Reprisal (26 page)

When Mustafa finished, he dressed in tan robes and went down to the grill for a light breakfast. He took a cab across the 6 October Bridge to Gizera Island, the largest one bisecting the slow moving Nile. At the southern end of the island, the conference would be held in the Sheraton Hotel, as it had been in previous years.

At the lunch break, Mustafa took advantage of the charming, small Fine Arts Museum, just north of the conference hotel and visited it.

He started to become anxious at the thought of the transfer. So much rode upon his successful insertion of the shipment into the United States. The defense of Islam and the enormity of his task often overwhelmed Mustafa. At those times, he would slip away to a quiet spot and open the Qur’an to read. The flowing Arabic words of the Prophet calmed him.

How proud he felt to have been chosen to spearhead the destruction and eventual redemption of the infidels. After it was all over, depending on how many remained alive, how could they fail to see the True Way of Islam and Allah’s laws?

At the end of the day, Mustafa prepared for the flight back to the United States and his meeting with the courier. He covered his Western clothing with a tan robe.

He carried the small suitcase and strapped the briefcase with the corporate logo over his shoulder. The new laptop would be sealed for protection. Mustafa erased his hard drive and would switch them after the transfer. The cab driver looked at him closely when he asked to be taken to the City of the Dead. Mustafa assured him it was okay. Back out on the Salah Salem Highway, the cab slowed to turn into the Northern City of the vast cemeteries clumped at the foot of the Moqattam Hills.

Mustafa told him to wait. He stepped out into a dusty wind. In the distance he could see, quivering from the heat in the beige and sandy landscape, the minarets of the Citadel. The smell of rotting garbage struck him, but this was the safest place to make the transfer, so he started to walk.

Five million people lived in the Cities of the Dead. Because of the chronic shortage of housing for the urban poor, they’d moved into these facilities over the years. Unlike Western cemeteries, Egyptians buried their dead in room-like sites so the family could live in them for the required forty days of mourning. Once the families left, the rooms remained vacant and available for the poor to move in.

Electric lines sagged from one roof to another to bring in power, illegally. The entire occupation was illegal but tolerated by the government as an easy way to house the poor and avoid violent protests. For his purposes, Mustafa knew the authorities ignored most of the activities in the Cities, and he wouldn’t be bothered.

Mustafa started through the twisted, unplanned streets of the cemetery. Cockroaches and flies spread before him. An occasional car languished between the tightly packed buildings.

He made two left turns and avoided stepping into a pool of stinking liquid from the garbage pile. He looked up the street to see white laundry flapping in the dry wind, strung between two gravestones. To the side, a fat man sat in front of a grave marker turned sideways for his desk. Wrapped in a dirty robe, he scratched a pen across stained papers before him. The man looked up with large, bottomless black eyes at Mustafa. One eye was clouded over with a milky cataract. Mustafa felt for his new knife, hidden under the robes and continued.

Around one more corner in a narrow alley, Mustafa met him.

A swarthy man, carrying a briefcase stamped in big letters on the side which read, “ISTC, Moscow.” Mustafa almost laughed at how ironic it looked—a briefcase of death in the middle of a city of dead people.

Mustafa approached him, looked him in the eye and said, “
As-salaam alaykum
, peace be with you.”

“
Wa-alaykum as-salaam
, and peace be upon you also.” The man returned, eyeing him with suspicion.

Mustafa waited for the handoff. No one moved. A puff of dry dust blew past them. Mustafa saw the stark contrast between the slanting white light and the shadows that still gripped the sides of walls and gravestones. He greeted the swarthy man again.

“What is this worth to you, American?” the man said.

“What?”

“You pay for this. I know it’s valuable.”

Mustafa felt blood rush up across his chest and into his face. His anger boiled out of control. His legs shook violently. He came closer and burned his eyes into the man. “Give it to me, you goat!”

Holding the briefcase behind him, the man backed up to the wall, shrouded in shadows.

Mustafa trembled, dropped what he carried, jerked the knife out and without taking his eyes off the man’s eyes, stabbed him repeatedly in the torso. Mustafa worked his way up the midriff to reach under the ribs to find the heart. A last, deep plunge and the swarthy man jerked once, fell into the dust, and died.

Catching his breath, Mustafa stood back for a moment. The wind blew a greasy piece of paper across the dead body and down a dark alley.

Mustafa grabbed the new case, traded laptops from his corporate briefcase, removed his bloodied robe, dropped the knife and left. He made his way back to the cab. Setting the laptop carefully beside him on the seat, he told the driver to go to the airport.

In spite of the air conditioning in the cab, Mustafa found himself sweating.

Thirty-Two

Zehra fought desperately. The early spring heat threatened to kill her plants before they even had a chance to get going. Since the growing season in Minnesota was so short, she was determined to win the battle. They all needed as much water as she could give them.

As she always did when in trouble, she went to her garden. The beauty and peace calmed her, reminded her of larger things in the world, of hope.

The comfort of her extended family, the attention of the FBI, and lots of drugs helped also. The shaking had stopped. Zehra felt good enough to keep going.

The FBI had arrived in the parking lot quickly, promised to investigate, and had assigned an agent to stay close to her. He sat in the lobby downstairs.

She had brought home the parts of the El-Amin case that she wanted to work on, including the video the prosecutor’s office had burned onto a DVD. She wanted to see exactly what the killer and the scene looked like.

Like a dumb ox, she just kept moving forward. Zehra didn’t know what else to do. At least action took her mind off the fear that haunted her.

BJ was coming to watch it also.

In her mind, Zehra debated whether to call Mustafa. She had already told him about the car bomb. The video wouldn’t be of any interest to him and his best help was in penetrating the Somali community. She held the cell phone in her hand, admitting to herself she’d like to see him. Zehra made the call. He said of course, he would come over.

