Youssef turned to Moustafa and shot him a suspicious stare. “I can’t believe what you did!”
Moustafa remained silent. He watched the last few passengers as they made their way through the cabin aisles in business class, his mind on Noora.
“Don’t you think our people have a bad enough reputation?” Youssef whispered angrily. “Not only in Paris, but in the world?”
Moustafa gritted his teeth, wishing he could shut Youssef up.
“Every time they see a dark-skinned man, whether Middle Eastern or Mexican, Sudanese or South African,” Youssef went on lecturing, “especially a man with a thick black mustache like yours,” he gave it a sudden yank, “everyone assumes you’re on a suicide mission, ready to explode in a public place!”
Moustafa never felt more humiliated. How dare Youssef touch his mustache in such an embarrassing manner! He moved his body closer to the window, but he was still too close to Youssef. Moustafa had to control his anger. Soon it would be Youssef who would be humiliated—they would all regret it—when the truth came out that they had been made fools! Fooled by a young woman, no less. He did not want her to roam around the world, enjoying life, that whore, doing more sinful things to other men! It still angered him every time he thought of how she had looked at him in that restaurant in London with such disdain. She had to die. First, he had to watch her on her knees, begging, pleading for her life. Shit, he realized he was infatuated. No! He just wanted to touch her! Then, he wanted to watch her beg. Then she would get what she deserved …
“How many times I warned you!” Youssef went on, barging into Moustafa’s furious thoughts. “And how could you leave our luggage in the middle of the airport!”
Moustafa waited for Youssef to finish his speech. Youssef always thought he was superior because he had more education, but he was the idiot. None of them had seen her body taken out of the pool. They had been criminally careless, and they had all failed in their duty to Mr. Farid Fendil.
He allowed a long silence before calmly turning to Youssef. “You are right. What I did was wrong.”
Youssef picked the airline magazine from the seat pocket in front of him and started leafing through it angrily. “Fasten your seat belt, homar.”
The flight to the United States seemed endless, but Moustafa kept calm, reminding himself that he had a plan. When he returned to Paris, he would hire the best private detectives to find her.
As they landed in New York, Youssef was still frowning. Before reaching up to the overhead bin and retrieving their carry-on luggage, Youssef looked down at Moustafa and said sternly, “I’ll be watching you.”
Moustafa remained silent.
At New York’s La Guardia Airport, two members of the MOFHAJ greeted Moustafa and Youssef. They were clad in the same dark gray suits and red ties. Together and in perfect unison, they marched out the gate and waited at the baggage claim. When they retrieved their luggage, they filed out to the sidewalk, where a black stretch limousine waited.
Inside the car, Youssef finally spoke. “How is the sheik?”
“We are told the honorable Sheik Abdullah Kharoub is recovering well.”
“Hamdallah, thanks be to God,” a burly MOFHAJ member nodded.
“Hamdallah,” everyone repeated.
They exchanged no further words until they arrived at the hospital in Manhattan and were directed to the oncology floor, where a few other MOFHAJ men were waiting.
One by one, they filed into the sheik’s hospital room to pay their respects. Sitting on a high-back chair, the sheik looked pale as chalk. He had lost weight. His thick beard was so thinned out, there was hardly anything left. Moustafa noticed a tube going into his chest. The sheik was smiling and appeared genuinely glad to see his men. Moustafa saw that all of his headmen were present, including four of his eldest sons.
“It’s a new approach,” Moustafa heard the sheik explain. “There is no guarantee; it’s all experimental, but I am in the hands of Allah now, and I am doing well, hamdallah,” he said. “I already had four weeks of this revolutionary chemotherapy,” he added, pointing to the IV going through his chest. “I have twelve more weeks to go. They call it triple blockade. They won’t have to poke me through the veins anymore.” He looked down at his chest. “You can barely see it, and now I can barely feel it while they slowly drip the medicine that kills the cancer. It’s a Portocath … less than an inch in diameter. The size of an American quarter. They call it a port … ”
Moustafa was shocked to find out that the sheik had been diagnosed with prostate cancer two years before. Two years and no one told him? Cancer cells had ravaged the sheik’s body and gone into his bones, he told them, and it was too late to operate. The more he spoke about his illness, the more Moustafa felt ill-at-ease.
