Arab

by Jim Ingraham

  *

  That evening Habib Rahal, sitting alone in his apartment, was suddenly alerted by a movement in the hallway. Whatever it was it prompted Habib to lean from his chair and snap off the television. He walked into his bathroom and fitted on his eye patch, opened the cabinet drawer and allowed his hand to linger over the grip of his pistol. When a hand rapped on the outside door, he closed the drawer and stepped into the front room.

  “Who is it?”

  “Lieutenant Yousef Qantara.”

  Shit! With quickening heartbeats, Habib said, “Just a minute,” glancing around to make certain nothing in sight would bring shame or criticism upon him. He took a deep breath and strode to the door.

  “To what do I owe this honor,” he said, smiling as the tall man brushed past him, eager, apparently, to escape the darkened hallway.

  “I have wine,” Habib said, unaccountably nervous, ashamed of it, although a visit from so high an official to his residence was plenty of reason for apprehension.

  Yousef curtly dismissed the offer, apparently offended by Habib’s pretense that this was a social call.

  He was in civilian clothes—gray slacks, dark gray jacket, white shirt, no necktie. His gaze wandered condescendingly about the room as Habib pushed magazines across cushions on an old sofa, making a place for Yousef to sit. Yousef reluctantly lowered himself to the soft cushions and sat with hands resting on his thighs.

  A disquieting air of constraint filled the room.

  “Well,” Yousef said, again looking around. “You seem to be quite comfortable here.”

  “Yes,” Habib said.

  “I guess a reliable pension is something to treasure, as I’m sure you treasure yours.”

  Habib sighed, sinking back in his chair. Why does this prick want to frighten me? Take away my pension? Could he do it?

  “You have family?”

  “In Western Sahara,” Habib said.

  “I see.”

  “And you help support them?”

  “I do what I can,” Habib said.

  “Of course.” Yousef found something of interest on his thumb and picked at it for a moment, his eyes gravely attentive. He looked up. “You were assigned, years ago, to Colonel Palermo’s father, I believe.”

  “On three occasions,” Habib said. “I was asked to be his guide.”

  “And that was also with the approval of His Excellency, Aziz al-Khalid?”

  “Mr. Khalid was a professor at that time.”

  “And you became acquainted with Mr. Palermo’s son, who is now Colonel Palermo, the man you have been assigned to.”

  “He was a student at the university.”

  “I see. When you were given this current assignment, was it His Excellency who asked for you, or was it Colonel Palermo?”

  “I don’t know. I think it was the colonel.”

  “Because you were friends?”

  “We became friends. Yes.” What’s this about?

  “And His Excellency knows that you are trying to help the Israelis? You’ve had this directly from His Excellency? Or is it only Colonel Palermo who has told you this?”

  “I’m sure he—”

  “But Colonel Palermo has said that His Excellency approves?”

  “I have no reason—”

  Yousef raised a hand. “Of course. I understand. You trust Colonel Palermo. If he says His Excellency approves, then of course His Excellency approves,” and a complacent smile roamed across his eyes.

  “You must know my assignment is authorized,” Habib said.

  “Oh, I know a lot of things,” Yousef said, amused. “But let’s not dwell on this. Let’s talk about your search for this man Shkaki. Where did you hear about him?”

  “An informant,” Habib said.

  “And who would that be?”

  “A man named Hussein. That’s all I know about him.”

  “You know where he lives?”

  “Only the general neighborhood. He contacts me whenever he has learned something he thinks might interest me.”

  “And why did he think you’d be interested in this Shkaki?”

  “I think he learned that Shkaki was trying to find a pilot.”

  “For what reason?”

  “He didn’t know. I had told him I was interested in finding Bashir Yassin. It was the name he apparently heard Shkaki use.”

  “Then you had talked to him prior to this,” Yousef said.

  “The Colonel and I have been asking many people about Bashir. I don’t know exactly how he learned of it, but I wasn’t surprised. He’s very resourceful.”

