8

FARIDA HAD GONE OUT AN hour ago, and now I had to go to work as well. I got the Beretta ready, filled two clips, and took along a box of ammunition, to be ready in case a sudden burst of enthusiasm came over me. My phone rang.

I heard a voice—“Otared?”—which I couldn’t immediately identify, but it was deeply familiar and when I answered in the affirmative it wasted no time: “It’s Kamal al-Asyuti.”

The major general seemed less exhausted than before. His skin was softer and the paleness had gone; he had even put on a little weight. Deputy minister for general security was a comfortable post and an important one, too. He rarely left the ministry and didn’t carry a gun: others carried them to protect him. He could get the details of any case in minutes thanks to a team of helpers and hangers-on, and the files containing the really red-hot scandals were always on his desk.

Kamal al-Asyuti had been appointed deputy minister following the evacuation, during Khalifa Sidqi’s first government, and when the minister had been ousted, al-Asyuti had held onto his job. Then the promoted general had been elected president, and in Sidqi’s third government the minister and most of the Interior had been moved on, yet still al-Asyuti kept his post. It didn’t take a genius or some expert in the backroom machinations of government to get it: al-Asyuti was the real minister and the man sitting in the minister’s office was window dressing. Both were comfortable with the situation. His Excellency happily took the massive salary, the well ordered way of life, the wary bodyguards, the lavish convoys, and the media glitz, while his deputy made do with a somewhat reduced share of the same, coupled with limitless powers. When he got it right, the minister got the glory; and when he got it wrong, it was the minister who was charged with coming up short. And this, I believe, suited al-Asyuti down to the ground.

The man didn’t stop smiling from the moment I entered the room. He greeted me effusively and left his desk to sit beside me with an ease of manner I hadn’t anticipated. I had only met him the once—the time he’d given me my final mission to kill—and yet he was being very affectionate.

“Where have you been, my friend? What are you up to?”

It seemed as though he knew just what I was up to; the way the question was phrased carried not the slightest trace of blame.

“Nothing,” I said. “I’m living with a girlfriend, and God bless the ministry’s pension.”

The answer didn’t appear to satisfy him.

“And you’re happy, are you? That’s no kind of life for a man who’s served his nation and joined the resistance against the occupier. You deserve a lot better than this.”

By his own world-bound, patriotic logic, that was certainly true, but what use was all that now?

He smiled and went on: “I want you to come back to the Interior. I want someone like you who can be relied upon. Every man who knows how to respect orders and carry them out to the letter is vital if we’re to restore security to the country. If you’d prefer an easy job without too many difficulties or duties, it’s there for you. If you’re exhausted, or fed up, or you just don’t have the desire to work any more, then at least let us find you a nice desk to sit at and a fat salary.”

I could think of nothing to say. I remained silent and, when he saw I was going to stay like that, he became irritated. The man genuinely cared about me. He wanted to make me happy any way he could.

“I know you’re in a somewhat complicated situation. Your girl’s job is perfectly legal, but it’s not what many would choose. I also know you’re the middleman in lots of deals involving karbon—and the truth is, I can’t turn a blind eye to this much longer. You might find yourself caught up in a case, and I won’t be able to help you, and that’s just what I don’t want. Of course, it wouldn’t happen on purpose. No officer would ever seek to get a colleague thrown into jail, and you know it. But don’t you think all this is a dead end for an excellent officer?”

A question. I would have to find an answer, even if there was no meaningful answer to be had. But how to reply to someone who was talking to me about a world that was only an illusion?

Seeing me silent, he continued: “I’ve really got no idea what’s bothering you. I’m assuming you’re over the shock. You killed a lot of people for Egypt’s sake, and I had taken it as read that the people you shot in Ataba must have affected you considerably. The man’s had enough and he’s not coming back, I told myself. Of course, I completely understand that you might feel like this. Any one of us might see something criminal about such killing. Even me! I might change my mind tomorrow, leave this job of mine, and go home. That’s why I never asked to talk with you, or blamed you for getting out. But what you’ve been doing these past few weeks has stunned me.”

