The police chief was older, his black hair flanked by silver streaks on both sides of his head, a drooping mustache covering his upper lip. His face conveyed a kindly disposition, but his eyes were hard, and tired.
“Yes, I am. My name is Amina Hannachi. Please, no one has told me what’s happened. Is Ali alright?”
The man shook his head. “We’re not sure. It would appear there’s been a kidnapping. We’re trying to identify the perpetrators and locate your fiancé now.”
Amina’s body seized with disbelief. She fought to hold back tears, her mind reeling over what she’d just heard. It was a tremendous shock, truth be told. But those who knew her, who had seen her rallying her fellow students in the face of tear gas during the Tunisian revolution, her bandaged hands holding placards and chanting slogans in the face of armed, hired hooligans knew she was of a stoic, resilient disposition. A heavy blow like this could only serve to strengthen her resolve to fight back, to confront those who would harm her friends and family. After a brief time she was able to collect herself.
“Officer, what can I do to help? My father has influence in Tunis, and we have money. Is there a ransom demand?”
“That is very noble of you, miss, and no we’ve discovered no message or written demands of any kind. Perhaps you can help us understand why anybody would want to attack and kidnap Ali? From what I hear he was a freelance journalist?”
“Yes, well…” Amina hesitated. She didn’t want to connect Ali’s family to the blog and its recent media coverage. The chief immediately picked up on her reticence.
“Perhaps you’d like to talk more down at the district station? I promise you, you won’t be detained. We’re here to help.” The man gestured to the doorway.
“Yes, I think that would be best.” She steadied herself, her will to fight for Ali and his life quickly superseding any fear she felt. “I’m prepared to leave now, I just need to speak with Ali’s mother.”
The chief acquiesced. “Alright.”
Amina approached Sharifa, the nieces, sisters, and cousins parting to let her approach. She was seated on a low-lying ponj sofa, her tiny frame braced and framed by familial hands. Amina knelt down and grasped the sickly woman’s hands with her own. The frail mother looked up and fresh tears sprung to her face. Amina found that she too had begun crying, though her outward expression conveyed only confidence.
“Oh my daughter, my daughter! They took him! They took our boy!”
“Mama, we will find him. I promise. I am going with the police officers now. We will get him back: I will help; my family will help. Don’t worry, okay?”
Ali’s mother only nodded, unsure as to how her daughter-in-law could affect the outcome of this horrible situation. She saw, however, the resolve in Amina’s face, and she kissed her three times on both cheeks before letting go of her.
“God bless you, my girl, Bshatik. Llah Y-hm-y walidin. God bless your parents.”
“I will see you soon mama Sharifa.”
Amina rose to her feet. She noticed Ali’s brothers in one corner arguing heatedly with their father and several other relatives, but she didn’t see the need to interject. Ali had never been close to any of the men in his family, and though she was always polite when she encountered them, she saw no point in further delaying her conversation with the police chief.
Chief Radhouen Al-Din helped her into the passenger side of an old model Renault police cruiser that was parked at the alleyway’s entrance. Sirens blared, and pedestrians, pack animals, and mopeds all scrambled to get out of their way as they barreled down the old medina’s main thoroughfare. Amina and the chief rode in silence, except for the occasional static burst of alerts emanating from the cruiser’s radio. She finally had time to process Ali’s kidnapping, connecting questions with various pieces of critical information: who had the motive to do such a thing? In all likelihood someone had found out that he was the author of the blog posts that had been covered by Tunisia Today. Someone who was opposed to liberal religious reform...Amina shuddered as her conscious mind reviewed every fundamentalist sect she knew to be operating in the country: a radical offshoot of the Ennadha party, possibly even Al Qaeda or the Islamic State, who would make an example of Ali if they could. Likely they were a group or sect operating in the rural inland of Tunisia, where the people were more conservative, less inclined to oppose those types of organizations setting up shop in their neighborhoods.
The chief pulled up to the dilapidated but still imposing district police bureau, parking the vehicle directly in front of its heavy steel doors. The place resembled a prison or a military barracks more than a typical police station, its walls made of reinforced concrete, jersey barriers flanking its sides like a medieval castle.
