Kill Them Wherever You Find Them

by David Hunter

  ~ ~ ~

  "Will that be all?"

  "Yes, thank you, it was delicious."

  Waiting for the bill to arrive, Jeff was grateful to have found this eatery. Preparing for this mission in the facility, he researched Egyptian culture and mannerisms of the 1930s. Where food was concerned, Ful Medames was a staple food, believed to have gone back to the time of the Pharaohs. Little wonder it stood the test of time, coming out the victor. It and the Egyptian bread bun in which it was served was, simply put, delicious.

  As with all other missions, Jeff set himself to getting to know every meter of his new surroundings, starting with his hotel, walking concentric circles in an ever-widening pattern. He made meticulous mental notes regarding local civilian and police foot and vehicle traffic patterns and schedules.

  His target family was just a few kilometers away. He considered relocating to a hotel nearer to where they lived, but decided against it. Some distance may be of value, besides which a pharmaceutical salesman would naturally stay closer to the center of the city where the bulk of health clinics and hospitals were to be found.

  The second day in Cairo Jeff carried his satchel and a handful of calling cards, dressing himself the part of a salesman. To his enduring surprise, he again found himself a natural at sales. If he had it to do all over again, who knows but maybe that might just be the career route he would take? To his amazement he enjoyed the work. As a real career there would be the pressure of actually having to make genuine sales. Additionally, in his time, sales were a lot tougher due to the scammers and so many poor quality products that had the tendency to give salesmen a collective black eye. He inwardly cringed when an order was placed through him, so trusting and open customers of this era were. He went to a pharmacy on the other side of town, purchased a similar medicine and delivered it to this new "customer," a process he would repeat several times during this brief career.

  Jeff scheduled his sales route to take him by late afternoon to the district where Abd's grandmother lived. Not poor, not particularly well off either, there was no way to introduce himself to the family in a natural, unscripted way. The vast majority of Egyptians in this era, as well as his own time, were a kind, good-hearted and generous people. He would have to use this to his advantage.

  Surveillance of her neighborhood revealed good areas as well as dodgy, the latter being an area proper people avoided, especially at night. Watching drunks stumble out the door of what appeared to be an illicit tavern - not so much because laws prohibiting alcohol were enforced as much as due to the shady character of the building and its patrons - an inspiration was formed as perfectly and quickly as a flash of lightning.

  Previously identifying and confirming the small home where the target family lived, the next evening Jeff went to a tavern across the one lane, dirt road, paying a willing accomplice a great deal of cash to land a few good punches to his face.

  Exiting the abandoned lot where the assault occurred, right eye swollen, nose bloodied, disheveled, soiled and ripped shirt, he stumbled to the residence and knocked on the door.

  It opened a crack at first, expelling a slender beam of light, then wider as a man stared, mouth agape, in bewildered shock. Fully opening the door, he hastily gestured Jeff inside, calling to his wife for assistance. Jeff feigned dropping to his knees, muttering the word "help" in English.

  After a bit of a struggle to help him to his feet, his body mostly dead weight, the husband and wife team laid him on the small divan in a room that appeared to serve as combination dining room, family room, and tucked-in-a-corner nursery for an infant wailing in a crib.

  "What happen?" The husband spoke in heavily-accented, poor English, assuming that to be the language of their visitor.

  "Attack, thief, take." Jeff pointed to his satchel of broken vials and his face, hoping that at least one of the three words would be understood, within the context of his appearance.

  Conversing in rapid Arabic, the man and woman seemed to disagree over something, of what he had no idea. Soon, though, she left his side to return with a wet cloth and a bottle of some kind of strong-smelling astringent that she applied to his wounds. The paid assailant did an excellent job, the cuts and bruises hurt like the devil.

  The man's wife, it turned out, spoke less English than he, resorting to a form of sign language to communicate. Frustrated at the lack of progress, her husband called out to an unknown presence, who then entered the room quiet as a mouse, so shy as to veritably shrink into the corner.

  "Father wants to know why, you, here." By this point, his right eye had nearly swollen shut. Peering at her from the good left eye, she appeared to have a striking likeness to the few photos that still existed in his time, but she also had a sister who looked very much like her.

  "Please tell your mother and father thank you and my name is Jeff."

  A quick exchange with her father, then mother, the girl's attention returned to him.

  "Your hurts, they pain you very much?" For as young as she was, speaking in very broken English, Jeff was nonetheless impressed with her ability to communicate ideas. He was as impressed with the level of education here as he was in the much wealthier Tehran.

  "Yes, there is pain. In my bag" pointing to the satchel, "medicine for pain. Give to me, please?" With some hesitation, the girl approached the bag, giving it to her mother as she whispered something in Arabic.