Finally, we had gotten to the point.

“Prior to the evacuation, we were killing people as part of a master plan, which, as you have seen, succeeded. But your recent killings are meaningless, motiveless. I can’t understand why you’re doing it.”

A real dilemma! Why had I come here? I could have ignored the invitation and run off somewhere to hide.

On he went, genuinely bewildered: “Have you lost your mind, my friend? The occupation’s over and you’ve started killing people at random, without a system—and what’s more, you’re doing it out on the street, not hidden away like the trained sniper you are. Has the lust for killing robbed you of your reason? Tell me, Otared, what happened?”

Otared. It had been a long time since I’d been called by my last name. My silence stretched out. The major general would be convinced of my insanity; there was no other explanation for what I was doing, no other reason for this silence of mine. After this meeting, my mission would be that much more difficult, perhaps impossible. I was a cancer abroad in the street, spreading and killing people without mercy, and the Interior must root it out as quickly as they could.

There was no point in denying it. If I denied it, the major general would certainly be angry and accuse me of stupidity. But was there any way to duck his questions? Could I tell him I was on a mission, just as I’d been on missions in the past?

It was only then, sitting in Major General Kamal al-Asyuti’s air-conditioned office, that everything became clear.

Zahra’s words, not all of which I’d understood at the time, now made sense. We were on a mission to send people to heaven, she had said, all of us: myself, the Saint, al-Asyuti, and the rest of my colleagues at the Interior. We were a mercy to those in torment here. The tragedy was that they did not know.

I remembered the message delivered to me on the Day of Martyrs.

“Who wrote the order I received on the Day of Martyrs?” I asked him.

He was extremely upset at this—a change of subject that conveyed my indifference to what he’d said; a question about a trifling detail that didn’t concern him in the slightest. But whoever had sent that order to me had known the truth for certain.

Brow furrowed, he said: “What kind of question is that? You know we weren’t officers back then; we employed complex routes to deliver orders to members of the resistance. Do you even remember how the orders reached you?”

“I certainly do,” I replied. “A man wearing a horsehead mask came around and gave me a piece of paper that said, ‘At 7 p.m., send them to heaven. The Tiring Building, Ataba,’ and nothing else.”

“That’s not the way orders are written, and you know it—but the time and place were perfectly correct. You found the gun and ammo there, and you successfully performed your mission.”

He paused for a moment, then said: “The Saint was responsible for distributing orders, and what you’ve just told me fits with his sense of humor. Then again, maybe he meant to ensure that he wouldn’t get in trouble if he was arrested, so he used a code to get the information across . . . but then again, the sentence is perfectly transparent—the code wouldn’t serve its purpose.”

The Saint! That explained everything.

“Well, I don’t understand how it can have happened, but it hardly matters. The result you can see for yourself, my dear man: we’ve taken back the country and the occupier’s been expelled.”

He grew more agitated and shifted to the edge of his seat, body tilted toward me and eyebrows raised: “We’re trying to rebuild Egypt, to repair the damage done to the state in recent years. This damage didn’t just happen under the occupation. No, it’s the product of decades of improvisation, lack of planning, repeated failure, of correcting mistakes with mistakes more destructive still. The only way to safeguard the security of the state is to increase punishments and speed up the processing of court cases. This is what we’ve been doing in recent months. Delayed justice is fatal, and the state’s on the brink of death for many reasons. We’re putting pressure on everyone here to try to secure it. Soon, we’ll be able to stop hanging criminals in police cells because we don’t believe the law deters them, and because we know there are a million loopholes through which they can escape, and because we know how hopeless, and ignorant, and utterly stupid the judges are—we can forget all this, because at last the lawmakers and judges have realized that the only way to bring Egypt back to life is by tightening our grip, by fast-tracking court cases, by handing out severe punishments and implementing them with even greater rigor. We’ll keep executions public to deter people. We’ll devise new forms of death sentence to make anyone considering committing a crime tremble at the thought of it. If the Knights of Malta did anything for this country, it was making executions public. Do you want us to become a shambles like those African states? Don’t you want Egypt to rule once more? To become Mother of the World again? Greater than the world? If that’s what you want, then stop what you’re doing and come back to us.”

