John McCain Created the Blackberry

Although Al Gore may have created the internet, John McCain has done him one better by Creating the Blackberry.

Triumphant Sun, Pt. 6

Evan stared at the paper before him, trying to decipher the scrawling of the last hour. He took another sip of bitter tea and forced himself to focus on the mess of names and dates that formed the bare skeleton of the story. Coherence hovered at the edges of thought, slipping away whenever he tried to fix upon it. The pieces of the affair lay before him, but he couldn't assemble them. There seemed to be no connection between the various parts – who was the Iranian, Said, for instance? What interest could he have in the scandals of an Egyptian general?

It occurred to him that Carlos might be able to help him after all. He just had to approach it from the right angle. He quickly called and watched the taxis maneuver before him as the phone rang.

“Miss me so soon?” drawled Carlos sardonically.

“Yeah, yeah. Funny. Look, you have Fuad's number?”

“Fuad, like Fuad al-Afghani?”

“Yeah, that one.”

“Well, I got his number, but...no offense on this, but I don't think he'd like it if I gave his number to a journalist. That's just the way he is.”

“Well, maybe you could just set something up for me. Tell him I want to buy something.”

Evan could practically hear the gears turning in Carlos' head as he worked the angles. “OK, sure, where are you now?”

“I'm in an ahwa on 26^th July, the one next to the butcher.”

“I guess that works. I'll give him a call and ask if he can meet you there.”

“Thanks, Carlos. I owe you one.”

“You owe me more than one, Rochester.”

Evan settled back in his seat and asked for more tea from the young boy who sat on his heels, watching a soccer game on a flickering color television. He realized that he had no idea who or what to keep an eye out for – indeed, he knew little more about Fuad other than his reputation as an underworld dealmaker and smuggler, his friendship with Carlos and his Pashtun roots. But if Evan knew about him, than so did other, more important people – and the Aghan's continued presence and survival in Egypt meant he had the right connections, connections Evan could use.

He thought it unlikely that Fuad would agree to go on the record about anything, even anonymously, but he might lead Evan to the loose string that would unravel the whole mess.

A grey sedan rolled to a halt in front of the ahwa and let out a tall, rail-thin man in a tight-fitting black suit, a kaffiyeh wrapped around his neck. Aviator sunglasses shielded his eyes, gold rims flashing in the sun. He walked to Evan's table and peered down at him, long fingers rubbing against each other.

“Carlos tells me you want to talk.”

Evan looked up at his interlocutor. Fuad had a rich, sleek look about him, the kind that comes with plenty of money. “I was hoping we might be able to do business.”
“This way, then,” Fuad said, gesturing at his car.

Evan entered the car behind the Afghan, who gestured at his driver to pull away from the curb. Leather and wood panelled the inside of the Mercedes, old but well-preserved. Fuad took a cigarette from the inside of his coat and lit it, then leaned back. He removed his glasses to reveal disconcertingly bright green eyes that seemed to search Evan for clues.

“I hear you are a journalist.”

“Where'd you hear that?”

Fuad waved his hand dismissively through the curling smoke. “I'm not going to give you an interview, if you think this.”

Evan grinned. “I didn't really expect it.”

“What do you want, then?”

“Hashish, maybe?”

Now Fuad smiled like a shark with gold teeth. “This I like to hear. How much?”

“200 pounds?”

Fuad rapped on the back of his driver's seat and received a neatly wrapped package from him. He snapped open a blade, made a few quick incisions, and produced a thin brick of hash which he wrapped again in foil.

“Where do you get it?” asked Evan, feigning nonchalance. “I mean, which country?”

“Afghanistan, of course. Everything that is the best comes from Afghanistan. You want hash, opium, heroin, jihadis – my country is king.” Fuad said this last with a kind of twinkling, ironic pride.

“Of course,” said Evan, “But I thought the war would make this difficult.”

“Business is maybe a little harder,” conceded Fuad. “But everything is an opportunity. This I learned a long time ago. So for me, I make this war an opportunity. The United States invade, make it more expensive for everyone else, but for me – cheaper. With a little help, so I can bring you the best prices.”

In that moment, it became clear to Evan. The loose string unravelled into a whole messy tapestry, and he had to grind his teeth to avoid gasping in front of Fuad.

Triumphant Sun. pt 5

Outside, the air had almost cleared. Samira checked her blood sugar and decide to go for a walk. Who knew what might have changed in the years since she'd been gone? She rummaged in her luggage for a pair of trousers, looped the blue silk of her scarf loosely around her head and slipped into a pair of shoes more suited for navigating the treacherous paving of Cairo.

