Free ARAB by Jim Ingraham

daughter?”
    “My eldest. Next year she goes to the university, God willing.”
    “If you need help with that, let me know.” Nick handed Nawaf a sealed envelope.
    “Thank you,” Nawaf said, making a slight bow in gratitude as he tucked the envelope into his jacket pocket.
    “I mean it,” Nick said. “You were very helpful to my father as you are to me.”
    He left the sand at the edge of the river and walked back to the truck.
    “Nuha Za’im,” he told Habib, handing him the slip of paper.
    “I know where this is,” Habib said, folding the paper, tucking it into his shirt pocket.
    “Don’t tell me you know this woman.”
    Habib laughed. “I know the building. It’s a beehive of single young women.”
    *
     
    They got off the elevator at the fourth floor and walked down a carpeted hallway through odors of decaying varnish and old cigarette smoke.
    “She must be doing all right,” Nick said. “This looks reasonably expensive.”
    “She probably shares it with others,” Habib said. “They are the new breed, ‘liberated,’ they call it—the hope of the West,” and he laughed.
    Nick knocked on a painted door. There was no response. He knocked again. No response.
    “Tell the manager we heard a peculiar noise in there. It may be an emergency.”
    While Habib went for the manager, Nick put his ear to the door and rapped several times. No response.
    “What emergency?” the manager said, almost running up the hallway, holding the key in front of him like a sword. “This is a respectable place. We never have trouble here.”
    They entered a large room which was modestly furnished and air-conditioned. There were framed impressionist prints on the walls. As in most Cairo apartments, the windows were tightly shuttered to fend off heat and dust-like particles of sand.
    They looked into a kitchen/dining alcove and two large bedrooms and saw no one.
    “The sound must have come from the street,” the manager said, apparently relieved to find no obvious signs of trouble.
    Nick pointed at the closed door between the bedrooms.
    Habib tried the door. It was locked.
    “If we break the door open,” he yelled to whoever was inside, “you’ll have to pay for it!”
    “Oh, sweet God, don’t do that!” the manager cried out, both hands clasped as though in prayer before his frightened face.
    “Come on out,” Nick said. “We just want to question you.”
    There was a loud sound of a toilet flushing, then a woman’s voice. “Who are you? What do you want?”
    Nick turned to the manager. “Thank you for your help.” The manager wanted to stay, but Habib walked him to the door.
    A tall, good-looking woman came out of the bathroom wearing slippers, pajamas, and a flowing cotton robe. Her hair was turbaned in a towel. She smelled strongly of freshly applied cologne.
    “How did you get in?” she asked, looking at the folder Aziz had given Nick. It identified him as an investigator for the department of interior. His picture was on it, but not his name.
    “You left your door open,” Nick told her. “You should be more careful. Even in a nice place like this there could be unwanted intruders.”
    “Yes,” Nuha said, with sarcasm. “I’ve noticed that.”
    She pointed at a sofa and offered them coffee, which they both declined.
    “I don’t like this intrusion,” she said, sitting opposite them in a large upholstered chair, making an elaborate show of crossing her legs, bringing a look of admiration from Habib. They watched her light a cigarette.
    “Your friend, Bashir Yassin, was seen with you at a café near the Khan al-Khalili Bazaar,” Nick said.
    “My friend? He’s not my friend. He stood me up. He insulted me. I hate him. I hope you hang him.”
    “And why would we want to do that?”
    “Because he’s a liar.”
    “Okay. And when you were with him, he went off with someone.”
    “A pig they call Diab.”
    “Diab?” Nick glanced at Habib. Habib shrugged. “Who is he?”
    “A mountain of