  “I see. Tell me, Habib, why is your colonel interested in my visit to Sinai?”

  The question startled Habib. “I didn’t know he was.”

  “Oh, come now,” Yousef said, leaning forward as though to whisper, “I’m sure he has discussed this with you.”

  “No.”

  “He doesn’t tell you everything?”

  Habib didn’t like the tone of this. He said nothing, studying the smile, trying to read into it.

  “Haven’t you wondered,” Yousef said, “whether Colonel Palermo has a stronger reason for coming to misr than to deliver a mechanic to the Israelis? He’s a warrior as you were in your youth. He has to be important to the American intrusion into Afghanistan. He reports regularly to a CIA field officer right here in Cairo. Did you know about that?”

  “He doesn’t talk about that.”

  “I see. A ‘need to know’ kind of thing. Of course. And all you need to know is that this mechanic is wanted by the Americans—for murder, I believe. That’s what you’ve been told? And you believe it?”

  “Why shouldn’t I?”

  Yousef shrugged. “And the Americans sent this combat marine colonel on this rather trivial mission—”

  “I’m a soldier,” Habib said. “I do what is asked of me. I don’t question—”

  “Of course,” Yousef said. He started to drop his hands to the cushions, hesitated, then as though reluctantly, pressed down on the coarse fabric and raised himself to his feet. “We have inherited a complex world, Habib,” he said walking to the door, waiting for Habib to open it. “These Americans are not a sharing people.” In the darkened hallway he said, “If you do learn anything unusual I’m sure you know where your loyalties lie.”

  Standing in his doorway Habib solemnly watched his shadow slide down the retreating man’s back as Yousef walked down the long hall. Habib closed the door. He again sat in front of his television, only he didn’t turn it on. He just sat there staring at the blank screen, trying to quell the turbulence that possessed him. He had no idea why Yousef Qantara would come all the way to his apartment to threaten him. Until this moment he had thought Yousef and Colonel Palermo were on the same side. He wanted them to be. That he had been warned to choose between them—and that was Yousef’s clear message—angered and frightened him. He was a soldier! A soldier lives and dies on the bedrock of loyalty. It’s his religion! He hated Yousef Qantara for implanting thoughts of indecision in his mind.

  Politics! May the wrath of Allah be on it!

  Chapter Eight

  After dark the following evening in his hotel room, Nick leaned across the woman and picked up his Vodafone. It was Habib.

  “I’m downstairs in the lobby. I have news about Diab.”

  “By prearrangement?” the woman said, raising the sheet to her chin, hair tousled, lip rouge chewed off. “You one of those?”

  Nick laughed. “No, no. I wouldn’t do that to you, honey. I’d much rather stay here with you, all day like we said. But duty calls.”

  “What duty? You’re a car salesman!”

  Nick laughed and carried his clothes into the bathroom, splashed his face, ran fingers through his hair, put his clothes on.

  “I told my boyfriend I’d be gone all day!” she yelled. “I hate you!”

  Nick kissed her forehead and smiled. “You’re a lovely woman. He’ll be thrilled to know you changed your mind.”
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  The moment he saw Habib rise from a chair in the lobby, he knew something was wrong. He was usually cheerful, but right now he seemed troubled, subdued, maybe nursing some kind of guilt.

  “Something wrong?” Nick asked as they walked down the narrow passageway to the parking garage.

  Habib said nothing until they were in Nick’s truck, and then, in almost mournful tones, he said, “I had a visit from Yousef Qantara last evening.”

  “What kind of visit?”

  “He came to my apartment.”

  They got into Nick’s truck. Nick made the circles around rows of parked cars down to the street floor and stopped at the exit, waiting for an opening in the traffic, waiting for Habib to say something—cars streaming by, brakes screeching, horns blaring, headlights flashing, men yelling.

  “He questioned whether his Excellency…,” Habib said. “He said he doubted, and wanted me to doubt, that his Excellency knows we are to deliver Bashir Yassin to the Israelis.”

  “You know he does. I told you.”

