Arab

by Jim Ingraham

  “You’ve talked to him?”

  “No.” Omar said. He opened the door and got out. “I got to stay here. You find him, tell him we need money. Some work in the mill, but it’s not enough. Men are running off.”

  Deceit leaked from every word. Bashir was cautioned but he shrugged and drove to the third house and stopped behind the Pontiac. Feeling uneasy, he looked back up the street. The man was watching him. The girl had come into the doorway.

  Sensing entrapment, he was tempted to speed out of there, but where would he go? He had to find Diab. He had to do what Diab wanted. But would he kill for him?

  He walked with troubled thoughts through long shadows on the hot gravel. Outside the doorway he caught a whiff of fried fish. He stepped inside.

  “Farouk! You here?”

  A woman poked her head out a doorway down the hall. Diab’s driver, Farouk Qassis, came up behind her.

  “Bashir! Hey, where you been?” pushing the woman aside. “Thought you’d be a thousand miles from here.”

  “I’m looking for Diab.”

  “Come in!” Big grin on his face, beckoning Bashir toward him. “Come in.” Ostentatiously friendly, fooling no one.

  The woman had gone to a window, elbows up, both hands behind her grasping the sill, watching him as though expecting entertainment. Like the man at the sentry box, her face shined with anticipation.

  Diab appeared from behind a curtained doorway. He needed a shave. His eyes were bloodshot, his hair uncombed.

  “It was stupid running off like that,” Diab said. “You got every cop in the country looking for us. Come in here,” and he went back behind the curtain. Even as he turned, foul odors drifted off him.

  Bashir followed him into a small bedroom where ribbons fluttered off the grill of a window air-conditioner. Diab dropped onto a bed, propped himself up on pillows. The air in the room was cool but stale, smelling heavily of Diab.

  “Sit down,” he said, pointing at one of two chairs near a television set, the only furniture in the room aside from the bed and a bedside table.

  “I’ll do what you say. I don’t care what it is. Then I want you to help me get out of the country.”

  “You’ll do what I say without conditions,” Diab said, calmly unwrapping a candy bar, biting into it, reading something on the wrapper, feigning disinterest in the man standing before him.

  “What do you want?” Bashir said, loathing this pig, ashamed of the fear he still felt in his presence. “Come on, Diab. Just tell me. I’ll do it.”

  Diab dropped the candy wrapper to the floor. He looked past Bashir at Farouk. “Get his keys.”

  Bashir grabbed the hand that fumbled with his pocket and pushed Farouk against the wall. “Get away from me!” Turning to Diab, he said, “I came here on my own. I’m not going anywhere.”

  Diab watched with interest. “Those nights with the pigs did you good,” he said. “And that’s good.” He shot a glance at Farouk. “Let him keep them. For now.” Addressing Bashir, he said, “The cops sent you here?”

  “What cops? If cops are looking for you, it’s not my fault. Come on, Diab. What do you want? Just tell me what you want! I’ll do it!”

  No longer amused or interested, Diab waved Bashir away. “A woman out there will show you a room. You’ll be here a while.”

  “Why? I said I’ll do it.”

  Diab closed his eyes, then suddenly almost leaping off the bed, roared, “Get out!”

  Bashir got out. He brushed past Farouk’s reaching hands and ran down the gravel road, got into his car, backed up, made a quick turn and headed for the sentry gate, a jumble of thoughts whirling through his brain.

  Am I a criminal? Why am I running? Where can I go? Where is Faisal? It’s Faisal I should talk to!

  A half mile out of the city, he stopped, turned the car around and went back. The man at the sentry shack waved as he drove past. He circled all three main buildings and saw an air-conditioning unit in only the window where he had found Diab. Faisal was not here.

  He drove out of the compound and headed for Cairo.

  He knew he couldn’t kill, not sneak into a house and shoot someone in his sleep, not hide in an alley and ambush someone, rejecting images derived from movies he had watched in the UN camp with Foad.

