Arab

by Jim Ingraham

  “I need an ambulance!” Habib yelled into the phone. “I need an ambulance!”

  *

  Next afternoon in Nick’s hospital room, Habib’s friend from the city police, Captain Rashid Huzayfi, asked whether the knife wound hurt.

  “If you touch it, yeah. They gave me something,” Nick said, wondering why Huzayfi was here. He had just given an exhaustive statement to the investigators.

  “Lucky your rib got in the way,” Huzayfi said. “That was a sharp knife.”

  “You talked to the doctor? What’d he say? It’s superficial?”

  “You lost a lot of blood and they’re loading you with antibiotics,” pointing at the suspended bottle and the drip line.

  “Why are they holding Habib? He saved my life.”

  “I wasn’t in on that. It’s Yousef Qantara. All I know is they’re questioning him. They’ll probably look for you when they’re through.”

  “It was self-defense!”

  “Yes, but you both knew the man. You had been involved with him.”

  “They won’t hold Habib, will they?”

  “I don’t know. Qantara’s a queer bird. Hard to know what he’ll do. But he sees more in this than a sidewalk scuffle. He got there fast. He was there before I was. Did you call him?”

  “He’s the last guy I’d call. But there was a woman. She could have followed me out of the hotel.”

  Huzayfi nodded. “He uses women for that.”

  “He thinks I deliberately let Shkaki escape across the southern border that last time. Probably thinks I brought him back.”

  “You’re CIA,” the captain said, meaning no other explanation is required. “It can’t be a co-incidence that you and this Shkaki met here on this sidewalk. Like all of them I’ve talked to, Yousef Qantara can’t believe you’re in Egypt just to locate the boyfriend of Aziz al-Khalid’s daughter.”

  “And you don’t believe it,” Nick said, smiling.

  “I’m just a city cop. The affairs of the world….”

  A nurse came into the room, shut off the med feed, removed the needle from his wrist. “An orderly will be in with a wheelchair. You’re free to go. And you don’t have to stop at the desk. Everything’s been taken care of. Your clothes and personal items are in that closet.” She smiled, smiled at the captain. “Be sure to drink a lot of liquids,” she said and left the room.

  “I have a car waiting down front,” the captain said.

  “I’m under arrest?”

  “Just something I want to talk about.”

  *

  They were in an interrogation room in the Garden City police station, Nick at a small table nibbling on kusheri, a pasta dish of rice and lentils and hot sauce, brought in from a street vendor.

  “No,” the captain was saying, “I would never question Habib’s honesty. If anything, he’s too honest. And that’s what I want to talk about.”

  He paused, watched Nick toying with his food. “It’s getting to him, his commitment to you, the pressure from Qantara. He’s losing weight over it. Ulcers, I wouldn’t be surprised. He’s a simple guy, a soldier. It’s how he’s lived his life. He owes everything he has to this country, his self-worth, everything. He doesn’t know what’s going on, not at your level. I guess he loved your father. It’s when he wasn’t sure where he stood with the government. They gave him a job. They gave him citizenship. They gave him dignity. But it was your father who gave him the confidence. I don’t know how to say it … to become a citizen, I guess. To accept this new life, to think of himself as a loyal Egyptian.”

  “You want me to let him go,” Nick said, getting the drift.

  “I guess that’s what it comes down to,” and his eyes told Nick how deeply he felt.

  “I love the guy and don’t want to hurt him,” Nick said.

  “It’s like a tug of war between you and Qantara with him in the middle holding both ropes. He won’t let go. And you know Qantara won’t.”

  Nick thought about it, thought about how much he’d lose.

  “I’ll talk to him,” he said.

  *

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Yousef Qantara gripped Habib’s arm and led him up the front steps of an ordinary-looking three-storey building off Shari al-Gamaliyyah in an ancient section of the city where no one would expect to find offices of the muccabarat. A man in western clothes sat just inside the doorway, bent forward, forearms on his knees, reading a paperback. He didn’t look up when the two men strode past him.

