16

“Cases went cold when witnesses fell silent, police stopped investigating, and law enforcers let wrongdoers off.”—Murad Kashef

I said goodbye to Nadia at our front door with a warm, husbandly hug, after telling her that I had to report to the front in order to inspect the troops with the defense minister. Now I could look forward to a whole week with Nagwa, as promised.

Nagwa was a journalist I’d gotten to know about a year ago. Our department had hired her, on the recommendation of a prominent journalist, to file reports on what women gossiped about as they had their hair done in a well-known beauty salon in Zamalek. We’d noticed her physical potential at first sight and knew her star would rise. She was then tasked with gathering sensitive information from important figures at private parties and functions. My section continued to rely on the reports I submitted on the basis of information I harvested from Nadia and her aunt.

Before her assignment as an informant, Nagwa was subjected to the customary “entrance exam.” We fixed her up with an agent of ours who looked like a foreigner, photographed her, then arrested her in flagrante delicto. This was the process with all of our new female agents. It made them less resistant and easier to bargain with. Nagwa caused us no trouble at all. She was soft and pliable from day one, which caught my attention. I also felt that she was sincere in her patriotism and her desire to help us serve the country. Due to the nature of my job, I watched her at work almost every night through hidden cameras. She was unaware of their existence. The following day, when she submitted her report, she was a different woman: meek, bashful. The contrast kindled my interest in getting to know her better. She excited me in a way that neither Nadia nor any other woman had before. But I had to keep a distance, since she was still in our employ.

After a while, her star and her enthusiasm began to wane. I seized the opportunity to write a report stating that she was no longer fit for the secret service. They took my advice and pensioned her off, adding a generous bonus for duties performed in the service of the nation. But she continued to pass by my office in the hope of getting an apartment in one of the buildings in Garden City that now belonged to the National Insurance Company. This was the moment I’d been waiting for. I hadn’t wanted to take the first step, so as not to give her a hold over me. I promised I’d do the best I could for her, and our deal was sealed. Of course, I couldn’t start a secret affair. I’d have to take her as a second wife. Regulations were clear on that point, even if they were unwritten: if you entered into an extramarital relationship, you lost your job. However, there was a greater obstacle to marrying Nagwa than the trouble of hiding it from Nadia: the need to obtain approval from my superiors. Yes, they required a marriage certificate, but you couldn’t marry just any woman, much less a former agent. A coworker in the department suggested I submit a formal request to the defense minister so that he could present it to the commander general. I balked at the idea. But, lowering his voice, he said, “Don’t settle for an oral approval. Get a piece of paper and keep it in your pocket. Because, if things turn nasty, everyone will deny they know you, let alone gave you their assent.”

I took up a piece of cream stationery with the eagle emblem proudly embossed on the upper left-hand corner and wrote a request for permission to enter into a common-law marriage with Nabawiya Azab al-Dardiri, aka Nagwa. I furnished brief professional and character details, and pledged to divorce her “if, at any point, this marriage is deemed to conflict with the national interests.” That last item was at the recommendation of my colleague, who read over the petition and suggested another addition: “You may solicit her services again at any time if deemed necessary.” That was where I drew the line, though I added it orally to the minister when I submitted the request.

The approval came through quickly, but with the condition that the marriage remained common-law. Nagwa and I concluded the formalities, obtaining two copies of the contract, one of which I burned; the other I put in my office safe. Nagwa moved in with me in the apartment of her choice in Garden City. I furnished it for her at my expense, though I kept it in my name, of course. It was a great place to spend time with her in a way that was different from the time I spent with conservative, aristocratic Nadia. Nadia was a high-class society lady who was perfect for my public profile. I’d been impressed with her from the moment I first decided to take a wife. There were no other Zamalek girls who suited my purposes at the time. When her father rejected me at first, it was a piece of cake to dig into our files, which dated back to when we first created the secret service archives. I easily found the information I needed: how her father had started out as a pimp who renewed prostitute licenses at the Hod al-Marsoud hospital on the basis of a power of attorney given to him by the most famous brothel keeper in Alexandria: al-Bataa Sayyid Ali. That nugget of intelligence had practically fallen into my lap because, at the time, we happened to be looking for ex-whores to work with us as agents after prostitution was outlawed. It proved very handy when I wanted to marry Nadia. Abbas Mahalawi would never have given his assent so easily if I hadn’t broken him by threatening to expose his career as a pimp. Ever since that day in his office, when I showed him what I had on him, he’d averted his eyes whenever he saw me. Not that I would ever expose him, because his daughter was now my wife.

