Hatim smiled and, passing his fingers over Abduh’s thick lips, said, in playful imitation of his accent, “Roight, you Sa’idi you.”
This time Abduh could not contain himself, pounced on Hatim, and picking him up like a child despite his laughing protests and provocative cries, threw him down on the bed, pulled off his pants, and threw himself on top of him. He made love to him violently, ravishing him in a way he had never done before and causing Hatim to scream out loud more than once from the pleasure and the pain. Abduh slaked his lust in Hatim’s body three times in less than an hour without uttering a single word, as though he were enthusiastically performing an unwelcome task in order to be quit of it. When they were done, Hatim lay stretched out naked on his stomach and closed his eyes in an ecstatic swoon, like one who was drugged or asleep and wanting never to awake from his delicious dream. Abduh meanwhile remained stretched out staring at the ceiling and smoked two cigarettes without saying a word. Then he jumped up and started putting on his clothes. Hatim, becoming aware of what he was doing, pulled himself up into a sitting position on the bed and asked him anxiously, “Where are you going?”
“I’m leaving.”
Abduh said this with indifference, as though the matter was closed. Hatim got up, stood in front of him, and said, “Stay here tonight and go tomorrow.”
“I’m not staying one minute.”
Hatim hugged his naked body to him and whispered, “Stay the night, for me.”
All of a sudden, Abduh pushed him so hard that Hatim fell into the chair next to the bed. His face turned red and he shouted furiously, “Have you gone crazy? What do you think you’re doing, pushing me?”
Abduh replied defiantly, “Each goes his own way now.”
Abduh’s clear statement, which proved that his plan had failed, angered Hatim. He said, “We agreed you’d spend the night.”
“What we agreed to I’ve done and I owe you nothing.”
“Who exactly do you think you are?”
Abduh didn’t answer and finished dressing in silence so Hatim went on with even greater rancor, “Answer me! Who do you think you are?”
“A human being, just like you.”
“You’re just a barefoot, ignorant Sa’idi. I picked you up from the street, I cleaned you up, and I made you a human being.”
Abduh took a slow step toward him, looked at him for a while with his drink-reddened eyes, and then said threateningly, “Look. Watch out you don’t get rude with me. Got it?”
But Hatim had lost control of himself and as though touched by some satanic urge that was pushing him to the limit, he looked Abduh up and down contemptuously and said, “Have you taken leave of your senses, Abduh? With one telephone call I can send you to hell.”
“You can’t.”
“I’ll show you whether I can or not. If you go now, I’ll call the police and tell them you robbed me.”
Abduh almost answered him but instead shook his head and moved toward the door to leave. He felt he was the stronger and that Hatim could do nothing to implement his threat. He stretched out his hand to open the door of the apartment, but Hatim grabbed onto his gallabiya and shouted, “You’re not going!”
“Let go of me, I’m warning you!”
“When I tell you to stay, it means stay!”
As Hatim cried out these words, he clung tenaciously to the neck of the gallabiya from behind. Abduh turned around, easily pulling away his hands, and slapped him hard on the face. Hatim stared at him for a moment, eyes bulging madly. Then he shouted, “You’d strike your master, you dog of a servant? I swear by your mother’s life, no job and no money! First thing, I’ll call the bank and stop the check. You can boil it and drink the water.”
Abduh stood for a moment in the middle of the room while things sorted themselves out in his mind. Then he let out a hideous noise, something like the roar of an angry wild animal, and fell on Hatim, kicking him and punching him. He grabbed hold of him by the neck and started beating his head with all his might against the wall till he felt the blood spurting hot and sticky over his hands.
Later, in the police report, the neighbors mentioned that around four o’clock in the morning they had heard shouts and screams issuing from Hatim’s apartment but had not interfered because they were aware of the nature of his private life.
In the Name of God, the Merciful, the Compassionate.
So let them fight in the way of God
who sell the present life for the world to come;
and whosoever fights in the way of God and is slain, or conquers,
We shall bring him a mighty wage.