  “In here,” Yousef said, opening a door at the end of a long hallway. A woman walked by and, like the guard, pretended not to recognize Yousef who was likely her boss.

  The room apparently had been recently used. It smelled of apples.

  “Sit,” Yousef said, like talking to a dog.

  Habib lowered himself into a straight-backed chair facing a desk. Yousef sat across from him.

  “You’re in a lot of trouble, my friend,” Yousef said.

  “I’ve done nothing wrong.”

  Yousef smiled. “It’s what you haven’t done that’s wrong. You haven’t been honest with me.”

  “I don’t know anything!” Habib said, ashamed of the fear that was rising in him. He knew that the muccabarat obeyed no laws, that they did whatever they wanted, that they treated prisoners brutally. And he was their prisoner.

  “You don’t have much respect for us, do you. You think we’re stupid.”

  “I’ve never believed that,” Habib said, feeling sweat in his armpits, dreading that it showed. “I’ve always respected the efficiency—”

  “Yes, well never mind that. Just explain how you and your American colonel knew that this man Shkaki…. You allowed him to escape across the southern border, remember? So how did you know he would come to the colonel’s hotel?”

  “We didn’t know.”

  “You mean, you didn’t know.”

  “He didn’t come to see us! He ran when he saw me! It wasn’t—”

  “You’re very gullible,” Yousef said, idly drumming fingers on the tabletop, a sardonic smile in his eyes. “You should learn to think for yourself. You’re being used. They’re laughing at you.”

  “I….”

  “Well, let’s not dwell on that. I’ll accept that Colonel Palermo didn’t let you know he was to meet Shkaki and that Shkaki may have been instructed to avoid you, again showing his duplicity.”

  “No!”

  “You said the colonel had left the hotel. My source confirms that. So why was he across the street with you? And why did he order you to kill Shkaki? You wouldn’t have done it on your own. Was it to silence him? You had his knife. He was unarmed. He was not a threat.”

  “I didn’t know he was unarmed. He could have—”

  “Could have, would have, might have?” Yousef slammed his palm on the table, bouncing a pencil onto the floor. “Might have talked! You were ordered to kill him! Admit it!”

  Habib trembled, not in fear. He was not afraid of this man. It was from suppressed rage that this man showed him no respect, that he was being treated like a criminal and was helpless to do anything about it.

  “We are not fools, Habib. You and your American colonel allowed this man to escape from custody and now you brought him back into Egypt. And you will tell me why.”

  “We didn’t…. I didn’t know he was here. I chased him when he ran.”

  “Merely proving that you’re well trained. What I want to know—and you will tell me—is why the colonel enticed him back into this country. What did he know that the American wanted kept from me?”

  The narcissism in the question didn’t escape Habib. He knew this man was on a personal crusade, that he was a fanatic, capable of anything. And he could get away with any atrocity. Did anyone ever question the muccabarat?

  “I don’t know what you mean? I killed him because he stabbed the colonel. I didn’t know how bad he was hurt.”

  “And that’s the story you and the American cooked up?”

 
“It’s the truth!”

  Yousef got up from the desk. From the opened doorway he called to someone, a burly man with whiskers and pimples and bright red lips.

  “Take this down to the cage,” Yousef told the man who came inside and virtually lifted Habib out of the chair.

  “Why are you doing this?” Habib yelled when a second man grabbed his arm and bullied him down the hallway.

  *

  I must report this to Aziz, Yousef told himself, outside, getting into the back seat of his car. He’ll know about it and expect me to mention it.

  “The island,” he told his driver as they emerged onto the lighted street. The driver knew exactly where on Gezira he wanted to go. He had driven Yousef many times to the apartment house of Aziz al-Khalid.

  Yousef tried to relax as he gazed past the driver’s head at an endless caravan of moving taillights, a snake with a thousand red eyes looking back at him. His mind was filled uncomfortably with images of Aziz, the little man with the unrevealing countenance, the little man with the power to destroy him, the little man he thought of as Aziz but addressed as His Excellency.