Nagwa compensated for what I lacked with Nadia. Nagwa wasn’t as beautiful, but she had a sensational honey-brown complexion, a plumpish body, ample breasts, full lips, and wide eyes. More important, she was great in bed. She was permanently responsive and understood me as a man: she gave me everything I wanted before I had to say it or even think it. Every inch of her excited me, including her voice. Nadia was still shy about removing her clothes and she insisted on keeping the bedroom light on as though we were members of a committee commissioned to make a baby ASAP. The only problem with Nagwa was that I couldn’t be seen with her in public because of her history with our agency and what people would think after seeing me with her. So I was forced to keep her hidden within the walls of the Garden City apartment. She accepted these conditions willingly. Her wild passion in bed made me heed the advice of my boss. “Get her perfumes,” Badran told me with a crafty smile, without expecting me to respond or ask for an explanation. What mattered was that he visibly approved of this relationship with Nagwa, which encouraged me to continue with it. What mattered more was that I was already married to Nagwa with the written assent of his superiors. In fact, I learned that he had intervened to accelerate that approval to “ensure my psychological stability at work.”

As soon as I entered the Garden City apartment, Nagwa told me that Defense Minister Shams Badran’s office had phoned three times. I was to report for duty, without delay. Nagwa looked worried. I called the minister’s office and learned that he would shortly be heading to General Command to meet with the Field Marshal Abdel-Hakim Amer and other senior military officials. I was to go directly there. I suddenly realized they would have called my home phone first and spoken with Nadia. I quickly phoned to tell her I was on my way to the office but that I’d been held up by a sudden problem with the car. That should keep her from getting suspicious, I thought. I gave Nagwa a passionate kiss before I left, promising myself a wild fling in bed with her in a few hours’ time.

As I exited the elevator on the sixth floor of the General Command building in Madinat Nasr, I found myself face to face with Badran. He had just emerged from a small office and was on his way to the field marshal’s office. The reproach in his eyes was unmissable as he shook my hand and lowered his voice.

“This is no time for orgies, Murad. We must remain focused. We don’t want some son of a bitch to start bad-mouthing the reputation of our men.”

I nodded several times and muttered an apology. Then I asked, “What’s going on, sir?”

“Nothing. It looks like they have doubts about our military capacities and want to test us.”

We entered the field marshal’s office, the minister first. Abdel-Hakim Amer was in the midst of what looked like an important phone call. He was partly turned away from us and speaking in a low voice with the person on the other end. The generals shot to attention and saluted the minister as he entered. He nodded curtly. The door to the situation room next to the office was fully open. I could see dozens of maps and papers strewn pell-mell on the table. It looked like the battle had already begun, from inside that room.

The director of Abdel-Hakim’s office pointed to another, ordinary, meeting room, in the opposite direction. He smiled and said, “This is just an informal meeting, gentlemen. It’s good to see you after such a long time.”

There were endless, boring discussions about the positions of the ground forces. I could barely stifle my yawns. It had been so long since I’d heard this type of talk that it was as though I was hearing it for the first time. I’d obviously become so involved with administrative work, investigations of Muslim Brotherhood cases and the like since my return from Yemen that I’d forgotten battlefield work. For two hours, the men talked about nothing but our armed forces, their levels of preparedness, and the equipment they took with them to Sinai in preparation for an anticipated war with Israel. I caught something about vehicles that were so dilapidated they broke down halfway to the front. Suddenly the door opened. We heard some muffled commotion on the other side, and then President Nasser strode into the room.

I exchanged a furtive glance with Badran. He flashed a cunning smile and signaled me over. I hurried to him and bowed to let him whisper in my ear: “Phone your new bride and tell her you’re going to have to spend the night at the office. It looks like we’re going to be here till dawn.”

Nasser and Abdel-Hakim had a private conversation in the latter’s office. It lasted for some time. When they rejoined us, the president seemed calm. He welcomed us and said, “Right now, I see that there’s a good chance of war. It could be in two or three days at most, meaning on June 4 or 5. We have to win the battle on the front, like we won our diplomatic battle.”