A powerful desire to applaud the big man’s speech swept over me. I was on the brink of laughter, and how I managed not to mock all that shit he’d just spouted I’ve no idea. The state? You fool.

On he went, unperturbed: “As I said, we’ve taken back the country, and there’s no time to relax. Now’s the time to go to work, Otared. Having done your duty so well on the Day of Martyrs, what you’re doing now makes no sense.”

“But the people didn’t rise up,” I said. “The occupiers left without a revolution.”

He cut me off sharply: “That’s enough! The Knights of Malta feared a bloodbath. They never dreamed we’d do what we did. Their soldiers and officers presented their superiors with petitions requesting to leave this insane country. Ultimately, your actions had the greatest possible impact on the Knights of Malta.”

Carefully, and still harboring some small measure of respect for him, I said, “You’re not listening to me, sir. I’m trying to tell you that the people didn’t run from my bullets; they welcomed them with open arms. I was shooting at the passersby and they didn’t run, sir, and afterward I realized that they’d been deliberately standing in the line of fire so that I would kill them.”

He waved his hand. “Pure fantasy! You’re imagining it. Why would anyone want to die like that? Or want to die at all?”

He paused again, then raised his eyes to the window where the light came bright into the room.

“Unless, that is, he was escaping some torment?”

I was momentarily stunned. He must know, too, but he can’t say. Kamal al-Asyuti knows! This was my chance to speak.

“Perhaps they were fleeing a torment we don’t know about: high prices, a terrible life, the occupation itself. Perhaps you and I are both fleeing the same torment without realizing it, escaping it by staying put in an air-conditioned room or clutching ice cubes.”

Was that a foolish thing to say, or did he really know? His face was wooden, unmoved and expressionless; my words, my hints, had taken him by surprise—I must strike the final blow and bring an end to this conversation once and for all.

“Sir. We are in hell. You know this. And what I am currently engaged in is of a piece with all our missions—your mission and the mission of everyone who works in this building. We really do send people to heaven, and it makes no sense to obstruct me or stop me working. All that’s happening is that I’m operating outside the structure of uniforms and official orders, and truth be told, I’m doing it absolutely perfectly, maybe better than ever before.”

There. It was out.

He could have said many things, could have given any number of dishonest responses, could have twisted and turned, but he did nothing of the sort. He was silent for a long while. I had nothing to say; he had nothing to say. The time for talk was over and there was no longer any point to me apologizing for my bluntness or excusing myself. No longer any point to continuing the meeting.

I rose from my place and walked to the door. For an instant, I paused, grasping the door handle, waiting for him to say a word, anything at all, and I glanced behind me to see him sitting there, head bowed, elbows resting on his knees, and his fingers locked together.

I opened the door and walked out.

I’d walked these corridors years before. There’s a sense of awe that fills every young officer who enters the building; as I walked now, that awe was still present, but it was not awe at that imposing sanctuary of the Interior’s majesty and influence, nor was it that blend of pride at belonging to this fortress of courage and disquiet at the vast responsibility placed on one’s shoulders—that mixed emotion that dwindles until it disappears in middle age or midway through one’s career to become, by the end, almost preposterous. No, it was awe at not knowing, despite all that I knew.

I was wondering whether those who walked with me, those around me, the guards and the officers—some tormented, some tormentors—were they custodians of this hell or angels of mercy? Both? Or were these names, and labels, and titles imaginary, unreal? Our understanding of hell was very limited. Were they here in hell for all eternity, or would they at some point go to heaven? And the question that continued to bedevil me until it became a mocking refrain: did they know? But even if I answered them, the questions would never end: every answer was a wrong one, even if it appeared to be right, and it seemed to me that everything bothering me was a part of my torment, from which there was no escape.

