Outside of Minnesota, Michael could become Mustafa again. He looked out the window of the Egypt Air flight as it cruised over the vast city of Cairo. Even from this altitude, the city stretched for as far as he could see in all directions. The plane circled the airport and landed at Terminal 3, the newest and largest one.
He carried only the company briefcase for his laptop and a small suitcase. He’d substitute the new laptop with the package hidden in it for his old one.
Although the airport was only ten miles from central Cairo, it took a long time to reach his hotel, the Ramses Hilton. A new freeway promised a quick entry into the city, but like with most things in Cairo, corruption, crowding, and millions of people slowed progress. Piles of garbage stood everywhere. Mustafa didn’t mind. He had plenty of time, and from inside the air-conditioned taxi, he could watch the unfolding of humanity on the streets in all its forms.
He’d forgotten the noise and smell.
Car horns, scooters whining beside the taxi, the bawling of donkeys, the shouts of vendors, the crush of people everywhere, crying children, the dry wind from the western desert that whistled through the arches in the markets, the calling of the faithful to prayer by muezzins, and the tinkling of bells all assaulted Mustafa.
Even in the spring, the sun beat down on everything, retarding time as if it were in slow motion. Sometimes, if you were out in it too long, your head could begin to ring until the cacophony of noise around you started to feel painful.
Finally, the taxi pulled in front of the huge, dusky Ramses Hilton. It rose alone above the east bank of the Nile, a modern square pyramid with flat sides and protruding corners. From its rooms, Mustafa could see up and down the length of the Nile, the city, and the ancient pyramids to the west. He liked that the sun, settling into the desert beyond, infused an orange glow into the rooms in the early evening.
As he walked in, he saw a man plodding across the street, hunched under an immense stack of cardboard, bound in twine and perched on his curved back. With his pants legs rolled up, the man placed one sandaled foot in front of the other, careful to avoid the potholes in the street.
“What is that?” Mustafa asked the doorman.
“Zabaleen. Christians who’ve collected all the garbage of Cairo for hundreds of years. They used to have herds of goats to eat the organic material, and the Zabaleen removed everything else on their backs to sell.”
“What do you mean, they used to have goats?”
“Not anymore. Since the government killed all the goats here to avoid the flu, no one collects the organic garbage. Stupid decision, but it’s usual for the government. Can’t you smell the garbage?” The doorman lifted his nose to the breeze.
Mustafa detected the odor. He hurried into the hotel.
After leaving his things in the room, he retreated to the Terrace Café, which overlooked the Nile. As the awnings shaded him from the afternoon sun, the breeze felt good. He ordered a Diet Coke and felt guilty. Try as hard as he could, some items of Western decadence still remained with him.
Cairo was hemmed in by deserts to the east and west, so the city crawled along the banks of the Nile to the north and south. He could see this easily from the terrace. Across the Nile, Gezira Island sat in the middle of the dirty waters. Beyond that, squatting at the edge of the city, were the famous pyramids. From the back yards of the adjacent homes, a child could throw a piece of camel dung and hit the monuments.
Mustafa planned to meet the shipment and the courier at one of the Cities of the Dead, the northern one, for the transfer. In the meantime, Mustafa would attend the conference, give his presentation, and get back to the United States as soon as he could. Attended by scientists from all over the world, it would be mildly interesting. Presenting the paper provided a wonderful cover. The company had paid for everything. Besides, it was comforting to return to the world of Islam again.
Tomorrow he would meet the courier. Because of his corporate credentials, Mustafa had special privileges to carry research materials through customs. He’d practiced with other, non-threatening parcels on several occasions without ever having a problem. The test camps in the deserts of Somalia had been a success. All his efforts in the United States to recruit young men would pay off. Once he had the material back there, he’d have the boys meet to start the process.
Mustafa planned to buy a gift for Zehra to win her trust. Although she was corrupted like all Americans, he found her somewhat attractive. He would avoid any personal relationship for the sake of the mission, but he couldn’t deny how pretty she was. He probably didn’t have the time, but sex with an infidel might be fun.
He’d find the gift at the souk at Khan el-Khalili, one of the oldest and largest in Cairo. It would be crowded with tourists, but he could find almost anything there, including a good knife if he needed one later.
