by Ahmed Mourad
‘I don’t follow where you’re going with this. What are you planning to do, exactly?’
‘Look, Omar. Galal was my only hope after the Hossam incident. When I saw the pictures of him kneading girls I don’t know what happened to me. Perhaps the image I had of him in my mind was shattered. I believed decent people existed; I used to think of that man as my role model, if you can credit it. His silence and that business of the pictures that he claimed as his own helped ensure that the truth of the incident was lost. It turned Hossam’s mother into a pile of bones in a basket, not to mention Kristina, who got married two weeks after his death. Why did all that have to happen? I send him a picture and write him a letter setting out everything that took place and he publishes the picture, composes some fairy tale and claims it all as his. He sent the investigation in the opposite direction. And that’s not to mention the general blackout in the media, plus the government’s not going to sit around waiting for the lead to come from some tabloid; they’re not straight either. He’s contemptible filth and he needs a taste of the poison he cooks with.’
An image of the man with the silver ring flared before him like a camera flash as he recalled the note he had delivered to Galal, which bore that very message. He was like a rotten tooth with an exposed nerve that shocked Ahmed whenever he touched it.
‘So if he’d published the photographs the killer would have been identified?’ Omar asked.
‘He exploited its propaganda value to polish up his paper’s image at the expense of myself, the investigation and innocent people like Hossam who were in the bar at the time. It’s not in his interest to disclose the truth. It’s not about the killer; it’s bigger than that. Galal received some kind of order to kill the case and turn it into a sex scandal with businessmen and their women fighting. Cases like this one are over the minute they start to smell bad. They’re like riddles everyone knows; they become boring and people lose patience and forget. Omar, I need a small favour from you.’
‘Fire away.’
‘I want you to get me some information off the net.’
‘What kind of information?’
‘Galal’s email address: I want to write to him. And I’ll need some facts about the Assal Group: international licences, legal rulings and classifications, and their email addresses, of course. Members of parliament: I’d like their names and information about them. They form the majority of Casino Paris’ customers. I’d also like to print some old photos of Galal disgracing himself in the casino.’
‘Whoa there! You want to turn this into a war, champ? You’re going to take them all on at once? These people aren’t pushovers, Ahmed. We’re nothing but gnats to them; pebbles on the ground. If you threaten them they won’t sit back and take it. They’d eat their own siblings if their interests were on the line, and they’ll chew you up without mercy. No one will ever hear from you again.’
‘What you just said works in our favour. Who’d pay attention to a gnat or a pebble? No one knows me. I’m not going to confront anybody; I’m going to chuck a brick and take off, guerilla warfare style, I’ve got nothing to lose. Instead of keeping quiet, we’ll harass them. I’ve got pictures that can ruin lives. Let’s disturb their sleep. We’ll make them regret a little; make them feel nervous. Perhaps we’ll achieve something, maybe even change something.’
Ahmed laid siege to him with his ambition. He was convincing: reckless, but in the right.
‘It’s not as easy as all that,’ said Omar. ‘It’s more than possible that we’d be traced; it’s easy to leave clues: the computer’s IP address from which the email is sent can be used by the police to locate its owner. Want my opinion? We use the regular postal service, like the anthrax letters. Leave the Internet to me; I’ll get you any information you need. I have my ways.’
Omar’s words were well informed and logical. Ahmed had the rocks but not the knowledge of where and how to throw them. He needed to arrange his thoughts. He needed a watertight plan.
‘Who’s that?’ said Omar.
He was pointing at one of a group of photographs that showed Gouda grinning broadly in the company of some unknown actor.
‘That’s Gouda, my friend.’
‘Why is he doing that?’
‘He loved having his picture taken with people.’
‘Vain, you mean.’
‘He was a kind man, though.’
They devoted more than three hours to the task, going over every foreign film they had watched together at the Odeon cinema in Downtown. They had sat through almost every midnight screening at this cinema, watching action movies, their preferred genre since their schooldays, particularly those featuring their favourite star, Bruce Willis. Three packs of cigarettes had created a grey cloud that severely curtailed visibility in the room before their minds finally fixed on an idea: an idea befitting their classroom comradeship of old.
13
Five days later. The fourth floor of an old building in Downtown, on a street leading off Talaat Harb Square, formerly Suleiman Pasha Square
Freedom.
This was the word written on the brass plaque next to the door, and beneath it the motto: A single word that means so much.
A young man working as an errand boy at the newspaper rang the bell. It was opened by a slinky young woman, similar to all the other office girls who were carefully selected by the editor-in-chief in person after a single interview, in which he would check whether they were prepared to generously offer a sample of their talents in the hope that they might be well rewarded in the future.
She reversed her smile and raised her eyebrows at the youth, who seemed exhausted.
‘What kept you? All that time just to fetch lunch?’
Accustomed to being treated like a slave, he paid little heed to the downturned lips, handing her the change as she took the plastic bag before turning her back on him. His eyes stole a snapshot of her plump legs walking away, then he remembered the large yellow envelope that he was carrying under his arm.