How is it with you,
that you do not fight in the way of God,
and for the men, women, and children, who, being abased,
say, “Our Lord, bring us forth from this city whose people are evildoers,
and appoint us a protector from Thee,
and appoint us from Thee a helper?”
Sheikh Bilal recited from the chapter called “Women” in a sweet, mellifluous voice that affected those who were praying behind him. Holy awe took possession of them and they repeated after him the Prayer of Obedience in humble submission. The dawn prayer came to an end and Sheikh Bilal sat telling his prayer beads as the brothers came to him one by one to shake his hand with love and respect. When Taha el Shazli bent down over him, he pulled him gently toward him and whispered, “Wait for me in the office. I’ll catch up with you there right away, God willing.”
Taha set off straight for the office, asking himself why the sheikh wanted to see him. Radwa was always saying that she loved Sheikh Bilal like her father, but did she love him so much that she’d report to him what her husband had said about him? If she had done so she would have a painful reckoning with him. He would never forgive her; a wife had to be the faithful guardian of her husband’s secrets. If the sheikh asked him about what he’d said to Radwa, he wouldn’t lie. He would repeat it in front of him and take the consequences. What could the sheikh do to him? The most he could do was to throw him out of the camp. So be it. What was the point of his staying in the camp to eat, drink, sleep, and do nothing? If the sheikh was not going to let him join the gihad, it would be better to throw him out of the camp to return to where he’d come from.
Taha went on thinking along these lines until he pushed open the door of the office and warily entered. Inside he found two brothers waiting—Brother Dr. Mahgoub, who was a veterinarian of over forty, one of the pioneering generation that had founded the Gamaa Islamiya in the 1970s, and Brother Abd el Shafi, from the Fayoum, who had been a law student at Cairo University, then was repeatedly detained and hunted by Security till he abandoned his studies and came to live in the camp. Taha shook their hands affectionately and the three of them sat talking of general matters, though inwardly all of them felt anxiety and foreboding. Sheikh Bilal arrived, shook hands with them, embraced them warmly, and said as he looked at them with a smile on his face, “Youth of Islam, this is your day. The Gamaa’s Consultative Council has chosen you to go out on an important operation.”
A moment of silence passed. Then the brothers shouted “There is no god but God!” and embraced one another in happiness, the most joyful of all being Taha, who shouted out “Praise be to God! God is great!” The sheikh’s smile widened and he said, “Bravo! God bless you and increase you in faith! This is why the enemies of Islam tremble in fear of you—because you love death as they love life!”
His face resumed its serious expression and he sat at the desk, spread a large sheet of paper out in front of him, and said, searching in the pocket of his gallabiya for a pen, “We don’t have much time. The operation has to be carried out at 1 P.M. today or we’ll have to wait a whole month at least. Sit down, boys, and give me all your attention.”
Two hours later a small truck loaded to the brim with cylinders of cooking gas was making its way toward the Feisal area in the Pyramids district. In the driver’s seat was Dr. Mahgoub and next to him Taha el Shazli
. Brother Abd el Shafi had taken up position among the cylinders piled in the back of the truck. They had shaved off their beards and dressed themselves as workers distributing gas, the plan being for them to carry out a visual inspection of the site at least one hour before the operation, then stay in the street in a perfectly normal way until the National Security officer left his house. In the time between his exiting the door of the apartment block and his getting into his car, they were supposed to delay him by any means available to them, then open fire with the three automatic rifles hidden under the driver’s seat. They were also provided with stern additional instructions. If the officer was able to get into his car before the plan had been implemented, they were to cut him off with their truck, then throw their whole supply of hand grenades at him at once, abandon the truck, and each run in a different direction firing into the air so that no one would pursue them. If they suspected that they were being observed, Dr. Mahgoub (as the emir of the group) had the right to call off the operation immediately, in which case they were to leave the truck in any side street and return to the camp separately using public transport.
