Footprints in the Desert

by Maha Akhtar

  “Involving me in what?” Rania asked.

  “Never mind, I’ll explain later. For now, give me a sharp knife.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “I’ve got to try and stop this.”

  “But how, Noura?”

  “Don’t worry about me. You go find Salah.”

  Noura rushed out. She dug up the dirt the man had covered the electric cable with and pulled at the cable, but it was wedged in the bundle of dynamite. Gently, she cut it. She followed the cable and cut the second fuse.

  Sweating, Noura methodically went around, following the cable, and began to cut it where she couldn’t pull it out. Suddenly, she heard a short hissing sound. She froze and held her breath. But then it stopped.

  Her heart pounding and shaking with nerves, Noura continued. At the end of the lane, the cable disappeared. Noura looked around. Where was it? She turned right, but there was nothing there. Cautiously she double backed. Several hundred yards ahead, she saw two men unfurling cable from a large wooden spool. Noura ran along and found several more bundles of dynamite placed along buildings on either side of the lane. Working quickly, she was able to cut the cables until she reached the edge of the fruitsellers’ square. She could hear the cries of the sellers trying to attract customers.

  Looking left and right, Noura saw no one. And then out of sheer luck, one of the reed coverings on an empty fruit stand lifted up with the wind and Noura saw the same two men kneeling behind the stand. They were attaching the cable to the detonation box. There was a third man standing in the shadows. Noura panicked. She didn’t know what to do.

  “Shall we detonate, Sir?” one of them asked the man in shadow.

  “Blow them all up.”

  “Yes, Sir … take cover, Sir.”

  The second man pushed forcefully down on the lever of the box. A hissing sound began. Noura looked around. She had to hide. She saw a little wooden shed in the alley. She quickly ran and crouched down behind it. She covered her ears with her hands and closed her eyes tightly. Several seconds passed. But nothing happened. Suddenly, there was a small muted explosion. That wasn’t loud. It sounded more like a firecracker. Slowly and carefully, Noura peeked out from behind the shed. She saw shadows moving behind the reed covering. She strained her ears to hear what they were saying. One of the men was shouting.

  “Idiots! Bloody idiots!” she heard one of them shout. “This is a fiasco. You are not fit to call yourself soldiers.”

  There was a brief pause.

  “Clean this up immediately and meet me back at the house. And hurry. The police will be here soon. And make sure you don’t screw that up and get yourselves thrown in jail,” commanded the same angry voice.

  Noura quickly crouched down as the man pulled the reed shutter open and came storming toward the alley where she was hidden. She got a quick look at him as he walked by. He looked familiar, but she couldn’t place him. He was dressed like one of the strangers who came into Rania’s Café. Could it be the same man? As he buttoned his jacket, she caught a glimpse of a gun he was carrying. Noura put her hand to her mouth to stop herself from making any sounds.

  She stayed hidden until she was sure the man had gone and then came out.

  Bewildered, she made her way back to Rania’s Café. She stopped just short of the small square near the café and looked around.

  Stepping carefully, she made her way to the back door. Still dazed, she walked in and sat down at the table in the kitchen, the knife still in her hands. What could have happened? What happened to all that dynamite? Suddenly, the brick wall opened and Salah burst in.

  “Noura! Oh my God, Noura!” He took her in his arms and held her for several moments. Finally he pulled back and looked at her, tipping her chin so that she was looking up at him.

  “Are you all right?”

  Noura nodded. But she was shaking.

  “What happened?”

  “The Turks … ,” Noura whispered. “They were going to blow up the souk.”

  Salah took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “You saw them?”

  Noura nodded. “I cut the cables of all the dynamite bundles I could find,” she said, her voice shaking. “I don’t know how many there were. But I only heard one small explosion.”

  “There was only one,” Salah said. “It was near an empty stall on the edge of the fruitsellers’ square. It wasn’t very big.”

  “Was anyone hurt?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Did I manage to cut the cables of all the bundles?”

  “You must have.” Salah took her hands in his. “My brave, brave Noura. Thank God you are all right. I would never have forgiven myself if something had happened to you.”