The noise of the city hit her in a roaring gale. She'd been so dazed from the flight that she'd barely noticed, but now, on the street, it was almost unbearable. For a moment she considered hailing a cab, but decided that she needed to walk. The scent of diesel and heat played on her memories, bringing back a flood of disassociated images – the gleaming metal boot of the family sedan, a moonlit night on the roof of the house, the feeling of her tiny fingers encapsulated in the calloused hand of her father.

She paused for a moment in the center of 6^th October Bridge. A few feluccas plied the water beneath, one filled with raucous tourists and blasting music. From this spot, the river looked curiously petty and unimportant. As a girl, it seemed to extend forever, and she'd forever heard about how it was the heart and lifeblood of Egypt. But the water in front of her now was dull and murky, narrower than the Thames and filled with petty fishing craft instead of freighters and speedboats.

With a sigh, she turned towards Zamalek and walked on, fingers trailing along the railing of the bridge. A few cars honked as they rolled by, although she wasn't sure whether it was at her or just part of the general chaos.

Reaching the the end of the bridge, she turned off into the quieter streets that made up the rest of Zamalek, winding avenues lined with high walls and trees arcing over the scarred pavement. For a while, she walked by the sprawling, dilapidated grounds of the Gezira Club, with its derelict buildings and overgrown plants. Its history was filled with different uses – a racing track, a social venue, an athletic club. It seemed permanently half in use and half in decay, a colonial relic dissolving into obscurity but hanging on by the strength of its reputation.

It also played host to a horde of horse-drawn carts, giving it a pungent odor of manure which wafted across the avenue. Many of the carriages were elaborate and astonishingly tacky affairs that hauled tourists around the island at exorbitant rates.

The guards of the Russian Embassy stared impassively through her as she passed in front of it. Half of the buildings on the island were embassies and government offices. The thought disquieted her.

A few boys kicked a football back and forth on the street, bouncing it off of cars and trees and flipping it with their heels. There was no structure to the game – it flowed over curbs and around the meager, slow traffic, tumbling over itself in the flush of youth. They paused for a moment and one looked as if he would catcall her, but Samira fixed his eyes with hers and he blushed before throwing himself back into the contest.

She paused for a moment in front of a shabby newsstand selling magazines, cigarettes and ancient cassette tapes which lay stacked in a kind of plastic mural of Egyptian popstars, bygone Western singles and Islamic sermons. Fawning press photos of President Mubarak stared back out at her, his face in different iterations of wise, aloof, fierce and noble, lording over Egypt like a latter-day pharaoh.

The idea put her in a foul mood and half out of spite she bought a pack of Viceroy cigarettes.

Three blocks passed before she realized she had no matches. The pack now sat in the bottom of her purse like a tiny brick, weighing on her consciousness. A little less than two years ago she'd smoked her last cigarette – or at least, so she'd planned.

Her ruminations brought her to her destination without warning. In front of her, the familiar cement wall loomed high, topped with a new addition of curled, rusting razor wire. The spreading palm in the courtyard arced over the wrought iron of the gates, as tall as she remembered. Was this a trick of memory or had it really grown?

She peered through the gate at the entryway, lined with flowers and bushes. It looked dilapidated, overgrown – the gravel lay in erratic lumps and whorls. The paint, too, had faded over the years, its crisp whiteness smudged to a dingy grey. A colony of feral cats squatted in the shadow of the staircase, lean and hungry even in their indolence. One of them whisked its tail as it gazed at her, the only break in their placid indifference.

She drank in every detail – the windows, now listing slightly in their frames; the climbing plants that crept in random patterns up the walls; the broken and missing tiles on the roof; and the asymmetry of the great double doors, one missing its brass door-knocker. The whole thing seemed to be a dream or a reflection in dirty water. Was this really the great house of her youth? Now, more than ever, she wished for a cigarette to smoke.

La Frontera

This is an odd one - I was (well, actually am) in a writing contest with a very odd prompt. We had to write 1500 words based on this photo of an old van:
Anyways, that's what today's post is - more of Triumphant Sun will be coming later in the week, I think, but it needs editing so it'll have to wait.

