Existence (11 page)

The museum, Hilal knows, has been instrumental in the cause of returning stolen artifacts to their land of origin, chasing Egyptian antiquities halfway across the world, statues and jewels from tombs excavated centuries before, bought and sold and hoarded in private collections—bringing them back home.

Were he quicker to anger, Hilal might be enraged by the hypocrisy of it, the nerve of these curators and government officials who stake their own national claim while dismissing the Aksumites out of hand. But Hilal only smiles gently at the irony. It is another thing he's noticed about people, including his own: they have one set of rules for themselves, another for the rest of the world. And all rules are allowed to be broken, for convenience's sake.

In the new era, the era Hilal dreams of and works toward, there will be only one rule for the whole of mankind: the golden rule, and this is what Hilal tries to live by.

This is all that binds him, which is why it bothers him not at all to break Egyptian law and smuggle a priceless artifact out of the country. Laws like those are, literally, made to be broken.

Hilal purchases an entry to the museum and lets himself be absorbed by the crowds. He ignores the exhibits and instead surveys security measures, the cameras lodged in corners, the alarm system trip wires snaking along the wall, the glass cabinets with their feeble locks protecting the most valuable of valuables. So many blind spots, beyond the reach of both human and mechanical eyes. The museum's security is riddled with gaps he can exploit. It's almost as if they
want
their goods stolen. Even the Aksumite manuscript, worth more than all the other artifacts in this building put together, is housed in a room protected only by a flimsy alarm system and a glass case. As the clock ticks toward closing time, Hilal drifts through the crowd ogling the Aksumite exhibit, noting both the foolish security measures and the bored expressions on the tourists' faces. They have come to
Cairo to see elaborate statues and golden tombs, not some musty old manuscript in a language no one can understand. They don't know the value of what they're looking at, and they don't deserve to see it—as the museum doesn't deserve to hoard it. Hilal sees that the liberation of this manuscript is a righteous act.

And he sees that it will be child's play.

Hilal melts into the shadows, slips past a yellow rope into a corridor meant only for museum personnel—a corridor without any cameras. As if employees are to be trusted more than strangers; the assumption is kind, if foolish. The door to the basement is sealed with a padlock—not a problem. Hilal's backpack has several hidden compartments, packed with tools for any eventuality. He sprays the lock with compressed difluoroethane, which freezes the steel in seconds and turns it brittle enough to shatter under the pressure of a small hammer. He lets himself into the service stairwell and descends into the basement, where he waits out the time until closing.

Above him, somewhere, the sounds of tourists oohing and aahing, children whining, parents snapping, guards patrolling, and then, slowly, all noise fades away, the lights dim, and the museum goes still.

Hilal ventures out of his hiding hole. He slides through the shadows and the security blind spots and makes his way toward the special exhibit area, where the Aksumite manuscript awaits him under glass. He has spent years honing his senses and his instincts, and has developed an animal's sixth sense of danger—he can feel the presence of the security guards in his bones. One pads across the floor above him; one snores in the corridor to his east. They should be easy enough to avoid—and, if not avoided, dispensed with.

All things being equal, he prefers not to hurt anyone.

But he will do what he has to do.

The overhead lights are off, but the displays remain illuminated. Hilal passes marble statues and golden busts, ancient weapons and divine engravings. He tiptoes through rooms crowded with stucco scribes and wooden priests. So many of the faces he recognizes from
his studies—there is Akhenaton; there is Queen Nefertiti; there is the gold mask of Tutankhamen; there is the head of Hathor as a cow. Then, finally, in a small room of its own at the far end of the western wing, is the Book of Ouazebas, lit from below, seeming to glow in its glass case. The book looks different, now that it's alone—almost as if it were waiting for the tourists to leave before it came to life. The lock is alarmed, but this doesn't concern Hilal: he has no intention of breaking the lock.

Instead he pulls a slim blade from his pack, sharp enough to cut glass, and slices a square in the case just big enough for the manuscript to fit through. He reaches in and takes hold of the book of his people.