We were like sand statues that shrank as though Nasser had just poured water over us. We exchanged dumbfounded looks until the field marshal hastened to the rescue. Offering the president what was probably his tenth cigarette, he boomed, “And we’re ready to march, sir.”

“No, I want to say that the first strike shouldn’t come from us, or else we’ll lose international support. But that doesn’t mean that we shouldn’t be ready at all times, Hakim.”

Air Force Commander Mohamed Sedki stood up, and after requesting permission to speak, reeled off a pat speech about the skills and combat spirit of his pilots. Then he picked up a large folder containing only a few papers and handed it to the president’s secretary, who opened it and displayed it for the president to read. After scanning a few lines, Nasser’s eyebrows drew into a scowl. The air force commander summarized the contents briefly, probably in order to acquit himself in advance. “We submitted these munitions requests a month ago, Mr. President. We still haven’t received the spare parts we ordered from Moscow. As soon as they arrive, we’ll—”

Before the commander could say “bombard Israel’s fortifications” or “crush our enemies” or whatever, Nasser put up a hand to silence him. He slammed the file down on the table and stormed out of the room with the field marshal and defense minister in his wake.

I posted myself near the field marshal’s office to await my orders after the hushed tripartite meeting next to the elevator door came to an end. Before long, the president left and Abdel-Hakim, looking relieved, returned to his office, where he started to make more phone calls. I looked expectantly at Badran.

“Release a press statement from General Command saying the following— take this down, Murad.”

I quickly pulled out my notebook and pen from my jacket pocket and prepared for the dictation.

“In a large bold font in red: ‘Welcome to the Battles!’ Below that another headline: ‘How I’ve missed you, my gun!’—because the president has said that one quite a few times. Now, the first paragraph: ‘Our forces are ready to repel any aggression at any time. The military resolve of the armies of the Arab region will compel the enemy to appreciate the consequences of an outbreak of war in the near future. . . .’”

He fell silent for a moment as he stared at the slip of paper in his hand. Frowning, he flipped it over from front to back and back to front. Somebody must have dictated the words to him. He folded the paper and slipped it into his pocket.

“Have our brother journalists complete the news item in the same mode. Get it on the front pages tomorrow with pictures of our soldiers at the front.”

“But sir, it’s midnight. The printing presses, as you know, sir—”

“Get on the phone to the editors-in-chief. They’ll know what to do. That’s the banner headline in the first edition of every newspaper tomorrow morning.”

I didn’t leave my office for two whole days, except to go to the bathroom which was next to the field marshal’s office. We spent dozens of hours huddled together, poring over reports and deliberating, but never deciding. Nevertheless, the field marshal and the defense minister seemed relaxed, which helped convince me of their opinion that this was one of Nasser’s political ruses. “Thank God we aren’t headed for a third war after the Suez war and the civil war in Yemen,” I thought as I glanced at my watch and pictured Nagwa.

On the evening before the third day, the atmosphere suddenly changed. I was told to send home for my military uniform. My office manager, whom I’d sent to pick it up, told me my wife had looked at him in surprise and asked him how I could have left to the front a few days ago without it. I slapped my forehead at my blunder. I had a hard time buttoning up the jacket because I’d filled out quite a bit. My belly stretched the gaps between the buttons. But I adhered to the instructions to remain in uniform in preparation for battle, which could occur at any moment.

I woke up at eight a.m. on the morning of the third day, June 5. I’ll never forget that date. It wasn’t easy getting out of bed because I’d worked late into the evening the previous night. I’d fallen asleep in my uniform, apart from my cap, which I found resting on my chest, slightly tipped toward me because of my growing belly. As I splashed some water on my face, an officer appeared at the bathroom door to tell me to get a move on.

“His Excellency the Minister of Defense is waiting at the elevator.”

“What’s going on?” I asked as I quickly dried my face. “Where are we going so early in the morning?”

“The field marshal has decided to visit the front in Sinai together with the commanders of the counteroffensive.”

“Counteroffensive? What are you talking about? And why are we going to Sinai now? The president said war could break out at any moment!”