  He has sources of information—Colonel Palermo and an Israeli who communicates through the Interpol, others who are close to the president. I can’t pretend he doesn’t know about the woman. I have to mention her. He’ll understand that she escaped with Bashir Yassin and it was not my fault.

  Later, while riding the elevator to Aziz’s apartment, other questions plagued him.

  Why did Palermo bring Shkaki back into Egypt? How long has he been here? I have only his word—based on gossip—that he escaped to the Sudan.

  What incentives would make a man return to a country where he could be hanged?

  Who but the CIA could have promised him enough protection to calm his fears?

  Why bring him here? Why not send an assassin to Khartoum if they wanted him dead?

  My surmise has to be correct: Colonel Palermo is involved in something he doesn’t want Habib Rahal to know about. His first loyalty is to the CIA, not to Aziz al-Khalid, not to Egypt.

  *

  “Yes, yes, come in,” the familiar voice said.

  Yousef stepped past the guard and entered the library, hesitating at the door. “Your Excellency—”

  “Yes, come in, Yousef.”

  “Forgive me for disturbing you at this hour.”

  “It’s all right. Sit down. What’s on your mind?”

  Yousef watched him fold what looked like a letter and put it into the center drawer of his desk. He sat back, annoyed although pretending not to be. “And this is about…?”

  “An altercation on the street involving Colonel Palermo.”

  “An altercation?”

  Nothing in Aziz’s expression indicated that he knew about it or was surprised to learn of it. He just sat there as always—impassively waiting to be fed.

  “Colonel Palermo and his assistant cornered that man from Khartoum—the one they let escape—and killed him. Shkaki, his name is.”

  “He came back? They killed him?”

  “Habib Rahal, that one-eyed—”

  “Yes, I know who he is.”

  “I’m holding him for questioning. I thought you should know. “

  “You responded to a call? Why would they call you? Why not the city police?”

  “When I learned who was involved….”

  “And how did you learn? Did you know this Shkaki was in Egypt?”

  Why is he challenging me? “No. It was reported to me.”

  “What I’m asking, Yousef…. I assume this just happened, this evening?”

  “Yes. I came right here. I knew you would want—”

  “What I want is why. You see, it’s not the incident you’re reporting. If it were only that, you wouldn’t have rushed here to tell me about it. It’s Colonel Palermo you’re reporting on. If you didn’t know this Shkaki was in Cairo, or in Egypt, then you wouldn’t have had him under surveillance. It has to be Colonel Palermo you were watching. I want to know why. Because if you don’t trust him, you don’t trust me.”

  “No! I’m just—”

  “Doing your job. Yes, I know. So … let me put it this way: you’re obviously keeping a close watch on Colonel Palermo, having him followed, stationing people here and there to keep tabs on him. I’ve never asked you to do that. You’ve never reported that you’re doing it. So what’s going on? Don’t lie to me. This is very serious.”

  For too long Yousef sat with mouth open while Aziz laid this out for him. Never in all the time he had worked for Aziz had he been challenged like this.

  Yousef took a deep breath, searching for words to defend himself, trying not to show fear.

  “To you, he’s a friend, sir. To me, he’s an American working for the CIA. The Americans are to me no different from the British who ruled us and humiliated us until we finally drove them out. Now the Americans are here, doing the same. They’ve forced us to accept the Israelis whose existence contaminates the Umma.”

  “And you think I am on their side and not on yours,” Aziz said.

  “I wouldn’t judge your actions, sir. I’m just trying to explain how I feel. Colonel Palermo reports regularly to the CIA here in Cairo. He questions visits I have made to Sharm el-Shiek.”

  “What has he asked you?”

  “It’s just that he mentioned it. Why would he care what I do in the course of my duties? Maybe you recall a disturbance in Abu Awekila.”

  “It was in the news.”