  There has to be another way. He could turn himself in to the police. Why are they looking for me except to find Faisal? If I tell them Diab is in Fayyum and he eludes them…. No, there has to be another way.

  *

  A rubber ball bounced from a cluster of children and struck Nick’s knee as he watched Habib and a tall policeman in a white uniform talking outside the information booth—people carrying luggage through odors of dust and urine and cigarette smoke, old women in black robes laughing at something scratched into the wall, a porter wheeling an empty cart past them, one wheel squeaking, a thick murmur of voices all across this large room.

  “He’s afraid I’ve brought the police with me,” Habib said, taking the ball from Nick’s hand, giving it to a boy. “What’d they say this guy’s name is? You remember?”

  “Nuqrushi. They called him ‘prefect.’”

  “And he’s certain it’s Bashir Yassin they treated at that hospital.”

  “Yes. He used a debit card to get cash.”

  “And he was limping.”

  “According to an old man at the train station.”

  “And the limping man had crossed the street from the hospital.”

  “That’s what the old man said.”

  “And he took the Cairo train.”

  “Again….” Nick paused. “I think this is our man.” Nick stood up to greet a small man in a tight dark suit who began bowing and grinning the minute he spotted Nick and Habib.

  “Let’s take this outside,” Nick said. He had intended to question the ‘prefect’ in a private room here in the terminal, but the man hadn’t recently bathed. Even outdoors they could smell him.

  They found a bench in the shade on the esplanade surrounded by hurrying people and squealing wheels and the distant roar of aircraft engines.

  “Honored to be in your presence, Excellency,” the fawning visitor said to Nick. Two of the man’s lower front teeth were missing. After every third or fourth word, he sucked drool off his bottom lip through the gap. “I regret to say that we lost track of him after he left the hospital in Marsa Mutruuh.”

  “The informant was certain it was Yassin?”

  “It’s what he said.”

  “You have a chain of recognition from the wharf to the train station?”

  “Intact,” the little man said. “He fell off the boat or maybe was thrown off,” and he giggled, wiping his lip.

  “What did they say at the hospital?”

  “I have this only second-hand, of course,” glancing nervously at Habib, apparently intrigued by the blackened lens. “But the man I spoke to—”

  “Told you what?” impatient perhaps because of the aroma, even out here in the open, supplemented by an occasional whiff of exhaust from a moving taxi, it was overpowering. “Was anything wrong with him other than the foot?”

  “Only the foot. Only the foot. That’s all they said. They cleaned it and bandaged it.”

  “All right,” Nick said. “So tell me what happened on the beach. This man they arrested.”

  “Well, I didn’t see him, of course, but the officer said he was a close associate of the man who escaped. They said he had been questioned before, at his home.”

  “And he was coming up the beach from where they say the boats…?”

  “Yes.”

  “And the boat, not the dingy, the boat that picked him up.”

  “They saw lights and heard an engine.”

  “How big?”

  “Very big. A trawler. Very common down there.”

  “A boat that can travel a long distance?”

  “Oh, dear me, yes. They stay out for weeks and weeks. Thousands of gallons of fuel, huge tanks on either side of the hul
l.”

  “And they think this man they arrested arranged everything? He brought Yassin to the beach?”

  “He was limping. They don’t think he could’ve done it on his own. That’s why they’re holding his friend. They’ll turn him over to a counter-insurgency … but you must know about that.” And he giggled.

  “Did they say this Bashir Yassin had been charged with a crime?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Habib, who had been inside the terminal arranging for transportation to Aziz’s personal plane, had come to the doorway and was watching.

  Disappointed that this man knew so little, disappointed that the actual witness hadn’t been sent, Nick stood up, causing the “prefect” to leap to his feet.

  “All right,” Nick said. “You have my address. I don’t want you to report anything to me by email. This is very confidential. You are to discuss our meeting here with no one.”

  “Absolutely, Excellency!” The “prefect” stepped back and rendered a salute he must have learned from a British movie. In haste to carry out his orders, he ran to the nearest taxi.

