air, partially drowned out by the sound of gunfire as the armed men poured round after round into whatever living thing moved.

  The staccato sputtering of the guns had a calming effect on Zakki as he sat cross-legged on the carpets waiting for the last note of this blood ritual to sound. Yes, he acknowledged, the pleasure was as he had imagined it.

  The gunfire grew more sporadic, then ceased completely. Zakki glanced at his watch. No more than twenty minutes had elapsed. He looked out of the tent. Most of the men were poking around in the carnage, scavenging. An occasional cry of pain was answered with a quick round of gunfire. Then all was quiet. Men, women, and animals were all dead.

  Zakki went on a round of inspection. He observed the corpses of Salah and his son, and carefully inspected the faces of the men, women, and children laid together in rows, their faces uncovered for viewing. As he had suspected, Isis was not among them. Zakki then ordered his men to create a huge pyre of the bodies, soaked them in gasoline, and watched them burn.

  Soon, only the sound of shovels poking in the soft, sandy earth could be heard, and by morning, those bodies that were left, along with dead animals and all of the worthless possessions of the group that could be found, were either burned or buried in a shallow mass grave.

  Mounting a camel, Zakki marveled at the beauty of the operation. Nothing remained. It was as if the earth had swallowed them up. But even the exhilaration of the moment could not diminish the joy of expectation.

  Zakki felt it fitting that Farouk’s destruction precede Isis on his list of priorities. The father before the daughter. It was the natural rhythm of life. Besides, Farouk was stationary, conducting, as always, his dissolute existence and nefarious business affairs with the same cunning greed displayed when he was the King of Egypt. Finding Isis, he knew would be his ultimate challenge, but in that case fate had brought him the young man, his heaven-sent guide.

  Farouk now lived in Rome, still surrounded by his ubiquitous Albanian bodyguards. Reports of his agents informed Zakki that Farouk had grown heavier, his health had deteriorated, and he was spending frequent visits at a Swiss clinic for treatment of a weak heart.

  Zakki had learned, too, that his Italian partners, faced with the mysterious disappearance of their supply routes in the Sinai, had become increasingly disillusioned with Farouk’s ability to deliver. The business vacuum offered a bonus of opportunity, but first he had to settle this part of his mammoth personal debt.

  But it was one thing to massacre a band of Bedouins, and quite another to kill a well-known ex-king on foreign soil. The Egyptian government had little interest, and little authority, over the bands of Bedouins that roamed its deserts, concentrating its energies primarily on the people in the 4 percent of arable land that lay on either side of the narrow strip of the Nile. To ensure the government’s disinterest, their little sortie had been neatly executed, the evidence destroyed.

  The elimination of Farouk, on the other hand, might stir up the hornets of nationalism, particularly among the emotional Italians, and lead to snooping by police agents. Naturally, he would have loved to confront the fat bastard at the last moment of consciousness. What joy that would have given Zakki. To make up for such a deprivation he would have to plan Isis’s destruction so that he would be present as a witness.

  Keeping track of Farouk’s habits was simple. The man was highly visible and predictable. Women and food were his chief delights. Narriman and her mother had, by special dispensation, returned to Egypt. Not that Narriman’s presence would have mattered to Farouk. The man’s insatiable appetites were all-consuming, beyond control.

  Sadly, he had to reject all scenarios that might lead to suspicion. It would be death by remote control, a necessary but hardly exhilarating effort.

  It troubled Zakki, too, to
know that he was probably offering Farouk oblivion almost as a gift. Reports informed him that the man had become deeply religious, further diminishing his joy.

  Not that Farouk had ever been truly afraid of death. His belief in Allah had been a pose. Now it was supposed to be genuine. The bastard had armored himself with faith. Indeed, there were moments when Zakki nearly abandoned the operation. I am being sentimental, he told himself, remembering the early days when the image of Farouk, the boy king, shined in his mind.

  But the more recent memory of what Farouk’s offspring had done to him rekindled his resolve. And his hatred. He would have to settle for a quick, passionless murder. He would have to comfort himself with his own secret knowledge.

  Death by poison was easily arranged. A busboy at the Isle de France, a roadside restaurant near Rome, accomplished the deed by placing the poison in a dessert of Monte Bianco. Zakki enjoyed this little irony immensely, eagerly absorbing the report of Farouk’s last supper, rendered in the minutest detail in the press: a dozen oysters, Evian water, leg of lamb, fried potatoes, ginger ale, two oranges, and, naturally, the restaurant’s specialty, Monte Bianco.

  So Zakki had been kind, he thought. At least the bastard died with a satisfied belly. Perhaps, when they met in the netherworld, Farouk would thank him for this last meal.

  But the flame of memory had grown cold in the nightly retelling. The joy had turned to ashes. Zakki reopened his eyes to the first signs of dawn, puffs of river mist floating over the terrace. He always greeted the first rim of light with hope that today would reveal some clue to Isis. He had convinced himself that the young man would find her. And then? He dared not project the pleasure on himself. Too many false starts and blind alleys had angered the reptile of vengeance that slithered in his gut.

  He heard the servants stirring in the villa, the bodyguards changing shifts. Ahmed’s footfalls moved along the stones of the terrace, and Zakki raised his huge bulk to a sitting position. He had learned to fathom the language of the Nubian’s eyes, which could not hide what the passive features did so well. He was warmed by its foreshadowing.