After she clicked off, Zehra’s phone buzzed, and she saw her parents’ name on the caller ID.
I know what this is about
, she thought.

“Zehra, with all this horrible stuff going on, I forgot to ask how your time with Michael went the other night. How is he?”

Zehra sighed. “Actually, Mom, he’s really great. I didn’t expect this at all, to be honest, but he’s pretty cool.”

“How serious are you?”

“Aw, Mom … Let’s just say, ‘I’m interested.’”

“Isn’t he smart? Your father likes him and says his reputation at the company is good.”

“He is smart and, unlike all the others you’ve sent my way, he’s actually interested in someone besides himself—me. He’s even agreed to help me, since he’s done work with the Somali people here. Hopefully, he can open some doors. What a coincidence, huh?” Zehra paused, knowing what her mother wanted to hear. “And we’ve talked about religion. He’s a lot more conservative than I’m comfortable with, but he seems to be open to new ideas. So, we’ll see.”

“I’m so happy for you, Zehra. You deserve someone good. Don’t scare him away with your feminist stuff.”

“I can handle it. Gotta run, bye.”

The security system rang. Zehra buzzed in BJ. In a few minutes, he walked through her door. “Gettin’ hot out there,” he whistled. He reached around her shoulders and gave her a tight squeeze. His presence was so peaceful. She really needed that now. “How are you, sister?”

Zehra slumped into his arms. “Okay … I guess. I’m coming back to some form of normal. In a way, the trial’s a welcomed distraction. I can keep going.”

“What do you think?”

“Who did it? It’s got to be El-Amin’s people. Who else?”

“Will you get pulled from the case now?”

“No, I won’t be that lucky. I can’t prove he was behind this, so I keep the case.”

“What can I do?”

“Here, you can help.” She handed him the big watering can. “You can start on the hibiscus over there, the big plant with the red flowers.” He held the can as if it were radioactive.

Zehra noticed it and said, “Look, Denzel, just tip it and pour.”

They worked their way around the deck. “How’s Momma?” she asked.

“Holding her own for now. My papa was a cop in Gary. Momma worried every night while she raised the kids. They were both a lot tougher than I am.”

“I know what you mean. So were my parents. Hey, when Mustafa gets here, we can take a look at the video,” she said.

“Mustafa? He the dude your mother wants you to marry? I thought his name was Michael.”

Zehra laughed. “Mustafa’s his Arabic name. But don’t worry. Right now, I’m just shopping.” She told BJ of Mustafa’s help at the mosque and the hospital.

“If it’s cool for you, go for it but take your time.”

“Hey, look who’s talking, Mr. ADD,” she joked.

The security rang again, and Zehra let Mustafa in. He wore tan slacks, perfectly pressed and a cotton shirt that once again, clung to his muscled body. A heavy silver watch glistened on his wrist when he stuck out his hand to shake with BJ.

He carried a package and set it on the table in the main room. When he came over to Zehra, he touched her shoulder. In spite of her reticence, she needed more than that now. Glancing at the package, he told her, “For later.”

“How was Egypt?”

“Hot. The conference was boring and nothing interesting happened.”

Zehra moved to the far side of the table and shuffled through the thick files. “I’ve got the DVD here. BJ, if there’s anything you pick out, let me know.” BJ sat in the wicker chair next to the TV, but he studied Mustafa instead of the screen.

Zehra pushed in the DVD and clicked the play button. A scratchy, black-and-white scene came on the screen. She could see the edge of the deli, the parking lot below, and a fence. Nothing moved in the scene, but the picture jerked repeatedly.

“Cameras are usually programmed to take shots every two seconds,” BJ explained. “Cheaper that way.”

About five minutes into the film, the door on the fence opened out into the parking lot. The victim, a young black man, started into the screen. His jerky movements reminded Zehra of watching films from the early days of Hollywood. A bright light from the deli shone from the right side of the scene.

Suddenly, from the same door, another man jumped out. The young one didn’t react, so maybe he was unaware of the second man behind him. The second man was dark, tall and wore glasses and a huge white mask over his lower face. He dressed in a colored robe. In one jerk, his left hand reached up to the boy’s forehead, yanked it back. Simultaneously, he drew something across the boy’s throat. It happened so fast, Zehra couldn’t see the knife itself.

The killer wore what looked like latex surgical gloves. She hadn’t seen any mention of them in the police reports and wondered why he’d worn them. Why hadn’t the police noted their presence? Hadn’t they been found at the crime scene?

She shifted in her chair and felt a horrid captivation with what happened on the screen. It sickened her, but she couldn’t look away. Thankfully, the film didn’t have any sound.

Even with the bad focus and jerking film, it was clear that the boy’s head snapped back. The killer jumped out of the way. A black gush of blood exploded from the front of the boy. He staggered ahead one step, faltered, and dropped to the ground like a puppet whose strings had been cut.

The killer lurched out of view to the right.

No one moved in Zehra’s room as they watched five more minutes. The boy sprawled on the ground, motionless while a black pool spread out from his head. Otherwise the scene remained completely still.

Zehra found herself breathing fast and deeply. Up until now, the killing had all been on paper. The description of the death, the autopsy, the witness statements, and the police reports of the crime scene—it had held little more emotion than a stack of paper.

The film showed the life and death of a real human being. Zehra couldn’t talk for a few minutes.

BJ broke the silence. “What I wonder about are the gloves. Along with the surgical mask, it suggests someone who worked in a hospital or clinic.”

“Like the imam?” Mustafa said.

BJ nodded and looked closely at him.

“Why the gloves?” Zehra finally spoke.