  "Aspirin?" The mother held up a cracked bottle that nonetheless managed to stay sufficiently cohesive as to maintain its contents intact.

  "Aiwa, shookran." Jeff's use of Egyptian Arabic for "yes, thank you" gave the little girl the giggles - suppressed by a stern look from her mother. Her father, obviously on her side, gave her a wink and small grin himself before turning his attention back to his ward as he spoke.

  "Father say you welcome." Now Jeff smiled, first to the father, then to the mother.

  "What are your names?" The girl looked hesitantly to her father. Another nod from him assured her that she could speak openly with this stranger.

  "Father he Karim, mother she Dina, I me Hala."

  She's the one, confirmed by sight and name.

  "Thank you, Hala. Please tell your mother and father I am grateful for their help." Jeff tried to keep his sentences as basic as was possible, while still communicating what was needed.

  A discussion between Karim and Dina went on for a minute or two. Finally, Dina instructed the girl to translate as best she could.

  "You can walk?"

  Jeff knew full well he was able to walk, dance for that matter. It was critical to spend more time here, build trust, as he figured out his next move in this unfolding play in which he was a main actor - one who had to figure out how to exit the stage with grace as the curtains came down.

  Pretending an attempt to stand up, he allowed himself to tumble back down. Rapid chatter and then . . .

  "You be here tonight. Father and mother help."

  "Thank you very much." Gesturing as he spoke in a way that would be universally understood, Jeff again rested his head back and closed his eyes very briefly. Inwardly he was all smiles, outwardly he slightly groaned for good measure.

  Sent back to her room, Jeff was again alone with her parents. It turned out Dina's English was better than first indicated. She and Karim took seats in the small room and watched him as their surprise visitor rested before asking for water.

  Accepting water from Dina, he thanked her, drawing small sips through cracked lips. Finally, looking at his hosts, Jeff drew money from a front pocket in his pants, offering the large roll of cash to them. Eyes wide with surprise, both hurriedly shook their heads "no," then once again talked.

  "Rude of us, you not understand Arabic?"

  "No, only a few words."

  "Okay. You American?"

  "Yes, I am."

  "Love America. Love American people. Love Coca Cola!"

  Jeff was grateful to be in an Egypt where America was still viewed positively. How diffe
rent things were in his time. Individual Americans were generally well liked, while American policy in the Middle East was not.

  He knew American foreign policy wasn't always exempt from blame. Each time American policy, sometimes with force, was put into play to manipulate the toppling of an anti-American regime it had a tendency to backfire. The Shaw of Iran was a prime, though not isolated, example.

  He understood the reasoning behind it most of the time but also wondered if his country would ever learn from past mistakes. That was very unlikely. Each new Presidential administration wanted to make its own mark in history. Supreme in the desire to make a name for themselves, each administration since the 1940s wanted to be the administration that finally negotiated a peace between Israel and her neighbors. Negotiations usually being political brute force, never ending with the desired outcome. Four to eight years later, new president, with new ambitions.

  Standing up, Dina turned out the lights and left the room, "Sala'am Mr. Jeff." Her husband stayed in his seat the entire night. Not surprising, Jeff would have done the same had the situation been reversed.

  By morning, his face was more visibly swollen and bruised, giving him a pathetic look which he worked to his advantage. Daylight seemed to have the ability to lull people into a false sense of security, under circumstances which would have kept them cautious during darker hours of the night.

  "You worse!" Dina finished preparing breakfast, entered the room to give a plate to the men.

  "Look bad but not very bad." He decided courage would win their hearts and minds far better than whining. These were people who had, after all, seen truly difficult times and might view Americans as soft. An image, true or false, that he didn't want to perpetuate.

  Clicking her tongue against the roof of her mouth while shaking her head in sympathy, Dina left the room.

  "Why you in Egypt?" Karim asked, after giving Jeff some time to enjoy a few bites of Ful Medames. Eating this, a second meal in a row, he realized he must have ordered from a breakfast section of the menu the previous night. No matter, it was delicious at any time. He also realized that this would have been made as a treat, not a typical breakfast. His hosts were honoring him.

  "Sales. I sell medicines." Pointing to his satchel of mostly broken vials and bottles, then pulling out money from his pocket and acting as if he was giving it to himself, in place of the aspirin, Karim understood.

  "You here many days?"

  Jeff didn't know if Karim meant to ask if he had already been in Egypt for a while, or was yet to spend many days in his country.

  "Yes, many. Twenty days perhaps."

  "Where you stay?" With his broken accent, Jeff told Karim the name of the hotel.

  "Bad place. Not good there."

  "Yes, I know." Both men smiled, then looked down at their food during an awkward pause. With a significant language barrier, there's just so much conversation in which one can engage before the effort is too laborious to sustain.

