An hour later they were on
their way to Dahab. The mostly empty road stretched along the mountain
face, at times high above the coast and at times right by the water.
Christine could not get enough of the sheer wild beauty in the form of a
contrast between the barren desert and deep blue-green shades of water. Coral
reefs could be seen all along the way, some
bare
along
empty golden beaches, some surrounded by small beach resorts with baffling Arab
names.
They reached Dahab at noon, as
Black Jack predicted, and found a parking spot along a long busy seaside
boardwalk, by a bustling market. Christine had no idea how Jack planned
to locate the attorney with all the commotion and foreign language around them
but, lo and behold, they found him, sipping mud coffee, a thick concentrated
brown liquid, at a beach café. It turned out, though Christine could not
understand a word spoken, the attorney, Abdullah Fuad, was a local celebrity of
sorts. Within minutes, using hand signals and what sounded like foul
language, they were pointed to his lordship’s local hangout, a noisy entourage
of children leading the way.
The attorney smiled broadly as
they walked in. Word had probably reached him well in advance. He
greeted them graciously, moving from the bar to a low side table with three
chairs, signaling the proprietor to prepare amenities. The welcoming
party of children disassembled in a hurry.
“Mr. Jack,” Abdullah began,
clearing the table for a coffee tray, “I’ve arranged to see the woman tomorrow
morning.” He had not yet acknowledged Christine, who sat motionless
holding her breath.
“Much appreciated,” Black Jack
said, not bothering to introduce Christine. “Is she in good health?”
“She is doing just fine,” the
Arab said in lame English. “You will see her tomorrow.”
“We need to get her out,” Black
Jack said.
Christine could not even begin
to guess his age. Abdullah wore a white
robe,
she later learned was called a Galabia. He had thick short hair, very
black, alert brown eyes, a moustache, which all men seemed to own in that part
of the world, and a prickly goatee beard strapped to the middle of his
chin.
He chain-smoked, and twirled his moustache with
his fingers like the Bedouin who had startled her that morning in Nueba.
She wondered if he had an office, or did he handle all his business from the
beach café.
Mud coffee was served in small
ornate china cups then various sweet delicacies appeared.
“We will see,” Abdullah said,
in a delayed referral to Mr. Jack’s comment. “She will appear before the
judge soon.”
No more talk evolved around
the real purpose of their visit. The rest of the time was spent in small
talk about the weather and politics. Food appeared on the table:
goat’s cheese in olive oil, a delicacy called Labaneh with warm pita bread and
fresh vegetable salads followed by skewers with chicken and beef accompanied by
fried potatoes. Strong tea with nana leaves concluded the feast, all
through which Christine had not been asked an opinion or said a word. The
only acknowledgment from Abdullah was to offer a cigarette, each time he lit
one for himself.
“It’s a man’s world over
here,” Black Jack explained as they headed back to the car, the entourage of
kids back at their heels. “Women do not voice opinions in the presence of men,
regardless of where you come from.”
“That jerk is better off not
knowing what I think of him,” Christine murmured, trying to keep up with Jack’s
fast pace. “What kind of an attorney is he anyway?”
“Probably
the only one in Dahab and definitely the only one willing to work with us.”
They reached the car and went
looking for accommodation. Black Jack could barely touch the steering
wheel it got so hot. They checked into the Dahab Katarina Inn, a resort
resembling the Nueba Hilton, in close proximity to the beach with pools and
jacuzzis, bars and restaurants and even a gym with saunas.
With plenty of daylight left,
Christine bought snorkeling equipment and a one-piece Speedo bathing
suit. She and Jack spent the rest of the afternoon among Dahab’s coral
reefs enjoying the magnificent views and colors of the corals and fish.
Jack even claimed to have spotted a shark.
Over dinner they discussed
what measly progress they had made.
“When do you start negotiating
with them?” Christine asked, picking at her salad.
“The judge will instruct the
attorney. We’ll know their opening bid tomorrow.”
“What leverage do we have?”
“None.
But we’ll
fake
it. These people are too greedy
to let this opportunity pass.”
“Do you want me there, Jack?”
“Yeah,
but only as a witness.
You cannot voice an opinion, not in
front of the judge. But they cannot disregard your presence. Once
agreed, your word will be as good as mine.”
