ARAB (23 page)

“And?”

“And very very rich,” tapping the holder on the table before putting it into his shirt pocket. “But for his wealth, he’d probably be deported, or hanged.”

“And why are you telling me this?”

“Esmat Bindari has also made phone calls to him. It may mean nothing, but it’s unusual. And we are always interested in the unusual. And by the way,” he added, scraping his chair back, picking up the check, “Yousef Qantara has been told about the Israeli spoof.”

“And now he’s going to have me deported?”

“Not necessarily,” Isaac said. “He may want to keep you around. We think he has his own agenda. Why else has he had that woman following you?”

Chapter Eighteen

The tall man with white hair, a thin face and blue eyes rose from the cushioned seat in the waiting room outside the office in the Porto Alegre airfield. “That didn’t take long,” he said, referring to Bashir’s check-in.

“Routine,” Bashir said, affecting a nonchalance he didn’t feel, responding to the man’s friendliness with a smile. He was nervous, dead tired from the long series of flights, but high enough on adrenalin to play the game.

“Phillip Nelson,” the man said. “And of course you are Bashir Yassin. I watched your landing out there … very skillful, very skillful indeed,” gripping Bashir’s hand longer than was customary. Maybe that’s how people greeted each other here, regular people, not the kind he had dealt with in Rio, a frightening city he was glad he had not been sent to. Nevertheless, this effusive friendliness made him uncomfortable.

“The Sheraton,” Nelson said to the cab driver as he settled into the seat next to Bashir. The scent of cologne drifted off him. His fingers looked manicured. The shirt cuffs on his wrists were the French kind, flashy links. His suit and tie looked new.

It took only a few minutes to find the downtown hotel—a great white tower rising up like the prow of a ship. It was modern and doubtless expensive, Bashir thought. Made him wonder who was paying for this. Just renting a Lear jet would bankrupt most people. Faisal couldn’t afford this. Could it possibly be Jaradat, as Diab had said?

“This is the safest part of the city,” Nelson said. “Nice shops, good restaurants, everything you need within walking distance. And speaking of walking,” he waved a hand at a park across the way. “If you love nature,” and he laughed. “It’s safe. You can stroll around in there at night if you want to.”

In the expansive lobby, decorated with the usual trappings of luxury, Nelson handled the check-in and led Bashir to the elevators. “You’ll love the room,” Nelson said.

And Bashir did. It was spacious with nice appointments, a large bed, and didn’t smell of cigarettes.

“I assumed an intelligent man of your age wouldn’t smoke,” Nelson said. “So!” dropping into a large cushioned chair. “Any questions?”

Bashir’s head was swimming with questions but he decided to keep them to himself. He wanted to ask, “Why am I here?” But that would drop him off the pedestal. He must pretend to know exactly why he was here.

Nelson laughed. “If you’re wondering where Helene is, all I can tell you at the moment is she’s not staying at this hotel. That would be dangerous. I assume you have already been spotted. They would be curious about a young Arab who arrived here in a private jet. Even here the troubles of the Middle East have an impact. Until they are satisfied that you’re harmless, it’s best we not connect to her.” He raised a leg, his chin on his knee as he tightened the knot on his shoe, grunting at the effort. “Tomorrow I’ll arrange a meeting. We’ll run into her as though by chance in a small café where the waiters don’t speak English. You may find her a bit abrupt: she’s been under a lot of pressure. And,” he added, laughing, “she might not fit your idea of a prince’s courtesan.”

“I don’t—”

“You have reals?”

“They gave me a credit card.”

“Well, it’s best you have a little cash. I’ll take care of that.”

*

She wasn’t anything resembling his idea of a prince’s courtesan. She was short, with muscular legs and a body like a barrel. Her face was long, ordinary except for the eyes. They were Elizabeth Taylor eyes, violet and expressive. You couldn’t ignore them. The rest of her might be dowdy but her eyes were captivating.

She didn’t try to be friendly. She apparently felt no need to be liked or even welcomed, especially by someone like me, he thought.

“So this is your pilot,” she said, addressing Nelson but looking at Bashir, like a judge appraising an Airedale at a dog show.

“My pleasure,” Bashir said, rising from his seat, holding out his hand. She ignored the gesture and he dropped back into his seat, deflated.