La Frontera

“Hijo de la puta!” swears Ezequiel as the van swerves tightly around a hulking cactus. In the seat next to him, Hector grits his teeth and guns the engine harder, 6 cylinders screaming in dry protest. The spiralling cone of dust remains in the rear-view mirror, dogging them at a distance as it has for the past 2 hours, a tiny black dot at its center.

“Why don't they make up their chingado minds?” Ezequiel spits out the window through the gap in his teeth. “How long is this shit going to last, cabron? What's with the fucking Border Patrol?”

“No patrol,” says Hector. “Police never take this long. Anyways, remember what Arturo said?”

“Si, si. But maybe they got the wrong sergeant. Maybe just sold us down the river, you know?”

“No. El Gallito, for sure.”

Ezequiel sucks in a long breath and fixes his eyes on the rearview again. It hangs at a queer angle, reflecting his own bloodshot grey eyes and thin, mahogany face back at him. He unconsciously fingers the jagged scar running down his chin from the left ear. He fishes a battered cigarette from a crumpled packet in his jeans and lights it with quivering hands.

“What's back there, anyways?”
“You want to know? Go look,” snaps Hector. “And light me one of those, man.” Hector holds out his hand to receive the cigarette.

They hurtle forwards and the desert gleams around them like old brass under the sun's burning disc. The endless pounding of the tires gives a repetitive quality to the minutes, flowing by slow as molasses. Scrub and brush dot the flatness of the sands, and occasionally a bird starts from the ground in front of the van with the swiftness of a gunshot. The two men remain silent, smoking grimly and staring straight forward, avoiding the oppressive presence of the dust cloud behind them, edging ever closer.

Ezequiel finally breaks the tension. “You know what they say El Gallito does...”
“Shut up.” Hector slams his hand on the dashboard. His voice cracks with tension and dryness, and he fumbles under the seat for a bottle of water to soothe his cracked lips. Ezequiel twists the top of the canteen off for his friend and watches in silence as he drinks. He takes only a brief sip when Hector hands it to him.

The shock comes brutally and without warning. The van lists to the right and the wheels dig into the sand, spinning in a fury of sparks and shredded rubber. Hector grimly fights the steering as it fishtails deeper and deeper into the ground, the gearbox tearing itself apart as the axles grind against the burning desert. Ezequiel slams into the door and hurtles on to the sand, his shoulder plowing down and wrenching painfully backwards. The van slides to a halt, the spine of its chassis broken by the impact. Black grease slithers onto the dirt.

Hector leans out of his door and vomits noisily. Ezequiel drags himself backwards and leans against the black metal of the van. It burns to the touch from endless exposure to the sun. He gingerly rotates the shoulder and sighs with palpable relief, the first time he has felt this that day. The crash did not dislocate the joint. He stands and squints into the distance, head still ringing from smashing on the earth. Their pursuer has slowed, circling too far to be made out clearly in the shimmering heat haze.

While Hector voids his stomach, Ezequiel slides under the vehicle. Oil drips onto his face as he fumbles with a long package wrapped in cloth and tied to the steel crossbeams. He rolls back out into the afternoon sun. He carefully lays out the cloth on the ground and runs his hands down the gleaming but pitted steel of the rifle, tracing his fingers along the wood of the stock, splintered in places from the force of the impact, raising it to his shoulder and peering down the sights, checking the straight length of the barrel.

Hector stumbles around to the other side of the van and slumps against the shattered wheel.

“You think that will help?” he mutters sullenly, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

Ezequiel stares down at him. Hector's pale face looks almost white from his sickness, and the heavy muscles of his body seem collapsed and defeated in his dejection. He turns away and searches through the chaos of the glove compartment and emerges with a handful of shells. His hands move like automatons as he carefully slots them into the breech of the rifle.

The pursuer in the distance circles closer, a shark waiting for its prey to grow tired. He can see now that it is a black truck, hulking with menace and cruising easily across the rough ground. Ezequiel kneels down and raises the rifle to his shoulder. His vision narrows down the iron sights, contracting to a tight circle as he carefully leads the front end of his target. He holds his breath tightly, body tight like a steel spring, and then fires. The rifle roars and bucks, the truck swerves to the left and with a practiced motion he digs in his feet and rams the bolt down, bringing another shell into the chamber, firing and reloading three times. Men pile out of the truck as it skids to a halt, steam rising from the engine.

Ezquiel quickly ducks back down next to Hector as bullets zip back towards them, rattling like steel raindrops against the side of the van. “I think I took one of their tires, maybe the radiator.”

“Give me one of those chingado cigarettes.”