  Noura nodded.

  “The local police have arrived. It’s in their hands now.”

  “Salah,” Noura said quietly. “I know you’re still involved.”

  Salah nodded.

  “I cannot lose you too,” she said.

  Salah paced up and down the hallway of his mother’s apartment. He was worried. The Turks were breathing down his neck. They had tried to get to everyone close to him to smoke him out. The dynamite at Rania’s was the closest they had gotten. He’d been waiting all morning for a note from Lawrence about when they were going to rescue Nassim. But nothing had arrived. This is taking too long. Nassim could be dead by now. I’m going to have to get him out myself.

  Salah looked out the window, his mind whirring. He saw his mother coming up the lane, her basket laden with fruits and vegetables. She stopped to talk to someone … it was a man. But from this angle, Salah couldn’t tell who it was. What if it was the same Turk his mother had told him about at the vegetable stand? No! Just as Salah was about to run into the street, his mother began walking toward the house. But she didn’t stop at the front door. She kept going and disappeared at the end of the lane. Salah was confused. Where did she go? Moments later, he heard someone in the kitchen. Carefully, he padded through the dining room and stood next to the door that led to the kitchen. He heard drawers being opened, the sound of water running, and someone humming. When he peeked around, it was Saydeh putting away her fruits and vegetables.

  “Imme?” he said, astonished. “How did you get here?”

  “I live here, son.”

  “I know, but I saw you in the lane below the living room.”

  “I took the back way.”

  “There’s a back way?”

  “Of course, isn’t there always?”

  Salah was flabbergasted.

  “Who was that man talking to you?”

  “He wanted to know where I bought this fruit.”

  “Fruit? That’s it?”

  “Yes, why? You’re very nervous today, Salah. Are you feeling well? Besides, why aren’t you at El Fishawy?”

  “I’m just going.”

  Damn it! Salah pulled the scarf angrily across his face and headed to El Fishawy. He was fed up with the whole situation and very worried about Noura and his mother and that the Turks were using them to get to him, not to mention Nassim. God only knows what condition he’s in.

  He ducked around the smallest alleyways following the little maps that Magdi devised every week.

  El Fishawy was not terribly crowded and most of the customers were sitting at tables that were closer to the street. Salah went straight to the back, where he sat down in a dark corner. He ordered a narghile and enquired if there was a special edition of the morning’s paper. He was told there wasn’t. Still nothing from Lawrence. Salah growled and hid behind a newspaper.

  A sinister-looking man in a black and red striped cotton galabiyya and a dark red turban sat several tables away, behind a plant, occasionally glancing toward Salah’s corner. He had very brown skin and wore an eye patch over his right eye. His left eye was lined with kohl. He had dark wavy hair that reached his shoulders. His closely trimmed beard looked more like a five o’clock shadow and he had a slim, perfectly trimmed moustache. Silver rin
gs adorned almost all his fingers and he wore a black bracelet on his left wrist. His hand bore a tattoo of a snake and another tattoo just below his Adam’s apple said “Allah” in Arabic calligraphy. Around his waist he wore a brown leather belt from which hung a scabbard that housed a Persian dagger with an ivory handle. Sitting on his lap was a small monkey wearing a red fez and a little red jacket, to whom the man occasionally fed some nuts.

  “Hello, Salah, you old bastard.”

  The voice sounded familiar.

  Very slowly, Salah lowered the newspaper and peeked over the top of it.

  “Nusair!” he cried, jumping up and hugging the Yemeni warmly. “What in the world are you doing here?”

  “Just passing through.” Nusair smiled, his white teeth gleaming against his black skin. As usual, he was wearing black pants, a white cotton sweater, and his classic white captain’s hat.

  The two men hugged and shook hands vigorously.

  “Come, sit down.” Salah dragged a chair from another table. “I am damn glad to see you. You’ve made my day.”

  Musa smiled.

  “How did you know I was here?”