They met Abdullah at the
café the following morning. He did not seem to be in any
hurry. He challenged Jack to a game of backgammon, which evolved to a
series. Two hours passed before they got up to leave. Abdullah led
them through the bustling market to an old, three-storey building full of
mortar and shell holes from the numerous conflicts the region had suffered.
Clair waited for them in a
small windowless cell - the visitation room, as Abdullah described it.
They embraced. Clair held on to Christine, sobbing silently. Tears
welled in Christine’s eyes.
“He’s here, I know it!” Clair
said once they all settled down. Abdullah had left them alone.
She was a small, energetic
woman, in her mid-thirties.
Attractive in Jack’s eyes
with short, silky blonde hair and stubborn gray eyes.
She had a
small upturned nose and sensuous red lips in stark contrast to her pale white
skin. She wore a stained white gown similar to the Galabia worn by Abdullah and
though clearly distraught and troubled, she looked extremely determined.
“How are they treating you
here?” Black Jack asked, concerned.
“They let me use my makeup for
the first time this morning,” Clair said. “I’m in a room with four other
women who are very suspicious of me and I haven’t seen a ray of sunlight since
they threw me in here.”
“Those freakin assholes,”
Black Jack cursed. “I’ll get the French ambassador to see this before
we’re through.”
“There’s a guard who speaks
French,” Clair said. “I gave him some baksheesh, money I managed to hide,
and he’s been keeping me informed.”
Black jack perked up.
“What has he been telling you?”
“This here is just a detention
center for those awaiting trial. The real prison is in Alexandria where
they will send me once I’m convicted.”
“Did they tell you when you’ll
be up for trial?” Christine asked.
“Soon is a common word around here
which could mean anywhere between a few minutes to a few years.”
“What have you been charged
with?” Black Jack asked.
“Attempted kidnapping, I
guess. No one really told me. I went to the house where Ibrahim was
staying hoping to see him. Hussni had the police waiting there for me.”
“How did you manage to find
them?” Christine asked.
“It was all quite bizarre,”
Clair recalled. “Hussni’s brother, Yusuf, called me in Paris. The
two had not been on speaking terms since Hussni married me. He told me that
if I want to see my son I should meet him here in Dahab. He told me to
come alone and I was on the next plane to Egypt. Actually I flew to
Israel and crossed the border. Yusuf warned me I might be on an unwanted
list in Cairo and instructed me to go through Israel which is much closer
anyway.”
“We took the same route,”
Black Jack commented.
“He met me at Taba and drove
me here, showed me the house and left me. No explanations why he was
doing this. I surveyed the house for a couple of days, which may have
been my mistake, then decided to risk it. The rest you can see. Two
months in this hell hole.”
“Did you actually see
Ibrahim?” Christine persisted.
“I did. I’m sure of it.
On the third day after I arrived I saw a figure in the window. That’s why
I decided to risk it. It had to be him. A teenage boy, same age, same
built. He was walking around. I didn’t see his face but I know it
was him.”
Jack and Christine exchanged
glances.
“Did you see your
ex-husband?” Black Jack asked.
Clair bowed her head, shaking
it. “No. I didn’t even get to see him,” she admitted.
Abdullah appeared. He
motioned to Black Jack to join him. Christine looked up, uncertain.
Black Jack gestured for her to stay put. He quietly followed the attorney
through dim corridors to the judge’s quarters.
The judge wore a suit that
seemed quite out of place, brown with a pink tie. He seemed quite
uncomfortable in it, but he kept up the façade. He had gray hair,
moustache and a full beard, and looked worn out.
Introductions complete, the
judge spoke in Arabic expecting Abdullah to translate. “The woman is in
much trouble,” he said.
“What are the charges?”
Black Jack asked.
“Attempted
kidnap.”
“Who was she trying to
kidnap?” Jack persisted.
“A
young boy.”
“Any
idea why she would be interested in that boy?”
Jack retorted.
“She claims it is her son.”
“Is he?” Jack asked.
After a moment of silence,
Abdullah spoke: “The child’s father thinks she is crazy.”
“Why would she be interested
in that boy?” Jack insisted.
“She is crazy,” Abdullah
repeated.
“Crazy enough to come all the
way from France to this place to kidnap a boy she don’t even know?”
“She may know him,” Abdullah
said.
