I looked around for Osman, having lost sight of him once the speech started. I noticed soldiers and police officers roaming up and down the aisles, like they were searching for something.

  “It was against the British,” Nasser said.

  He paused, giving the masses another chance to respond. Even at this tense moment, with the dammed-up piss about to burst from my bladder, the critic in me admired his fine natural instinct for escalating the drama in his voice and then knowing just when to let a thing stand on its own. If, by some miracle, this assassination plan did come off, I could not imagine Mohammed Naguib, Professor Farid, or anyone else associated with the Brotherhood being able to supplant him.

  “In this square for the first time I saw men being hit over the head.” Nasser pointed to the scar on his brow. “I saw Egyptians shooting down their fellow Egyptians.”

  Someone was passing very close to me, touching my arm.

  “It’s off,” I heard Osman say. “There are too many police. Someone talked.”

  None of the people I was with noticed. Raymond was too preoccupied as he hunched over his camera, and Mona was inching forward with the boom microphone and headphones.

  “But I am alive today.” Nasser thrust out his jaw and held his arms up higher. “I am alive and helping free my country. I am alive and—”

  I heard two quick pops and saw people onstage dive from their folding chairs. A tall man in a white shirt and black pants had come down the center aisle, firing a handgun. Nasser remained upright at the microphone, as if he did not understand what was happening. There was a third shot. A fraction of a second later, the globe light over Nasser’s head exploded and glass rained down. He took cover as the man in the white shirt kept firing, with one hand on the grip instead of two, somehow not hitting anyone or anything.

  I dove on top of Mona. A metal chair fell on us and someone ran across it, compressing us together like a sandwich. Mona stiffened with the weight of our sudden forced intimacy. Her knee came up between my legs as she rolled as if she meant to throw me off.

  But then her arms went around my neck. Her warm breath was in my ear. And somehow, in the midst of this utter chaos, with the gunshots and screaming in the background, I felt I was finally safe, warm, and where I belonged.

  Meanwhile, the world above us was all writhing confusion. A high heel grazed the side of my head and someone in sandals stepped on my ankle, almost breaking it. But I managed to raise my head up just enough to see the tall man in front of the stage, being surrounded by people beating him with fists and folded chairs. His arm was swinging wildly, with his hand still holding the gun. A man in a blue galabiya was gnawing on his wrist, trying to get him to let go of the weapon. Most other people had dropped to the ground to avoid getting shot. But Raymond remained behind his camera, like the captain staying at the helm of his ship.

  “I’m sorry.” Mona squirmed out from beneath me, trying to catch her breath.

  “For what?” I stared up at her.

  She looked disheveled and disoriented, with her hair in her eyes and her blouse untucked.

  “I thought I might have hurt you,” she said.

  I had the strangest feeling, in the middle of this mayhem, that she meant to tell me something else. That our accidental contact had elicited an unexpected rush of feeling in her.

  But the chance to say more disappeared in the rush of soldiers running past our position to try to extract the shooter from the mob enveloping him. Nasser was back at the microphone, speaking rapidly and forcefully. He was trying to calm everyone down, but the sound system kept cutting in and out, so it was hard to catch all his words.

  I watched Mona straighten herself up and pick up the boom mic. Then I uttered a silent prayer of thanks to Allah. Surely the Creator of Days had shown me his mercy and compassion by arranging things just so. Allowing the plot to fail without implicating me, or giving the Brothers a reason to punish me or my father. Only the Divine could have allowed this gunman to stand right before the stage and fire at least eight shots without striking anyone. And only Allah could have found a way to briefly deliver me into the arms of my most loved amid such chaos.

  Osman walked past me again. “You goddamn son of a whoremonger,” he cursed me under his breath. “You told someone what we’re up to. You’ll pay for this.”

  It happened so quickly with so many other things going on that there was no reason for anyone else to have noticed. The crowd was still shouting, Nasser was still waving his arms, and the police were dragging the shooter away as he struggled and shrieked like a madman.

  But Mona looked after Osman, registering that she’d seen him before. Then she turned back and stared at me as if we had suddenly become strangers.

  April 4, 2015

  To: SeekerAL@protonmail.com

  From: GrandpaAli71@aol.com

  Alex,

  I was very concerned by the last email you sent. You must take care that nothing bad happens to this poor girl or yourself.

  I believe that you’re right that you must not appear to reject her as your wife. The others who are with you may not be so gentle with her. But you must not take advantage of her as if she was your tillage or a piece of property. She is, as you say, just a child who has been forcibly separated from her family and sold as a slave. To touch her as a bride would be a grave sin. If your group is as respectful of true Islam as they claim, they know there will be eternal consequences.

  But this is the world as it is. If you tell the others that she shrinks when you try to touch her, they may give her to another man as a slave or maybe even do worse. So my advice for now is this: nothing. Do nothing to her. Leave her be. Be an actor and tell the others that she is being a compliant wife. When they ask when she will give you a child, say that you are trying. Then when you have the opportunity, help her get away.

  I know it won’t be easy. And there will be great risk to both of you. But you asked for my guidance, and this is the best I have to offer you.