  “Yes,” Habib said, hastily as though to permit no doubt that he agreed. “I told him that.”

  “Then…. I don’t understand.”

  There was more. It seemed to hang on Habib’s lip, unwilling to come out. Finally he said, “He’s a very devious man. I don’t trust him.” And bringing that out seemed to give him relief. “It’s you I trust.” Like a pledge of allegiance.

  “Okay,” Nick said, having no idea what that was about. Had he been drinking? He decided to make light of it. “Never doubted it,” he said, reaching across the seat, slapping Habib’s knee. “So tell me what’s going on with Diab. You’ve found him?”

  “A lead,” Habib said. The familiar heartiness back in his voice.

  Arabs! Nick thought. No matter how long he had lived among them, they baffled him—a strange breed of man. He didn’t understand this one, but he liked him and trusted him. And that’s what mattered.

  *

  Habib stayed within himself as they drove across the city. And now they were crouched in shadows behind a bank of floodlights watching the darkened windows of the house across the street, waiting for a response to the captain’s last plea on the bullhorn. They heard the yelp of a dog and a howling squeal fading into the distance. The air smelled of dog shit and garbage. Since they had arrived, several windows had lighted along the street although no one had come out of the houses. One woman had poked her head out, then quickly ducked back inside.

  “I don’t know who the kid is,” Captain Huzayfi said—he was Habib’s old partner, now in command of the Special Emergency Response Team, a small man whose breath smelled of false teeth. “The grandfather yelled out the name Faisal Ibrahim. You’ve heard of him, the arms merchant?”

  “Yelled it out?”

  “Yeah. He called for help, said his grandson was being chased by Ibrahim’s soldiers.”

  “I’ve heard the name,” Nick said. “I know nothing about him.”

  “He’s on our list,” the captain said. “What the connection is—if there is one—between him and this Bashir you’re interested in, I have no idea. The kid apparently told his grandfather he overheard Ibrahim talking about Bashir Yassin. It’s why I called my friend here,” nodding at Habib, the three of them huddled together behind the captain’s truck. “They’re threatening to kill the boy. They killed his grandfather.”

  “Who’s the boy?”

  “Says he was a security guard for Faisal Ibrahim.”

  “And this Diab he was talking to?”

  “A big bastard, a close personal friend of Faisal Ibrahim. If Faisal is here in misr, we want him. I think this Diab handles his troops, what few he has left. The boy told the grandfather Diab’s men were chasing him. Says he fell asleep on guard duty.”

  “And the grandfather’s dead?”

  “Happened right there on the doorstep. They were dragging the kid out when we got here. The old man tried to stop them. Got shot in the face.”

  “If you saw the shooting, they won’t give the kid up. Probably think he’s their passport out of here.”

  The captain nodded. “Maybe the boy knows something they don’t want us to know.”

  Habib tapped the captain’s shoulder and said he wanted to cross the street, look in a window, maybe locate the boy.

  The captain glanced at Nick.

  “Up to him,” Nick said.

  “All right,” the captain said. “I’ll have to spread the word so nobody shoots you.”

  While the captain was gone, Nick said, “So is this the same Diab Nu’ha told us about, said he picked up Bashir?”

  “It’s not a common name.”

  “Maybe we’re onto something big,” Nick said as they watched a man scoot across the street and crawl on knees and elbows past the garden gate cradling a Kalashnikov. No sign or sound came from inside the house. A dog yapped down the street.

  The captain came back and cut the floodlights. “Go,” he said.

  It took Habib no more than twenty minutes to cross the street, sneak up to a window and look inside. He came back and crouched next to Nick. “There’s a lighted flashlight on the floor under a table. The boy’s huddled in a corner near the center hallway. He’s alive. There’s a guy just inside that window on the far right, fifteen feet from the boy. Couldn’t see the other one. If we blast in at an angle, we can take out the man and not hit the boy.”

  “There’re flares in the truck,” the captain told Habib. “One over the roof would tell our men back there to hold their fire.”