“Here we are, miss. Please, right this way.” The chief buzzed the intercom next to the entrance, and the doors swung open electronically, a security camera observing them from above. “Can I offer you some tea or coffee?”
“Yes, coffee would be wonderful. Thank you, chief.” Maghrebi hospitality ruled even here.
Making his way to his office desk, the chief signaled to an underling who brought in a coffee kettle and two cups, along with a dish of sugar cubes and some milk, placing the laden tray on the chief’s desk. Amina sat down in a green plush chair opposite her host and began pressing the chief for more details concerning the kidnapping, which he readily provided.
“From what we can tell after our initial interviews of the family and the neighbors, there were three armed, masked men, all wearing paramilitary fatigues and a nondescript green Mercedes van with no license plates or identifying marks of any kind. Two of the men had assault rifles. One remained behind as the driver, while the other two broke into the Al Aziz home, forcing the mother to remain quiet until, shortly thereafter, Ali returned home and was assaulted. Mrs. Al-Aziz claims her son suffered a blow to the stomach and then to the back of the head, which rendered him unconscious. The kidnappers then bound Ali and dragged him into the van. So please tell me, Amina, if I may call you that, why this has happened? What cause do these terrorists have for kidnapping an educated, seemingly responsible young journalist?”
She again weighed her options. Her immediate fears for her fiancé’s life currently outweighed any concerns she might have as to his reputation, but another thought crept into her mind: how could she be sure this police chief was honest? He could be as corrupt as any other, despite his amiable, polite disposition. He might even be on the payroll of the very people who’d hurt Ali. She’d have to trust her instincts, her assessment of his character, a tenuous plan at best. Looking at the man once more, his mustache sagging as he sipped his coffee, she decided she’d tell him about Ali’s blog and its coverage by the mainstream media. She had little left to lose at this point, and if he turned out to be crooked or working for some other party, well, she’d cross that burning bridge when she came to it.
“Ali is not just a journalist, officer Al-Din, but a blogger as well. He began keeping a blog several years ago, a website commenting on the state of Islam in Tunisia, about the current pitfalls of our society, our cultural values. He decided to start writing after Mohamed Bouazizi’s self-immolation...I’m sure you recall….”
“Yes, indeed I do.”
“Well, he wrote this blog anonymously, and he kept it up. It became very popular amongst academics, intellectuals, and the left leaning crowd. He’d publish articles twice a week or so, in addition to his regular work at various newspapers.”
The chief began scratching notes on a notepad. “Yes. Please continue.”
Amina finished her cup of coffee and poured herself another. She would need the energy after today’s events. “Well, recently there was some…unfortunate media coverage…”
****
Todd sat in his living room early on a sunny Saturday morning eating a breakfast of eggs, lamb sausage, and fresh figs that Samam had prepared for him. The residual guilt of having another person besides his wife cook him breakfast eve
ry morning had long since vanished, but he still made sure to give her the weekends off, though apparently he wasn’t expected to do so. Even still, Samam had prepared a meal for the morning and had put it wrapped up in the refrigerator with a note. I could get used to this easy living.
Todd reviewed notes on his work laptop from the latest Solifuges status report. Various electronics components were currently being constructed on the cleanroom factory floor for the prototype, which was due to roll off the assembly line in two weeks time. It seemed to Todd that things moved so quickly at Al-Hatem Aerospace, much more so than at NASA. He’d heard rumors that the first modules for the elevator project, nicknamed the Tower of Babylon or just the Tower for short, despite any unfortunate connotations, were already being transported to an unspecified staging site. He supposed the name had stuck due to the multitude of nationalities working together for Al-Hatem, as well as the ubiquitous, globalized nature of the original story.
Closing the laptop, Todd noticed that it wasn’t the same computer that he’d been using the week before, much to his disdain. Though of the same make and model, his previous laptop had had a pair of tiny, distinct scratches on the upper left corner of its plastic case, as well as several dead pixels on the bottom of the screen. This one did not. He had brought the computer home from the office yesterday. Same wallpaper, all his files in the same directories, even his home Wi-Fi password had been retained. Am I imagining things again? No. Todd resolved to mention it to Karim as soon as he could; maybe IT had done something without notifying him. Instead, he pushed the issue from his mind; today he was meeting the sheikh at 7:30 for falconry, an exciting prospect. How does one dress when going hunting with a falcon?