As soon as the truck entered the Feisal area, it reduced speed and Brother Abd el Shafi started banging with his wrench on the gas cylinders to announce their arrival to the residents. A few women came to their balconies and windows and called out to the truck, which stopped more than once, Abd el Shafi carrying the cylinders to the residents, taking the money, and returning to the truck with the empties; these were the instructions of Sheikh Bilal, who was concerned that they have good cover. The truck arrived at Akif Street where the officer lived and a woman asked for a cylinder from her balcony, so Abd el Shafi took it to her. This provided an opportunity for Mahgoub and Taha to inspect the place at their leisure. The officer’s car—a blue, late-seventies Mercedes—was waiting in front of the entrance to the building. Mahgoub carefully studied the distances, the neighboring shops, and the exits and entrances. When Abd el Shafi returned, the truck sped off to a point away from the site, where Dr. Mahgoub looked at his watch and said, “We have a whole hour. What do you say to a glass of tea?”
He spoke in a cheerful voice as though to instill confidence into them. The truck stopped in front of a small café in a neighboring street, where the three sat and drank mint tea. Their appearance was completely ordinary and incapable of provoking any suspicion. Mahgoub noisily sucked tea from his glass and said, “Praise God, everything’s okay.”
Taha and Abd el Shafi responded in a low voice, “Praise God.”
“Did you know that the brothers in the Gamaa Council have been watching the target for a whole year?” he whispered.
“A whole year?” asked Taha.
“I swear, an entire year. Investigations are difficult because the high-ranking officers in National Security go to enormous lengths to conceal themselves. They use more than one name, have more than one residence, and sometimes they move with their families from one furnished apartment to another, all of which makes it almost impossible to get to them.”
“What’s the officer’s name, Brother Mahgoub?”
“You’re not supposed to know.”
“I understand that it’s forbidden, but I’d like to know.”
“What difference would his name make to you?”
Taha fell silent, then looked at Mahgoub for a moment and said irritably, “Brother Mahgoub, we’ve started the gihad for real and maybe God will honor us with martyrdom and our souls will rise together to their maker. So can’t you trust me a little, as we stand at death’s door?”
Taha’s words had an impact on Mahgoub, who was very fond of him, so he said in a low voice, “Salih Rashwan.”
“Colonel Salih Rashwan?”
“A criminal, an unbeliever, and a butcher. He used to take pleasure in supervising the torture of Islamists and he’s the one directly responsible for the killing of many brothers in detention. In fact, he killed with his own revolver two of the best of the youth of Islam, Brother Hassan el Shubrasi, the emir of Fayoum, and Dr. Muhammad Rafi’, the Gamaa’s spokesman. He boasted of killing them in front of the brothers in detention at the El ‘Aqrab prison—may God have mercy on our innocent martyrs, bring them to dwell in the mansions of His paradise, and unite us with them without mishap, if God wills!”
At five minutes to one the gas truck pulled up on the other side of the street from the entrance to the apartment building. Abd el Shafi got down, went up to the driver’s cabin, took a small notebook out of his pocket, and pretended to go over the accounts with Mahgoub, the driver. The two of them busied themselves with an audible discussion of the number of cylinders sold, appearing entirely natural, while Taha grasped the door handle in readiness. The entrance to the building was in clear view in front of him and he felt as though his heart was almost bursting it was beating so hard. He tried hard to focus his mind on a single point, but a roaring cataract of images swept through his mind’s eye and a minute passed in which he saw his whole life scene by scene—his room on the roof of the Yacoubian Building, his memories of his childhood and his good-hearted mother and father, his old sweetheart Busayna el Sayed, his wife Radwa, the general in charge of the Police Academy condemning him for his father’s profession, and the soldiers in the detention center beating him and violating his body. He burned with longing to know whether this was the officer who had supervised his torture in detention, but he had not been frank with Mahgoub about this desire in case the latter should feel uneasy about him and exclude him from the operation. Taha kept staring at the building entrance, the memories rushing past in front of him, and then the officer appeared. He looked the way they had described him—portly, with a pale complexion, the traces of sleep and his hot bath still on his face, walking calmly and confidently, a cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth.