Black Jack addressed the
judge. “If she’s that crazy, she can’t stand trial.”
Abdullah and the judge
conferred in Arabic, a conversation Jack was able to partially understand.
“She could be sentenced to
twenty-five years,” Abdullah finally said.
“The French won’t like it,”
Jack threatened, addressing the judge again. It brought another flurry of
conference.
Jack added: “I want her
out today.”
The conference continued as if
he had not spoken.
Finally Abdullah said: “She
will stand trial but the sentence will be reduced to a fine.”
“How
much?”
Jack pressed.
“Twenty
thousand US dollars.”
“One thousand and we settle it
now,” Jack said.
Abdullah translated to the
judge who seemed to become quite annoyed. He turned his back on the
American and lit a cigarette. Abdullah signaled for them to go.
Jack spoke evenly, addressing
the judge: “She better have a fair trial and you better improve her
conditions here or you’ll have the entire United Nations on your case.”
The judge did not flinch and
Abdullah did not translate but Black Jack knew they understood. Opening
blows had been exchanged. Now it was about patience and poise. They
walked back to the visitation cell to pick up Christine.
Abdullah said: “You angered
the judge, Mr. Jack.”
“Whose side are you on?”
Jack replied angrily. “They don’t have a case to hold her here.”
Abdullah walked silently for a
while then stopped Jack just before they reached the visitation cell.
“They’ll invent a case Mr.
Jack. If you don’t compromise, they’ll not let her go.”
“You tell the judge I’ll pay a
thousand bucks, no more, and if he dares mistreat the lady, I’ll bring in the
media.”
Abdullah retreated. They
walked into the cell. The two women looked up, expectantly.
Black Jack smiled. “You’ll be
out in no time Clair. The judge gave me his word. We’ll just need
to address some formalities. Meanwhile they’ve promised to improve your
conditions. Tell me if it has not occurred. We’ll be back
tomorrow.” He motioned to Christine who embraced Clair one last time and
stepped to the door.
A guard appeared to escort
Clair away. She bravely waved to them and disappeared amongst the
darkened corridors.
He paid
much
more attention to Christine than any of the
other males they had met up to that point. He asked her opinion on
various matters and was especially interested in hearing about Paris, a place
he had once visited. She politely answered his inquiries but was visibly
irritated. Her friend Clair was wasting in a filthy prison and here he
was shooting the breeze. She finally could not resist any longer.
“I need to get my friend back
to Paris,” she said, hoping she had won his sympathy.
The chief shot her a regretful
look.
“In due time,” he said and turned
to Black Jack.
“Mr. Jack, we seem to have a
problem,” he said ceremoniously.
Black Jack did not
reply. He sat back and folded his arms over his chest. The chief
went on.
“Your client is charged with attempted
kidnapping. I personally apprehended her near the boy’s house.”
“Who tipped you off?”
Black Jack shot back.
“No
one in particular Mr. Jack.
It’s our business to keep our
neighborhoods safe.”
“My client’s son was kidnapped
by her divorced husband from Paris and brought here. The courts in France
clearly ruled in her favor. She has every right to want her son
back. If anyone should be thrown in prison, it’s Mr. El Shara, not
Clair.”
“Can you provide proof of
that?”
“I sure can and I sure will if
we go to trial.”
“I mean, can you provide proof
she is here for her son and not some other boy.”
Jack knew he was treading on
thin ice.
“She claims she saw him in
that house,” he said. Pure instinct kept him from mentioning the brother.
“Then I suggest we go there
and verify her claim Mr. Jack,” the chief said.
“Let’s do it,” Black Jack
challenged. “Of course a lot can happen in two months. Isn’t that right,
Chief?”
A mischievous grin spread
across the chief’s face as he got up to leave. Jack and Christine
followed. They assembled in the parking lot - three police cars, Jack and
Christine with Abdullah in the rental.
Black Jack stopped in front of
the chief’s leading car and rolled down his window. “We take Clair,
chief, otherwise it’s no bid.”
The chief stared at him from
the passenger side of his police vehicle and gave instructions to his driver
who stepped on the gas pedal and sped out of the resort, everyone in pursuit.
They stopped in front of the
prison and waited ten minutes before Clair appeared, her hands cuffed behind
her back, two policemen in escort. Christine almost jumped out to give a
hand but Jack stopped her.