  Nick hoped both men weren’t killed. They might know how to find this Diab.

  “That’s a fifty caliber machine gun mounted over the cab,” the captain said while Habib was directing the repositioning of the captain’s truck. “It’ll blow a hole through anything.”

  “What’s out back? Nick asked.

  “Miles and miles of desert. There’s a service road out there, but this time of night nobody will be on it. I’m impressed that you worry about the safety of our people.”

  “Because I’m an American?”

  “I was visiting a cousin in Baghdad when the bombs came down,” the captain said. “I saw many children die. America to me is a faraway nation of impersonal machines. You are the first American I’ve ever met.”

  “I have no love for what’s happening north of here,” Nick admitted “A meaningless war that’s poisoned my mind.”

  One of the captain’s men said the walls of the house were stuccoed three-quarter-inch plywood, with maybe some insulation and a half-inch of sheetrock. Two men had confirmed that the man was at the window where Habib had placed him.

  Three seconds after the flare blazed over the roof, five bursts from the machinegun tore a large hole breaking the corner of the house near the window. Four men battered down the front entrance while others broke through windows in back. Within twenty seconds the boy was hustled outside. A few minutes later the squad leader came out.

  “Both men were at that front window,” the squad leader said, nervously exultant. “There’s meat and blood all over the room, Captain.”

  “The grandfather?”

  “On the floor. He’s dead.”

  “No one else?”

  “Just the boy. His name is Ayman.”

  Before taking Ayman to the hospital, Nick had a moment with him.

  “Where can I find Diab?”

  The boy shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  “Faisal Ibrahim?”

  “Some people took him in a big car.”

  “Here? In the city?”

  “I can show you where he was,” Ayman said. He should be in school or someplace playing soccer, Nick thought, not in a soldier’s uniform standing guard duty.

  “Maybe tomorrow,” the captain said.

  *

  Next day at two o’clock they were all in the captain’s command car driving down a narrow street in the City of the Dead. A man in a camouflage suit crossed the lane in front of them and leap
ed over a wall and disappeared behind a row of small buildings.

  “Stop the car,” Habib said. “I’ll chase him.”

  “You’re fifty years old,” the captain said. “He’s probably fifteen. Forget it.”

  “That’s the one, right there!” Ayman said, pointing at a low, concrete-block building inside an enclosed courtyard.

  The captain stopped the car. “Let’s see what’s inside.”

  Nick drew his pistol and used it to nudge aside a curtain that covered the doorway. A woman in her thirties sat on a narrow cot, her knees spread, her apron forming a basin that was filled with potato peelings.

  Habib ran past her and opened a curtain in back.

  “Police!” he yelled. “Come out of there!”

  Within seconds an old woman in a black abeya came out of the shadows, a nervous, fawning smile twitching her face. She stared at Habib’s gun.

  “Anyone else back there?” holding the curtain aside, searching the small room.

  “No, Master,” the woman said.

  “Was a man just here, a man in army clothes?”

  “No, Master. Just me and Salima. No one else.”

  “But someone else was here,” Nick said. “A fugitive. You were harboring the fugitive Faisal Ibrahim.”

  “That’s a lie!” Salima said. She got up, holding her apron like a bucket, carrying it to the sink where she unloaded the peelings into a large kettle. “He forced himself in here. She was his prisoner! He put me out on the street! I hope you find him! I hope you hang him!”

  Nick turned to the old woman. “When Faisal Ibrahim was taken away….”

  “It was Colonel Jaradat’s men!” Salima yelled. “I know that for a fact!”

  Nick glanced inquiringly at the captain. “Jaradat?”

  The captain shook his head. “Where is Faisal Ibrahim right now?”

  “You don’t believe me? It was Jaradat’s men took him away.”

  Habib studied Salima a few seconds. “Haven’t I seen you at the police station? Your face….”

  “No,” Salima said. But the question scared her. She went back to the cot and lifted a potato out of a basket.

  “I don’t know where he is,” Afaf said. “Maybe out of the country. I don’t know.”