He imagines it warming in his grip, as if it knows him, knows he will be its vehicle, the one to carry it home.

Very carefully, Hilal wraps the book in a soft, holy cloth he's brought with him, then tucks the sacred package into his bag. He slings the pack over his shoulder and makes his way toward the front door. One pair of wire clippers, one swift snip of the trip wire is all it takes to disable the alarm on the entrance and push the door open—it's not even locked from the inside.

Hilal knows it's a little foolish, almost arrogant, perhaps, leaving like this, in full view of anyone who might be watching. But he's laid claim to what rightfully belongs to his people; he doesn't want to slither away like a snake. He
is
arrogant, or at least proud, and he chooses to stride through the front entrance, leaving as he came in, without fear or shame.

As he is pushing through the door, a guard catches sight of him, shouts for him to halt. Hilal could slip away—no doubt he is faster than this burly man armed only with an ancient walkie-talkie. Instead he does as he is told, and stops in place.

“What are you doing here?” the man barks angrily. “The museum is closed.”

Hilal offers the guard a peaceable smile, his grip on his backpack tightening imperceptibly. “Boring class field trip, you know?” he says
in flawless Arabic. “I decided to take a nap on one of those fancy pharaoh beds you've got here, and when I woke up, the place was all dark. Spooky, right?”

The security guard peers suspiciously at him, but Hilal only blinks sleepily, affecting the apathy and ignorance of a schoolboy. The guard sees only what Hilal wants him to see: a bored teenager, delinquent in his studies, uninterested in anything but his music and his T-shirt collection.

The guard laughs. “Can't say I blame you, kid. Done it myself, on occasion. But don't let it happen again, you hear?”

“I have no plans of ever coming back,” Hilal says honestly.

“Can't say I blame you for that either,” the guard says again, and shakes Hilal's hand before sending him on his way.

That easily, the mission is accomplished: Hilal carries the priceless manuscript down the stairs, off the museum grounds, and into the Cairo night.

He's in the mood to walk, and he gives in to temptation, strolling down the palm-lined street, inhaling the smells and sounds of city life, even at this hour, a teeming chaos he so rarely has a chance to experience. He walks down Meret Basha, thinking he will pick up some falafel for himself in Tahrir Square and then get a taxi to the airport.

This is his first mistake.

Hilal has spent his life in cloistered study. He knows innumerable languages of man and machine; he has memorized his own Bible and several others; with the machetes he carries in his pack, he could slice up a battalion of men without breaking a sweat. In so many ways, he is wise beyond his years. But when it comes to the rhythm of city life, he is a child, innocent and easily distracted, led astray by bright colors and the wild music of humanity en masse, a stranger in a very strange land.

He assumes the noise and vibrancy he sees around him are normal; he
assumes the shouts and cheers he hears in the distance are simply the heartbeat of Cairo, the everyday thunder and lightning of urban life.

It's only when he approaches the square, discovers the pulsing horde of protesters, waving flags, thrusting handmade posters in the air, chanting slogans, that he realizes what he's stumbled into—and by the time he does, the amoeba-like crowd has absorbed him.

The poster-board signs allege government offenses, call for resignations; fists punch at the sky, voices call out for justice, for power, for freedom. The protesters are young and old, men and women, some in full hijab, some in modern gear, all of them vibrating with ecstatic rage. The square is lit with army spotlights, and men in uniform push through the mass of bodies, trying to restrain and subdue the protesters. Clouds of tear gas bloom over the crowd.

Hilal has to get out of here.

He can't afford to tangle with the authorities, not with the precious, illicit cargo he carries. He threads through the crowd, aiming for the eastern edge of the square, trying to avoid contact or notice, and is almost through, when he sees her.

A girl about his age, in nearly identical uniform, except that her black T-shirt reads, in English,
Live free or die
. She is smiling radiantly—even as the soldier looms over her and slams his elbow into her face. Even as she staggers backward, blood spattering from her nose.