My colleague responded with a shrug and left. I tugged the jacket down in front to smooth it out and hastened downstairs, where I caught up with the brass assembled in front of General Command. I had to pause to perform a military salute at least four times to various commanders before I climbed into the car carrying the defense minister, who had decided to ride together with the field marshal. In a few minutes, our convoy arrived at Almaza airport, where we boarded a helicopter bound for Beir Tamada airbase in central Sinai. As we neared our destination and commenced our descent, the air force commander shot out of his seat and headed to the cockpit, feeling for the gun at his side. We exchanged questioning looks as our smiles faded, our banter stopped, and we subsided into a nervous silence. After less than a minute, the door of the cockpit opened to reveal a perfectly etched mask of horror.

Our confusion immediately turned to dread when Mohamed Sedki said slowly, in disbelief, “Israeli fighter planes are bombing the airfield.”

“What the hell are you talking about? Have you gone mad?”

“They hit every single one of our planes, sir, right where they were sitting on the runway.”

Badran jumped out of his seat. Swaying like a drunkard, eyes dazed, he told the chiefs of staff, “Order the pilot to return to Cairo, now!”

“I’ve done that, sir. And I’ve wired orders to the artillery to intercept the enemy aircraft as much as possible.”

“No! Not yet, Sedki! Wait until we get out of range first! Get to it, man! Change the orders, now!”

I was sitting in the rear of the helicopter. I was sweating and desperately had to piss. I couldn’t see Abdel-Hakim’s face clearly. But I could see how he bowed his head and held it between his hands, turning to take a quick look out the window every now and then, before resuming his former position: silent, contemplative, mystified, or maybe just spaced out. It was impossible to say.

As the helicopter swung back, I looked out the window and saw huge pits in the runways. The sound of the bombardment was deafening. We reached Cairo shortly after nine. There was no one to meet us. The convoy of vehicles that had driven us to Almaza was long gone. The airport was empty. We made our way through the VIP arrivals, where we found some civilian staff. None of them dared venture a question as they followed us in silence, as though in the wake of a funeral procession. They didn’t know where we were leading them. Nor did I, for that matter.

We stood at the edge of the road until Abdel-Hakim’s office director finally managed to flag down an ancient taxi, using his gun. The driver complied. He was an elderly man with terrified eyes behind thick glasses. Even the car jumped and its motor conked out due to the shock.

I’ll never forget that scene as long as I live: ten men in military garb—including the field marshal, whose face was familiar to one and all—packed into and onto that decrepit taxi, driven by a man who rivaled it in age and decrepitude. The car repeatedly groaned, coughed, and rasped, threatening to breathe its last on its way to General Command in Heliopolis. The most senior grades of brass, with dozens of medals and stars twinkling on their chests and epaulets, were squeezed in next to and behind the driver, ordering him to go faster, while the old man, fingers trembling on the steering wheel, muttered Quranic supplications. Several of us took up positions on the hood and trunk, gripping the window frames or roof rack. I’d chosen the trunk for fear of slipping off the hood and ending up beneath the wheels.

Back in Abdel-Hakim’s office, no one said a word until all the generals had assembled. Then irate discussions erupted at the discrepancy between foreign radio broadcasts announcing our losses and local broadcasts reporting the dozens of Israeli planes we’d downed so far. I’d taken a position to one side, keeping my eyes pinned on my minister for cues as I struggled to grasp what had befallen us just hours after the war began. The only one who had the power to take a decision was at his desk, indifferent to the commotion, making dozens of calls from four different-sized phones. Suddenly a member of the Revolutionary Command Council—I think it was al-Sayyid Abdel-Latif al-Baghdadi (none of us liked him very much)—leapt to his feet, strode up to the field marshal’s desk, and shouted, “How many planes have we lost, Hakim?”

“A lot . . . a lot. I don’t have any figures. . . . Anyway, this isn’t the time for that. There’s an alternative plan to defend the troops without air cover.”

Being no expert in military tactics, I couldn’t understand why al-Baghdadi greeted that with a snort. I looked at Badran, who stared at the ceiling as though the matter had nothing to do with him. A phone rang near to where I was sitting. Noticing the field marshal’s hesitation, I picked up the receiver. It was Air Force Commander Sedki. I could hear tears in his voice. I handed the receiver to Hakim. As he listened, he began to hold the receiver away from his ear while his expression grew angrier. Then he exploded, “I told you, I’ll manage. I’ll manage!”