“The prostate specialists in Paris said I had less than eighteen months to live. Allah guided me to the Egyptian oncologist who is right now in New York, that’s why I had to come here. But he just announced he will be opening a special clinic in Jordan. So I will be in good hands. That doctor is in great demand. He is a genius. A Muslim. Right now he is lecturing at Harvard University. Imagine that. Because we have smart, educated men and Allah is on our side. Hamdallah…”
“Hamdallah,” everyone chanted, standing with their heads bowed respectfully, their hands folded in front of them.
Moustafa stood behind his peers by the wall, next to the door. The IV going into the sheik’s chest made Moustafa queasy. As long as there was no spilling of blood, he thought he could tolerate standing there. However, he was feeling progressively worse. If he fainted, it would be a disgrace.
The sheik said his “PSA” had gone back down to zero. What did that mean?
Sheik Abdullah Kharoub had been Moustafa’s mentor. He provided him, and many other men, with respectable jobs they would never have had otherwise. Most of the MOFHAJ men came from poor families in rural villages throughout the Middle East. But how could Moustafa look up to the sheik now? He remembered reading in a magazine that a man with prostate cancer could not have an erection. A terrible revelation. A curse! With his facial hair nearly gone, his revered mentor was … well, no longer a man.
Without wanting to, Moustafa had been staring at the IV, feeling more and more queasy. He bowed, praying to be dismissed and released from the hospital room that smelled like medicine and illness.
He drew a breath of relief when the MOFHAJ members were finally allowed to leave. Like a procession, the men marched to the exit—Moustafa feeling better with each step that took him away from the hospital room. Now that they had paid their respects to the sheik, Moustafa should receive a paycheck for his last assignment. He certainly deserved a vacation. After he brought back the Fendil girl, the sheik would assign him more important jobs; he was sure of that. And Youssef would be diarrhea-green with envy. Soon enough, that time would come.
Outside the hospital, Moustafa and Youssef waited their turn for a cab. Youssef suddenly turned to Moustafa. “I almost told the sheik about your irresponsible behavior,” he said. “But I didn’t want to agitate him at this time.”
Moustafa was alarmed but tried to conceal it.
Riding in the cab, he was quiet. Youssef would do such a thing? Betray Moustafa, his own cousin? When I catch the slut, you’ll be on your knees, licking my balls!
When Youssef and Moustafa reached their room at the Marriott near the airport, Moustafa turned to Youssef and looked him straight in the eye. “My behavior has been unforgivable,” he bluffed. “I will give no further cause for concern. I have sworn to protect and obey,” he said, looking steadily at his cousin.
Youssef gave a quick nod and said nothing further.
During the night, Youssef tossed restlessly in his bed while mumbling discernible words. “No … not … my time …”
Youssef’s mumbling gave Moustafa an eerie feeling; he lay awake wishing he could have his own room. At dawn, when Moustafa had finally fallen asleep, someone banged on the door. He jolted out of a dee
p slumber and wobbled over to answer it.
Youssef was sound asleep. That son of a dog can sleep through a bomb, Moustafa thought as he opened the door. A thick envelope was handed to him by a MOFHAJ member.
“Was that room service?” Youssef asked, lifting his head from the pillow, his eyes barely open.
“No,” Moustafa said, praying it was their payroll checks and feeling the envelope. “Looks like airline tickets.” Moustafa sat down at the edge of his bed. If Allah is with me, they will be for Paris. “There’s a note attached,” he said, holding the envelope toward the faint light coming from the window. “Says we are to open the envelope immediately and follow instructions.” He handed the envelope and note to Youssef, who was trying to shake the sleep from his eyes.
“Turn on the light. Open it.”
“You know it is my duty to give sealed envelopes to you first, as my senior partner,” Moustafa said.
“I grant you permission. Read it,” Youssef said, shuffling to the bathroom.
