Selected Detective
DETECTIVE KHALIFA'S ARREST

“You owe me fifteen pounds. You want another one?” In response, Khalifa spent the rest of the tea and stood up, closing the backgammon box, giving a sign that no, he did not want another game.”

“Cover,” says Ginger, while sucking shishanya pipe.

“Always so, and always will be,” replied Khalifa, while opening her wallet and counting her defeat. “While I have not lost to you now, I fear it is too late to return home for Zenab. She was cooking and I promised her I'd be home by eight.” His friend exhaled tobacco smoke with the scent of apples and while sticking out his thumb then flipped and twisted it on the table surface, indicating that Khalifa was “under someone”'s control.

There was loud laughter from other friends sitting around him. This detective devotion to his wife is already common knowledge, and ’holiday’ is common.

“Time for the Scared Inspector Wife to return home!” one of his friends screamed.

“Khalifa the coward,” connect the others.

“If the dog day is fierce,” says the third, “if night...”

“Thusk Zenab!” all answered in unison, accompanied by a buzzing of words.

Khalifa laughed, such a thing never bothered her, this natural trick, and in fact she was rather enjoying and enjoying tonight, he said, which is a sign that he has returned to a normal life after all the furore over the past two weeks. He hands Ginger the money for his victory he does not remember the last time he played backgammon with his friend and won and, while telling everyone to drown themselves in the Nile, Khalifa picked up the two plastic bags she had resting at the foot of her chair and left the cafe, a spate of ledges following her twenty meters after on the street before dissolving into the night market frenzy.

His feelings are light and happy. Engrossed. Better than what he had been doing for so many years, as if a heavy weight had been lifted off his shoulder. He submitted his final report to Chief Hasani, sending all the goods about the menorah to the Israelite, who could use it for whatever his purposes were, and now he was on his way to Zenab and the children with bags full of brochures of the Red Sea inn in Hurghada. There is only one note of contention: when he asked Hasani to deliver a copy of the case report to Chief Mahfudz, his superior informed him that the old man had died late last night. The news made Khalifa sad, though not so noticeable. As Mahfudz himself said, at least he will die with the knowledge that he has done the right thing in the end.

Khalifa stopped to greet Mandur the seller of T-shirts, a mad man with imperfect eyesight who habitually chases customers here and there on the street praises the goodness of his merchandise almost to be a tourist attraction in itself, then goes on his way, while swinging the bag by his side, and thinking about the beach, the waves, and the most fun, Zenab in the swimsuit of God, how exciting. Before he knew it he was standing outside his gray apartment block, where he lived, one of the same rows of blocks along the northern edge of the city like a speckled line of monoliths.

He paused for a moment to finish his cigarette, then climbed the stairs to the fourth floor and as quietly as he could, putting the key to the door of his apartment. He did not open the door immediately.

In fact, he kept the keys hanging, he opened his shoes, crouched down and, reaching into one of the plastic bags, took out a pair of cheap rubber flippers, which he put into his feet, then a diving mask and snorkel, and then a mask, and put it on his face and mouth. Then he walks into his apartment, barely able to control himself from the excitement of making a joke he is playing.

“Tsonly ee,” he said, his words were interrupted by a rubber object tucked in his lips. “I arrive!” There's no answer. He stepped into the living room, wondering where the occupants of the house were.

“I arrive!” he repeated, louder.

“Deep sea divers have already risen to the surface!” still no answer. He looked into the empty kitchen space then headed to the fountain in the middle of the floor and walked like a duck, towards the living room in the interior of the flat, jolted by the sudden thought that perhaps they were playing tricks on him. How funny! The door to the living room opened slightly and, pausing for a moment to clear his dewy mask, he pushed it and stepped in, making a gesture with his hand that he hoped would look like a deep-sea swimmer.

“Wow, it's amazing down here with all the fish and..” Words ceased. Zenab, Ali and Batah were all sitting on the sofa, their faces pale, frightened. Opposite him, two men, one sitting, the other standing, in a gray suit. The jacket that stood slightly open showed, unmistakably, the Heckler and Koch pistols. Jihaz Amn Al - Daulah. No doubt about it. State Security Service.

“Dad!” Ali ran from the sofa towards him, with eyes full of tears. “They'll take you away, Dad! Said someone wanted to talk to Dad. They'd send Dad to jail.” Khalifa opened her mask and snorkel, glancing at Zenab who looked so frightened.

“What is this?” he asked, still trying to be calm, and strong for the sake of his family. Men who sit who are older and allegedly more senior than others stand.

“As the boy said: Someone has a number of questions for you. You should come with us. Nowow. Can't argue.” He looked at his friend and both of them smiled.

“Maybe you want to change the wings. I guess you won't need that thing later.” A Limousine-style Sedan is waiting by the side of a shiny, black, window-like road that can drive away smoke; the; he did not think how he did not see it earlier and by being escorted by the two men, he entered the back seat. The younger man sat next to her, while the older one sat in the passenger seat in the front. A third man, in the same uniform of a gray suit and a haircut was sitting behind the wheel. Even before the door closed completely, he had turned on the engine and drove.The car glided smooth on the uneven road, the ferocious elegance of the panther patrol car.

