Sarai

by Lilya Myers

  And then all of a sudden, what seemed like overnight, Kafele had become this very dark, callous, and dangerous man who had managed to extricate himself from Aswad’s grip while he was still a teenager. It made Saib more than a little bit jealous and also curious about the other bastard son called Kafele.

  “I ordered you to come directly back to Cairo,” Aswad persisted. He would rather have Omar and Saib together in the room when he questioned them about the plane crash. Observing their reactions would reveal or dispel that nagging feeling of distrust.

  Saib was beginning to tire of this cat and mouse game. Throwing him this next wrench should have the desired effect he needed.

  “Have you seen Kafele lately?” Saib asked, deliberately ignoring Aswad’s command and knowing that mention of Kafele would unravel his father. Aswad’s inability to control exposed his weakness.

  Silence.

  Kafele’s absence had become an increasingly irritating thorn in Aswad’s side. They seemed to detest each other with growing intensity and Saib had made note of that fact. One would think Aswad would order him off the compound. Oddly, Kafele wasn’t budging either. No one seemed to know when he was there or when he wasn’t and Saib didn’t try to analyze it as long as mention of Kafele’s name brought the result he needed.

  Saib broke the deafening silence on the other end of the phone. Precisely the reaction he hoped for. It wasn’t necessary to pursue conversation about Kafele after that. “Look, there is nothing more I could tell you if I was in Cairo right now sitting across from you. I really do need to clear my mind and have a little fun for a few days. You do understand, I’m sure. I’ve been working very hard at classes and the problems on campus provided this much-needed break.” Especially since you see that I’m wasting your money anyway at what you think is a useless attempt to make me half as brilliant as you.

  Saib went on without waiting for a response. He was enjoying this. “And what would you have me do, father? Travel nearly eight thousand miles all the way to Egypt and back just to have this very same conversation? I can be back in Oakland in just little over an hour. I have to fly halfway around the world to come to you. We both want me to get your money’s worth for my education in America. You wouldn’t be getting that if I was in Egypt, not to mention the cost of airfare.”

  Aswad only imagined what kind of fun Saib would be looking for in Los Angeles. He reveled in how he thought his son’s perverted mind worked, but he didn’t really know Saib at all. He thought that, in some ways, there was little difference between him and this son. They both knew when and how not to let some things get in the way of their higher purpose.

  Saib had grown up learning the meaning of cunning from the master. Surely his father knew that Los Angeles was a very interesting place. It was like every big city where any kind of sex could be bought for a price. That was exactly where he wanted his father’s mind to travel. “I promise, I will come when we break at University,” Saib added in a conciliatory voice.

  In actuality, his father didn’t know just how industrious a student Saib was and what a formidable opponent he had become. Where Saib might be lacking in predicting certain outcomes, he excelled in what actually made him a straight A student. Saib reported grades to Aswad that were comfortably below average. That’s exactly how Aswad thought of him. Below average. Make that, way below average. It gave Aswad enough confidence to think that he could keep Saib under his thumb. The fact was, Saib had maintained a 4.0 average and made the Dean’s List every semester. This would be his ticket to freedom. His standing earned him the ability to take a number of his classes as independent studies, which gave him a lot of latitude with his professors. More time to pursue other interests. Still, Aswad’s nature was to be persistent and inflammatory. “Wah-led ghayr shahr-ee.” Aswad said, spitting the words meant to remind Saib that he was a bastard son. “You’ve given me all kinds of excuses for disobeying me. Do you not know what an order is?”

  Saib snapped his mouth shut on what he really wanted to say – You mean from one bastard to another, dear father? You’d be surprised at how well I know many of your secrets. For now, he let those words slide back down his throat. One day. Soon. You will choke in your own blood with that word on your lips. Bastard? Like father like son. You’ll see what a bastard I can be.

  He might even give Hashim a little push when the time was right. A share in the glory. The snapping and static of the overseas line concealed his silent rage and gave him just enough time to regain his composure.

