Tourists and passersby quickly fled the ever-increasing ring of angry Muslims.
And in the middle was Gilead, covering his head as he was pummeled.
Soon, Muslim worshipers from the el Azhar, Bab Zuweila, and Emir Khair Bey Mosques nearby—and from as far as the El Hakim Mosque, a full three kilometers away—were streaming into the streets and running toward the Square across from the imposing fortress walls of the Citadel.
Three Egyptian squad cars and several blue-jacketed Egyptian police on foot arrived at the scene and began swinging their batons at the crowd to break it up. The commanding officer at the scene, using a bullhorn, instructed the crowd to disperse immediately.
But without waiting for a response, one of the officers lobbed a tear-gas canister into the mob. Robed men collapsed to the ground coughing and gagging.
The captain with the bullhorn set it down, put on his gas mask, and waded into the crowd swinging his baton left and right, hitting heads and torsos. When he came to the vortex of the mob, where Gilead Amahn had fallen to the ground bleeding from the nose and blinded by the tear gas, coughing and gagging, the captain grabbed him by the neck and dragged him out of the center of the now disorganized crowd, off to a curbside.
When Gilead tried to sit up, he was struck on the back with the officer’s baton and collapsed down to the ground again. In a few minutes, after the tear gas had begun clearing, the captain removed his gas mask, wiped the sweat from his face, and then knelt down next to his captive.
“What is your name?” The officer was rifling Gilead’s pants pockets and removing his wallet.
“Hassan Gilead Amahn,” Gilead gasped out.
“So, you speak Egyptian Arabic. Are you Egyptian?” the officer asked.
Gilead nodded.
“Are you a Coptic Christian?”
Gilead shook his head no. The officer studied Gilead’s passport and driver’s license as he was still recovering.
“You live in America?”
“Yes. From the time that I was a boy,” Gilead said, clearing his throat.
“Why did you leave Egypt?”
“My father took me. He got a job in America. I went to school there.”
“You’re not a Muslim. You’re not a Coptic. What are you?”
Gilead lifted up his right hand. It was wrapped around a small pocket Bible. He handed it to the officer, who glanced at it.
“What you’ve done is forbidden,” he snapped. “You are a fool. Now lie down on your stomach. Face down. Arms at your sides. Stay in that position until I tell you to get up.”
The officer rose to his feet and flipped on his walkie-talkie.
“And if you move,” he warned Gilead, “then you will die a fool’s death.”
18
GILEAD HAD BEEN DRAGGED in handcuffs to the Egyptian police station and finally to the small cement-block interrogation room. He was seated in a metal chair that had been bolted to the cement floor. While he waited for his interrogator to appear, one of the jailers brought him his wallet.
Gilead opened it and, not surprisingly, found that the small number of Egyptian pounds that had been left there had been removed.
After five minutes a captain of the Egyptian police nonchalantly strolled into the room, a man in his early forties with a well-trimmed moustache and carefully combed hair, which had been dyed black to cover the gray.
He wore the black Egyptian police department uniform with gold epaulets at the shoulders. His coat was unbuttoned in the front, revealing his black police tie and white shirt. He was wetting a finger and applying it to a small coffee stain on his shirt.
Sauntering over to a metal desk, he wheeled the small chair from behind the desk to a position immediately in front of Gilead. Then he sat down and lit a cigarette.
After taking a long draw and blowing it up into the air, he held out his pack to Gilead.
“Cigarette?”
“No, thank you.”
“Do you know why you’re here? Do you know why you were arrested?”
“I’m not sure—”
“Because you committed the crime of contempt of religion. You slandered the heavenly religion. Under Egyptian law that is a serious offense. You should know that. You are an Egyptian also. Is that not true?”
Gilead nodded.
“Your passport shows you are an American. Why are you here in Cairo?”
“I’m here as a messenger of God,” Gilead said quietly in Egyptian Arabic.
The captain leaned back in his chair and took another long draw from his cigarette. He blew several smoke rings, and then waited until they dissipated before he continued.
“Messenger of God. Yes. Cairo sees many of those. The caliphs and the muftis. But there is only one great messenger of God. There is only one true prophet. His name is Muhammad. And you have come here to Cairo to insult him. In front of the Great Citadel. In the square named after our hero, Salah ad-Din. You came to that sacred place to insult us?”
“I came to insult no one,” Gilead replied.
“But you’re not a Muslim?”
“No.”
“And you’re not a Coptic Christian?”
“I am not a Coptic.”
“Well,” the captain said, picking something from his teeth with his fingernail, “ninety percent of us, as you know, are Muslims here in Egypt. The other ten percent are Coptics. That doesn’t leave much room for outside prophets like yourself.”
Gilead studied the captain but did not reply.
“Do you believe you’re a prophet?”
Again silence.
The captain rolled his chair up so that he was only a few inches from Gilead’s face. The captain placed the heels of both of his patrol shoes down onto the toes of his prisoner’s feet and began to press down hard.
“I asked you a question. I need to know whether you are a prophet.”
“You have said it,” Gilead replied cryptically.
