Free ARAB by Jim Ingraham Page B

him?”
    “That’s up to them, of course. But they will be urged to make contact with you.”
    “And if you learn anything more about the American—”
    “Of course,” Rashad said.
    “Is he CIA? You say his father—”
    “I don’t know. All I know is he’s a long-time friend of Aziz al-Khalid and that he attended the university here.”
    “And the man with him?”
    “An old friend of his father, possibly an agent of the muccabarat .”
    “If this American is CIA,” Uthman said, “then we should be concerned. Was my name mentioned?”
    “No.”
    “Anyone I may be representing?”
    “No. If my people knew of your connection to the insurgency, I’d’ve been told. They know nothing beyond what Shkaki has been doing.”
    “And do they know about my Saudi prince?”
    “They know nothing of him. They assume the money is coming from bin Laden. He’s still their hero…ever since the American imperialists invaded Somalia. He spent his money well in that country. They adore him.”
    “Good. Let them think all of this comes from him.”
    Uthman leaned back and closed his eyes. After a moment, he asked, “How soon can you arrange for Shkaki’s release?”
    “Tomorrow evening soon enough?”
    *
     
    The recorded voice of the muezzin had faded into the shadows when Hussein lifted his bicycle from the stack of empty cartons in the alley. He watched the man come out of Mr. Ajami’s gate and get into his car. He would follow him, hopefully get a closer look at him, maybe learn where he lives, and for the second time have information that Habib Rahal will pay for. This has been a good day. Allah’hu Akbar!
    *
     
    The following evening, after sharing a meal with Habib and dropping him off at his apartment, Nick went south to the army camp in Helwan. He had little else to do, and maybe Shkaki would loosen up a bit. If he knew Bashir, maybe he knew this Diab. It was worth a shot.
    Flashes of war invaded his mind, as they often did, unwanted and without warning—the screaming mouth of a child clinging to the body of its dead mother, intestines dangling from her burst belly. Out of the war zone or in, the images tormented him.
    He yelled curses at the windshield and slipped a CD into the slot on his dashboard. For the remainder of the ride he listened to the rollicking piano of Ramsey Lewis.
    At the short road leading into the base camp, he was startled by lights from military police cars darting everywhere like frightened bats, flitting over his windshield as he edged into a parking lot. Uniformed men were crowded at the entrance to the station, their backs to him, all of them straining to see inside. A large man with angry eyes thrust both palms at Nick and yelled something Nick couldn’t hear. He shut off his engine and got out of his truck and showed his folder, cringing at the sound of grinding gears in a truck moving behind him.
    The anger melted. “Sorry, sir. I didn’t….”
    “What’s going on?”
    “A shooting. The desk sergeant…. Three men in there were shot.” He waded into the crowd, his long arms pushing men aside. “Make way here for His Excellency!” bowing as Nick strode past him, amused by the honorific he wasn’t entitled to.
    Nick was stopped inside by an army lieutenant who peered intently at the photo on Nick’s folder, then at Nick’s face while Nick looked beyond him at the blood-soaked shirt of the desk sergeant sprawled in his chair, his mouth gaped open, his dead eyes looking at nothing. Beyond him, a few feet down the hallway a man in street clothes was on one knee examining the body of a soldier. Another uniformed body was sprawled on the floor beyond him.
    “It happened suddenly,” the lieutenant said. “They burst in and started shooting.”
    Nick ran down the corridor to the holding cell in back. The door was open. Shkaki was gone.
    Back at the desk he asked the lieutenant, “Were any of these people witnesses?”
    A soldier who called himself Ahmed, said, “I was