Chapter 2. Alexandria

Sarah did not get to meet Shalah’s wife in Cairo. He dropped her off at a small, safe house, in the middle of what looked like a slum to Sarah, the long, depressing section on the way to the airport on the outskirts of Cairo, streets lined with half-finished houses, the second floors composed only of protruding rusting steel rods that one day would be covered with concrete.

Although her Arabic was fluent, it was clear to her that there was no way she could begin to communicate with anyone in this slum. She stood out as a westerner, an American at that, and she had already deduced that Americans were not popular in these parts. She sensed, especially from the men, a seething envy loaded with a lustful disgust. They would love to rape me, and do it with pride, she thought. She looked to Shalah trying to convey her fear.

“Stay inside, keep off the streets, and you will be OK,” he instructed as a teacher would to a student. “Tomorrow we will go to Alexandria to begin your first mission.”

“But the target is in Palestine, isn’t he?”

“Preparation, my dear. Preparation and planning. These are the hallmarks of professionalism.”

“But I was going to meet your wife,” she complained.

“It cannot work this trip. Besides, it’s too soon. You are on probation until you have served your apprenticeship,” he smiled.

“So you don’t trust me?”

“I trust you yourself implicitly. But I cannot trust you completely until you are experienced. The inexperienced make blunders they cannot help, if you understand me.”

Shalah grasped her hand firmly in both his hands, all the time looking around, always on the defensive. The alley was teaming with the busy lives of people who ignored them. He led her up the few steps into one of the concrete and stone houses, the color of the desert. The door was not locked. He pushed it open and nudged her in. She turned to say good-bye, but he had already pulled the door closed and left. Faint rays of light slipped through the gaps of old boards that shuttered the two small windows facing the rear. A kerosene lantern burned in the corner, where embroidered cushions lay on the floor and a woman sat, sewing. She wore an old cloak, probably adapted from of an abaya, her gray hair wound tightly into a bun and held down with a net. She motioned Sarah to sit beside her. Sarah looked around the room. There was a small fireplace in the opposite corner where a young girl sat kneading doe, baking pita bread.

“Sit,” said the woman, smiling kindly, “I am told you speak Arabic.”

“I try,” said Sarah as she sat down beside her host.

“Shalah told me all about you.”

“Then you probably don’t know much.” Sarah tried to get a good look at her face.

“You need not look so hard. I am Shalah’s mother. Is it not obvious?”

“I, I, guess so. My apologies. It’s a bit dark for me to see. But yes, I guess it’s the light gray eyes, no?”

“It is enough for me to know that you are American and also Russian, a worthy contradiction, if I may say.”

“You may. But what of Shalah? How is he so well-schooled, such a man of the world?”

“Shalah is an only child for which he has never forgiven me, but I could not help it. I almost died when I had him, and could have no more.”

“But, how could you afford to send him to Oxford?”

“Would you like some tea?”

“I’m sorry, I did not mean to pry.”

“Yes you did, and it’s all right. Shalah was a very bright child and the Mullahs at the madrassa where he first went to school insisted on sending him to England for his education. They paid for it all. Unfortunately, it meant that I lost my only child first to the Mullahs, then to the English.”

Sarah searched for the hint of a tear that might accompany such a plaintive remark, but could find none. Hers was a stern face, one that had seen much hardship. And the father? She wondered, but had not the temerity to ask.

*

Early the next morning Shalah Muhammad walked through the unlocked door. Sarah and his mother had slept on the cushions and were now sitting up sipping more tea. Sarah stood unsteadily, struggling to raise her weight from such a low soft cushion. His mother looked across at him, expressionless.

“We go to Alexandria,” he said, “hurry so we can beat the hot sun.

We’re in a Land Rover with no air conditioning.”

“And what’s in Alexandria?” asked Sarah.

“The notorious Locusta.”

“Who?”

“You’ll see.”

Sarah turned to say good-bye to her host who had resumed her sewing and did not look up. Shalah pulled at her hand. They left, Sarah muttering something like “thanks for the tea.”

They climbed into the Land Rover and the driver navigated slowly through the crowded alleys, trying to avoid deep holes filled with mud and sludge, slowly weaving though clumps of people talking, bartering, gesturing, grudgingly giving way to the vehicle. When at last the jeep entered the freeway to Alexandria, Shalah Muhammad spoke.

“Locusta was a notorious poisoner enlisted by the Emperor Nero to kill his step brother Britannicus who was just 14 at the time, but was a popular boy and enough of a threat to Nero that he wanted him dead —along with the many others whom he saw as a threat to his reign. But, since Nero thought it may not sit well with the Senate if he started killing off his relatives, he wanted the death to mimic a regular illness, to happen over a period of time.

“But that was nearly two thousand years ago.”