  “I saw your mother in the bazaar,” Musa replied, ordering a glass of mango juice from a passing waiter. “And she mentioned that at this time of day, you would probably be here.”

  Salah rolled his eyes. “So it was you she was taking to!”

  “I told her not to tell you because I wanted to surprise you.”

  “Well you certainly did. So where are you headed?”

  “Aqaba. I’ve got a shipment for the Turks garrisoned there.”

  “Oh Nusair! Where’s your loyalty?”

  “You know it’s to you, brother,” Musa said, “but I have to live and eat and feed my wife and my seven children back in the Yemen. So I take work where I can get it. I don’t care if it’s English money or Turkish money or French money … if it’s honest money and I can make it relatively honestly, I don’t care.”

  “But don’t you care about what’s in the shipments?”

  Musa leaned forward. “We’re in the middle of a war, brother. I have a ship and I’m its captain. I don’t take sides in wars. My ship is for sale to the highest bidder.”

  “I’m so fed up with this damn war, Nusair,” Salah said.

  “You’re lucky to be alive, my friend.”

  “Yes, but do you know how hard it is to stay alive? Look at me, Nusair … I don’t exactly blend in. I’m several inches taller than the average man who walks around this souk, I even stick out in the mosque at prayers …”

  Musa laughed. “Those Turks must be really stupid if they haven’t caught you yet.”

  “I’m tired of hiding, of looking over my shoulder … I just hope in the end that it will have been worth it. That we get what we want … that my friends have not died for nothing.”

  Musa nodded. “What are you doing here?”

  “I’m waiting for a message from Lawrence.”

  “What’s going on?”

  Salah told him quickly about Nassim. “But it’s taking too damn long … I’ve got to get him out, Nusair. If anything happens to that boy, I will never forgive myself.”

  “So what do you want to do?”

  Suddenly, an idea dawned on Salah. “Listen, Nusair …”

  Musa sighed. “Now what?”

  “I want you to find Lawrence at the British Army headquarters,” Salah said. “Get him to tell you where the Turks are holding Nassim.”

  “Then what?”

  “Then you and I will go and get him. Lawrence is taking too long.”

  “You and me against the Turkish Secret Police? Have you gone mad?”

  “Fine! I will go by myself!” Salah said.

  “Masri … look, we have to think this through, don’t be rash.”

  “I’m done waiting, Nusair!” Salah exploded. “This is my boy. He’s in trouble because of me. I am going in there and getting him out.”

  “Do you have a plan?”

  “I will,” Salah said. “By the time you get back with the information.”

  “All right,” Musa conceded. “I’ll go.”

  Salah and Musa Nusair walked out of El Fishawy.

  At the same time, the man in the red and black galabiyya also got up, threw a couple of coins down on the table, and walked out behind them, his monkey sitting on his shoulders. The man tore off his eye patch, smiled at his little pet, and walked down the lane. When he looked up, Salah and Nusair had disappeared. Pursing his lips in annoyance, he looked at the monkey, who screeched and pointed to the alley on the right. The man ducked into it just as Salah and Nusair turned left at the next lane. Quickly, the man sprinted down and turned left, following them. The monkey screeched again, pointing as they turned right. The man hurried behind them. At the end of the alley, the man looked left and right. Salah and Nusair were nowhere to be seen. The man looked up at his monkey, who was also looking around perplexed. Suddenly, the monkey screeched and pointed in front of them and the man caught a glimpse of Salah disappearing down an alleyway. The man took off, running in the same direction. As he did, he reached down to hold the dagger in place at his waist. The man was catching up to Salah. But where was the other man who was with him?

  Suddenly, someone came up from behind him and grabbed him around the neck. The monkey screeched and jumped down, scampering away into the alley. The man immediately reacted and broke free, throwing his assailant over his head so that he lay on the ground in front of him, groaning. It was the black man who had been with Salah. The man wiped the spit from his mouth on the sleeve of his tunic. He whistled and the monkey came running back and leapt up onto the man’s arm and sat back down on his shoulders. The man unsheathed his dagger.

  “Where is Masri?” the man asked Musa, who slowly got to his feet.