The place was properly air-conditioned, very cold. I took the stairs down, though I could have used the elevators: I was trying to stay here for as long as possible, though for no real reason. Quite impossible that I’d bump into anyone I knew here—the building was too vast to allow for chance encounters—but I was still uneasy; not at the prospect of their questions and their predictable insistence that I return, but at the delusion in their eyes and, even worse—as with al-Asyuti—the expressions on their faces as they devotedly carried out their appointed roles in hell.

What happened in the police stations was certainly a torment of some kind, as was the grim existence eked out in prisons and the cells of state security where many had died, their corpses tossed into the trash. And then there were the others, the ones who’d gone missing in transit, and us not knowing for sure if they’d vanished into jail’s dark maze or whether they’d escaped into the light of day. . . . The light? There’d been no light outside the walls, just the illusion of it. Even those who’d dropped from the official record and out of sight had been in torment. How was it, then, that I or anyone else could be a mercy, come to send people to heaven? Did we torment them, then later bring them mercy?

I picked my gun up at the entrance. I was sticking it into my trousers the way I always carried it when the sergeant gave me the thumbs-up and said, “Lovely little gun that, sir.”

The Beretta has an irresistible magic which works on everyone who sees or shoots it.

I walked away from the ministry down Sheikh Rihan Street, then turned into Mohamed Farid, making for Sharif Street. Following my frank exchange with al-Asyuti, hell had retreated to the edge of my vision and the world’s illusion was plain before my eyes—as though by telling him that I would not return, I had freed myself from the shackles of reality. What was happening was absurd to the utmost extent. How could illusion free us when we were living such terrible lives? Sometimes I thought that the knowledge I’d been granted was the true punishment, for all that I couldn’t be sure the revelation was genuine or not. I had been lying on my back, a faint pain coursing through my limbs, my forefinger tingling, when I had seen and known, and not a minute’s peace since, and me at first assuming that this knowledge would lighten my torment. Yet those who knew were tormented more than others, it appeared. This knowledge, trapped in my head and in the head of Major General al-Asyuti; Zahra’s few memories that came back to her to open old wounds; our shared desire to escape it all; my burning need to be killing people all the time that had grown stronger after I’d met Zahra—all this, and not a moment’s peace.

And I asked myself: who shall send me to heaven?

Sharif Street was on edge. Lots of police vehicles and lots of police in black balaclavas carrying automatic weapons, walking the street in groups of three and looking highly agitated, waiting for the slightest excuse to start shooting. Approaching the brothel where Farida worked, the cops and guns increased: some crime had just taken place here, for sure, and they were here to arrest the criminal. Though there was a chance that Farida might be in danger, I was perfectly composed—the worst fate she’d meet would be deliverance.

I tried calling, but her phone was off. I tried getting to the building, but the police were firm and stopped me coming closer. As you always do at such scenes, I overheard snatches of conversation: about a murder, about a whore who’d shot at one of the officers and killed him on the spot, about others who’d been killed the same way in the same place. And it was clear to me that Farida had done this. Then I saw a person emerging from the building’s entrance, making for the police van and surrounded on all sides by a great press of officers and troopers. I could not see the person, but I was sure it was Farida.

The van took off at high speed and passed me by, its lights blinking blue in the blackness. But I was not alarmed, was not the slightest bit shaken. I was tired of hell, I was tired of what I was doing, and perhaps I was happy now that the end was near.

The case was sewn up tight.

Farida had shot two clients in her room, who subsequently turned out to be police officers. For some reason, she had then decided to come out of her room and shoot some more people. Fifteen rounds at six different people, and she’d hit them all. The Glock’s lightness and rapid fire had certainly helped. The case was sewn up tight because the two officers had been regular customers, because she’d had a dispute with one of them a while back, and because she’d brought the Glock with her from her apartment. For all these reasons, the prosecutor’s office concluded that this was a case of premeditated murder. The investigators recorded in the case file that the two officers had been killed in the line of duty (which certainly wasn’t true), so the prosecutor appended a charge of aggravated circumstance.

