2086

	Chapter I

	He walked to the bus stop, defiantly calm. He promised to himself that he would not run, even if he saw his minibus about to take off, that he would just let it go and wait for the next one. It felt undignified to run, and he felt tired. But when he saw his minibus, and contemplated the long wait of up to an hour if he let it pass, he couldn't help himself but run for it – he hated to wait, and the traffic was bound to only get worse as time went by. It was a beige coloured truck, from a brand whose logo he did not recognize, with only seven seats in it, excluding the driver's seat; the rest of the passengers were crampled, standing, between the seats. Though it was crowded, he managed to sneak his way into a corner, ignoring the driver when he shouted, in a curiously foreign Arabic, "Pay up, pay up, pay up!"

	The crowd was big enough for him to pass by unnoticed. Mostly middle-aged men, smelling of sweat, after a long day's work, though he noted three women, two wearing the veil and one modern, seated at the back.

	As the minibus began to move across the labyrinthine streets of the New City, he watched the fading sunlight. The days were getting longer, as clear a sign as any of the enroaching summer. Here, in the New City built across what used to be the Nile Delta, the summers weren't as bad as the ones in old Cairo, but nevertheless they were still too hot. He remembered, vaguely, summers being welcomed in a lot of countries as a time of vacation; having been to Antalya in his youth, with his family, was still one of his fondest memories, but the global warming had changed that. It had dried up the Nile, and pushed the people of Egypt to the coast – though he was not from Egypt, he could sympathize.

	Though the buildings of the New City were, as the name suggests, somewhat new, they had already obtained the decrepid look of poverty. Shoddy architecture, the symptom of a business culture yet to settle, sullied the landscape as far as he could see, with the asphalt mainroads and the paved sideroads dusty from the desert influences. He saw people walking to get to their homes, and he felt the quiet despair of the city life, or perhaps life in general; that sense of not going anywhere, not advancing, just surviving. The sense that things don't change. He could not believe that people lived and died in these small apartments, working on their mundane and often times demeaning jobs, lacking most things in life – not just luxury, but refinement of things like hobbies, interests and hopes. All he could do to not scream was to remind himself that he was headed somewhere, that unlike these ant-like people he observed, he had a sense of direction.

	People inside the minibus were stone faced, deeply uninterested in each other. He fancied that they imagined themselves outside, free from the hard smells and the crippling heat of the minibus, already at their destinations.

	"Is the air conditioner even working?" One of them shot at the driver, with more hostility in his tone than his inquiry warranted.

	"This is as good as it gets," the driver shot back with his foreign accent. He ignored when someone loudly cursed the foreigners.

	He turned back to watch the view outside, and noted a hold up on the traffic. A military checkpoint was up ahead, and it was best to avoid it. These checkpoints had become increasingly more common since the coup six years ago, officially hunting for "terrorists", but their definition of terrorists could be frighteningly liberal.

	He did not betray any panic, however. As he expected, one of the passengers began to complain to the driver about the traffic, as if the driver could help it. More passengers joined in, and the driver resignedly just opened the doors of the minibus and told the drivers they could walk home. He knew what to expect in these contemptous times; he got down wordlessly, enjoying a sudden breeze on his face as he left the minibus, even if it brought dust with it.

	He took a sideroad to pass by the checkpoint, careful not to make any eye contact as he did so. Bumping into a woman wearing the hijab, the headscarf, as he was watching his feet, he tried to apologize but the woman merely yelled "Get away, get away!" as if he had assaulted her, so he just forcefully passed her by.

	He found his way through the streets, and used his key to open the door inside the apartment building. He noticed a black bug, something that resembled a cockroach but wasn't quite, on the chequered black and white tiles of the hallway, frowning at it. He had word with the landlord, some old geezer who owned three buildings like this one, about the bug problem before, but it was yet to be fixed. He shrugged, gave the bug a wide girth and climbed the steep stairs, to his own house two floors above.

	His apartment was mercifully chilly, the way buildings tended to feel when the outside was so hot. Painted a decayed shade of white, with plastic wood tiles, it was small to a level that sometimes introduced claustrophobia in him. A tiny living room adjoined to a kitchen, a bedroom and a bathroom were all it housed.

	Feeling sweaty, he took his shirt and his pants off, leaving them on the couch. He opened the TV with its remote – these old televisions that still required remotes were popular among the poor of the Egypt, though upper classes followed the example of the West and used voice based televisions with 3-D screens.

	He didn't mind, though. He was out often, and there was hardly anything good on TV. He checked his watch to see what time it was, seeing that it was almost exactly 7 PM. Opening the fourth channel on his TV, he was just in time to catch the beginning of the ANS Network's nightly news broadcast.

	'It's April 23, 2086 and we bid you a good evening,' the broadcast began, as he started his routine sweep of the house for any hidden microphones or cameras, checking various crevices and concealed areas.

	'The President's Spokesperson announced today, that in the next Friday after the prayers, they'll be publishing new information linking the recent attacks of fundamentalist terrorism to the Zionist Corporations. The Speaker urged the states of the world to, I quote, cure their impotence and deal with these Zionist Corporations taking over our world, and that Egypt's embargo on foreign goods will continue for the foreseeable future.'