They light the last two cigarettes and Hector inhales greedily, sucking smoke into his lungs. He peers around the fender and ducks back as more bullets slam into the ground, kicking up puffs of sand.

“Six, maybe seven. Mierda.”

Ezequiel leans around the other side and snaps off another quick shot. A strangled cry fills the desert air. “That's one.”

“Can you do that five more times?”

He sneaks a look over the hood of the van and crashes back down as more bullets fly by in a hail of automatic fire. “No.”
The two men sit silently for a while, smoke drifting in lazy curlicues above them. Occasionally, the van rocks under the impact of sprayed bullets, the harsh metallic sound of screaming metal echoing around them.

“Puerco pibil,” says Hector

“What?”

“Puerco pibil. My wife was cooking in it when we left. I didn't have time to eat, but I was going to when we returned.”
Ezquiel grins lopsidedly. “Would you call her and like to tell her you're going to be late?”
Hector stares at the other man for a moment. “Si, I would.”

“Well, you could go over ask them if you could use their phone. See what they say.”

“You are a strange little man. You know that, cabron?”
“What can you do, eh?”

They lapse back into their wordless state. High above them in the crystal sky, the black silhouettes of vultures wheel and turn. The desert is strangely silent. Hector leans forward and grabs the disjointed remains of the side mirror and tilts it carefully around the edge of van.

“I think they're trying to fix the truck,” he says.

“To leave?”

Hector shoots him a look. “What do you think?”

“Listen, Hector. Do you have that revolver? The one that Arturo gave you?”

Hector pulls it from beneath his shirt and lays it on his lap, ugly and snub-nosed. “It's no good. This for for shooting maricons in a bar, not this out here in the open. Maybe if they walk up and knock, or something.”
“Si. It's not for them.”

“You mean...”

“I have three bullets. Maybe we get one, two, but then nothing. I'm not letting them take me back to El Gallito. So one of us has to do it. Do both.”

Hector runs his hands over the revolver. “Which one?”
“I don't know. You have a coin.”
Hector fishes in his pockets. “You know what, I'll do it. I always wanted to shoot you anyways.”

“Chinga tu mujer.”
“She wouldn't. She says you look like a rabbit.”

Ezequiel shrugs and pulls a rosary from his pocket, distractedly running the cheap wooden beads through his fingers.

“You believe in that mierda, man?” Hector looks incredulous.

“Not really. But, you know. What's the worse that can happen?”
The two men sit back as the sun sinks lower in the sky. The metal of the engine pings as it cools, a weirdly melodic sound like a music box falling slowly out of tune. The last lines of smoke spiral away into the fading light and in the far, far distance a desert owl lets off a mournful call. Hector hums a few snatches of a Mexican song as the two men wait, watching the shadow of the van slink longer and longer across the landscape before them.

Triumphant Sun, pt. 4

The envelope rested on a table between the two men. Carlos drummed his fingers irritably on his chair. A thick silence filled the room as he stared at the envelope. Finally, he pushed it away and inhaled a dense stream of smoke. “It's too much of a mess, Evan. I'd like to help you but...”

Evan leaned forward and took the envelope back. Outside, the storm had slowed and the sun began to gleam through the tarnished light. They lapsed back into a wordless haze. Evan rolled the cool, biting taste of lime and tonic around on his tongue, a perfect antidote to the dry harshness outside. The gin stung in the cracks that the heat and sand had left on his lips.

“Fair enough,” said Evan finally. He rose, finishing his drink and walking to the bar to pour himself another. “You should just forget I ever brought it to you.

Carlos crooked a smile with half his face. “Done. So what happened to your leave, anyways? Weren't you going to head home for a bit?”

“I was. But you know how big this is. If I've got to deal with it, I think I'm going to be here for a bit longer. More than a bit.” Evan ran his fingertips, damp from the condensation on the glass, through his hair.

“Bet you're thrilled.”

“Well, on the one hand it's a month or two more in Cairo.”

“And on the other?”
“It's a month or two more in Cairo,” Evan quipped. He paused, staring out the window. “Anyways, I''m going to head out. If I need to drop some stuff here, could I?”

“No worries,” said Carlos, holding open the door. “Any time you get sick of Stella and tea, I'm your man.”

