Shooting the Sphinx (25 page)

“What the…?” said Ari. He dropped the spoon with a clatter and picked up the newspaper. He held up his own picture in black and white.

“Ari? What's wrong?” asked Beth.

“That's me! That's my picture!” Ari handed the paper to her.

She turned to Omar. “What's it say?”

“Uh, uh, uh, ‘American Producer to Film Israeli Actress' at Cairo International…”

“Airport?” Beth finished the sentence.

Incensed, Omar scanned the text. “Samir planted this story.”

“Of course he did. Brilliant. Just brilliant!” Ari raged. “Once we bring in the cops … of course he has to defend himself. His back is up against the wall! You guys are geniuses. Now we're in a war with Samir.” Ari leaned over the desk and glared at them. “What's the endgame?”

An hour later, Ari was riding with Omar in the back of his car toward downtown Cairo. Past a certain point the traffic thinned to almost nothing, then just simply disappeared. They went round a traffic circle. In the middle stood a bronze statue of a man wearing a fez.

“That is Talaat Harb,” muttered Omar. “He built my studio.”

“A film distributor with a statue?” asked Ari.

“No, he was a great man, an economist. A visionary of the future.” Omar sighed. “If only such people still existed.”

“What happened to all the taxis?” said Ari, noticing that they were the only car going around the circle in the middle of the day. “Where is everybody?”

Omar didn't answer. He had a grim look.

They turned off the traffic circle onto a big boulevard. Halfway down to the next square, a line of police in khaki uniforms with truncheons stretched across the street blocking their path. Omar pulled out his cell phone and made a call, speaking a few urgent words in Arabic.

A police sergeant stepped out of the line and flagged them down. Omar's car stopped. The driver opened his window. Speaking Arabic, the sergeant pointed back the way they came and gestured that they should turn around.

Omar said a few words, then passed the phone up out the window to the sergeant, who took it with some annoyance. When he heard the voice on the other end, his entire demeanor changed to one of crisp obedience. He ordered the policemen out of the way and motioned Omar's car through the police cordon.

They drove to the next square, around another traffic circle, down another avenue, this time closed off by a cluster of police in riot gear and armored personnel carriers. Another sergeant stepped forward, this one angry, more insistent, yelling and waving them away. Again, Omar handed his cell phone out the window. Again, the sergeant waved them through.

They came to a crowd of two hundred thugs milling about in the middle of the street who held sticks, broom handles, and homemade weapons. Omar's driver leaned on the horn. Slowly the thugs moved out of the way like wild animals in a game park and let the car inch forward. Curious, they all looked inside suspiciously at Ari.

Detective Kek, from the police station, was directly in front of them talking to a group of thug bosses while he had the phone pressed to his ear. He turned to face the car, saw Omar, and they both hung up with a little wave of recognition. Evidently, they had been on the phone together. Detective Kek told the thug bosses to wait and walked around the side to Omar's window.

Shaking his head, Detective Kek said something disapproving in Arabic.

“I know, I know,” said Omar. “Once we get this done, we'll get out of here.”

Detective Kek waved at the thugs, but they were less disciplined than police, so he had to yell at them to get their attention. He even slapped one thug on the back of the head who was busy goofing around. Tension was high.

Omar's driver honked and pulled carefully through the rest of the thugs, then sped down the avenue until he turned onto Samir's street.

They stopped right in front of Samir's office. Ari and Omar got out of the car, each clutching a copy of the newspaper. They ran inside.

 

Chapter 51

Samir fed the last of the stack of permits into the shredder. He slid his computer into its case and packed it into his satchel. His desk, in fact his entire office, was completely clear of not just papers, but everything except for the baby picture of his daughter, Yasmine.

“
Habibti
,” he said as he kissed the picture.

The call to prayer sounded. Samir did the standing portion of the prayer, then got down on his knees and prostrated himself. The door opened, and Ari and Omar walked in holding their newspapers.

“So this is Studio Samir?” Omar looked around contemptuously. “A one-room office. He's more of a nobody than I thought.”

“Omar, please,” said Ari.

Samir froze for a second. Then continued to pray.