  May Allah watch over both of you and protect you,

  Yours, in compassion,

  Grandpa Ali

  17

  We quickly packed up our gear, found our car outside Mansheya Square, and started back to Cairo. The night-shrouded streets were filled with people still celebrating the courage of the new national hero. When I stopped short to avoid hitting an elderly couple at an intersection, the pistol that I’d stashed beneath my seat slid forward and came to rest with its grip against my Achilles tendon.

  With the seat moved forward to make room for the gear in back, I could not move my leg enough to get free of it. Nor was there room for me to reach down and move it without anyone else noticing.

  The car was jammed with equipment and my mind was full of confusing images that I needed to sort through as soon as possible. Why had there been a suddenly increased police presence right before Nasser’s speech? Who had tipped them off? And where had this other shooter come from after Osman walked away? All I could be certain of was that Mustafa and the others were right. The traitor among us had known of the plan in advance, which meant that none of us were safe now.

  I turned on the car radio, hoping to find a music station to calm my nerves and give me time to think with “Mr. Sandman” or “If I Give My Heart to You.” Instead, I heard Nasser’s voice, high with emotion but fully in command as the crowd yelled hysterically in the background.

  “O free men, let everyone stay in his place,” he shouted in Arabic. “This is Gamal Abdel Nasser speaking to you. This is Gamal Abdel Nasser. My blood is your blood. My life is yours. You are all Gamal Abdel Nassers. If I had been killed, it would have made no difference, for you would have carried on the struggle. You are all Gamal Abdel Nassers.”

  “Turn that up,” said Raymond from the back seat. “Is that supposed to have been recorded earlier?”

  A news announcer came on, saying that the recording had indeed been made at the Stock Exchange, where a Muslim Brother named Mahmoud Abdul Latif had been put under arrest for the attempted assassination. Coconspirators were being actively sought.

  “Did you hear him say any of that right after the gunshots were fired?” Raymond twisted around to look at Mona.

  “No.” She took a tissue out of her handbag to wipe the smeared mascara from her eyes. “But the microphones were malfunctioning, so we missed a lot of it because of the bad sound.”

  “Those sound like some pretty flowery words for someone who’d just been shot at,” Raymond said. “Most people would just say ‘Get him’ or ‘Am I hit?’”

  “What are you saying?” Mona asked. “That it was written down ahead of time?”

  His white face brooded in my rearview mirror. “Did anyone else notice the delay before the globe above his head exploded?”

  Mona leaned back from him. “Raymond, are you trying to suggest that this was all staged?”

  “It would serve a purpose, wouldn’t it? Remember what he was saying about the Muslim Brothers in his office?”

  A military police checkpoint had been set up just ahead. I slowed down and halted before the wooden barricades that had been erected. A middle-aged sergeant with the clamped-down, swollen-looking mouth of someone who’d had to keep too many complaints to himself approached my window. When I stepped on the brake, the Enfield had slid forward and was now at an angle where a corner of the grip was cutting into my ankle.

  “Wa’if hassib hena, min fadlak.” The sergeant shone a flashlight into my eyes. “Your identification, please.”

  “Is there a problem?” Raymond asked.

  Another officer came out with another flashlight to examine our license plate. Then he aimed the beam into the interior, blinding each of us for a few seconds.

  “You will get out now, please,” the sergeant said.

  “Is there a problem?” I asked.

  “Just do as I say.” He put the light in my eyes again. “Pull over, and let the other cars get by.”

  The other officer had taken a radio off his hip and was speaking into it too rapidly for me to catch what he was saying.

  “Sir, there’s been a mistake.” Mona started to rummage through her bag. “Do you know who we are?”

  “There’s no mistake.” The sergeant pointed his light at her. “Now pull over and get out. And don’t make me ask again.”

  I edged off toward the sidewalk and cut the engine, trying to kick the gun back under my seat before I got out. Instead, it fell forward on the floor mat when I moved my foot. Streetlight gleamed off the barrel as I got out and slammed the door after me.

  The three of us were directed by the sergeant to go stand on the sidewalk and produce our identification papers, as cars went streaming past, honking their horns and blinking their red brake lights like part of a vast nervous system. After a few minutes, an army jeep pulled up and General Amer got out with two soldiers trailing, looking even more determinedly doleful than before.

  “General, why have we been detained?” Raymond asked, as if they were still in the middle of the argument they’d been having before the shooting started.

  “Because we’re now in a state of national emergency.” Amer looked up at him. “There was an attempt on the prime minister’s life tonight, and immediate security measures are being put into place. We would like the film you shot tonight.”

  “For what purpose?” Raymond glanced at the rest of us, to see if we were equally confused.

  Amer’s face was like a closed wallet, giving nothing away. “Is there a problem?”

  “I’m asking, what do you need it for?” said Raymond.

  “Because I’m giving you an order,” Amer said. “That should be enough.”

  “I’m not resisting, General. I’m asking you a simple question.”

  I didn’t know if it was natural-born insolence or bullheaded resistance to authority that was causing Raymond to talk back. But my legs were starting to vibrate from fear and the prodigious amount of piss I was still struggling to contain.

  “Are you refusing to cooperate?” Amer looked at Mona as if he needed help with translation.