“Bashir Yassin,” Nelson said, holding the chair for her, running around the table when she was seated, “an excellent experienced pilot.”

“And it’s Cairo you’re taking me to now? Not that airfield in the desert?” she asked, removing the ring from a folded napkin. The ring slipped from her fingers, bouncing on the tiled floor. She paid no attention to it. “And it’s been cleared?”

“Everything’s taken care of,” Nelson said, looking up at a waiter who offered him a wine list.

The waiter bent down and picked up the napkin ring, placed it on the table.

“I hate wine,” she said. “And the Americans?”

“They have no idea you’re in this city. You have nothing to fear from them,” Nelson said, dismissing the waiter without consulting Bashir.

“And how can you be sure of that?”

“I have ways,” Nelson said, with a smile, as though seeking applause.

Later, when they had placed their orders—something French for her, steaks for Nelson and Bashir—she asked, “And how did you learn of General Saraaj’s death?”

“When my contact called about the change.”

“You still don’t know who that is?”

“They never tell me,” he said. “But I assume it’s the one they call Uthman.”

“Not his real name?”

“I have no idea.”

“And he called it an accident?”

“I take it he was reflecting what he saw on the news. He didn’t witness it. You think it might have been something else?”

“I don’t trust those people, nor should you,” she said, “even though you work for them.”

“Actually I’m free-lance. I’m a white-collar mercenary,” said with a tittering laugh that made Bashir wince. The man had to be gay—neat, a bit effeminate.

Bashir said, “Mr. Bindari is an official at—”

She gave him a dismissive look. She obviously didn’t care what he heard or what he knew. She probably wondered why he had been invited to dine with her. Maybe Nelson wanted to show her that he wasn’t a reckless idiot. She seemed to need such assurances—a nervous, anxious, impatient woman who seemed accustomed to being waited on and catered to and had little regard for those she considered beneath her.

Nothing of consequence was mentioned until their food had arrived—a filet of an exotic fish for her, which she began eating before either Nelson or Bashir had been served.

“And when do we leave?” she asked, allowing her fork to linger on her tongue, a bit of food clinging to her lip. He wondered whether she was this gross in the presence of the prince. That she even knew a prince staggered him with awe. His feelings might be hurt, he might be grievously misjudged, but it was no disgrace to be slighted by such a woman. He could hardly believe he was sitting across the table from the girlfriend of Prince Fahd. He couldn’t wait to tell Nuha.

“They’ll let me know,” Nelson said. “Things in Cairo have to be arranged.”

*

They remained in Porto Alegre three days, during which Bashir poked around the various shops in the area, heeding Nelson’s warning against wandering too far from the hotel, cautioned also by misadventures he had had in Rio. He didn’t see Helene Bryce again until they were at the airport. She seemed unimpressed by the beautiful Lear Jet, probably having flown in one many times. Maybe the prince owned one. She affected that air of indifference he had noticed in people of wealth, especially the insecure ones who pretend to be bored by everything that thrills the common folk.

Felix joined them just before takeoff. Nelson had accompanied Helene to the airport and had disappeared without saying anything to Bashir. Felix brought all the necessary papers and was given the same indifferent reception by Helene Bryce that Bashir had received. She was nervous and anxious to get into the air.

They made two stops in Brazil before crossing the ocean and ran into no snags until they reached Casablanca. Apparently for reasons of caution, Helene was not allowed to get off the plane.

“This is ridiculous,” she said. “My papers are in order.”

“They didn’t give a reason and I don’t think we should argue,” Bashir said. “I can bring you something from the restaurant while we’re refueling.”

“Ignorant foreigners!” she exclaimed, snatching the menu from Felix.

“I’ve eaten here before,” Bashir said. “The food’s good.”

And that brought a sarcastic grimace. Despite the insult, Bashir had trouble suppressing an urge to laugh. There was something comical in this tubby little woman. A prince’s girlfriend!

*

A breeze swept dust across the tarmac at the Cairo Airport where two women arrived in a small car, both smiling and bowing, assuring the cranky Bryce she needn’t worry about her vaccination certificate or her passport. “We’re from the protocol secretariat,” one of them said. “Your man Felix LaPointe is taking care of everything.” Felix had alighted from the plane and was on his way to the terminal entrance with Bashir’s briefcase.