“I don't know why he's making so much trouble,” Omar continued. “We're just going to win in the end anyway.”

“Can you just let him finish?” asked Ari.

“Why? He's praying for our destruction, but will God lift a finger to help you?” Omar asked rhetorically.

“Please, can we leave God out of this?” asked Ari.

“No!” Samir jumped to his feet breaking off in mid-prayer; something that is not done. Samir pointed at Omar. “His god is money!”

Omar sneered. “That's very funny coming from you.”

“Samir, as a friend…” Ari stood between them trying to put as much sincerity into his words as he could. “I'm asking you, please just give us the permits.”

“A friend? Did you go to the police and sign a paper that I am a thief?”

Ari couldn't answer the question. What was there to say except yes? “Samir.”

“Did you do that against me?” Samir pressed. “Admit it!”

“It's just business.” The words tasted like chalk in Ari's mouth.

“When you know that I am not a thief?”

“It's not that simple, Samir. You know it's not. I'm just following Omar. I have to take his lead.”

“So you signed a lie. Admit it. You are a liar.“Samir smiled a pained smile.

“Oh?” Ari was annoyed with the pleasure on Samir's face. He slapped his own picture in the newspaper down on Samir's desk. “Why did you plant this story? That we're filming an Israeli actress?”

“Is this untrue?” asked Samir, still amused.

“It will be,” said Omar.

Ari turned on Omar. “What do you mean ‘It will be?'”

“Aha!” Samir jeered at Omar in triumph. “He knows that now everyone will be watching you.”

“What?” asked Ari, dumbfounded. “Omar?”

Omar held up his newspaper. “Only because he planted this story.”

“And God wills it,” said Samir.

“Fuck!” exclaimed Ari as he realized the whole move against Samir had backfired. Ari could never get the shot.

“Did he promise you that you would film an Israeli at the airport?” asked Samir.

“Yes,” said Ari blankly.

“Of course, that is how he seduced you and got the job away from me. Then he is a liar, too. Do you like him because he says nice lies to you?”

“Samir.” I've got to calm this down, thought Ari. Take emotion out of it.

“Do you like him better than me?” asked Samir, the pain of rejection so plain on his face.

“He's very smooth.” Ari studied Omar. “He's a pro. He's made a lot of movies.”

“Do you know who he is? He is from an old military family. His grandfather was chief of staff of the Air Force, before Mubarak, before Nasser even, under the time of the British Interference! How do you think he is so rich? How do you think the government just gives him the oldest and largest movie studio in the country?”

Now Omar took offense. “What is this? I have a mortgage.”

“Guys, guys—” Ari tried to stop the argument before it veered off into useless acrimony.

“A mortgage from the bank of your uncle?”

“And who are you?” Omar shot back. “You are Muslim Brotherhood. You are nothing! You give money to your friends in Hamas!”

“Okay! okay!” Ari yelled and silenced them, then said, “Samir, we need the permits.”

“Impossible.” Samir shook his head.

“Give us the permits and I'll go straight back to the police station right now and tear up the paper I signed.”

Ari reached under his belt and pulled out a bundle of hundred-dollar bills.

“Here's ten thousand.”

Ari broke the band and fanned the money out on the desk like a deck of cards. Samir picked up the bills, looked at them for a very long time. With vehement contempt, he hurled the bills into Ari's face with the force of a slap. Shocked, Ari recoiled. The bills flew around his head and floated down onto the floor.

A perfect stillness settled for a moment after they came to rest.

“You should not have done that,” said Omar almost without emotion. He took out his cell phone and sent a text message as Ari dropped to his hands and knees. He crawled around picking up the money off the floor. Samir laughed.

“You people are crazy…” muttered Ari to himself, snatching up the hundreds.

“Go on, pray to your god.” Samir kicked a few stray bills toward Ari.

Just then, a strange and distant sound wafted in through the open terrace door, an entomic buzzing. Ari thought it might be a swarm of thousands of bees until he realized it was the roar of human voices, a quarter of a million, maybe more. The sound started to organize into one chant. Ari recognized the spoken words from Rami's song.