“Right. But there is a woman, Locusta, who deals in poisons and recipes for poison who lives in Alexandria.”

“And?”

“We will ask Locusta for a poison that mimics regular illness, just like Nero did to get rid of Britannicus.”

“But why? Who?”

“I told you who, didn’t I? We will hasten Yasser Arafat’s demise. He’s already supposed to be sick. You’ll help him out of his misery.”

“But why?”

“Don’t you follow current affairs? Arafat is a tool of the Americans. He lives off their money. And—”

“And what?”

“He has a Western wife.”

“So?”

“You will befriend her. You speak French, right?”

They fell silent. Sarah was at a loss for words. The whole thing seemed utterly ridiculous. She reached carefully for Shalah’s hand and clasped it lightly, seeking, perhaps, some reassurance that she had not gone completely mad. Here she was, in a cab with the world’s most lethal terrorist, going to visit some witch who claimed to be a descendant of a notorious poisoner of 2,000 years ago. Yet it had all happened rather easily, without drama or conflict. Could she kill someone? “Can I do better than Raskolnikov and kill without guilt?” she asked herself. What was Shalah thinking? She tried to steal a sideways glance at his face. He sat expressionless, gazing out at the desert.

But then he turned to her, a faint smile, his gray eyes sparkling a little.

“You are a very brave person,” he said, clasping her hand firmly, “all you need to be sure of is that Arafat deserves to die, and surely he does.”

Sarah stared out the discolored window on her side. She was frightened. Not of Shalah or anyone else. But of herself.

“But this one is even easier,” Shalah continued, “he is going to die anyway. You will just help him on his way. He is an evil man, killed many innocent people unnecessarily. And now it is time for him to get out of the way and let history move forward.”

“How sick is he? What’s wrong with him?”

“They say he is suffering from heart failure. But you can see those bulbous lips he has. I favor the rumors going around that he has AIDS.”

“What do his lips have to do with that?” In fact Sarah thought he was the ugliest disgusting looking man she had ever seen.

“They say he has an entourage of teenage boys constantly in his attendance.”

“Then his wife is probably not with him much at all.”

“We will see when you meet her.”

“You know her?”

“I know everyone.”

*

They reached the outskirts of Alexandria where the driver left the freeway and navigated up to the shore front in the north then took the sometimes bumpy road south to the city. They turned a sharp corner and suddenly the famous lighthouse and harbor of Alexandria came into view.

As they drew closer to the harbor, the houses became more like villas, interspersed with small shops catering for tourists seeking luxury and a good time. It was more like a Mediterranean resort than a Middle Eastern city. The jeep eventually pulled up in front of a small shop with a narrow storefront adorned with all kinds of sea shells, dried seaweed and coral, shark’s teeth, sea urchins, and numerous snorkeling and beach paraphernalia. The sidewalk was littered with ancient urns, statues, and other trinkets that had presumably been retrieved from the several sunken cities and ships in and around the harbor. Shalah, obviously excited, stepped out, pulling Sarah with him.

“This is it! Now you will meet Locusta, the 2,000 year old witch!” he said joyfully.

Shalah brushed aside the hanging strings of shells that covered the doorway, their chime announcing his entrance. There were narrow rows of shelves containing knick-knacks, beach souvenirs, cheesy sculptures one would find in any beach shop, clams biting off a toe, starfish made into ballerinas, periwinkles poised on oyster shells; there was no end to the ugliness. Sarah began to giggle. Shalah was amused and led the way further into the shop. In contrast to the brightness of the desert sun outside, inside there were no windows. The shop was one long deep cavern, like the insides of an old London tube station.

Suddenly from over their shoulders, there came a refined, high pitched voice.

“Do you seek amusement?”

Startled, Sarah and Shalah turned quickly. Sarah let out a gasp, quickly putting her hand to her mouth.

“You could call it that,” said Shalah Muhammad, “we are especially interested in your beach recipes.”

“Ah, a customer who knows what he wants, I see.”

“As always,” he said, turning to Sarah, “I am most honored to introduce you to Locusta, the greatest and certainly oldest witch on earth.”

“My goodness, Dr. Muhammad, you are much too kind! And such flattery too! And who is this, this ah, woman you introduce me to? A fan? A lover?”

“Pleased to meet you,” Sarah put out her hand, “I’m Sarah.”

Locusta took her hand in hers with a graceful sweeping motion, raised it to her lips and kissed it lightly. Her gown of light, translucent silk, floated through the air. Her hair was unexpectedly, for a witch, closely cropped, thick and blonde, with tinges of sea blue. “Beauty is not what it looks,” she whispered, looking quizzically into Sarah’s eyes.

“I, I —” stammered Sarah.