Khalifa tried to ask about what happened, where he was taken, what all this had to do with Piet Jansen and Faruk Al-Hakim, as he knew it would be like this. The man did not say anything, just stared steadily ahead with the composure of a Professional Executioner. After a few minutes he stopped trying to communicate, lit a cigarette and threw a glance out the window, cursing himself for his naivety, because of his delusion he can expose someone as powerful as Al-Hakim and there is no risk in it.

Jihaz always pursued in their own way. And always punish those who are against him. God, how could he be so naive? Next to him in the darkness the tip of his Cleopatra cigarette implied an orange-colored pattern on the window of his trembling hand.

Initially they were headed back to downtown Luxor, he assumed one of the many government offices gathered in the center of the city. However, once they passed the Luxor General and this further added to their anxiety of turning to the freeway and exiting again towards the east this time, towards the airport. Again, he tried to ask the man where they were headed. They refused to answer. Silence seemed to slip into his chest and lungs as if his chest cavity was slowly tightening in a thick rope wrapped around him, making it difficult to catch his breath.

When he was guided out of the car, he asked for the third time, in a dreamy voice now, what was all this about, where were they going, what was going to happen to him. The two agents remained speechless, simply walking him up the stairs leading to the jetliner cabin and showing him a seat with leather seats, and signalling him to tighten the safety straps.

The door closed, instructions rang out towards the cockpit space, and the plane walked out towards the runway, moving slowly for a moment as if gathering its strength before accelerating its speed and darting gracefully through the air. Khalifa looked at the densely packed area of the terminal building below as this plane was above him, and leaned back, staring at the ceiling of the cabin.

Behind him he could hear one of the agents talking to someone through his cell phone. Amazingly, in such circumstances, he must have fallen asleep because the next thing he knew was that his shoulder was shaken and he was asked to get up. Groggily, he took off the safety rope and stood up. They had already landed. For a moment he thought maybe he just dreamed he had taken off and he was still in Luxor. As soon as he passed the cabin door and went down the stairs, he realized it was not a dream because it was another airport, smaller than Luxor, the configuration was different, an unusual smell in the air so that at first he was unable to recognize it but then realized the smell was the hard brackish smell of salt water. Seas. Where are they...? He glanced at his watch. Not Hurghada of course, they were on the plane for too long, almost fifty-five minutes.

Alexandria? Port Said's? Not long enough in the air to get there. So where is it? Sharm Al-Sheikh's? Yes, it could be this in Sharm Al-Sheikh. Or Taba, maybe. Yes, Sharm al-Sheikh or Taba, although what they are doing on the Peninsula cannot be imagined. Wherever they are today, this is clearly not the final destination because at the bottom rung he was taken round to the other side of Learjet, where a Chinook Ch-47 Helicopter was waiting for them, perched on the runway like a giant mantis. They barely have time to fit into their long, narrow bellies and sit themselves in their respective seats before the rotors are functioning and they air again, get away from the airport and enter the darkness of the night.

“God help me!” Khalifa whispered, recalling all the stories he heard about Jihaz throwing people from helicopters in the middle of the land of the cross country, his body was left between rocks and sand. “I beg God, Help me!” They flew north, judging from the moon's position outside the window, the cabin vibrated to the rhythm of the wub-wub of its engine.

The expanse of barren, mercury-coloured desert passed quickly beneath it, its surface torn apart by sharp ridges and crisscrossed by a winding trail of wadis, like a trail of snakes scraping through the landscape. Twenty minutes passed, then they descended again, the helicopter's round wheels tracing on the desert ridge, its rotors slowing down to a stationary position, sipping the space in the heli with a dense and frightening silence. One of the agents thrust his body forward, and touched Khalifa's arm.

“Build!” Khalifa opened her seat belt, shook hands and followed the man to the front of the cabin as they opened the door, it shows a dark and dark night that makes it only able to see a mixed landscape of plains and roofs under a sky full of stars.

“Out!” Khalifa hesitated a bit. Why did they bring me here? What are they doing to me? Then he jumped, his shoes slipping on the desert floor, his romantics standing on his arms because of the cold air. The two agents remained behind him at Chinook's door.

“Away there,” said one. “Come!” The man brandished the tip of his weapon, pointing to the right, towards a low stone building about a hundred meters away from them at the foot of a rocky climb, the outline gloomy and indistinct, he said, the window was illuminated by a thin, yellowish luster like a large eye looking from the dimness. Bedouin rest stop? Military Border Post? Which Khalifa doesn't like. He looked back at the man, but they just pointed with his gun and told him to go forward, so he walked again.

After fifty meters he stopped and looked back, watching for the first time two other helicopters parked side-by-side outside who had just taken him, then walked again. Faith grew in step with his foot that it was time, he would be executed, there would be no other possible explanation for his presence here in the middle of the night blind in the unknown. maybe he should try to escape, he thought, disappearing in the depths of the desert, hiding behind the rocks. At least he has some chances, even those that are far from possible.

But he cannot do this, cannot trigger the adrenaline required by his feet, so he just walked forward until he arrived at the building and was standing on the steps in front of the rusty iron door.

He threw his last glance back at Chinook, then said a prayer, and now felt certain that his life was coming to an end, sticking out his trembling hand, pushing the door open and stepping in, wondering if he really heard the shot that killed him or if things would just go blank and suddenly he found himself transported to a completely different world.

“Masulkhoir, Inspector.I'm sorry to have brought you to a place like this, but since the situation is so urgent, we have little choice. Please make your own tea.”

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