  "Jeef!" Hala nearly ran into the room, the shy and cautious posture of the night just passed dissipated with the youthful promises that are gifted by the morning sun.

  "Sabah el-khair Hala!"

  Hala again giggled at this funny American, surprised that he was able to say "good morning" to her in her own language, yet able to say almost nothing else in Arabic. Without the disapproving look of her mom in the room her giggling continued unabated as she sat in a nearby chair to simply look at him.

  Having stared down the rifle of the enemy before, Jeff was accustomed to tense moments. Having this young girl hold his gaze with hers was every bit as difficult, knowing as he did that much of the direction of her future rested in his hands.

  "I take you to your hotel. We take your clothes and . . ." hesitant look, Karim spoke to Hala who then translated, "we come here, to our house."

  "No! Thank you, no. I can't!"

  "Yes, please. For a few days . . . " again speaking to Hala she finished the sentence, "when you in new hotel."

  Days later, black eye settled down to just a dark crescent moon below his eye that was now fully open, Jeff thanked his gracious hosts as he climbed into the taxi. He found that he really enjoyed his time with them, kind and gracious as were all peoples of the Middle East. Hospitality was the Golden Rule, rising from a time that survival in the deserts depended on shared kindness, especially that shown to a traveler.

  Settling into his new hotel room, much nicer than the previous at about the same rental rate, Jeff reflected on his encounter with Hala's parents. Though communication was limited, it was sufficient to get to know them and many of their extended family who lived nearby.

  They insisted that he stay with them while conducting his business. He was able to help them to understand that he felt himself a burden and was happy to stay in a hotel.

  That evening Jeff went to a local market and bought enough food for the family as a way of saying thanks, and repaying them for the delicious foods Dina made - foods he was certain weren't everyday fare. They accepted the food with gratitude, inviting him to dinner. A meal he, in turn, accepted with gratitude.

  Though the language barrier had in no way eased the last few days, their communication somehow improved - gestures and facial expressions now familiar to all. Laughter and ease replaced the initial concern and doubt which accompanied the beat-up face that first appeared at their door. Dina's ministrations healed all but the bruises that were destined to linger a while longer.

  Returning to his hotel room, filled by yet another fine meal, Jeff pondered his predicament. This was a fairly nice neighborhood, upper-middle class perhaps. His hotel was just blocks from the house where he had just broken bread with Abd's great-grandparents. While not poor, they were certainly in no position to simply pack and move, as was the family of Ghasem's grandfather. He could think of no way in the world to keep Hala from meeting the man she would marry.

  Near dawn, Jeff was awakened to the furious clanging of what sounded to be large hand bells used in his own grandparents' days, calling children back to where they belonged for class to begin, or for a meal at the family table. Cutting through the fog of a great night's sleep, he mused as to what it could be, having never heard it since his landing in this era.

  Fog lifting with the view of a column of smoke blown at a gentle angle by the morning breeze, Stauffenberg understood that the clanging bells were replaced by the wail of hank-cranked sirens atop firefighting trucks, much as the electronic sirens of his time.

  Haze of sleep completely lifted now, Jeff realized with a start that the smoke that could be seen from the view offered by his window was coming from the direction of Hala's home. Fear as he would have known had it been a threat to his own family's safety and home, seemed to constrict his throat and speed the pace of his heart.

  Throwing on his clothing, he rushed toward the crowded block of their residence, adrenaline increasing as it became obvious it was, in very fact, the house of Hala and her family.

  Running the length of the final block he was relieved to see Hala and her parents standing unscathed outside, baby brother held tightly to his mom's bosom. They were watching the remnants of their house burn while the firemen hand-pumped bursts of water onto the two homes on either side - one already showing the first flames licking the nearest side wall.

  "How can this be happening?" Jeff wondered, knowing family records and photos showed Abd living in this very home with Hala and her husband until he was almost seven years of age.

  He recalled the "Stick in a River" theory of time he heard bantered about the facility where he was stationed. His very presence, the time he spent with this family, must have proven somehow a stick large enough to cause a ripple that changed the timeline here, with Abd's ancestors the center of that ripple. How widely it would spread, what the outcome was, he had no idea.

  "Oh, Mr. Jeef!" Dina, holding her baby in her arms, turned to their new friend with tears pouring down her cheeks. These were tears of gratitude that nobody wa
s harmed, mingled with tears for the loss of their home and possessions. Jeff knew that among those possessions were the photographs of Hala at this age, photographs by whom he positively identified her.

  The remains of their home would continue to send up smoke and wisps of steam for yet a while as the firemen pumped water on it and surrounding homes, assuring no further danger to neighbors. Later that night, Karim would return to the scene, picking out whatever personal items and valuables he could find, hidden from flames and vandals alike.