He slammed down the receiver and turned to his office director, who was busy with another phone call, and told him to put him in touch with General al-Dib at al-Arish airport immediately. Hakim snatched the receiver and asked General al-Dib about the fifty-seven-millimeter anti-tank guns. We exchanged perplexed glances. Why would the commander general bother with such a trifling detail? Badran kept his face blank.

Just then the door flew open, and the room fell silent as we all turned to see who was coming. The aide-de-camp barked, “His Excellency, the President of the Republic.” Nasser strode into the room, a bright, contented smile on his face. We raced to our places, but remained standing. He moved around the room, still smiling as he shook hands with each of us, repeating, “How I’ve missed you, my gun!”

Abdel-Hakim ceded his large chair to Nasser while another chair was brought in and set behind the desk so that Abdel-Hakim could continue to man his phones. The president asked to be brought up to speed on the victorious battle. How was the offensive developing? What were the estimated losses? Hakim kept his answers vague. Nasser asked about the situation at the front. Hakim dodged the question again as he turned to his phones. No sooner did he finish one call than he snatched up another phone to receive another. More than half an hour went by like this. In the few seconds between each call, President Nasser would ask another question, but received no answer. I glanced at the clock on the wall. The hands were moving toward five thirty p.m., but time was standing still. Hakim exchanged a meaningful look with Badran, who signaled me over and instructed me to go fetch the operations progress report. It was on a table in the conference room. We hadn’t been near that room for five days. How the hell had the report gotten there? I fetched it and handed it to the defense minister, who quickly leafed through it and then handed it to the president. As soon as Nasser scanned a few lines, his face crumpled into an expression of utter dismay. He bowed his head for a moment, then set the file on the edge of the desk. He swayed, looking like he might collapse at any moment. He turned to the field marshal and said in a voice filled with sorrow and reproach, “Khan Younis has fallen, Rafah is surrounded, all communications with Gaza have been severed. All that’s just on the first day. Is that correct, Hakim?”

The field marshal uttered some reassuring words as he continued to operate the phones. He conducted most of his conversations in a voice too low for us to make out what they were about. Nasser stood up and went into the bedroom adjoining the office. After about half an hour, I grew curious about what the president was doing in there. Making as though I had to go to the bathroom, which was next to the bedroom, I opened the door and saw Nasser lying on the bed, arms locked behind his head, staring at the ceiling. His eyes were moist, as though he was on the verge of tears. When he became aware of my presence, he shot me a stern look that threw me off guard. I pointed to the bathroom and slipped out of his sight. By the time I reemerged, he’d returned to the meeting room. In a low, defeated voice, he told Hakim to broadcast a communique stating, without mentioning any details, that we’d penetrated into enemy territory. No one in the room said a word. He reiterated the request, reformulating the wording of the text. Again, he was greeted with silence.

“Okay. Whatever communique you agree on!”

It sounded almost like a plea. Abdel-Hakim nodded and Badran said something like, “All will be well, God willing.” The rest of us stared at our laps with glum faces. Nasser gave the field marshal a look that seemed to plead for just one encouraging word. Hakim snatched up his phones again, speaking to the commanders of each of the branches of the armed forces in turn, in a loud voice that we could all hear clearly this time. The president stood up slowly, using his hand on the edge of the desk to support himself. He seemed to have aged years in those few hours. The operations progress report slid to the floor as he got up. He trod on it as he left the room, saying, without addressing anyone in particular, “I think we should all get some sleep and let Hakim work.”

After Nasser left, the defense minister did too, and I headed to my office, preoccupied by everything I’d just seen and heard. Which of the two was commanding the battle? Which commander would take the decision to withdraw? The same one who took the decision to go to war? Or would the president evade responsibility and let the field marshal bear it alone? I didn’t want to bring this up with the defense minister before he left. He looked too weary and irritated. But I suspected that this came less from a sense of failing than from resentment at others’ interference in our work. No one had ever checked how we were performing our jobs before.

I had just taken my first sip of tea as I prepared to draft the communique per the instructions when my colleague burst into the room.

“Get yourself ready, Murad. Orders from the field marshal. There’s going to be an inspection of the troops at the front before dawn!”