  “So what did you learn?” Habib asked. He had asked a lot of questions this morning. Usually he was content to listen, occasionally make a comment. His interest in what was going on seemed to have quickened. Nick liked that. They were riding at the edge of the tarmac in a canopied field vehicle on a kind of rumble seat behind two policemen in white uniforms.

  “That the people in Abu Qir must have been delighted to get that guy out of their headquarters if only for a day. Let’s find this Takfeer Ali,” Nick said, relieved to be rid of the man.

  They had no trouble getting past security and were provided with a little runabout, like a golf cart, that took them to the row of private hangers at the edge of the tarmac. Great commercial planes were drawn up to the terminal, men in mechanic’s uniforms bustling around them. The air was filled with odors of spent fuel.

  The mechanic Takfeer Ali, according to the police report a friend of Bashir Yassin, was found cleaning tools, sitting over a bucket of gasoline. When he heard his name, he looked up warily at the two men approaching him. Nick believed some color drained from his face. Feeling guilty? Or was it just a chronic fear of authority?

  “He came by a few days ago, picked up his car. I haven’t seen him since. He in trouble?”

  “Why would you think that?”

  “I don’t know,” shrugging looking from Nick’s face to Habib’s, as though searching for sympathy.

  “He had left his car here? Why?”

  He clearly wanted to know what this was about, but he didn’t ask. “A man brought it here a couple of weeks ago. Left it.”

  “Not Bashir?”

  “I don’t think so. I wasn’t here.”

  “Bashir didn’t have his car for a couple of weeks?”

  “He’s been in England,” Takfeer said. “Why, is something wrong?”

  “Why was he in England?”

  “Going to school. They picked him to work on some new planes that are coming in. He was in training over there.” He had reached for a rag and was wiping his hands, looking up at the faces hovering over him.

  “Who selected him?”

  “I don’t know. The bosses….”

  “And he hasn’t been back since he picked up his car?”

  “I would have seen him, I think.”

  “Did you talk to him?”

  “I was off. Somebody told me he came.”

  “What kind of car’s he drive?”

  “An old Chevrolet, blue. With an air-conditioner Bashir put in himself. It’s what he works on.”

  “And you didn’t see him.”

  “No. Is he in some kind of trouble?” Takfeer stood up, still wiping his hands.

  Nick said, “We just want to talk to him,” aware that it wasn’t an answer: it’s what the police always say.

  “Those planes are coming in from Jordan in a few days, I think,” Takfeer said. “He’ll probably be here. You try his apartment?”

  “What planes?”

  “American jets.”

  “Military planes? Bashir works on them?” Nick glanced at Habib and took Takfeer’s arm and walked him toward the shade of the open hanger. They sat around a table near a bank of steel lockers. Across the oil-stained floor, lining the opposite wall were benches of tools and computerized machines. The air smelled of engine exhaust.

  “Did Bashir work for Faisal Ibrahim?”

  “No, no. He may have done some flying for him. But it was on his own, independent, a private one-time contract, you know. He never was part of anything.” Takfeer looked at the floor. He was trembling. “I don’t want to say things to hurt him.”

  “Tell the truth. If he’s innocent it won’t hurt him.”

  “Maybe in an ideal world. Not here.”

  “Maybe he’s a terrorist.”

  “No! No! Bashir is a good man!”

  “If he did jobs for Faisal Ibrahim….”

  “No! He just wanted to learn. He bought things in South America. That’s all he did. It had nothing to do with terrorists. He’s a good man.”

  Nick studied the eyes that were pleading for belief.

  “He wants to start his own business,” Takfeer said, “but not for terrorism. He would operate within the law. That’s what he told me. I believe him. You knew him, you’d believe him.”

  “But it was for Ibrahim.”

  “I told him he could get into trouble, but he said…. He’s very ambitious, but he’s not a criminal. He just wanted to learn.”