“On the other hand,” the captain continued, “you don’t come out of the desert into the city like most of the prophets—you come from America to Cairo. Tell me…what did you do in America?”
“I was an assistant pastor in a Christian church. In West Virginia…”
“Tell me about this West Virginia—what kind of place is it?”
“It was a small church. In a very remote, rural part of West Virginia.”
“Wilderness? Would you say that it was wilderness?”
“You could say that,” Gilead said cautiously.
“So, perhaps you do think you are a prophet. Out of the wilderness of West Virginia and into Cairo—preaching like an infidel—or maybe you’re just an agitator. Are you an agitator?”
Gilead was silent.
“Tell me right now. Who were you meeting with here in Cairo?”
“I am not meeting with anyone. I came alone.”
“What are the names of your groups? What terrorist network are you part of?”
“I am not a terrorist. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
The Egyptian police captain slowly rolled his chair back and stood up. He took a few more puffs on his cigarette and then threw it to the ground, crushing it with his boot.
“I know all about you. Surely you know that. All about the death of your mother. Jadeah. Obviously not an Arabic name. It was not her given name. Excuse me for saying it, but she was a very misguided woman. I know about your father taking you to the United States. And many other things…are you going to be truthful with me now?”
“I told you the truth. And you’ve rejected the truth—”
“So. You want to play the part of a prophet. But you know how they all end up. I’m sure you’ve visited the tombs of the pharoahs in Giza. You will end up like them. You know the old Egyptian saying? You’re Egyptian too—surely you remember it. ‘The sun rises in the east so that it may die in the west.’ But you’ve turned things around…”
Gilead looked at his captor with curiosity.
&nbs
p; “The sun may rise in the east so that it can die in the west—but you’ve come from the west, apparently, with the desire to die in the east.”
And with that the Egyptian police captain chuckled to himself, which turned into a coughing spell.
When the coughing stopped, he walked up to the American, stepping again with the heels of his boots on his toes.
“Tell me, do you know Muhammad Wafa?”
Gilead shook his head no.
“How about Tarek Dahab?”
“No,” Gilead said, wincing with pain.
“How about Hisham Ghani or Tarek al-Ashkar?”
“I know none of these men,” Gilead said through gritted teeth.
The Egyptian police captain studied his face and then, after a few more moments of twisting his heels back and forth, grinding down, he took a step backward.
“Just wondering…because these four men—the human-rights agitators talk all the time about these four men. Most unfortunate. Some people say they were tortured after they were arrested and then killed while in our custody. I, of course, know nothing about this. Truly a shame…just wondering if you knew them…”
Then the captain lowered his face down close to Gilead’s. And with breath that stank of cigarette smoke, he gave his last warning.
“Mr. Amahn, I would suggest that you answer all of our questions. And give us as much information as you know. Because, if you do not—things could be very uncomfortable for you.”
With that, the police captain turned, buttoned his jacket, and strode out of the room. After a few moments a jailer entered the room and escorted Gilead to his cell. On the way Gilead asked whether he could make a phone call.
The man laughed but did not answer.
“How much for a phone call?” Gilead asked.
The jailer stopped, looked down to both ends of the corridor, and then whispered, “One hundred pounds. Egyptian.”
Gilead rolled back the cuff of his pants, opened the seam, and pulled out a one-hundred-pound note.
The jailer smiled through his bushy moustache and stained teeth.
“You get a bargain today,” the guard said, laughing. Then he added, “Tomorrow, the price goes up—to two hundred pounds.”
19
WILL HAD BEEN IN HIS OFFICE for only half an hour that morning when Hilda, his secretary, buzzed him on the intercom.
“Will, you’ve got a call. Overseas. It’s from Egypt. And it’s collect.”
“Who is it?”
“Gilead Amahn,” she said. “He said he has only a few moments to talk.”
Will had the call immediately transferred to his desk.
“Gilead, what are you doing in Egypt?”
“It would take too long to explain,” the young man said in a rushed whisper. “I’ve been arrested. I’m in the Egyptian police department. In the station nearest the Citadel. Just remember that it’s the Egyptian police building over in the Islamic quarter—”
“What did they arrest you for?”
“I think they call it ‘contempt of religion.’ Something like that…”
This is déjà vu all over again, Will thought to himself.
“Have you been formally charged?”
“That’s not the issue here—it’s not a matter of a formal trial. The point is, if you don’t intervene, I think it will probably be too late.”
“I’ll make some phone calls immediately,” Will assured him. “You’re still an American citizen…we may have to use diplomatic channels.”
“Have to go,” Gilead said hurriedly and then the phone hung up.
Will burst out his door and into the office of Jacki Johnson, his senior legal associate. She was knee-deep in research for a motions hearing scheduled for the next day.
Will sat down in the chair opposite Jacki’s desk. Jacki was an attractive black woman in her late thirties. She had been married to her husband, Howard, for a number of years and was now four months pregnant with their first child. As she eyed Will, she knew the frenzied, obsessed look. She had seen it before—during all the years she had worked with him in and out of courtrooms around the country and the world.