“We won't go until you go! We won't go until you go!” over and over again in Arabic.

The three of them looked out toward the open balcony. The distant words became louder and clearer.

“What is that?” asked Ari.

“Ha! The Day of Rage,” exclaimed Samir.

Muffled shots or explosions popped in the distance like tear gas fired from grenade launchers. The sound of the crowd devolved from a chant into an angry roar. The three men paused again for a moment to listen.

“It's getting closer,” said Ari.

Omar got a text on his phone. He walked over to the door and opened it. “Ari, leave the money on the floor.”

“But that's ten thousand dollars! Beth'll tell the studio that I lost ten grand!”

“Ari, stand up,” said Omar.

Ari noticed Detective Kek in the doorway smoking a cigarette.

Scooping up what last money he could, Ari got on his feet.

“Kek?” said Samir as he recognized the detective.

“You know him?” asked Ari.

“Samir, Samir, Samir.” Detective Kek wagged his finger at Samir and closed the door. He walked over to Samir's desk and pulled out the chair, beckoning Samir to sit. Samir obediently went and sat down. He seemed to shrink in size before the short detective, whose force and prowess made him seem bigger, enormous.

Detective Kek took off his jacket. He had thick biceps that bulged against his shirtsleeves, a broad chest, and the narrow waist of a body builder. He wore a shoulder holster and a gun under his arm.

Detective Kek took a blank confession form from his pocket, showed it to Omar, and placed it down in front of Samir.

“No,” said Samir.

The detective then drew a pen from his shirt pocket and slapped it down on the glass desktop with the flat of his hand. Samir flinched. He shook his head.

“No,” said Samir again.

Detective Kek took a puff of his cigarette. He picked up the framed photograph of Samir's wife and child, studied it for a second, then put it away in a desk drawer.

“What's he going to do?” asked Ari.

“Don't worry,” said Omar. “It'll be over soon.”

Detective Kek then took his cigarette and tapped the ash off directly over Samir's head. The tiny ember dropped onto Samir's scalp. Samir shook it off with a sudden convulsion, his whole body shivering from fear.

The detective produced a pair of handcuffs.

“Ari,” said Samir.

“Omar, you've got to stop this,” said Ari. “It's not … I'm not down for this.”

Detective Kek turned to Omar, gave a sharp order in Arabic, and jerked his thumb toward the door.

“I know, I know,” said Omar as he grabbed Ari's arm. “Let's go. We've got to get you out of here.” Omar opened the door and dragged Ari out into the hall then quickly down the stairs.

“Ari!” he heard Samir cry.

Ari grabbed the banister and stopped himself. Omar tugged him down another step.

“What's he going to do?” Ari stopped again and turned around.

“Don't go back up there,” warned Omar. “You will only confuse things.”

“But…” Above him were only a few stairs, below the staircase spiraled downward out of sight.

“Don't worry,” Omar coaxed soothing and smooth. “Samir has the money.”

Omar peeled Ari's fingers off the banister and led him down another step. Ari stopped and reached under his belt and pulled out another two packets of bills. “We should go back and offer him another twenty thousand.”

Omar shook his head. “It's a waste of cash, really. Not necessary, not at all.”

Ari pointed upstairs. “They seem to know each other.”

“Ari, he's Muslim Brotherhood, hard core. He's been in prison. Of course the police know him.”

Upstairs there was a sudden crash and sound of breaking glass.

“Help! Help me!” cried Samir. Ari broke free from Omar and raced back up the stairs and into the office. The desk had been knocked over on its side, the glasstop in pieces all over the floor. Detetive Kek was in front of the overturned desk. Samir was cornered behind it. One handcuff hung around his wrist; the other dangled, open.

Samir feinted one way trying to make a break for the door. The detective cut him off. Samir doubled back behind the desk. He was trapped. He knew Kek could cover the door and any chance of escape. He relaxed as if defeated. Detective Kek relaxed, too, and smiled. Samir suddenly feinted back, then quickly darted to the far side. Dodging around the detective, Samir made it out onto the terrace, leaping up onto the parapet, balancing precariously on top of the railing six stories above the street.