  Nick gazed reflectively at Takfeer for a moment; then he turned to Habib. “Let’s go,” he said. As they drove off in their little cart, Habib said, “No point going to his apartment in Garden City. It’s staked out. If he shows up there, the police will arrest him.”

  “The more we learn,” Nick said, “the less innocent Bashir looks.”

  “Innocent!” Habib said. “He can’t possibly be innocent.”

  Nick gazed curiously at Habib. “Yes, I know. And he works for the insurgents, and we’d better get him before Yousef Qantara does or we’ll lose him forever.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  As Habib was watching a groggy cockroach crawl across a stone step at the entrance of the Greco-Roman Museum in Alexandria, Nick was watching Aziz Al-Khalid down the sidewalk outside the president’s limo talking to a man in Western dress whom Nick did not recognize, a tall man with strangely unvariegated black hair, doubtless dyed.

  “Why do they pronounce it ‘Abu Eer’ instead of Abu Qir?” Habib wanted to know, referring to the coastal city where Aziz was expected to go for dinner that evening, the same city, Nick noted, where Bashir Yassin, according to Habib’s informant, had boarded a fishing trawler in his escape from the police. Nick believed the one had nothing to do with the other. More than likely, Aziz was going there because someone had praised the food. Aziz would not qualify as a gourmet but he enjoyed eating, especially in upscale restaurants. Finding new places to eat served him almost as a hobby.

  “I have no idea,” Nick said, glancing down at the cracking sound of Habib’s foot squashing the roach, wondering why he had been summoned and why it was urgent.

  Habib moved a finger across his forehead, flicking sweat onto the sidewalk. “Isn’t it supposed to be cooler here? Where are the sea breezes they brag about?” They were a few blocks inland from the East Bay inhaling fishy odors of the Mediterranean mingled with street smells of gasoline and car exhaust. Not much activity on the street, a few cars going by.

  Nick wasn’t listening. The soles of his feet were hot from waiting on the sidewalk for his turn to speak to His Excellency, a fly buzzing at his ear. “What can they be discussing?” slapping at the fly.

  Aziz and the tall man had been face to face for more than fifteen minutes. It interested Nick that Aziz hadn’t invited the man into the air-conditioned limo, a rebuff the man was possibly offended by although his manner showed only obsequious deference to Hi
s Excellency. He was probably asking a favor, pleading a cause, “wasting my time,” Nick said aloud.

  “Aaah! At last.” The man gave Aziz a modest bow and hurried up the sidewalk.

  “Wait here,” Nick said to Habib.

  Perhaps urged by Aziz, the chauffeur opened the car door as Nick approached.

  “Glad you could make it,” Aziz said, inviting Nick to join him inside.

  An involuntary sigh escaped Nick’s mouth as he settled into the cooled leather of the car seat.

  “You look serious,” Nick said.

  “Not surprising. I’ve been given some disturbing information.” He leaned forward, reached into a built-in cooler and brought out two small bottles of Perrier. He looked not only serious but worried. Not good.

  “I’m afraid we’ll have to drink from the bottles,” Aziz said. “Someone used up the glasses.” He settled back, frowning as he twisted off the cap. “There’s another for Habib when you leave,” he said.

  “This about Amina?”

  “Afraid not,” Aziz said, pondering the label on the bottle. “It’s about you, about your mission here.”

  Fingers tightened around Nick’s heart. The moment he had dreaded and had hoped to avoid was about to unload on him. He took a deep breath, steadying himself.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I….”

  “Do you remember I told you about a friend of mine in London who was called back to Israel … just as I was called back here? He’s now a special assistant to the director of their internal security force, the Shin Bet.”

  “I do remember that,” Nick said.

  “And maybe I told you we exchange information occasionally through Interpol.”

  “No, you didn’t tell me that.”

  Aziz nodded an acknowledgment as he stared reflectively at the Perrier bottle. “Exactly what did this man you call Richard tell you about Bashir Yassin?”