  Egyptians were a superstitious people. Superstition went well with the suspicious and heartless nature of Aswad who would think nothing of having one of his own killed if there was any suggestion that they were failing his cause or being unfaithful. Aswad viewed unfaithfulness as a flaw, one that could be problematic for him at such a crucial turning point in which he envisioned himself becoming ruler of Egypt and a very influential voice in the Middle East. In his mind, such power was nearly at his grasp. All problems must be dealt with quickly and eliminated. With a chastened and acquiescent voice that made him want to vomit on his own words, Saib relented. All Aswad wanted was to feel he had the upper hand.

  “I will come back if you absolutely have an immediate need for me,” he said resignedly. A nice touch. A spoonful of contriteness with just a tiny dash of exasperation. “Hashim is licking his wounds, and you should be extremely pleased with that.”

  There was another seething silence from Aswad as his conflict for control weighed in. He had no need for Saib to rush back to Cairo today, tomorrow, or any particular time he could think of. If he wasn’t satisfied with Omar’s explanations, he would dig deeper. He decided to let it go. Aswad believed that when it came to brains, Allah must have injected Saib’s with the mind of a goat, like his mother’s.

  A knock at the door distracted Aswad from further entanglement with Saib. He’d been expecting someone with a delivery. Aswad covered the mouthpiece to muffle his comment to whoever was entering his room. Saib’s experience taught him to easily guess what had suddenly taken his father’s attention off their conversation. Aswad made an abrupt attempt at ending the phone call as quickly as he could. He motioned entrance to a pair of young Sudanese girls. Directly behind them was a man with a bayonet fitted to the end of his rifle.

  Saib surmised exactly what the new development was that so suddenly unshackled him from Aswad’s interrogation. He couldn’t help but jump at the opportunity to entertain himself at his father’s expense even though it might make him a few minutes late to meet Omar. Maybe I should have taken up acting instead of engineering. “So, father…”

  Aswad didn’t take the bait. He hurriedly cut Saib short, and without thinking, mumbled into the phone, “Check back with me in a few days.” Then the line went dead. Saib smiled. He’d check back when he damned well pleased. Aswad was so ensconced in his sadistic joy that he’d forget whether he had said days or weeks. Saib might have lost the battle but he still won on two counts. He was smarter than Aswad…oh, so much smarter than Aswad.

  CHAPTER 13

  OMAR HAD SEVERAL full days to do as he pleased before he had to be at JFK to meet Saib’s incoming flight and catch his flight to Cairo. He hadn’t ventured into New York City much. He’d grown used to the solitude and atmosphere of the small beach community along the Connecticut shore of Long Island Sound and wanted it to stay that way. Right now, the single greatest threat to upsetting the balance he had achieved there was Saib. He arranged for the flight to Cairo from JFK where he could meet his brother.

  Besides, he hadn’t lied when he told Saib that he had something to do on Long Island. He really did have an appointment in a town called Riverhead, with Dr. “B”, as she liked to be called. He planned to drive his rental car onto the ferry crossing over to Long Island, and then drive into Manhattan before Saib’s plane arrived. Explore some new things, places. Maybe he’d check out the vineyards he’d heard were springing up. He had some other business, too, before heading into Manhattan
on Thursday afternoon, and this gave him the freedom not to be rushed.

  Omar booked a room at an upscale hotel for Thursday night to avoid fighting the morning traffic on the Long Island Expressway. The reservation desk told him that it was a short walk from his hotel to Grand Central Station. He’d never been to Grand Central Station but he’d heard about it. Over seven hundred thousand people, just like grains of sand on a beach, passed through there every day. Still didn’t compare to Cairo, a city that would swell to as many as nineteen million during the day. There were some good clubs he wanted to check out, too. A night in New York City, before his departure, might be just the diversion he needed from his routine.