Taha quickly opened the door, got out onto the street, and headed toward him. It was his job to detain him however he could till the others could fire at him. Then Taha would run and jump into the truck and throw a hand grenade to cover their flight. Taha approached the officer and asked him in a voice that he strove to make seem ordinary, “Please, sir, which way is No. Ten, Akif Street?”
The officer didn’t stop but pointed haughtily and muttered, “Over there,” as he continued toward his car.
It was he. He was the one who had supervised his torture, who had so often ordered the soldiers to beat him and shred his skin with their whips and force the stick into his body. It was he without the slightest doubt—the same husky voice, the same dispassionate intonation, and the familiar slight rasp due to his smoking. Taha lost all awareness of what he was doing and leaped toward him, letting out an inarticulate, high-pitched cry like an angry roar. The officer turned toward him with frightened eyes, his face pinched in terror as though he realized what was happening, and he opened his mouth to say something but couldn’t because successive bursts of fire suddenly erupted from the automatic rifles, all of them striking the officer’s body, and causing him to fall to the ground, the blood gushing out of him. Taha disobeyed the plan and remained where he was so that he could watch the officer as he died; then he shouted, “God is great! God is great!” and leaped to return to the truck. Something unexpected occurred, however. Sounds of glass being violently broken were heard on the first floor and two men appeared who started shooting in the direction of the truck.
Taha realized what was happening and tried to get his head down and run in a zigzag course as they had taught him during training so as to get out of the line of fire. He was getting close to the truck, the bullets flying around him like rain, but when he got to within two meters he felt a coldness in his shoulder and chest, a coldness that burned like ice and took him by surprise. He looked at his body and saw the blood spurting from his wounds and the coldness was transformed into a sharp pain that seized him in its teeth. He fell to the ground next to the rear wheel of the truck and screamed. Then it seemed to him as though the agony was diminishing little by little
and he felt a strange restfulness engulfing him and taking him up into itself. A babble of distant sounds came to his ears—bells and sounds of recitation and melodious murmurs—repeating themselves and drawing close to him, as though welcoming him into a new world.
Starting in the late afternoon, Maxim’s had been turned upside down.
In addition to the restaurant’s own employees, ten other workers had been called in to help, and everyone was busy cleaning the floor, the walls, and the bathroom with soap and water and disinfectants. Then they moved the tables and chairs to the sides of the room so as to leave a broad corridor from the entrance to the bar and a wide space in the middle that could serve as a dance floor. They continued working tirelessly under the supervision of Christine, who had put on a baggy training suit and was helping them to move things herself (which was her way of encouraging them to work with a will), her voice ringing out from time to time in its broken Arabic that used feminine forms of Arabic words even when she was speaking to a man, saying, “You, move all that here! Clean it well! What’s the matter? Are you tired or what?”
At seven o’clock the place was sparkling, with new gleaming white cloths, brought out especially for the occasion, spread on the tables. Then the flower baskets arrived and Christine oversaw their correct placement, the small bouquets untied and the flowers distributed among the vases, while she ordered the workers to place the large baskets at the entrance to the place outside, the length of the passageway. Next she took out from the drawer of her desk an elegant old sign on which was written in French and Arabic “The restaurant is reserved tonight for a private party” and hung it on the outer door. She poked her head inside for a last look and, satisfied with the restaurant’s appearance, hurried to her house nearby to change her clothes.
By the time she returned an hour later in her smart blue gown, wearing restrained and expertly applied makeup and with her hair put up in a chignon after the fashion of the fifties, the band had arrived and its members were bent over tuning their instruments—mizmar, saxophone, violin, and rhythm section—the confused snatches of melody rising like the murmuring of some giant musical being.