Evan paused at the bottom of the staircase, standing a moment in the cool shadows. Only one of the bulbs was lit, and it blinked fitfully. The beginnings of a headache teased at the back of his head and he rubbed his temples with both hands, staring out at the almost painfully bright sunlight at the end of the corridor. The bawab had returned and dozed in his chair by the entrance, a cup of tea cradled in his wrinkled hand. Evan walked softly so as not to disturb the man as he emerged into the heavy sunlight.

The island of Zamalek felt quiet compared to the rest of Cairo, and the men armed with Kalashnikovs underpinned the sense of prosperity on every street corner. A group of school-boys in uniform scrambled down the street, bouncing off of cars and walls like so many tumbling creatures. A cab swerved to the corner but Evan waved the driver off and donned his sunglasses before the man could speak. The storm seemed a bit weaker now, and the walk to his apartment would help clear his spinning head.

***

Samira licked the blood from her fingertips. It had a salty taste mixed with the tiny grains of sand blowing through across the Nile. She ran her hands through her hair in frustration, threw a scarf around her throat and headed downstairs to the hotel to get a drink and wash away the dry feeling in her throat that she can't shake. The stares of the porters and clerks bounced off the shell of her indifference. She still felt wobbly though her shoes were flat and the dazed sensation of diabetic lows gave her the oddest sensation of standing feet over her own head and directing her motion like a puppeteer. For a moment she leaned on the banister.

Her finger was still bleeding and she put it in her mouth again before it spotted on to her pale blue dress. A group of rich young Egyptian men wearing garish designer clothes walked by with predatory gazes. She stared at coldly at them, shooting contempt from her steel-gray eyes.

One leaned over and blew a kiss to her. “Yaa habibi!” he called to her from across the hall.

Samira consciously snapped out of her unconsciously coquettish pose. “Allah yuqra baytik,” she snapped back, an Egyptian oath more or less translating to 'May God step on your home'. Patently absurd in English, it was effective as a whiplash in Egypt

He recoiled as if punched and stalked away to the laughter of his companions while Samira glided serenely on and got to the bar without shaking to order a gin and tonic and a tall glass of mango juice, draining half the juice in a single gulp and taking a long sip of the cocktail. Her fist coiled in a tight ball around the fringe of her scarf.

She took another drink of juice and felt the effect as it began to steady her nerves. The only thing worse than a low, she thought, was a high, when her body became enervated and the sugar poisoned her from the inside out. Highs and lows, ups and downs in endless cycles that tore one way and then another.

Her phone jangled and she shut it off after a quick glance. Fourteen hours and halfway across the world, London could wait. She took a palm-sized notebook from her purse and jotted down the number 59 in neat, round characters with a red pen. It added to the crimson digits cascading down the page, every single one representing a low blood sugar, with only a few little islands of black or blue interrupting it. Weren't, she thought and not for the first time, diabetics supposed to have high sugars?

She'd smoothed her rough edges and she finally relaxed a little and allowed herself a tight smile. She had wheedled, bullied, begged and twisted arms but at last the paper had chosen her to take over the Cairo desk and it had been a personal point of honor that she hadn't once mentioned her father's name, even if she doubted they would have understood the importance. She wondered what it meant here. Khalil Mohammed Rahman had been a legend and a terror in his time, and being his daughter would have to mean something, even the daughter of his English widow. And what would he have thought of her gin and tonic? Probably just judged her brand of gin. The thought amused her.

She pulled out a second notebook slightly larger than the first and began to write quickly, the letters slanting more with each word until she held the book almost perpendicular to her body. Without a definite assignment from the London desk, the first few weeks would be impressions, local color pieces and soft features about eccentric characters. Her hotel room was too removed from the pulse of the city – that would have to change. An apartment in Mohandiseen or better yet Downtown, if she could manage it. The western hotels and restaurants of Zamalek were too sheltered and other parts of the city lay too far from the centers of power in the Mogamma and the ministry buildings.

Triumphant Sun, Pt. 3

Evan passed through the metal detector at the front of the Sheraton Zamalek. Every major building in Cairo had one, but they were more for the Egyptians than foreigners. He brushed sand from his hair as he headed for the hotel cafe.

Tourists clumped around the glass tables, fanning themselves with magazines while groups of bored, rich Egyptians looked on in faint amusement. He scanned the room from behind his sunglasses. A heavy hand on his shoulder startled him out of his search.

“Evan Rochester, isn't it?” Evan spun around and fought to keep his cool. The man standing before him was dark and conservatively dressed in a Western suit. His thin lips curved in a sardonic smile. “I'm sorry, I didn't mean to disturb you. Sit, please.” The man moved back to his table and lowered himself into the chair with a stiffness that suggested old injuries. He watched Even for a moment as he toyed with a glass of Egyptian tea.