  In the two-room beach style cottage, on the shoreline of Connecticut he’d been renting since he began attending Yale, Omar kept to himself. He didn’t have visitors and he hadn’t made friends. In essence, the story he told about living in a professor’s house was partly true because his landlord was a professor. The street he lived on had become a haven of rentals for students whose faces were ever-changing as they either flunked out of school or moved into fraternity houses. Omar didn’t think he ever recognized the same person more than once in his comings and goings. This was a good thing. Quite often, he came and went in the dark. His had a solitary life which, for now, worked for him.

  He lied to Aswad and his brothers about his living arrangements. The story he told was that he found a professor with a huge old house who rented rooms to students, as long as they did not have visitors or overnight guests. Fortunately, Aswad attributed that to his view that Americans were largely eccentric and unwelcoming. Omar rented a post office box for mail so that nothing would come to his rental address, nor would it be necessary for him to use it on anything that would link him to it. No one is infallible, though.

  When he traveled home to Egypt, Omar usually packed little more than his laptop, a few school books, and class notes. Other than a couple of changes of clothes and a small shave kit, he was set. The pair of shoes he was wearing would do just fine until he got to Egypt. All that fit very nicely in his roll-on computer case. Anything else he needed, he’d buy there. With the full wardrobe, and the personal essentials he kept at his villa on his father’s ompound, he’d require little. Traveling light helped to facilitate the long trip and being examined too closely at customs.

  He set his computer bag by the door. His wash was folded and put away, the last of the trash had been taken out. All that was left were a few incidental housekeeping duties and he’d be ready to go. He had no worries about leaving the house for a couple of weeks since there was nothing worth stealing. He made a point of living simply and obscurely so that he blended in. At least, he thought so.

  Omar called ahead for the taxi. At this time of the morning, in that part of town, taxi service wasn’t quick to pick up a fare. They had been burned too many times by students who lived in the area. Omar had parked his car in the small garage behind his cottage. He had reserved a rental car but he needed the taxi to get him over to their lot.

  The dark figure, nestled in the shadows across the street, had a keen sense of discovery and had long developed an interest in the cocoon where Omar placed himself. The observer hunched down low in a rental vehicle while Omar got into the taxi. He started the engine but waited for the taxi to get to the next block. He pulled away, following at a safe distance.

  ***

  While Omar’s rental car was being loaded onto the ferry, the stranger following him left his car in the lot and purchased a ticket at the outdoor kiosk. He was a big man, but looked lean and fit in a pair of faded jeans and a T-shirt. He slipped on a thin windbreaker as he boarded, heading straight for his usual secluded seat. He generally got the seat that nobody else seemed to want. It provided a good broad scope of passengers loading and dispersing to other seats and parts of the ferry, yet was obscured by a metal stairway that added to its unpopularity and left the spot almost always vacant. The average passenger wanted a view of the Sound as they crossed. He wasn’t the average passenger but no one would have guessed that. To each his own.

  It was 6:45 a.m. Omar’s car was already loaded on the ferry and they would be on their way. He left earlier than necessary that morning, just in case. The weather was reasonable so there shouldn’t be any delays but one could never be certain. He was nervous about seeing Dr. B. again.

  The ferry unloaded in Port Jefferson short of eight o’clock and Omar was still way ahead of schedule for his appointment. With plenty of time to kill. The thought brought the morning’s headlines into vivid focus. That particular Long Island story seemed to be making the front page of the Bridgeport paper a lot. And why not? Long Island and Connecticut. Neighbors. Shoreline to shoreline. He’d been keeping up with the stories about the murders and the serial killer on the news, too. He’d have to remember to pick up the local paper. He had developed a fascination for saving the articles.

  Omar’s stomach began to protest and he realized that he hadn’t had a thing to eat since last night. There was a small local dairy on the way to Dr. B’s where maybe he could grab a muffin and pick up a newspaper. Even at that, it was only eight fifteen, his appointment wasn’t until ten and he knew his destination was only fifteen minutes away. Having become quite familiar with the area, he weighed his options on what to do for the next hour and a half and settled on watching the boats in a nearby marina.