It happened so quickly: drawing up the case files, turning them over to the prosecutor and on to the courts, and then the start of the court proceedings—all of it accompanied by an hysterical media campaign calling for prostitution to be banned and for officers to be more heavily armed. I was meeting with officers and former colleagues and asking if there was any way out, and they’d grin at me and say that the case was too big now, that it had become a matter of public interest, and good luck. The Saint said that a death sentence was a certainty, and there was no getting around it. It would be a public execution, broadcast nationwide—a confirmation of the authority of the judiciary and the strength of the Interior’s grip. To frighten people.

I encountered a total lack of sympathy for those condemned to death and executed in the public squares. I heard tales of the impaled and strung-up corpses being subjected to mob stonings, of bodies robbed while they dangled from their ropes, or being dragged through the streets and dismembered—tales more suggestive of savage hordes than of citizens of a modern state. But the state supported it all and quite conceivably the draggings and butchery were being carried out by officers in plain clothes.

It was alleged that Farida had fired fifteen rounds, then continued to press down on the trigger, aiming the gun at those present inside the building. Down she went, squeezing the trigger in the face of everyone she encountered on the stairs, then out into the street, squeezing and squeezing, and when they forced the Glock from her hand, and threw her to the ground, and beat her so hard they broke two of her ribs, she kept her right arm raised, forefinger crooked, firing from an imaginary pistol as children do.

She had fired her imaginary pistol at the officers in the Qasr al-Nil police station, at the prosecutor, at the prison guards, at the judge during the opening session of her trial. She squeezed and squeezed that trigger at everyone she met.

During the third hearing, I approached the cage. I saw her level her fist, finger ready on the invisible trigger, waiting until her eyes met someone’s gaze, then blazing away. Despite all my attempts to do so, I hadn’t seen her since she’d first opened fire. She was as thin as always, her expression innocent. She started playing, firing at random into those present. They were all concentrating on the judge and the lawyers standing before him, and ignoring her completely. She turned her head, her gaze sweeping the room, until she came to me. For the first time in a long time, I trembled, and she stopped firing, and stared long and hard at my face.

She wept quietly, her tears flowing, knowing full well that I couldn’t help her any more. I wouldn’t be taking her in my arms, wouldn’t be concealing her face with my mask and escaping with her, just the two of us together. That wouldn’t happen. And she didn’t shoot at me. She just kept staring. I left the courtroom; I had no need to hear what would be said there. I knew that the death sentence would be issued and carried out.

I wandered for hours, wearing my mask, shooting everyone I felt deserved to go to heaven. Doing my job with matchless dedication, and thinking about Farida’s fate and what would soon be happening to her—and never for an instant did I feel that she had been hard done by. I was possessed by an absolute conviction that an eternal justice was guiding Farida’s destiny, cleansing her of the sins that had once defiled her in a hell that was not this hell of ours. I wished I could have been a reader of palms, that I might know what was hidden from both of us concerning our past lives: how many times she’d been raped, how many times murdered, how often her body had been ill-treated after death—and these things done not to torment her, but that she might torment others. I longed to see what she had done in the real world. I had once believed her to be the victim of great injustice, believed that what she had done in the world could not possibly justify everything that had happened to her here, but she must have done things too terrible to conceive. And despite all that had happened, and all that would happen, my faith in this justice grew.

Would those whom Farida had wronged in the world witness what would happen to her? Or would they gain their vengeance without being aware of it? Some surely must be here with us in hell. Perhaps someone she wronged was standing as the judge, looking through her case file, carefully poring through the pages in search of proof and evidence. Maybe he, too, was being tormented, because he was reading so carefully, because he was afraid to be unfair. Maybe those she wronged were even now tormenting her in prison and taking their revenge—or maybe it would be her executioner. And maybe I was one of those she had wronged in the world; I was tormenting her and I did not know it.

The breeze was light and chill, a contrast to the day’s sapping heat. If only I could hold an ice cube now.

Once again, my clip was empty—I no longer counted the rounds I carried or those I fired—and I longed for my mission to be at an end, and for rest, rest by any means. For I would be going to another hell to play the same role: an executioner, and a mercy to the people.