	He laughed out loud at that, as he swept under his couch.

	'The Minister of Foreign Affairs, in an interview with the foreign Atlantic Daily E-Journal, boasted about the high turnout in the recent municipal elections, with official numbers putting it at nearly 99%, pointing out the vibrancy of the Egyptian democracy so soon after the military intervention of 2080. The Minister said that these numbers show the Egyptian people's commitment to the Islamic democracy, and its viability compared to the Western form of democracy, citing the fact that the turnout in the recent Italian general election being less than 8%.'

	Satisfied that his house was clean, he sat back on the couch, stretching his arms. He was about to doze off when his laptop screen began to blink lights. Frowning, he put on his shirt, muting the television, and got on his computer chair next to the TV. He instinctually looked around as he clicked enter, letting the call come through.

	What greeted him was a surprisingly sterile office environment, without a single noise in the background, and the world's most indistinct looking man. James, as he had called himself, had dark brown hair, brown eyes, a round, clean shaven face. He'd put his age at thirty-five if he had to take a guess, though he didn't doubt for a second that the image was tampered.

	"Good evening, Fatih," the man greeted him, with an almost robotic, toneless voice.

	Fatih merely nodded, settling on his chair. He raised an eyebrow.

	"I trust the last operation went well?" The question in his voice was barely noticable.

	Fatih nodded again. "I'll write the full report tonight."

	"It'll have to wait. We've been contacted."

	Fatih waited for the man to explain, but it wasn't forthcoming. "Well? By whom?"

	For a briefest moment, Fatih imagined that he saw amusement in James's eyes. "Sheikh Faruq."

	This took Fatih aback. Frowning, "What?" He asked. "He turned down all my efforts to contact him. He was pretty adamant on not working with the corporations."

	James smiled, something that faded as soon as it was over, more like a motorary function than an emotional expression. Fatih still wasn't sure if James was a real person or a sophisticated robot that functioned as an avatar for his real handler. "We've got a way in... how do they say it, over there? Praise Allah!"

	Fatih merely shrugged, letting the man go on. "Family troubles, it appears. The kind that only our vast resources can solve. His grandson is missing."

	Reclining back in his chair, Fatih ground his teeth. "I trust that we are not behind this kidnapping?" He said, with a darker, threatening edge to his voice. Not that he had much leverage with the corporation, but he simply hated the possibility that they could've conducted an operation like this, in his field, without informing him.

	James shook his head. "No, it wasn't us. But an opportunity is an opportunity."

	"Our resources in Egypt aren't as vast as you make it seem, though – and the more we use what little we have, the more we will provoke the government. What makes you think that I can actually find the boy?" Fatih asked.

	"We trust in you," James replied, his voice implying anything but warmth. "The Sheikh's fatwa is the last push we need to deal with the government. Deliver him the boy, and your work in Egypt is done."

	Fatih shook his head. "The Islamists won't lift the embargo if they take over, you know."

	James smiled his first genuine smile, this entire conversation. "You think they'll have a choice, at that point?"

	Fatih shrugged. "Whatever." He leaned in to take his pants. "I won't fill my pretty head with all this political nonsense. I assume I am to see the Sheikh as soon as possible; tonight?"
	"At your earliest convenience," James replied. "Take the car, the traffic has freed up and there is no bus to the Hashimid compound."

---
	He took his Renault, parked inside an abandoned construction across the street. Since the embargo on foreign goods initiated by the military government, cars had become more valuable as there were no local producers in Egypt, so he deemed it wise to hide the car. The motor gave a tortured side as he clicked on the start button – the car was at least twenty years old, and most of its electronic components, the driving computer and the navigation, had malfunctioned. In Europe, electric cars had become the norm, but steep prices and low accessibility made the gasoline cars remain common in the Middle-East.

	He drove into the street, to find it relatively empty. There wasn't much of a night life in the great big slum that was the New City. He passed into the highway, faster than the speed limit but not so fast that it'd draw attention. No one followed the speed limit, anyway.

	The Sheikh's compound was on the outskirts, a farmhouse without a farm, surrounded by a fence. He was stopped by a guard in the entry, armed with the trusty old AK-47 that had proven itself the one who trend the world would not let go of.

	"Do you know where you are?" The guard asked, holding a light to his face. 

	He had a gun in the car, but it'd do him little good here. "He's expecting me," Fatih replied, tapping his fingers on the driver's wheel to show that he was not about to make any movements.

	The guard gave him a long, hard look. Fatih couldn't pick his features under his large, black beard, made darker still by the night. He went back to the guardhouse, presumably to phone inside. Fatih waited patiently. He didn't doubt for a second that there were guns pointed at him. The Islamists had gotten tense since the coup, and were likely to remain that way for now.

	The guard came back after a few minutes. "You can go inside. Leave the car here."
	Fatih raised an eyebrow. "What if someone else has to drive in?"

	"Leave the keys on," the guard said, and tapped the roof of the car.

	Doing as instructed, he walked in. There was a small masjid on the grounds, and an outhouse that seemed to be in use judging by its lights being open, but for what, he could not say. Two guards were at the door, while a few others sat by a table infront of the house,