  It was still early when his business with Dr. B concluded. She was a beautiful woman, he admitted to himself, although her blouse was too low and her skirt was too high. He wasn’t quite sure how he felt about the visit. He hadn’t decided if he would meet with her again. Perhaps it was too soon to make that call. He told her that he would be out of the country for a couple of weeks. She wasn’t pleased but she had no choice. At the very least, he could stay in touch with her through email. It was important that he keep their next appointment. He needed time, he told her, to make up his mind about a few things.

  The next two days flew by. He liked spending time on Long Island and this trip was different than most. He permitted himself a little more leeway to do some new exploring and revisiting the familiar. This was the first time he ever factored in the local history and cluster of communities. Up and down narrow, winding streets and hills he drove, sometimes barely able to spot homes that peeked out from the thick foliage along the way. It was quieter and more secluded than the neighborhood he lived in across the Sound, and so very different from the desert. He made note of different areas, their distances and proximities. Maybe he’d think about moving there.

  Omar had never been to a vineyard before. Dr. B. had told him that Long Island was once a rural region famed for raising duckling and potatoes. In recent years, those farms had been replaced with vineyards and Long Island became a leader in making wine. He hadn’t been interested in the local attractions on previous trips, but Dr. B’s suggestion piqued his curiosity enough to follow signs to one of the larger vineyards that he’d seen advertised on a billboard. He had never thought of himself as a wine drinker but after visiting the vineyards, he reasoned that he could become one. There was something aristocratic about sipping wine while he ruminated on important matters. He’d have to buy a case of wine on one of his return trips back to the area.

  Omar originally carved out a time slot to look into some real estate there. He was only a couple of miles from the real estate office he had seen the day before, when what started as a light drizzle, became a torrential downpour. Omar figured that he might as well make his way into New York City. There was no telling how long it would take him to get there in this weather. Traffic and accidents could have him on the road until dinnertime at this rate.

  On his way to the city and his hotel, he drove back through the same small, quaint town on Route 25A where he had stopped at a dairy store two days ago. A cup of coffee sounded good about then. He’d like to get a copy of the morning paper too.

  The wipers on the car were working overtime to keep up with the rain. He str
ained to see certain landmarks and realized that he must have passed the store already. The traffic light turned red at what looked like the center of town and he rolled to a stop. His eyes scanned all corners. There was a bar, a grocery store, a bakery, a gas station, and a small post office. Must be downtown. No coffee. The light changed, someone honked behind him, and he moved on.

  Coming to another corner, on the right, sat a deli that looked like it had been standing there for fifty years. The once whitewashed clapboard exterior looked worn and dilapidated. The letters had faded on the sign overhead. Ch rl e , and s with the barely readable word Deli after it. Locals probably knew what it said. Didn’t matter to him as long as they had coffee and a newspaper. A donut to hold him over until lunch didn’t sound bad either.

  The coffee was too hot to sip so he set it in the cup holder. The headline on the front page of the paper told him that he wanted to read it as soon as he had the first opportunity. Holding the donut in one hand, he folded the paper with the other and laid it on the front passenger seat. California was always making the front page news. The body of another coed was found in the secluded woods outside the Bay Area.

  ***

  Omar rolled his window down and extended his left arm to grab the ticket for the long-term parking lot. The wooden arm rose immediately. He followed the signs, spiraling through the levels, while placing the ticket on his dash. In N.Y., everything had to be packed upwards. The parking structure at the airport was surprisingly different. JFK was a busy place, so it almost seemed odd to have a structure with only four levels. A lot of people must have thought the same thing. Three levels and every space was filled. No wonder they used off-site parking. The thought that he might have to do that annoyed him. The car wound around the last turn to the fourth level. The exit and elevator signs up ahead hung side-by-side with arrows pointing in the same direction. Follow the arrows.