“So it’s not a matter of whether it’s an emergency,” Jacki observed sardonically. “It’s a matter of whether Jacki is going to jump into the fray alongside Will Chambers, hero of the oppressed and the underdog. Do I have it about right?”
“Oh, I suppose so,” Will replied. “Here’s the deal. You remember Gilead Amahn. He’s the disorderly conduct guy who was arrested for preaching at the Islamic Center and sparking a riot…”
Jacki was already nodding that she remembered the case.
“He’s over in Egypt,” Will explained. “Arrested by the Cairo police. Apparently he has offended the Muslims over there as well. I don’t know the details…what I’ve explained to you is about as much as I know. But I need your help. I think that we both have to start working the system together. I’m going to start making calls to the State Department. Amahn is an American citizen. He was naturalized a number of years after he came here as a young boy. I’ll do what I can to get the State Department to intercede and ensure that we can get him legal representation…or maybe I need to make arrangements to go over there. Or get local counsel for him. I’ll figure that out later. Meanwhile, I’d like you to call the Egyptian embassy here and start making a fuss about the conditions of his arrest. Tell them we want a full investigation—you know that Egypt has a bad record with some of their detainees. They have a habit of disappearing, or being tortured, or ending up dead.”
Jacki nodded solemnly. But after a moment’s reflection she felt compelled to add something.
“Didn’t that kid learn anything in that trial that you had in district court here in Virginia? Did he really think that he could go over there to Cairo and pull the same thing?”
“Well, with all due respect, I don’t agree with your characterization. I think it’s more complicated than that.”
“Look, Will, I’m just being a pragmatist,” Jacki added. “You can’t go into a Muslim country and start preaching the Christian religion and then act surprised when you end up being roughed up—”
Will was back on his feet and halfway to the door when he turned around. He was about to say something, but stopped.
Jacki studied Will’s face.
“All right, counselor, what are you thinking right now?”
“Something Gilead told me before he left the United States. At the end of his case. I didn’t know where he was heading. But he kept acting as if he had some kind of divinely orchestrated appointment. Next thing I know he calls me from Egypt. I wonder what’s going on.”
Jacki took it in, and then remembered something.
“Wasn’t Gilead Amahn the one,” she said, thinking back, “who was detained by the feds for a while? The idea was that maybe he was a suspected terrorist. And then suddenly they dissolved the detainer and let him go. That was before his trial, right?”
Will nodded.
“Yeah. And I never got to the bottom of that. I made a fuss, made some demands for information. But I ended up getting stonewalled by the Justice Department.”
Will lingered in the doorway for a moment.
“And don’t think that the federal detainer, and the terrorist suspicions, haven’t weighed on my mind.”
“You think there’s something to it?” Jacki asked.
“I guess it’s really easy for me to say no. The kid has great parents. And he’s a straight shooter. He told me point-blank he had no terrorist associations or affiliations. I see nothing in his background to indicate anything different. But there’s something that I can’t put my finger on…I don’t know what it is.”
Will changed mental gears and added, “So contact the Egyptian embassy ASAP. And let’s put our heads together within the hour and compare notes. Okay?”
Jacki nodded, and Will stepped down the hall, waving off several messages from Hilda, and disappeared into his office.
; He put a phone call through to the State Department, scrolling through his electronic memo pad until he came up with the direct line for Deputy Secretary of State Bob Fuller. He had contact with Fuller a number of years previous because of a civil suit that Will had brought against the Sudanese government. The State Department had cooperated with him, and Will and Fuller had developed a cordial, though limited, acquaintance.
But Will was able to contact only Fuller’s secretary, who assured him she would have him return the call at his earliest convenience.
Next, Will placed a call to his old friend Len Redgrove. He had wanted an excuse to get in touch with his friend and mentor, and this was the perfect opportunity.
But when Will called Redgrove’s cabin in the Blue Ridge Mountains, he received only his voice mail.
Will decided to leave a lengthy message. It ended with a few of the basic facts surrounding the case.
“…so I do need to talk to you, Len. This Gilead Amahn is the same one I represented who was charged with starting a riot at the Islamic Center. Next thing I know he shows up in Cairo, Egypt. Apparently he’s caused an uproar over there—I presume by doing some more preaching. Because he told me he was being held by the Egyptian police in Cairo on a charge of contempt of religion. So that’s all I know…obviously, I need your help on this. I’d love your insights into the Egyptian court system. And also, old friend, I sure would like to catch up with you. We haven’t talked since the banquet…so, give me a call as soon as you can. Fiona sends her love.”
But Will Chambers could not have known that Len Redgrove was seated in his living room, staring at the answering machine and listening to the message, word for word, as Will spoke it. The professor had his hands folded in a posture of intense contemplation as he sat as immovable as a stone sphinx.
20
FORTY-EIGHT HOURS INTO HIS INCARCERATION in the Cairo police building, a jailer appeared in Gilead’s cell.
“You must have big friends. Very big friends…”
“What do you mean?”
“Somebody called from the American embassy. Very concerned about you. So—you’re out today…isn’t that good?”
The Last Judgment Page 9