The convoy sped along to a
residential area, south of the main part of town, on a bluff above a beautiful
coral reef. They stopped in front of a single-storey white painted house
with large glass windows facing the street. They all piled out of their
vehicles and stepped onto an open porch shaded by bamboo sticks, Christine
supporting Clair who was blinded by the bright sun she had not seen in two
months.
"Is this the house?"
Christine whispered in French.
Clair nodded weakly looking as
if she was going to collapse.
The door was unlocked and
everyone piled in. The house was furnished but seemed unused. It had a
foul smell to it and was boiling hot.
“Who lives here?” Jack
asked, addressing the chief.
“I do,” said a voice and then
a man stepped out one of the rooms. He was tall and fashionably dressed
quite unlike the local lot. His straight black hair was combed to one
side, his dark handsome features, almost haunting.
Clair took a step back and was
again supported by Christine.
“Yusuf,” she murmured. “I
should have known.”
“Name is Yusuf El Shara,” he
introduced himself in fluent English. “This is my home.”
“He’s Hussni’s brother,” Clair
said weakly.
Yusuf paid her no mind.
He addressed the chief. “What seems to be the problem, Major Halil? I see
the crazy lady is back.”
“She says she saw her boy in
this house. These people represent her. Could you give us your
statement again?”
“Her boy lives with his father
in Cairo. She was after my boy for some reason.”
Words spoken, Yusuf went back
in the room and reappeared accompanying a young boy who looked quite startled
at the entourage of people eyeing him.
“This is my son, Ahmed.
He’s eleven.”
Everyone stared. There
was no striking similarity between the boy and the man, but no one could
dismiss a possible relation.
The chief addressed Black
Jack. “Does this satisfy you, Mr. Jack?”
“Not one bit, Chief,” Black
Jack declared then took hold of Christine and Clair and stormed out the
door. In the few moments they were alone together on the outer porch, he
spoke quietly to them. “We’ve walked into a trap. Chris, go back in and
get a good look at that boy.”
Christine did as she was
told. Black Jack kept talking to Clair. “Has your situation improved any
in there?”
“They let me wash today, after
almost three weeks. Though they made me use the officers showers with two
guards present.”
Jack hissed between his teeth.
“Bastards.”
“Slightly better breakfast
too,” Clair added, “but I still share the room with those four witches.”
“Mr. Jack,” a voice called in
back. It was the chief. Jack turned. The chief gestured for
them to step aside.
“Are you willing to settle or
do we go to court?”
the
chief questioned in a
low voice.
“How
much?”
Jack asked, expecting the chief to be synchronized
with Abdullah and the judge.
“Fifteen thousand US dollars,”
the chief said without a blink of an eye.
“Fifteen hundred is all you’ll
get out of me chief. And consider this a generous offer.”
The police chief looked
nonplused for a moment but then he graciously smiled. “As you wish,” he
said and barked a few orders to his men. One of them grabbed Clair and
flung her in back of the Jeep. The rest boarded their vehicles.
Black Jack stepped in front of
the chief, his six-foot frame towering over the smaller man.
“You better make sure they
treat her right chief. The Red Cross station is not far away and I can
have the French Ambassador and half the UN climbing all over your back.”
“I can throw you in with her,
if you like,” the chief retorted. “Interference with our legal
proceedings, Mr. Jack, like offering money to a police officer, is a major
offense in this country.”
Black Jack stepped back to let
the chief through. It was Clair’s treatment, not the threat on himself,
which worried him. He had dealt with similar police forces in similar
places at similar situations and it was always the weak, and in most cases the
innocent, who ended up getting hurt. Here was Clair, a vulnerable woman
in an extremely vulnerable position, at the mercy of merciless corrupt men who
interpret the law strictly for their own benefit. She was their trump
card, their ticket to money they could never normally hope to see and they
would use every dirty trick they knew to make him pay for her.
Fifteen thousand dollars
was steep, but, when push came to shove, he knew he could spring it. He
hated negotiating at the expense of Clair’s wellbeing but he was well aware of
the unwritten laws of this harsh land. If he was to concede too quickly,
without a fight, he would proclaim a weakness they would further exploit.
He hoped Clair would survive it just a few more days.