Forty minutes and an indecisive, quick change of clothes later, Todd had parked in front of an ornate brick and iron gated driveway. Rolling down the window, he buzzed the intercom mounted on a brick post. “Todd Wittry to see Sheikh Al-Hatem?”
“Yes. Mr. Wittry, the sheikh is expecting you. Welcome.” With that, the gates swung inward on their hinges, and Todd drove another quarter mile up to the largest mansion he had ever seen. A combination of classic Cordoban architecture and Neomodern design, the dwelling seemed part Alhambra and part Art Deco, with a twist of something novel. It was like nothing Todd had ever seen before. A valet took the keys from his hand as he stared in astonishment.
“Ahh Mr. Wittry! Do you like it? I had a hand in its design myself.” Todd turned to see Sheikh Nur bin Zayed Al-Hatem strolling down a side stairway, carrying a daypack. “I usually do when it comes to construction on my estate or for my company.”
“It is a lovely home, Sheikh.”
“Ahh please call me Nur! And I shall call you Todd, if it pleases you.”
“Of course. Sheikh, err...Nur, I didn’t know you had such a flare for architecture.”
“I dabble in many things, my friend. Experimentation in the arts keeps one’s mind fresh and open to new ideas, especially those of an engineering or scientific nature. Wouldn’t you agree?”
Todd nodded, and the two men walked around the house to a camo-green sports utility vehicle parked at the head of a dirt road. The trail led over a ridge and into the country behind the estate. “Yes, I see how that makes sense. I myself paint with acrylics from time to time, though I’m not very good.”
“I should like to see your paintings! Please you must send me one. Here we are.” Sheikh Nur opened the passenger door for Todd, while he himself jumped behind the wheel. “Just a few miles and we shall meet my falconer. It is a lovely day for hunting!”
The road was quite bumpy, and wound over and around several dunes and hillocks topped with clumps of lavender or thorny sand button. Once, they crossed a dry riverbed comprised of innumerable glassy pebbles that clacked together as the SUV’s tires rumbled across them. The embankment on both sides was very steep, and Todd was quite sure they would roll over, but the sheikh deftly maneuvered the vehicle across the terrain with a practiced, consummate hand.
After some miles they arrived at a flat, sandstone outcrop where another SUV had parked. Several portable expedition chairs had been unfolded next to a table of a similar make, with the sheikh’s Bedouin falconer seated behind, sipping a drink from a small glass. Atop the table was an ornate bronze cage and within a docile, hooded falcon. Stepping out of the car, Todd saw that the bird’s plumage was quite distinct: a chocolate brown underbelly with contrasting grey pinion feathers.
Sheikh Nur spoke, donning a falconer’s heavy leather gauntlet as he did so. “Todd, I can see that you have an eye for beauty. She is a Saker falcon, one of my favorite breeds. In the wild they winter here on the Arabian Peninsula.”
The Bedouin falconer greeted the sheikh with his hand placed over his heart, and Sheikh Nur mirrored the gesture in return, smiling kindly at the man. In Arabic, as if to test Todd, Nur introduced the tribesman, speaking slowly. “Todd, this is my old friend Jaffar, my falconer. Please say hello.”
He understood the sheikh’s words and was pleased to greet Jaffar, who laughed and clapped him on the back upon hearing Todd’s accented Arabic. Jaffar inquired if he was indeed an American, and how he was enjoying the desert. He complemented Todd’s enunciation, and, still speaking in his native tongue, offered him some mint tea, which Todd gratefully accepted. Though it was still morning, the sun had begun to rise high into the sky, warming the men and the surrounding terrain.