“And you, I presume, are Said.”

“How astute of you.” He motioned to one of the young men lounging behind the hotel bar.

“Yaa, ustaaz?” asked the youth. He used the word 'professor' as a slangy honorific.

“Bring my friend a tea.” He turned to Evan and spoke English. “Sugar?”

“Black, please,” he responded in Arabic.

Said clicked his tongue. “Don't you find that very bitter?”

“I prefer it – whenever I get sugar, it's always too sweet. Gives me a headache.”

“Of course.” The man reached into the pocket of his leather jacket and produced a steel cigarette case and a lighter. “Smoke? They're British – Dunhills.”

“Thanks,” He took one and flicked the lighter experimentally before lighting it. Said lit one for himself and set the case down in the center of the table.

“You work for a newspaper? So you know what I refer to when I speak of the Abdel-Kareem affair?”

Taken aback by the sudden shift, Evan nodded his assent. “I do.”

“There are a lot of sides in this thing. It's very sensitive.”

“The main one is whether it's true.”

Said waved dismissively. “Of course it's true. The question is how much of it is true, and when, and where.”
Evan leaned forward over the table. “And you know?”

“I know a great many things, Mr. Rochester.”

“A great many things in this world aren't important. Take your name. Is it Said? Isn't it? It doesn't matter the slightest to me. What does is what you can tell me about General Abdel-Kareem and whether or not you can prove it. Or if you don't, who does?”

Said smiled generously and waved his hand through the air. “ And here we are, Mr. Rochester. I know a lot of people. That's the line I'm in. That's it exactly.”

“There's a word in English for someone who knows a lot of people but doesn't know anything important. Lobbyist.” A long pause passed between them. Rochester raised his cigarette to his mouth and found that it had burned halfway down into a thin grey tube of ash. He tapped it out in the marble ashtray.

“I don't know this word.” Said frowned. “But regardless, that's how it stands.”

“And how did you find me?”

The smile returned. “Like I said, some things matter and some things don't. What I want to do is meet with you again, now that we understand each other. Meet with you, and another man who knows a great deal and has some of the same interests as you. Maybe the same interest as me. Maybe even General Abdel-Kareem's. Allah only knows.”

“This is all fascinating.” Evan switched back into English. “We couldn't have done this over the phone?”

“Perhaps. But then I couldn't have given you this.” Said pushed a slim manila envelope across the table. Evan reached for it and Said lifted a finger. “Ah, it's a surprise. Open it after I'm gone.”

“It's not a bomb, is it?”

Said laughed, a sound with a faintly unpleasant edge. “I wouldn't worry about that, Mr. Rochester. And now I must be going. Although be assured, there's plenty where it came from.”

Evan smiled with one side of his mouth. “How can I contact you again?”

“We'll let you know, Mr. Rochester.” Then he was gone, limping slightly as he carried his thin attache case and his Economist, leaving only the envelope and an unusually crisp five pounds for the two teas. 'We,' thought Evan. There was something that might be important. Or it might not.

He didn't reach for the envelope right away. Instead, he stopped the digital recorder in his pocket, threaded a single audio bud into his ear and played it back. Surprise and dismay spread across his face. Where the conversation should have played back to him, the recorder only provided a dull electronic hiss.
“Bloody hell,” he said under his breath. He gingerly turned the envelope over in his hands, giving it an experimental shake, and finding it to be innocuous, he opened it and slid the contents out and inspected them briefly.

He was careful not to let the shock register this time. After a moment, he bundled everything up, tossed it into his battered briefcase and left, humming quietly to himself. He left the hotel and caught a cab up the island of Zamalek to a crumbling old apartment building by the water. There was no doorman but somebody had left a package to prop open the door so he went in and took an elevator to the 14^th floor, an unnerving experience because there were doors inside the elevator so as he went up he could see into the crawlspaces between each floor and ceiling and he had to stand back so his coat wouldn't catch in the gaps. It was one of those things about Cairo.

There was a long wait after he rang Carlos Ribeiro's doorbell and when he finally got the door Carlos looked confused.

“You're not Mustafa,” he said.

“Cheers to you too,” replied Evan as he stepped inside the apartment. Despite the building decaying around it and the general air of abandonment in the darkened halls it ranked as one of the nicer apartments downtown, with its airy view of the river and modernist décor that looked as if it had been installed in 1959. “ You know there's no one downstairs, don't you?”