  Observing the family stand there, staring, saying nothing, Jeff accepted this as an opportunity to not only help them but to also complete his mission.

  When he was sent back into this time frame, he carried with him enough cash, in both Persian and Egyptian currencies, to purchase a small office building as a front to complete his cover story, if needed. Such a purchase was required neither in Persia nor, as of yet, in Egypt.

  With Hala interpreting, Jeff asked the family to come to his hotel with him.

  At the reception desk, he rented a large room, paying a week in advance. Karim and Dina both objected, though not strenuously.

  After Dina nursed her baby in the privacy of their hotel room, they joined Jeff in his. Translating was slow, and very difficult, but in time he was able to relay his intentions ---

  "Thank you, Jeef." Dina smiled, in the weary way one would expect, having faced a tragedy, then living under the charity of another.

  "You have been my friend. I am your friend. I am happy to help."

  Karim, seeming somehow embarrassed by the situation interjected, "You are good. Brother live here, we live with him."

  "Home small, but good."

  "I have an idea." Pointing to his head, tapping it for them to understand this was a concept, he continued, "I want to buy a farm." Making sounds of a cow and clicking noises of chickens, the family looked even more confused as if their friend had, in that instant, lost his mind.

  "Farm. You know." Jeff went through the motions of digging, planting, and watering a plant. "My farm, you work." Pointing to Karim, he somehow managed to put across the idea that Karim would be the farmer. A slow smile on his face indicated a growing understanding. He rapidly spoke to Dina who also smiled, albeit hesitantly.

  "How?"

  Jeff opened one of the suitcases he pulled from under the bed and unlocked it, removing a large, brown paper bag from the suitcase. All members of the family, save the baby boy, watched with eyes bulged wide open and mouths agape, as he removed bundles of cash.

  The Great Depression which engulfed the world, affected Egypt as well, especially urban areas such as Cairo. People had a tendency to keep cash stashed away in hiding places rather than deposit their money in banks. Cash itself didn't have the value it once had, being worth just a fraction of pre-Depression times, but it did still carry some weight. The amount that this stranger-friend had in his hands could still purchase a nice plot of land in the more outlaying areas.

  Offering money to Karim, Jeff said, "Go. Eat. Clothing for family." Gesturing his mouth and fingering his clothing to make his point.

  "No, no, not you money!"

  "Yes, please. Work together." Jeff took Karim's hand, shook it in a way that Karim understood his meaning as indicating full partners.

  A considerable amount of time was required to get the family to accept the money and send them on their way. Jeff exited the hotel with them, asking the man at the reception desk where a Land Agent might be located.

  "Hello, do you speak English?" The office near a pricey area of downtown Cairo was nicely appointed without being flamboyant. The business was successful; from all outward appearances this was good.

  "Yes, I do. My name is Abdelaziz, how may I help you?"

  Jeff explained to the agent his interest in purchasing an already-established farm, with a family-sized home."

  "A few weeks ago, we were informed of a farm for sale near Khawr Al Qibli."

  "Where is Khawr Al Qibli located?"

  Abdelaziz pulled out a shelf of maps, retrieved one, pointing to the spot. Several hundred kilometers due south-southeast of Cairo, it was ideal. A small population, the family wouldn't be socially isolated; so far away from Cairo they would have a difficult time visiting the city.

  Jeff remembered that with a brother and his family living in Cairo, he still had a problem. Karim would want to visit relatives in the city, providing Hala opportunity to meet a husband and stay there.

  "Are any other farms for sale in the same area with two homes on the property?"

  "Just one, it was in operation until a couple of years ago. The economy has been difficult on our farmers, and there has been flooding in the area. Not so much in recent years but a large flood a few years ago wiped out the fortunes of many. A small dam was constructed to contain flooding. A larger dam, a little further down, was in the planning stages. There is some water damage to one of the residences and a couple of other buildings on the site but all buildings are structurally sound. With a little cleaning, both houses and the other structures would be perfectly suitable for habitation, both human and animal. This particular farm was used for livestock and crops."

  After discussing more details for about an hour, Jeff and the real estate agent parted company.

  Yet another taxi snapped his head in various directions, as it sped toward its destination. Jeff felt this to be the ideal solution though remained uncertain of Karim and how it would be received by his family.

  Borrowing the map from the agent, Jeff took the elevator up to the floor where the family's room was located. Knocking on the door, a smiling Karim bid him enter and be comfortable.

  Well into the evening they discussed via broken English, and a kind of sign language, the plans. For Jeff this was an investment. Karim and his family were to keep what they needed for living expenses, reinvesting profits back into the farm. He then asked about Karim's brother, he would like to make a similar arrangement with him, if possible. Having both families live on, and work the large farm together, was a guarantee to success.

  Karim said he would talk with his brother, giving him an answer in the morning.