Sheikh Nur opened the door on the falcon’s cage and, reaching in with gauntleted hand, coaxed the bird out with strips of fresh cut meat pulled from a satchel hanging on his hip. The bird, still hooded, followed the scent of the meat and tentatively stepped onto his hand, which Nur removed from the cage. He gently tugged at the hood’s tassel and pulled it deftly off the falcon’s head. At the same time, he let the bird have a meat strip, which it rapidly gulped down.
The bird suddenly spread its wings and issued forth a piercing cry, to the delight of the men. It was a superb creature, with a massive, 120-centimeter wingspan. Nur held his arm aloft so that the bird might stretch in the sunlight, all the while whispering to it in a calming tone. The animal’s feathers shone in the bright morning air, and with a push of its wings the falcon took flight, climbing rapidly into the sky. Wheeling in ever widening circles it flew higher and higher, its body an aerodynamic machine of exceeding efficiency and control. Todd immediately realized how anyone with a passion for rocketry and powered flight could enjoy a sport such as this. Averting his eyes briefly as the falcon passed in front of the sun, Todd wondered what type of prey the bird sought, its eyes able to discern any sudden movement below.
After a minute or two the bird shrieked a call and, folding its wings tight against its now compact body, dove as a torpedo at some point several hundred meters southwest of the men’s position. Todd estimated the bird dove at near 80 or 90 kilometers an hour, an impressive burst of speed. At the very last second the Saker falcon unfurled its wings whilst simultaneously extending its claws, snatching a small mammal from the desert foliage below. There was a brief bout of rapid flapping and tussling as the prey sought to escape the falcon’s grasp, to no avail. Todd heard the death shrieks of the land bound quarry echo across the ground back to their encampment.
The bird then returned to the men, bringing with it a medium-sized, sand colored hare. Jaffar took the dead creature from the falcon, rewarding her with a hefty strip of cut meat as he did so. Making hand gestures, he informed Todd in simple Arabic that he would remove and set aside unwanted portions of the hare for the bird’s next meal as a further reward. The falcon, thus sated, returned to Sheikh Nur’s gauntleted arm.
“Well now! I do believe we have our supper! What do you think Todd? Very impressive no?” The sheikh stroked the nape of the bird’s neck with the back of his finger.
“It is a lovely sport, Nur. I can see why you take to it.”
“You are reminded of our beautiful Al-Hatem Aerospace creations, I think.”
“Yes indeed, I thought just tha
t.” Todd assented.
“Haha, I knew you would. This sport is not only a connection to my history, to my ancestors’ and my culture both, but it serves to inspire me in my work. It is a win-win, as you Americans say, yes?”
Todd laughed. “Sounds like it.”
After returning the bird to her cage with a water feeder, the men sat down in the unfolded khakis chairs and sipped their tea. It was a pleasant way to spend the morning, and they discussed, in English and Arabic, various types of birds favored in the sport, the weather, the pitfalls of learning a foreign language, everything but work. Eventually, Todd felt emboldened by the casual conversation, and believed that Nur was receptive enough to hear out his concerns about events at the aerospace facility.
“Nur, can I talk to you frankly about some work issues? I’m sorry if I’m being rude.”
“Of course, my friend! What’s on your mind?”
“Well, just...some strange things have been happening. At the complex.”
“Oh? What do you mean?” Nur inquired politely.
“Sometimes I feel like I’m being...shadowed, or watched. Perhaps it sounds silly…” Todd began to think he sounded quite mad, or at the very least, overly paranoid.
“No. No! Not at all. Please continue. I trust in your observations. Your work output has been stellar thus far.”
Todd was grateful for the complement. “Thank you. Well, you know I took my office laptop home to check over some things for the Solifuges project, and, well, all the files are the same, even my wallpaper, but it isn’t the same computer. I’m certain of it. I know that sounds crazy…”
“Oh no, no it isn’t. It isn’t the same computer.” The sheikh smiled broadly, his teeth bright and almost predatory in the desert sun. Todd was taken aback.
“Come again?”
Sheikh Nur laughed. “It isn’t the same computer! We change them out. Swap them: factory-reset them or destroy them. It is a security precaution. And I should tell you...you are being shadowed. Not all the time, of course, but often enough. Another precaution.”
The Prophet's Ladder Page 8