“Isn't there? How'd you get in?”

“I let myself in. Door's open.”

“Well, the bawab must be drunk again.”

A bawab was a sort of doorman, superintendent and security guard rolled into one, and nearly every building in Cairo had a hereditary dynasties who watched over and made sure the building did not slip off from to day. They were all more or less corrupt in a genial sort of way and the one who looked after Carlos' building manifested his corruption by levying a kind of alcoholic tax in exchange for ignoring the building's nominal prohibition on spirits. This meant he was drunk most of the time which, in the end, didn't hurt anyone.

Evan walked to the window. The day was getting on and the sand had died down so the city was laid out clearly before him and cast in a bronze glow from the sun going down over the edges of the apartment buildings across the river.

“Have a drink?” asked Carlos as he poured himself a gin and tonic from the little bar he kept on his end-table. “I just hit the Duty-Free.”

“When did you fly out?” Evan turned around.

“Oh, I didn't. I just know a man down there. Got a fifth of Tanqueray for a sizable discount.”

“Then make it a T&T for me.”

Evan took his drink and resumed his place leaning on the open windowsill while Carlos took a seat on a leather easy-chair and occupied himself with rolling a joint with hashish from a sticky, foil-wrapped sliver the size of a pencil. His thin brown fingers moved moved quickly and nimbly as he rolled the hash between the tips to soften it and sprinkled it along the cigarette papers.

“Don't you ever work, Carlos?”

“Not if I can help it.”

“Like today, for instance.”

“Sure I did work today. I had lunch with a minister from Interior.”

“About?”

“Business,” said Carlos, waving his hand vaguely. “This and that. Nothing very interesting.”

“Oh, it's that sort of thing?”

“Yeah. You know how it is with the government here. Everybody has an angle.” He shrugged and took a long drag. “Same as everywhere, really. But they're more enthusiastic about it here.”

“You got more than most, though.”

Carlos smiled crookedly. “It's true, isn't it? Well, everybody has to be good at something.” He extended his arm lazily, like a billiards player. “Getting the angles.

“Charming, really, Carlos. But I'm not just here to get high and chit-chat. I have some real questions.”

“About?”

“Abdel-Kareem.”

Carlos leaned forward, the joint dangling between two fingers of his left hand. He rolled it back and forth along his knuckles and then carefully doused the burning end with his fingertips. “Careful, Evan. You know what the stakes are here. I don't know if I want to have anything to do with this..”

Evan grinned and swallowed deeply from his drink. He drew the manila envelope from his fingers and fluttered it in the air. “But you want to see these, don't you?

Triumphant Sun, Pt. 2

The cab pulled away, weaving through the pandemonium with practiced abandon. A bus hurtled by, men leaning from its open doors at alarming angles. There were no windows at all, and smoke – whether cigarette or diesel – poured from the vehicle in waves. Evan tried to look through his papers but lurching of the car prevented him from doing anything but gripping the door and hoping the whole contraption didn't fall to pieces.

For his part, the driver carried on a blistering flow of conversation into his cell phone while smoking the battered remains of cheap Egyptian cigarette. Occasionally, he blew his nose with great gusto on tissues from gaudy tin box on the dashboard, painted gold and laced with Qu'ranic verses. Evan wondered if the thing possessed some religious purpose – perhaps tissues needed some special blessing from Allah - or whether it was just supposed to add to the interior design of the car. This already featured a lurid, zebra-patterned acrylic fur dashboard, a Qu'ranic verse in window decals and a good luck charm to ward off the evil, eye swaying from the rear-view like loose rigging on a ship.

The traffic slowed to a crawl. The driver leaned out the window, uttered a few choice Arabic curses, and then retreated from a volley of equally enraged responses like an alarmed hermit crab pulling into its shell.

“It is the government,” he apologized in Arabic. “The traffic is bad because they are coming.”

“To give a speech?” replied Evan.

“No, just driving across 26^th July.” It was one of the major bridges arching across the Nile. Mr. X sighed. An official motorcade locked down the snarled roadways of Cairo for hours as it roared by at full speed with its motorcycles, armored trucks and limousines,. Any politician or officer with enough clout could command one, a privilege abused as often as possible in the otherwise impassable Cairene gridlock. “Inshallah, it will not be long.” The driver shrugged and lit another cigarette and leaned back in his seat.