‘Miss Mahitab! There’s an envelope for Mr Galal.’
Mahitab made her way back to the youth and took the envelope.
‘Who is it from?’
‘It was at the security desk downstairs.’
Mahitab turned the envelope over. ‘There’s nothing to say who it’s from.’
The envelope was firmly sealed and on it was written:
Freedom Newspaper.
For Mr Galal Mursi.
Do not open without obtaining his personal permission.
‘Take it in to his office,’ said Mahitab. ‘It might be private correspondence. He’ll make trouble for us. And turn on the air-conditioning; he’ll be here any minute.’
Less than an hour had elapsed when Galal arrived. He came through the door heading straight for his office.
‘Morning!’
He snapped the word out, as though it might cost him money and time, before entering his room and slamming the door shut. There was nothing unusual in this; everyone in the office had grown used to his behaviour.
Cold-blooded and merciless, he was as tireless as the Devil himself in the performance of his routine duties, and lately he had grown even harsher. He hadn’t been this way four years ago. Those around him attributed his excessive agitation and foul mood to the rise in the paper’s fortunes since it had started matching the sales of the major national dailies. He became a recluse, rejecting and amending any article that displeased him in the manner of a dictator, deaf to anyone else’s opinion. He frequently worked late in his office and just as frequently was absent altogether. Many left the paper, unable to bear this behaviour, though he always said, ‘Leave if you want! The door’s wide enough for you all.’
He removed his jacket and tossed it aside to be intercepted by the hand of his secretary, and sat on his comfortable chair in his elegant and chilly room. He could not do without air conditioning; he sweated like a punctured cistern.
‘Coffee!’ he ordered as he sat at his desk.
The young woman did not reply, but sprinted off, returning five minutes later carrying a cup. Galal had spent the time skimming through the last issue of his paper.
‘Get me out last week’s issue.’
The secretary went over to a cupboard, opened one of the drawers and took out a newspaper.
‘Get me Alaa Gomaa.’
‘Yes, sir.’
She left and a minute later Alaa Gomaa knocked on the door. Thirty-six years old, a dark-skinned southerner from Sohag, he was tall and well proportioned with a wide jaw, curly hair and well-defined nose. The whites of his eyes were tinged with yellow and his voice was deep.
‘You wanted to see me, sir?’ he said, his voice gruff.
Galal did not invite him to sit down.
‘Last week you wrote an article about Sherif Amin in the weekly edition. I saw it before publication and it didn’t contain the second to last sentence, here.’ He waved at the newspaper in agitation. While Alaa looked at the article he went on, ‘Do you have an explanation? What’s all this about his son owning a tourist resort on the North Coast and the five-star meals in Paris paid for by the embassy? This was added after I saw the article. Where did you get this stuff from? And what’s his son got to do with it, anyway? You’re writing about Sherif Amin, so stick to Sherif Amin.’
Alaa remained outwardly calm as he answered him. ‘I found out about that half an hour before the article went to press; there was no time to show you, sir. It’s a scoop, it adds a lot to the article and it’s documented with photocopies of title deeds. Anyway, it’s in keeping with the wider subject of the article: it rounds out the pic—’
Galal interrupted him, his tone of voice now supremely calm. ‘Sit down, Alaa.’
Alaa stared into his face for a couple of seconds then sat down. There were no agreements between them, whatever the task at hand.
‘Look, Alaa,’ he began, ‘you can’t write something without my seeing it. We don’t have to write down everything we know. Anyway: I’m the one on the front line. If anything happens it’s me who has to face the world. That’s number one. Number two: since when do we publish something without my reading it first?’
‘You read it.’
‘Don’t interrupt me! I’m not asking you, I’m drawing your attention to a rule that you seem to have forgotten. If a single word appears without passing by me I can’t tell you what my reaction will be.’
‘I just want to make one point clear, sir. First of all: I’m sure of that information; one hundred percent sure. Secondly—’
‘There’s no such thing as one hundred percent,’ broke in Galal. ‘Do you have a source?’
‘Yes, there’s a source. I’m not in the habit of making things up.’
‘Who’s your source?’
‘Someone in the ministry.’
‘His name?’
‘I don’t think that’s important. A source has to remain anonymous if he’s to stay a source.’
‘You don’t want to tell me who your source is? So how do you expect me to believe that you haven’t invented it?’
‘You’re insisting that I fabricate news?’
‘Who’s your source, Alaa?’
‘Someone at the ministry, he—’
Galal sent his fist plummeting onto the desk. ‘I don’t like repetition. I got it the first time. Give me names. I’m not playing with you here. This piece of news could affect the paper’s credibility.’
‘That’s assuming it’s wrong, though, isn’t it?
‘Right or wrong, you published something without my permission! News is a rumour until it can be confirmed and you, sir, are refusing to give me the source. You’re showing me that something’s wrong.’