  “Not that I went there. That was not publicly known.”

  Aziz seemed to acknowledge that while his gaze dwelled on Yousef’s face. He sat back and changed the subject. “Tell me about the woman.”

  Blood leaped to Yousef’s cheeks. Were they red? Did Aziz notice? “The woman?”

  “Yes, the one Bashir Yassin brought to the airport.”

  “I didn’t tell you about her?”

  “No.”

  “I’m sorry, sir. So much is happening.”

  “Where is she?”

  “We don’t know. She escaped. They escaped together.”

  “Who is she?”

  “The manifest listed her as Helen Nelson. She’s an American.”

  “And that’s all you know?”

  “I know that she’s married and that she came here from South America. I have a man trying to locate the taxi driver who met her at the airport. As soon as I learn anything….”

  “And that’s why you’re holding Habib Rahal? You think he knows about the woman?”

  “I’ll find out.”

  Yousef watched his Excellency frown, glance briefly at the framed photograph of his wife and daughter propped against his desk lamp, his expression thoughtful but impassive.

  “Is there anything else, Yousef?”

  “Not right now, but as soon as….”

  “Yes,” Aziz said, a weariness overtaking his expression.

  *

  On the highway, riding back to field headquarters, Yousef told himself again and again that he was in trouble. Aziz al-Khalid no longer trusts me. My career, everything I’ve worked for is in jeopardy!

  As though to clear his head, he focused on the prisoner waiting in the steel cage in the basement on al-Gamaliyyah Street. He will talk. He will tell me what the Americans are planning. I will bring this information to Aziz al-Khalid and be vindicated!

  Staring at the glass that separated him from the driver, he ranted: “You will tell me everything, you one-eyed son of a bitch, or you will never leave this building alive!”

  Muscles in his neck tightened against his skull, giving him a headache reminiscent of fits of anger in his childhood, enraged by helplessness, screaming at his father after his father had left the room.

  *

  Upstairs in Colonel Palermo’s suite, Bashir turned off the television and leaned forward in the chair and lowered his face into trembling hands. He had caught only a glimpse of the man they said was American. The reporter didn’t name
him. Bashir saw only his back when they loaded him into the ambulance. He caught a brief glimpse of Habib among the people in the background.

  It has to be the colonel! And he’s bleeding! He’s been stabbed!

  I can’t stay here! The police will examine his apartment!

  I can’t go to the lobby! They’ll be there!

  He glanced at the lighted numbers on a box on the television. It was after midnight.

  Aleyya!

  He ran to the phone, waited feverishly.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, holding the phone to his ear. “I’m sorry. I’m at that hotel.”

  “What? What time is it?”

  “You haven’t been watching?”

  “Watching what? You woke me up. I have to work—”

  “The police are looking for me, Aleyya. You have to help me. I can’t stay here!”

  He waited in a long silence, pressing his hand over pain in his chest. “Aleyya?”

  “Yes, I’m here.”

  He named the hotel and gave her directions. “There has to be a loading platform or something out back, maybe in an alley. It’ll be dark out there….”

  “No, I’ll never find it. I know where you are. Go to the mosque just up the street. Wait in the shadows. You’ll see my car.”

  He hurried down the emergency stairs and got lost in corridors below street level, choking on dust and unpleasant odors, almost tripping over a pail filled with gray soapy water. He found an old man wrapped in a rug just outside a small door.

  “Gehmi?” he said. “The mosque?”

  The old man rolled out of the rug and extended a frail arm, pointing down the alley.

  He thanked the man.

  He stumbled over broken cement at the end of the alley and ran toward the golden dome that rose against the faintly glowing sky.

  He waited in shadows for nearly an hour before Aleyya found him. The minute he was sitting next to her in the car, she started scolding him.

  “I told you, Bashir, there’d be trouble.”

  “Don’t. Please. I have a headache. I’m tired.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “It’s too complicated, Aleyya. The truth is I don’t know.”