  “No one’s been able to do that to me in quite a while, brother,” Musa said, grimacing as he tasted blood in his mouth.

  “Where is Masri?” the man repeated.

  “He’s gone,” Musa said, wiping his mouth with a handkerchief.

  “Look, I’m not looking for a fight with you, I’m looking for Masri.”

  “What do you want with Salah?” Musa asked.

  The man in the galabiyya looked at Musa through narrowed eyes. He looked around quickly. He knew Salah was around somewhere. He could sense it.

  The monkey screamed and the man whirled around just in time to see Salah lunge for him. Terrified, the monkey scampered off again. The lone man now faced both Musa and Salah. Salah lurched for him again and tried to get his arms around his back while Musa came with a frontal assault. But the man was trained. He kicked Salah in the shins and despite his height and weight, spun him around so that Salah and Musa knocked each other out, both of them on the alley cobblestones groaning in pain, holding their heads, which they had butted when they collided. The man whistled and his monkey came running back. He took a fig out of his pocket and gave it to the animal, who began munching on it. The man stood over the two men and slowly sheathed his dagger.

  “Salah Masri,” he said.

  Salah looked up. The man was offering him a hand to help him stand up. Dazed and confused, Salah took it.

  “My name is Charles … Charlie Hackett,” the man announced in a perfect English accent. “I bear regards and best wishes from Lieutenant Lawrence …”

  “Couldn’t he have sent a telegram or a card?” Musa said, still lying on his back.

  “Sorry, Sir.” Hackett offered his hand to Musa.

  “If this is Lawrence’s way of sending regards, I’d hate to think what he might do if he didn’t like you.” Musa adjusted his captain’s hat and brushed off the dirt.

  “Why were you following me?”

  “Oh, I wasn’t really following you, Sir,” Hackett replied.

  “Then?” Salah looked puzzled.

  “I’ve been assigned to you, Sir,” he said.

  “Assigned to me.”

  “Yes, Sir, to protect
you.”

  “What?” Salah said, shocked.

  “Well yes, Sir,” Hackett explained. “I’m part of British Special Forces.”

  “Well there you go, brother!” Musa gave Salah a friendly punch in the arm. “And here you were complaining Lawrence had abandoned you. Instead, he’s sent you your own personal bodyguard.”

  “And, judging by your accent, you’re English, right?” Salah asked Hackett.

  “English father, British Army officer, Lebanese mother, born in Beirut, Sir. Educated in London.

  “I also have a message from Lieutenant Lawrence … We meet at 2100 hours at the north east corner of the mosque.”

  Just as twilight spread across the Cairene sky, Salah walked through the souk to the main square in front of the mosque.

  On the northern side of the square toward Al-Azhar University, Salah thought he saw some shadows moving. The sky was not inky blue, but stars had started to twinkle and the half yellow moon was beginning to rise. He walked toward the shadows, spotting Lawrence as he got closer.

  “I am going in to get my boy out,” Salah said as they stole across the street, headed toward the university.

  Lawrence nodded. “Fair enough. Let’s go.”

  Silently, they arrived at the street where the Turks were holding Nassim. Lawrence handed Salah a pistol and bullets and let his men know that he and Salah were leading the raid.

  “Ready?” he looked at all of them.

  Everyone gave him the thumbs-up sign.

  They all headed to the small house, which was dark, except for one room. Directly inside the front gate were two Turks. The English soldiers pounced on them before they could sound the alert and held chloroform-filled cloths to their noses until they passed out on the ground.

  Six men fanned out across the small garden, two stayed at the front gate, and another four went around the back.

  Another four of Lawrence’s men approached the front door ahead of Lawrence and Salah and cautiously cracked it open. A dim light revealed a large, shadow-filled foyer. A brighter light was shining under one of the doors off the foyer. Salah indicated he was going into that room. Slowly he opened the door, his gun poised in front of him. It was an office and it was empty. Salah softly closed the door and turned around, indicating to the others that there was no one inside. Suddenly, a couple of men appeared at the top of the stairs.