At the lunch break, Mustafa took advantage of the charming, small Fine Arts Museum, just north of the conference hotel and visited it.
He started to become anxious at the thought of the transfer. So much rode upon his successful insertion of the shipment into the United States. The defense of Islam and the enormity of his task often overwhelmed Mustafa. At those times, he would slip away to a quiet spot and open the Qur’an to read. The flowing Arabic words of the Prophet calmed him.
How proud he felt to have been chosen to spearhead the destruction and eventual redemption of the infidels. After it was all over, depending on how many remained alive, how could they fail to see the True Way of Islam and Allah’s laws?
At the end of the day, Mustafa prepared for the flight back to the United States and his meeting with the courier. He covered his Western clothing with a tan robe.
He carried the small suitcase and strapped the briefcase with the corporate logo over his shoulder. The new laptop would be sealed for protection. Mustafa erased his hard drive and would switch them after the transfer. The cab driver looked at him closely when he asked to be taken to the City of the Dead. Mustafa assured him it was okay. Back out on the Salah Salem Highway, the cab slowed to turn into the Northern City of the vast cemeteries clumped at the foot of the Moqattam Hills.
Mustafa told him to wait. He stepped out into a dusty wind. In the distance he could see, quivering from the heat in the beige and sandy landscape, the minarets of the Citadel. The smell of rotting garbage struck him, but this was the safest place to make the transfer, so 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 over the years. Unlike Western cemeteries, Egyptians buried their dead in room-like sites so the family could live in them for the required 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 another 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.
Mustafa started through the twisted, unplanned streets of the cemetery. Cockroaches and flies spread before him. An occasional car languished between the tightly packed buildings.
He made two left turns and avoided stepping into a pool of stinking liquid from the 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 for his desk. Wrapped in a dirty robe, he scratched a pen across stained papers before him. The man looked up with large, bottomless black eyes at Mustafa. One eye was clouded over with a milky cataract. Mustafa felt for his new knife, hidden under the robes and continued.
Around one more corner in a narrow alley, Mustafa met him.
A swarthy man, carrying a briefcase stamped in big letters on the side which read, “ISTC, Moscow.” Mustafa almost laughed at how ironic it looked-a briefcase of death in the middle of a city of dead people.
Mustafa approached him, looked him in the eye and said, “
“
Mustafa waited for the handoff. No one moved. A puff of dry dust blew past them. Mustafa saw the stark contrast between the slanting white light and the shadows that still gripped the sides of walls and gravestones. He greeted the swarthy man again.
“What is this worth to you, American?” the man said.
“What?”
“You pay for this. I know it’s valuable.”
Mustafa felt blood rush up across his chest and into his face. His anger boiled out of control. His legs shook violently. 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 the knife out 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 a 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 cab. Setting the laptop carefully beside him on the seat, he told the driver to go to the airport.
In spite of the air conditioning in the cab, Mustafa found himself sweating.
Thirty-Two
Zehra fought desperately. The early spring heat threatened to kill her plants before they even had a chance to get going. Since the growing season in Minnesota was so short, she was determined to win the battle. They all needed as much water as she could give them.
As she always did when in trouble, she went to her garden. The beauty and peace calmed her, reminded her of larger things in the world, of hope.
The comfort of her extended family, the attention of the FBI, and lots of drugs helped also. The shaking had stopped. Zehra felt good enough to keep going.
The FBI had arrived in the parking lot quickly, promised to investigate, and had assigned an agent to stay close to her. He sat in the lobby downstairs.
She had brought home the parts of the El-Amin case that she wanted to work on, including the video the prosecutor’s office had burned onto a DVD. She wanted to see exactly what the killer and the scene looked like.
Like a dumb ox, she just kept moving forward. Zehra didn’t know what else to do. At least action took her mind off the fear that haunted her.
BJ was coming to watch it also.
In her mind, Zehra debated whether to call Mustafa. She had already told him about the car bomb. The video wouldn’t be of any interest to him and his best help was in penetrating the Somali community. She held the cell phone in her hand, admitting to herself she’d like to see him. Zehra made the call. He said of course, he would come over.
After she clicked off, Zehra’s phone buzzed, and she saw her parents’ name on the caller ID.
“Zehra, with all this horrible stuff going on, I forgot to ask how your time with Michael went the other night. How is he?”
Zehra sighed. “Actually, Mom, he’s really great. I didn’t expect this at all, to be honest, but he’s pretty cool.”
“How serious are you?”
“Aw, Mom … Let’s just say, ‘I’m interested.’”
“Isn’t he smart? Your father likes him and says his reputation at the company is good.”
“He is smart and, unlike all the others you’ve sent my way, he’s actually interested in someone besides himself-me. He’s even agreed to help me, since he’s done work with the Somali people here. Hopefully, he can open some doors. What a coincidence, huh?” Zehra paused, knowing what her mother wanted to hear. “And we’ve talked about religion. He’s a lot more conservative than I’m comfortable with, but he seems to be open to new ideas. So, we’ll see.”
“I’m so happy for you, Zehra. You deserve someone good. Don’t scare him away with your feminist stuff.”
“I can handle it. Gotta run, bye.”