Moustafa switched on the lamp by his bedside. He opened the envelope. “Payroll checks,” he said loud enough for Youssef to hear. With fury, he noticed that Youssef was compensated almost twice as much for the same assignment. He scanned the typewritten words on MOFHAJ letterhead. “We are to leave this afternoon.” He looked away as Youssef urinated loudly in the bathroom. Moustafa felt his stomach churn.
“Going home, I hope, if it is the will of Allah,” Youssef said from the bathroom. “We are due a little time off. I will be grateful to see my wife and all my kids.”
Moustafa examined the tickets. “Cairo!” he exclaimed. His heart sank. Cairo? How could he be so unlucky, he wondered, reading the instructions.
“We are to leave New York … and go to … Cairo.”
“Finally. Then where?”
“Wait at the gate in Cairo. There, we are to receive instructions for our next assignment,” Moustafa said. He recognized the sheik’s signature on the bottom of the paper, which was as good as God’s final words.
Moustafa sat staring at the wall, nearly paralyzed.
“It must be for a very important government official. Otherwise, they would have given us more information,” Youssef said. “Let me see those tickets.”
Youssef and Moustafa arrived at La Guardia early. EgyptAir’s gate opened its door for passengers to board the plane. Youssef handed over both tickets—his and Moustafa’s—to the agent. He treated Moustafa like a kid who had misbehaved. Moustafa wished he could knock Youssef’s teeth out.
Youssef settled on the aisle seat in business class. Passengers were starting to pour in and find their assigned seats. The moment there was a break on the aisle, Moustafa turned to Youssef.
“Aii, I have a bad case of diarrhea,” he announced and unbuckled his seatbelt.
“What?” Youssef asked, annoyed.
“Must’ve been that sea bass last night,” Moustafa said, rising and holding the seat in front of him for support. “Excuse me, but if I could just sit in the bathroom for a while,” he whispered loudly as Youssef barely gave him room to squeeze out. Moustafa made his way through the busy aisles to the rear of the aircraft. He closed the door to one of the stalls in coach. Moments later, he emerged. An airline hostess had her back to him.
“Miss, oh miss,” he said in Arabic to the young woman.
She turned to Moustafa with a friendly smile.
“I’m sorry, but I’m afraid I’ll need to use the facilities often. I think I caught a serious stomach flu or food poisoning …”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
As passengers were settling in before takeoff, Moustafa spotted Youssef peering over his shoulder from his seat ahead. “Is there an empty seat near the … the toilets?”
“Mr. Youssef Sammek?” the hostess asked, bending to Youssef’s ear and whispering. Then, louder, as she rose to give way to other arriving passengers through the aisle, she concluded. “If he doesn’t come back to his assigned seat by the time we take off, I told him he can sit in coach. We have a few empty seats in the rear of the plane, near the lavatories.”
“Thank you,” Youssef answered, embarrassed. When she walked away, Youssef shook his head, mumbling curses to himself.
Inside the lavatory cubicle, Moustafa opened the door a crack and managed to slide the latch to “Occupied” with the tip of a long key. He closed the door. While two other airline stewardesses were busy helping passengers tuck luggage in overhead compartments, Moustafa swiftly ducked his way through an open rear door, tailing two mechanics who were deplaning.
With the crew and passengers all busy preparing for departure, it seemed no one saw Moustafa disembark. He meandered down the covered walkway. He sure as hell didn’t expect it to be so easy. But if he were to change his mind, he would probably have a hard time getting back on board, he realized, because Youssef had kept his boarding pass stub.
He mounted a cement staircase that appeared to be heading back up to the gates.
“Hey! Where are you going?” a security guard challenged him at the landing.
Moustafa froze. Youssef’s words rang in his ears. “Every time they see a dark-skinned man … bushy mustache, like yours …” He’d been caught. He’d get into more shit with Youssef.
“Where are you going?” the security guard queried again.
“Sorry. I am picking up my wife … and my family …” he managed to say, sweat pouring out of him.
“You need to go through that door. This area is forbidden! How did you get here?”