“What Sarah’s trying to say is that she expected to see a wizened old witch, stringy hair, only a couple of black teeth, and a nasty pimple on the end of her nose with a huge hair growing out of it,” laughed Shalah.

“So sorry to disappoint, Sarah. Witches must keep up with the times just like everyone else, if they want to be successful. Ask Shalah here, and he’ll tell you.”

“She has a Master’s Degree in biochemistry from Oxford. That’s where we met. She’s not just up to date. She’s ahead of her time.”

Sarah could think of nothing to say. Locusta’s slender body seemed so light, as though she stood inches off the ground. Her silk gown floated around her, seeming to make her body bend and quiver as if under water.

“So the recipe?” asked Locusta as she closed the door of the shop and put up a sign BACK SOON.

“Sarah needs a poison that mimics a recognizable illness.”

“Who for?”

“You know better than to ask that.”

“Oh course,” Locusta smiled, “I can make just the potion you need, though it will take a little time to generate the right amounts of ingredients.

I call it ‘Coral Blue’.”

“Is that just a name, or is it coral?” asked Sarah, trying to assert herself.

“Coral is all around us here on the rich and beautiful Mediterranean, although more plentiful in the Red Sea. However, there is a rare coral found in protected areas just outside the Alexandria harbor that contains an amazing amount of the ingredient I need for this potion. Using a secret process that I discovered in the annals of Tacitus, I can extract what we scientists call “palytoxin” from ground-up coral. I’m convinced that this is what the ancient Locusta used on the unfortunate Britannicus.”

“How long?” asked Sarah.

“How much?” asked Shalah Muhammad.

“Since you have not told me the identity of the deserving person I will have to quote you the highest price, which is $100,000, half now, the other half after treatment whether or not successful. Do you desire death or disability?”

“Ultimately death,” answered Sarah, at last asserting her responsibility for the mission.

“Male or female?”

“Male.”

“Age?”

“Middle age.”

“Height and weight?”

Sarah looked to Shalah. “Average I’d say.”

“Physical condition?”

“Sickly, weak heart, we think.”

“Excellent! It will take me two days. Find yourselves an excellent hotel, I recommend the Four Seasons, knowing how Shalah enjoys luxury and having all his special needs catered for. Dive the ancient ruins and anything else that will bring you pleasure. You could play at being Antony and Cleopatra,” she said mischievously, her head held high, her eyes looking mockingly down her Alexandrian nose. “Shalah will no doubt want to visit Alexander’s tomb, thoroughly despoiled by the Christians, but nevertheless it will satisfy his messianic delusions.” She turned to Shalah, “isn’t that right, oh great one?”

“Nothing could ever satisfy me, as you know. But I begin to think that you have been sipping some of your own potions.”

“And my $50,000?”

“You have an Hawala?”

“Of course. Doesn’t everyone who does business in the Middle East?”

“Tell him to call this number.” He handed her a small piece of paper, “code word Nero and state the amount. The rest is up to your Hawala.”

*

Sarah’s fantasy of a blissful stay with Shalah in an exotic hotel played out except for one essential ingredient: it was without Shalah. He deposited her at the Four Seasons hotel and she did do some snorkeling. But Shalah did not stay there. He had distant relatives, he said, who had insisted he stay with them. He was lying of course. She knew that. But it didn’t change anything. She couldn’t help loving him. Perhaps it was not love; more a kind of infection, probably incurable.

*

Arafat made his final appearance of twenty seconds in a TV news interview some three months later. His condition had obviously deteriorated. He barely had enough breath to talk, forming his words with those bulbous lips, but speaking only in an inaudible whisper, his hands shaking uncontrollably. The new albuterol inhaler his wife had given him had not improved his breathing. In fact he had seemed to get worse. His heart frequently slipped into fibrillation and he could not stand without assistance. He died on November 11, 2004, according to the New York Times, “from a stroke that resulted from a bleeding disorder caused by an unidentified infection.” In that same article, Sarah read, with smug satisfaction, the New York Times had ruled out poisoning as the cause of death.

Soon, democracy came to Palestine and Hamas became the official governing body of the region. Much to Shalah’s disgust, however, Hamas did not live up to his expectations. It dithered around, did little to force Israel to its knees, in fact, it basically continued Arafat’s policies even though making it look like they were glad to be rid of him. They simply weren’t accustomed to thinking of themselves as free. They could think only of how to extract more money out of the West to support the slums and camps with just enough money to maintain them as camps in perpetuity. Because they had forsaken Islam — Shalah repeated this to Sarah many times — they had lost their way, were unable to think of themselves as an independent body, to think of how to build themselves into a nation. Until they broke out of these shackles, they would remain a rich charity supported by the West at its discretion: no Caliphate can be built on charity, especially charity of the West.