Alaa gritted his teeth. ‘There’s no need to shout, sir. I’m sure my colleagues will be able to hear. My sources aren’t used to me revealing their identities and I’ve sworn an oath to that effect. That guy will lose his job and he’s got a large family to look after. Also, I’m a little surprised. Why are you so interested in Sherif Amin and his son in particular? You’ve always attacked him, sir, so what’s changed? You used to sniff around after stories about him, whatever the source; even if it was people shooting their mouths off in a café. If this information had come to you, would you have hidden it? I doubt it.’
The response was a blow that stripped Galal of his composure, but he answered him with simulated calm in an attempt to close the subject. ‘I’m not going to get into a debate with you now. This mustn’t happen again. I’ll be keeping an eye on your work, understood?’
For no clear reason, Galal suddenly took on the role of the concerned father.
‘You don’t know what’s best for yourself, Alaa. You’re still young. I was preparing a surprise for you, but you’ve ruined it with your recklessness.’
Alaa peered at him, trying to understand his strategy. He knew about his habit of turning the tables on his opponent.
Galal lit a cigarette with a new benzene lighter, a replacement for the one he had lost, and began to flip it open and closed. He was ordering his thoughts; anticipating a response. ‘What do think about the education page?’
‘I don’t understand?’
‘I want you to make me a mock-up of the education page for next week’s issue. If it’s good I’ll put you in charge of it.’
‘Am I being rewarded or cast into the wilderness?’
‘Conspiracy theories have rotted your mind. I’m trying to make a name for you, man, even though you’re in the wrong. You’ve got a persecution complex. I tell you I’m putting you in charge of the education page and you assume you’re being sidelined!’
‘When did you start promoting people you’re angry with?’
‘It’s not a promotion; it’s an assignment. I just think that you’ll be able to do it well.’
‘But I don’t do education, you know that. I write about politics and social issues.’
‘Is there something wrong with education all of a sudden? It’s an opportunity to make a change and see another world. Maybe you’ll find that it’s for you.’
‘Sorry.’
‘What do you mean, “sorry”? This newspaper belongs to me: I’m responsible for it and I know what works and what doesn’t. I’m not having you come and give me instructions. Just because you’ve written a few articles having a go at the big boys you think you’ve made it, that you’re somebody. Wake up, man; come back to earth. You write because I let you write. Without this newspaper you’re just a name printed on the wrapper of a taamiyya sandwich. Got it?’
Galal had been impatiently looking forward to this very moment. He had worked for it with his habitual persistence, driving his opponent into a corner of the chessboard and provoking him until he lost control and fell into the trap prepared for him.
Alaa rose to his feet with exaggerated calm. ‘Galal, there’s no call for all this talk of taamiyya and fuul. You may consider this as my resignation. Find somebody else to do my job.’
‘Resignation? You’re fired. And I’ll be talking to the head of the journalists’ union.’
Alaa went to the door. ‘It makes no difference.’
‘Fine. We’ll see if it makes no difference.’
Checkmate.
Galal picked up the receiver and effortlessly dialled a number. ‘Good morning. Mahfouz? Galal Mursi speaking … How are you, my friend? God preserve you … Is Sherif basha in? Thank you.’
Tedious music came down the line.
‘Hello? Good morning, Sherif basha … Praise be to God … About the last issue, ya basha; the problem’s been sorted out for good … I even fired him. He was a troublemaker who had a mind of his own … He couldn’t, ya basha, he knows better, and anyway: one call to the head of the union and he’ll be sitting at home. He’ll never see the street again … Ya basha, I’m the one that should be apologising for inconveniencing you … Oh, yes, well, that’s the reason I called you in the first place. The source works for you in the ministry. He’s wel
l-informed and has good access, his financial circumstances are poor and he has kids … He won’t tell me his name … He’s a failure and a fantasist but don’t worry, sir, there’s not a single newspaper that will employ him … Leave it to me, sir … Right … We start on that other business next week … Goodbye, sir … God watch over you. Goodbye.’ He hung up and dialled another number, his fingers toying with the large yellow envelope in front of him. A voice came down the line.
‘Hello?’
‘Good morning,’ said Galal. ‘May I speak to Ibrahim bey Shafie? It’s Galal Mursi.’
More music.
‘A lovely morning to you, ya basha … Welcome back. How was London? … Very kind of you, sir … I have a favour to ask of you. I had a young fellow working for me by the name of Alaa Gomaa … Yes, that’s the one. Anyway, he’s caused me a big problem with an official whose name I’ll give you later …’
Galal held the yellow envelope up to the light trying to see its contents.
‘No, he’s already left … I want to twist his ear: make him sit at home for a bit until he realises his mistake … His name is Alaa Gomaa: Alaa Hussein el-Sayyid Gomaa. I’ll send you his details by fax … Thank you so much, ya basha. God watch over you.’
He finished with the call and picked up a letter opener. Slitting open the envelope, he tipped out its contents. There was a folded piece of paper and a second white envelope. He opened the piece of paper. It was blank apart from a few lines in tiny handwriting in the centre of the page. He retrieved his reading glasses from his pocket. It wasn’t handwriting; it had been written on a computer.
You have a chance to correct an old mistake.