“I … I don’t know. I was searching for the men’s room. The agent upstairs told me to take the elevator. I don’t know how I got down here. I am lost.”
“You took the wrong elevator,” the security guard said, shaking his head. He pointed to an elevator behind Moustafa. “Push the M button. It’ll take you back to the mezzanine. Then turn to your left and follow the signs.”
“Oh, thank you, sir.”
Moustafa could hardly believe he was actually standing at the airport, back at the gate and looking out the window. His airplane was pulling away from the gate now. He waited a few more minutes and watched the aircraft taxi out to one of the runways. I’d better not stand here, he thought. What if Youssef could see him through the airplane window? No, that could not be possible. His seat was on the opposite side of the plane. Better not take chances, he told himself, rushing down one of the long corridors in search of the men’s room. He chortled to himself. Youssef probably thinks I’m still on the plane, shitting. Who’s the homar now, Youssef? Luckily, he had convinced his partner to stop at the bank before they got to the airport. With more than $5,000 in his pocket, and after exchanging his dollars to francs, Moustafa had enough to get around Paris for a while and hire a good detective. But how would he explain to Youssef and the sheik that he had deplaned just because he was ill? What else was he to do? He would justify that he had rushed to get back on the plane, but it left without him. Surely they would have to believe his story. However, the sheik no longer mattered—an impotent man. A man who was not man enough to grow a beard or mustache anymore. A dying man. He could no longer be his mentor.
Moustafa made his way to the men’s room, entered a stall, and sat on the toilet so he could have some quiet time to analyze his complicated predicament. He rested both elbows on his knees. He would tell it like this: He had a terrible … No, he had an embarrassing case of diarrhea. He thought he could make it to the men’s room at the gate—because all the lavatories were occupied? No, because the stewardess didn’t let him use the lavatories so soon before takeoff? He was in no condition to travel at that time, really. Yes, that’s what he would tell them: He would say that he thought he had time to make it back on board the plane, and it left without him. He had to stick to a smart and simple alibi.
If the slut went down to the baggage claim only one day ago, he calculated, she still had to be in Paris. He reached inside the breast pocket of his jacket and pulled out his wallet. From a worn le
ather compartment, he removed three photographs of Noora—five-by-sevens he had folded in half and trimmed to fit in his wallet. He would scan those pictures in a computer and change hair colors for the detectives to see the many faces of the sharmouta. Perhaps he didn’t need a detective. Why waste good money? Maybe she was at Le Crillon. Or the George V Hotel. Or the Ritz? Where else would a girl like that stay? Other than in bed with some rich ibn kalb! “Slut!” he muttered, feeling a stabbing pain of jealousy.
Ten minutes later, Moustafa headed to the gift shop. He purchased a razor and mirrored sunglasses and returned to the men’s room. Twenty minutes later, a clean-shaven Moustafa walked toward the TWA ticket counter.
He had not been without a mustache since he grew one when he was sixteen years old. His upper lip felt naked and uncomfortably cool.
He put on his sunglasses and started down the long walkway to the ticket counter, his mind on his lost mustache. There seemed to be some commotion. Women started screaming. People behind him were shouting, running back toward him. He turned. I’ve been caught, he thought. But how? Did Youssef tell the pilots that his partner was missing? Crowds were gathering in front of the airport monitors while other people were running to the huge glass windows surrounding the gates.
“Did you hear?” Moustafa heard one man behind him say to another.
“Oh my God!” a woman shouted. “It’s not possible.”
A few feet away from him, a Middle Eastern woman in traditional black robe and headdress fainted. While some people ran to her help, others were screaming and crying.
What’s going on? I’d better get out of here, Moustafa thought. But suddenly, he couldn’t move. His body felt like a clump of cement. He began to shiver furiously and his skin crawled with cold sweat. He stared blankly up at the monitor. His flight to Cairo flashed red: “See Agent.”
He heard the news; he didn’t need an agent to confirm it. The flight he was supposed to be on, the huge aircraft with all the people, hundreds of them, with Youssef, had crashed less than fifty miles out, into the ocean.
Light of the Desert Page 48