The souk had been built in the late 1300s by an Egyptian family that had a stranglehold on European trade since all goods from the east must come through this souk. The family made the kafirs pay and pay. The only thing approaching the magnitude of this monopoly for Islam today was oil.
Mustafa would go to the bazaar in the cool of the evening, when the city came back to life. He’d seen a jewelry box before, handmade with pieces of mother-of-pearl inlaid on the top. It was a perfect gift for Zehra, and it would include a silk scarf inside. Usually, American women were easy to win over. Most of their men were too stupid to consider extravagant gifts. When Mustafa gave them, the women responded.
The next morning, the loudspeakers awoke him with the call to prayer. Today these Islamic cities were much too large for human muezzins to call and be heard. Public address systems with recorded calls amplified the message in order to reach more people above the ceaseless noise of the city.
Mustafa rose, washed, stood facing southeast, and crossed his arms before his chest. He went through the normal chants to call to Allah and thank Him for the blessings. Mustafa knelt, bent forward, and touched the seven parts of his body to the floor—the forehead, palms, knees, and both big toes. The carpeting felt soft. He went through the ritual two more times.
When Mustafa finished, he dressed in tan robes and went down to the grill for a light breakfast. He took a taxi across the 6 October Bridge to Gezira Island, the largest one bisecting the rushing Nile. At the southern end of the island, the conference would be held in the Sheraton Hotel.
During the lunch break, Mustafa took advantage of the charming, small Fine Arts Museum just north of the hotel. It took his mind off the transfer. He worried because so much depended upon the package. The defense of Islam and the enormity of his task overwhelmed him at times. His best refuge was the Qur’an and the flowing words of the Prophet. How proud Mustafa was to be able to spearhead the destruction of the West. He also worried how the damage could be contained, but there were ways to do that also.
At the end of the day, Mustafa was ready for the return flight later in the evening. He dressed in a Western suit, covered by his tan robe. He carried the small suitcase and strapped the briefcase over his shoulder. The new laptop would be sealed inside for protection. He had ripped out the hard drive to avoid any ties to him.
Downstairs at the hotel, he told the taxi driver to take him to the City of the Dead. Mustafa assured him it was okay. They drove out onto the Salah Salem Highway, and the cab slowed to turn into the Northern City of the vast collection of cemeteries clumped at the foot of the Mokattam Hills.
Mustafa told him to wait. He stepped out into the dusty wind. In the distance, he could see the minarets of the Citadel quivering from the heat over the sandy landscape. The smell of rotting garbage struck Mustafa, but this was the safest place to make the transfer. 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 in the cemeteries over the years. Unlike in Western cemeteries, Egyptians buried their dead in room-like sites so the family could live in them for the require
d 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 the next 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.
He started through the twisted, unplanned streets of the cemetery. Cockroaches and flies spread before him. An occasional car languished between the tightly-packed buildings.
Mustafa made two left turns and avoided stepping into a pool of stinking liquid from a 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 to create a desk. Wrapped in dirty robes, he scratched a pen across papers before him. The man looked up with large eyes at Mustafa. One eye was clouded over with a milky cataract. Mustafa felt for the new knife hidden under his robes.
Around one more corner in a narrow alley, Mustafa met him.
He was a swarthy man, carrying a briefcase stamped in big letters on the side that read “ISTC, Moscow.” Mustafa almost laughed at the irony of it all—a briefcase of death in the middle of a city of dead people. He approached the man, looked him in the eye, and said, “As-salaam alaykum, peace be with you.”
“Wa-alaykum as-salaam, and peace be with you also.” The man stared at Mustafa.
Mustafa waited for the handoff. No one moved. A puff of dry dust blew past them. Stabbing like a knife on the ground between them, the slanting sun cast a blinding white light from between the gravestones. Shadows gripped the side of the walls. Mustafa asked for the transfer.
“What is it worth to you, American? You are rich.”
“What?”
“You must pay a little more for this. I know of its value.”
Blood rushed up across Mustafa’s chest and into his face. His anger boiled out of control. 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 out the knife, 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 into the 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 taxi. Setting the briefcase carefully beside him on the seat, he told the driver to hurry to the airport. His flight left that evening.
In spite of the air conditioning in the taxi, Mustafa found himself sweating.
Chapter Twenty-Nine