  “I’m just curious as to why getting our footage is such a priority under these circumstances,” Raymond said.

  Five soldiers were around us, and at least two of them were looking through the windows of the car.

  “Mr. Garfield, the man who tried to kill the prime minister may have had accomplices,” Amer said, struggling to maintain his composure. “We need to examine your film as evidence. Now will you help us or do we need to search the vehicle ourselves?”

  I looked up at the star-filled sky and sent a desperate message. Please, I asked the Divine. If you’re going to punish me, at least let it be for my own sins, not for someone else’s.

  “Raymond, please don’t argue.” Mona started to reach for his arm. “It’s not your country.”

  “I’m aware of that.”

  He stood back from her, without jerking away or making a show of it. Whatever heat had existed between them was now quickly cooling. I would have taken heart if I wasn’t doing a little dance to keep from disgracing myself.

  “And it’s our documentary,” Amer said accurately. “That was part of our cooperation agreement. Now will you give us that footage, or do we need to take control of your vehicle?”

  Raymond looked over at me and sighed. “Mr. Hassan, may I please have the keys to the trunk?” he said with a sort of theatrical formality. “If we have to turn over the film, can we at least make sure it doesn’t get exposed and ruined?”

  Within a few minutes, the rolls were relinquished and we were passing over the Mahmoudiya Canal. We lost the signal for the news on the radio, and soon the city on the Mediterranean was just a memory. Wind beat against the sides of the car like the hands of a hundred drummers. And one headlight shone in the rearview mirror from behind me, a lone car following us on the desert road, never gaining on us or falling too far behind. But simply letting us know it was still there.

  “I think I might not have been the only one who noticed the timing of when that globe exploded,” Raymond grumbled.

  Nothing else was said. I think we were all too aware that from that point on, we were being watched and listened to.

  I needed to get out of the country. And I needed to get my father out as well. Whether Mona would come with us, I had no idea. But when I remembered her warm body pressing against mine and her eyelashes fluttering against my cheek in the chaos, my heart lifted a little.

  At the end of our two-and-a-half-hour drive back to Cairo, the car radio faded back in with more news. A crackdown was already under way. There had been a raid on the Ikhwan headquarters in Helimaya. Several dozen Brothers had been arrested and charged with being part of the plot to kill Nasser and free Naguib from house arrest. Hidden caches of arms and explosives had allegedly been discovered in mosques and graveyards just outside town. Whether any of this was true or not, I didn’t know. But plainly someone within the organization was disgorging names and locations.

  By the time we got downtown, there were roadblocks everywhere, as if we were in a state of siege, as well as army jeeps in Tahrir Square and soldiers alongside the lion statues of the Kasr al-Nil Bridge.

  I dropped Raymond off at his hotel, then drove Mona to her father’s villa in Garden City. But I was so nervous about the gun that was still under my seat that I was unable to make conversation with her. She must have interpreted my silence as sulking. When she thanked me for trying to protect her and kissed me on the cheek to say good night, it barely registered.

  Then I drove down to the Nile, and once I was sure no one else was in the immediate vicinity, I finally relieved my bladder. Then I tossed the gun toward the river. But unlike the acid that had been backing up in my body, I never heard it splash.

  It was long past midnight by the time I returned the car and took the tram back to Mena House, looking over my shoulder the whole way. But the red lights and sirens were far off, in the more populous parts of the city. I stopped on the threshold, took off my shoes, and gave a silent thanks to God for protecting me from harm. But then I opened the front door and heard two voices talking.

  “Don’t pick your head up so much,” my father said.

  “Please. I know what I am doing.”

  As I came into the living room, I saw my father wearing the look of patient consternation he wore when caddying for tourists. One of the teacups my mother had liberated from the Mena House Hotel kitchen lay on the threadbare rug with a Titleist golf ball a foot and a half away. Sherif was hunched over with his hands around the grip of my father’s favorite putter.

  “What’s going on?” I asked.

  “Your cousin says his house has been overrun by pests and vermin,” my father said. “He asked if he could stay here awhile.”

  I understood this to mean that it was not safe for Sherif to go back to his home in Shoubra or Ikhwan headquarters, because the police were there.

  “But, Father, do we have enough room?” I asked. “We have only two beds.”

  “We can share one like we did when we were children.” Sherif gave a playful swing and smiled like he was watching the ball sail off into the horizon. “It will be just like the old days.”

  April 6, 2015

  To: GrandpaAli71@aol.com

  From: CecilBAbdul@protonmail.com

  Yo, Grandpa,

  Excuse me for addressing you this way, and from a new encrypted address, but I now feel an even greater kinship. And forgive me if I no longer think of you as just my old grandfather, but as my brother.

  I looked on Google and saw there was stuff about the Brotherhood trying to kill Nasser in Alexandria. Amazing that you were part of that, even if it was just part of some setup. I can’t wait to find out what was really going on.

  My commanders are okay, for now, with my reading the book out loud to the others and communicating with you—as long as it’s under their supervision. They definitely don’t like what the Muslim Brothers have become, as a semi-legit political party, but they can respect that our family has a tradition in jihad.