The second cop, smaller and wirier, had apparently had enough of this ridiculous exchange. He gripped Sam’s forearm with surprising strength and pulled him out the door.
“Arrest!” he shouted, thrusting his face within inches of Sam’s. “You come! Arrest!”
“But I haven’t done anything!” he said, pulling for all he was worth. Everything Nanette had said about the police came charging back, dark and frightening. It was a frame-up, and he was the victim.
“Let go!” he shouted.
The shorter cop struck him sharply across the jaw, a blow that tumbled him to the floor. Then the first cop handcuffed him and hauled him to his feet.
“You are pleased, sir, to get dressed and accompany to us!” he said again. “You are under our arrest.”
7
Sharaf was just settling into the comfortable squalor of his desk after a late lunch when he heard the voice of the American, shouting in the next room. He was certain it was Keller, the fellow from the York. But why would a foreign businessman be out with the rabble in the main booking area?
Curious, Sharaf got up to look through the open doorway of his office. Sure enough, Keller was seated opposite Sergeant Habash, who was typing out a charging document.
As usual, the room was in chaos, the atmosphere of a bus station at rush hour. Its floor space, roughly that of a trailer home, was bisected lengthwise by a cordon of six desks, with the public on one side and the police on the other. Most of the public was confined to a few rows of chairs in a small waiting area, where everyone looked bored or impatient. Hanging from the ceiling above each desk was a numbered sign, but the numbers were out of sequence, proceeding 1-2-3-4-6-5. No one had ever explained why.
This was where you came to be charged, or fingerprinted, or to swear out a warrant, claim an impounded vehicle, ask for a file, or even request a good-conduct certificate, an indispensable document for any domestic employee seeking to return to his home country. And that was just for the men. Behind a privacy curtain down at the far end was an area where the needs of women were handled by officials of their own gender.
The low-slung building had once been the headquarters for the Criminal Investigations Division, but a few years ago most of the detectives had moved upward and onward to a new two-story building, where bigger and quieter offices were well removed from the prying eyes of the public.
Sharaf had chosen to stay behind, a move his colleagues viewed as akin to a soldier turning down a home leave in favor of more shelling at the front. To more ambitious types, such as Lieutenant Assad, it was yet another sign of Sharaf’s lack of initiative.
But he had his reasons. For one thing, it was part of his disguise as someone of little consequence. It also kept him attuned to the rough-and-tumble of the criminal marketplace. The bookings, the complaints, even the stupid arguments over who was next in line—all of it gave him a better feel for the mood of the street in this fast-changing city. His colleagues were welcome to their peace and quiet. Bedlam was its own reward.
And here was a fresh case in point. Up in CID headquarters he never would have overheard the American, Keller, loudly protesting his arrest. Curious, indeed, to find him here. Fortunate, too, since Sharaf had just been trying to come up with an excuse for getting in touch, in spite of the Minister’s orders to lay off.
Keller appeared to be in a bad way. He was unshaven, hair uncombed, and there was a bruise on his lower jaw. No tie, just a wrinkled suit jacket slung over his shoulder, belted khaki slacks with no crease, and a powder blue oxford-cloth shirt, sleeves rolled. His face had the frantic look of someone who had just fallen into a deep hole in unfamiliar surroundings, far from home and bereft of allies—a blend of panic, incredulity, and impotent rage. The perfect setup, in other words, for the move Sharaf was about to make, provided Keller hadn’t gone and done something unforgivable.
Fortunately, the only impediment for the moment was Sergeant Habash, a classic Palestinian striver who was always looking for any way possible to get himself promoted out of this noisy little chamber where his bosses could literally peek over his shoulder.
“Habash!”
The sergeant stopped typing with a flinch, as if expecting a rebuke. He looked back at Sharaf with the wary eyes of a puppy that has been swatted once too often.
Habash was always volunteering for any chore that might win him extra credit, even when he was woefully unqualified. Recently he had begun writing the English versions of the “Case of the Week” summaries for the department’s Web site. Habash’s English was practically nonexistent, and Sharaf suspected the fellow was relying on some sort of clunky translation software, a suspicion that seemed confirmed when he came across a recent posting touting the department’s arrest of a Bangladeshi burglar:
All his illegal motives just towards the easy and shortly gain, ignoring the theorem of being either his legitimate or illicit rights. But no longer, he had fallen under Criminal Investigation grasps.
Habash’s ambition made him susceptible to the least bit of supervisory pressure, and Sharaf had mastered the art of exploiting him. Having Habash posted just outside his door was like having a handy tool within easy reach.
“I’ll take care of this one, Habash.” Sharaf handed the man a five-dirham note. “Go get a cup of tea. He’s more trouble than he’s worth, anyway.”
It was far more generous treatment than Habash was used to, but he resisted anyway.
“But, I can’t, sir. I—”
“Habash, are you really going to be so ungrateful?”
“No, sir. It’s just that Lieutenant Assad said that I, personally, was to—”
“I’ll deal with Lieutenant Assad. By now he will have already forgotten your name. The only decision you need to worry about in the next half hour is milk or sugar. Hand me the paperwork. All of it, please.”
“You can’t have the complaint!” Habash bent protectively over his typewriter. “I’m still writing it up.”