“Inshallah,” replied Evan, echoing the Egyptian fatalism. Everything in Egypt operated on that principle - If Allah wills it. Inshallah, the work will be done tomorrow. Inshallah, we will have fair elections. Inshallah, I will be paid today – and if not, inshallah it will be tomorrow! All business conducted as if man had but a passing influence on the events of the world. On the one hand, as a philosophy of life, it dissolved many day-to-day cares. On the other, some problems were too important to trust to Allah's inconsistent influence.

“You would like cigarette?” Evan shook his head. “You are American, yes?”

“Yes.”

“Egyptians like Americans very much, you know,” he said, with the air of a man bequeathing mystical truths. “We like the American people very much. It is only...” Here he paused, dragging deeply on his cigarette. “It is only your President. Bush is very bad, and hates Egyptian people, Muslim people. But we know that your President and your people are different. We love the American people.”

“I don't doubt it. Everyone is very friendly.”

“Yes! Egyptian people are the world's friendliest. Did you know that?”

“I'm not surprised.” Evan began to wish he had taken the cigarette, just so he would have something else to besides sit with his hands awkwardly on his lap.

“Ah, but we are very bad, too. Many will try to rob you – try to cheat you! You must be very careful that nobody tries to cheat you.” The driver shook his head sadly. “It's a great problem, really. Nobody follows the law, and everybody tries to steal. Especially the government, they are the worst. Look at this – all these people waiting, and why? A minister in a hurry.”
E leaned forward. “Do many people feel this way? About the ministers, and the government?”

“Of course! Everybody is tired of it. But what can you do? Things are like that.”

“Yes. Still, maybe someday things will be better.”

“Inshallah.” That seemed to be the end of it. The traffic began to flow again as the police escort's wailing sirens disappeared back into the city. They moved forward by fits and starts that became the dashing, swerving combat of traffic.

*|*

“Of course I'm not smuggling drugs!” Samira Mohammed Crane folded her arms and tossed waves of thick, black hair over her shoulder. The customs official, a fat, passive man with the obstinate demeanor of a camel, stared back at her. Her eyes, like round obsidian flakes, sparked with anger. He held up a clear packet of syringes and three vials of smoky liquid.

“What is the purpose of these, please?” he asked in English.

“For the millionth bloody time, I'm diabetic.” The man stared blankly. Samira switched into a stiff but educated Arabic. “I have sugar in my blood and I need to take injections. Understand? Diabetes, the disease.”

“Ah, diabetes. Marhaba,” he replied, accented with the heavy drawl of a Saidi, from the south of Egypt.

“Finally.”

“Do you have a letter?”
“A what?”

“A letter, for permission.”

“Permission for what?”

“Permission to have drugs for the diabetes.”
“I need the drugs. I don't have any letter. You, you absolutely...” She burst out into English, “You silly little man!”

He shrugged with all the resignation of a bureaucrat at last back on comfortable ground. “I'm sorry, but without a letter of permission it is not possible.”

Samira looked around the terminal entrance in dismay. All around, tourists lugged behemoths on little black wheels across the spotted tile flour. An Egyptian man wearing alligator loafers and a pinstriped suit with a turqoise shirt stood amongst a small group of them, holding a sign saying A&O Tours.

“Excuse me,” she said, picking the plastic bag and striding over to the tour guide. “Yaa raab,” she greeted him quietly.

The man's expression leaped from boredom to leering enthusiasm. “How may I help you, madmoiselle?” he replied.

“I'm sorry, but the customs are giving me trouble. Do you think you could take me with your group.”
“No problem at all, madmoiselle. My name is Tareq Ramadan. But what is...”

“Not important.” With a smooth handshake born of tipping maitre'des at a hundred London restaurants, she slid twenty Egyptian pounds into his hand.

“It's my honor,” he said with an oily smile.

She loitered for a few moments, watching the customs official stolidly inspect the bags of unlucky travellers. When the group finally gathered, more than a few stared at the slight, dark woman with the finely tailored suit who had joined into the little huddle of nylon windbreakers, khaki shorts and digital cameras. With a smirk and a nod from the tour leader, the whole group swept past customs with grand indifference.

As she slipped away from the group, Tareq tried to interrupt her exit. “Pardon, madame, but please tell me your name. Perhaps...”

“Fatima,” she replied, letting her hand linger in his for a moment and then peeling off into the turbulent crowds of Cairo International Airport.