A man in a white uniform drove up in a courtesy cart. “Just for you,” he said.

“For me?” Bashir said, surprised.

The man smiled. “I know.” He looked vaguely familiar. Bashir couldn’t place him but knew he had seen him before—probably working around the airport. Maybe he had come out to one of the hangers.

“They’re being very nice to my passenger,” Bashir said, getting in under the canopy, hoping to learn something about her.

The man nodded but said nothing, deafened probably by the roaring engines, men yelling at each other, squealing wheels. As they drove off, Bashir inhaled the familiar odors of burnt fuel. It meant he was home. It meant in a few minutes he’d be out at the hanger telling his friend Takfeer about his trip.

Oddly, the man didn’t take him the usual way but drove to the back of the terminal building and stopped outside a small door, allowing Bashir only time to lift his duffle off the back seat. As though to escape detection, he grasped Bashir’s arm and hurried him into a small foyer to a stairs and to a room on the second floor. From the edge of his vision Bashir thought he saw Esmat Bindari’s face in a rapidly closing doorway. But he was tired and confused. It was probably an invention of fatigue. Why would a man like Bindari be in this janitors’ hallway?

“You are to wait here,” the man said, and left the room and closed the door.

“But what…?” Alarmed, feeling caged, Bashir hurried to the door. It was locked. The question died in his mouth. He rattled the doorknob and struck the panels with the flat of his hand. As a wave of nausea spread through him, he went to a chair at a desk and dropped into it, feeling faint.

“What’s happening? What have I done?”

*

“It went smoothly,” Esmat Bindari said. “Just as we planned.”

“And those people. Can we trust them?”

“Implicitly,” Esmat said. “Felix LaPointe has worked for us many times. As to the women at the secretariat, they have no reason to think their role in this deception was anything unusual. It happens all the time—visitors avoiding the cameras.”

“And the man who brought Yassin to the room?”

“My nephew Anwar. I’d trust him with my life.”

Jaradat, who trusted nobody, not even Esmat, sighed and sat back while his servant placed a white cup in front of him, another in front of Esmat. “Those little cakes,” Jaradat said, watching coffee flow into Esmat’s cup, enjoying the sound, the aroma, “the ones you brought me yesterday.”

“As you wish,” the servant said, backing away with a bow.

Jaradat set aside papers he had been reading and glanced idly out the glass wall at the marble deck and the pool and the statue of a boy stolen from an Alexandrian museum centuries ago, a prized possession the eastern sun was shining on, its shadow falling over a bed of yellow flowers.

“It won’t be long of course before the
muccabarat
learn that Bashir Yassin is back in Egypt. They will by now, I assume, know about his flight. You’re sure they have no idea where the woman is?”

“I’m sure.”

“She must wonder what happened to Saraaj.”

“I imagine so, but that’s to our advantage. The more insecure she feels, the more she’ll be inclined to help us. Now we are her only protection.”

“Ah,” the colonel said, “we can’t be too sure of that. From what they say, she’s well connected. It’s probably not only that wayward prince she has influence with. Too bad we can’t monitor her phone calls. How long will it be before the
muccabarat
find out she’s here?”

“Hard to say. We can’t expect to stop all the leaks. She’s afraid of them. She has to believe our police are cooperating with the Americans. She has to know the Americans have brought serious charges against her, possibly even treason. It’s well known she has facilitated the transfer of funds to bin Laden. We could be her only hope for survival.”

“Well, let’s get to work on her. Let her know immediately that she’s in our care because of the prince.”

“And his money.”

“Of course. So how do we get rid of Bashir Yassin? We can’t use him now for that other thing, which I never had much faith in anyway.”

“And that’s a pity. It was such a beautiful scheme.”

“Well, it’s useless now. Oh, don’t be disappointed, Esmat. Things will happen. This government is teetering under enormous pressure. You know what’s been going on in Tunisia.”

“Thanks in part to us, I suppose. Here, I mean.”

“And cleverly handled, thanks to you,” Jaradat said. “You must have reached the same conclusion I have. The Americans want Bashir Yassin. The
muccabarat
want him. We can no longer use him.”