“Stop that!” Hilal shouts, before he thinks better of it.

The soldier is raising a nightstick overhead, is slamming it down toward the girl, but before he can hit her again, Hilal has plucked the weapon from the man's hand, has wrapped it around his neck, squeezing just tight enough to cut off his airflow.

The soldier drops to the ground beside the girl, and a ripple runs through the crowd. Beneath the noise of protest, Hilal hears the drumbeat of boot steps making its way toward him. More soldiers, more trouble.

Exactly what he can't afford.

He scoops up the girl, who weighs almost nothing in his strong arms.

There's a whisper at his ear. “Bring her this way. Hurry!”

He turns, and two slim figures, one in a hoodie, the other in full veil, beckon. The boy in the hoodie rushes to the girl's side, staunches her bloody nose. The veiled protester starts clearing a pathway through the crowd. Hilal is no fool, and knows better than to trust a stranger's urgent entreaty. But as a clear corridor melts open before them, he decides his best course of action is to carry the girl's limp body through. He's more than capable of handling whatever lies in store for him on the other side, and he's not about to leave the girl behind, easy prey for the soldiers or the angry crowd.

“Hurry,” the boy urges again, and Hilal follows them through the protest, cradling the girl in his arms like a small child.

“I'll take her now,” the boy says, as the protest fades away behind them and they emerge onto a quiet street. He holds out his arms, but Hilal shakes his head. He's taken responsibility for this girl; he will let her go only when he's certain she's safe.

“I will see her safely home,” he tells the two strangers.

“Safe?” the girl snorts behind her veil. “What country are you living in? And you really think we're going to tell you where we live?”

“Be nice, Dalila,” the boy says. “He helped us out back there. We can trust him.”

“He helped himself out with that soldier, then helped himself to Rabiah. Use your head, Akil. You want to trust him just because he's pretty?”

“You seem to be assuming I want your trust,” Hilal says. “Or that I would be so foolish as to trust you. I simply want to see the girl to safety and be on my way.”

“What do you care about her?” Dalila asks gruffly.

“I care about the safety of all people,” Hilal says. “Hers happens to be the one I can most immediately safeguard.”

“Forget what country are you from; what
planet
are you from?” Dalila says, and Hilal doesn't need to see her face to know her eyes are rolling.

“I don't care if he's from Jupiter,” Akil snaps. “I care about getting us off the streets and making sure Rabiah's okay. You want to keep her safe?” he asks Hilal. “Then you follow us. Now.”

Hilal tells himself that a momentary delay is actually a good thing—it will be better to stay off the streets tonight, find his way across the border come morning, once the protests have died down and he can carefully navigate their aftermath. Tonight there will be soldiers patrolling the streets and the borders; the nation will be on high alert, and Hilal can't afford to be noticed.

Better, for the mission, to wait.

He's not about to let himself be distracted, or allow these strangers or their cause to interfere with his own.

The girl, warm and stirring in his arms, is no one special; he will simply help her as he would help any living creature in pain or need, and then he will go home.

The strangers turn down one dark alley after another, carving an impossibly labyrinthine path through the Cairo night.

Hilal follows.

There are seven of them, all students at the university, all members of a liberal political group recently outlawed by the government. They use this place, a filthy apartment in a building on the edge of the slums, a building that looks abandoned and condemned, as their planning headquarters and safe house. It stinks of coriander and sweat.

Rabiah is their leader—and a prime instigator of the night's protest. She lies now on a threadbare couch, a hot towel on her forehead, barking orders at the others; the night's protest hasn't yet ended, and already they're making plans for another.

They've offered Hilal a bed—really, a spot on the floor and a thin blanket—for the night. In gratitude, Rabiah says, for helping the cause.

That's how she phrases it. Not “helping me,” but “helping the cause.”
As if they are the same.

“And what
is
your cause?” Hilal asks. He lets just enough of an accent slip into his voice to let them assume he is from elsewhere.

Conversation ceases, and they look at him like he's a fool.