The driver turned up a moment later. He looked like a punk, about twenty-five years old with attitude. He wore a Western-style windbreaker and a white baseball-style cap that carried the blue and white logo of a French soccer team, Olympique de Marseille. He had black hair slicked back.
There was no meter in the cab. Fees were always negotiable.
At first, as was his habit, Voltaire sought to negotiate the cost of the ride in English. A noisy, contentious argument ensued in Arabic between Voltaire and the driver as Voltaire insisted on being taken to the Metropole Hotel and the driver loudly refused.
Other drivers, also off-duty and sharing smokes, looked and laughed. The driver massacred his English, and then switched into Arabic. Voltaire followed into Arabic, apparently much to the driver’s surprise.
Voltaire seemed experienced at this, however. He knew how to strike the proper deal. He flashed some extra money and the driver acquiesced.
Then they were off. The cab was not air-conditioned and it rattled. The driver smoked, against the recent law, and held his cigarette-another Eastern European stinker-out the window.
“These old cabs are rolling death traps,” Voltaire muttered cheerfully to Alex, returning to English. “But they’re extremely reasonable in price, even if the drivers are complete idiots like this one-and sometimes can’t find the ocean from the end of a pier. One can rattle one’s way clear across Cairo for little more than it would cost simply to step into a cab in London or New York. And, of course, there’s also the fear factor and the thrill of taking one’s life in one’s hands. Take this complete imbecile of a driver, for example. Eventually he’ll get someone killed. Let’s just hope it’s not us tonight.”
No response from the driver, who seemed intent only on getting this trip done.
Alex nodded. The taxi jockeyed through traffic. Nighttime Cairo fascinated her, in its wealth and its sleaze, the latter even more visible now in the early morning hours. They passed a row of nightclubs. Local wise guys were piling into Mercedes limos and Rolls-Royces, accompanied by an armada of sleek women in short party dresses and the latest fashions from Europe. The driver spotted someone he knew, a chauffeur, and shouted a greeting at him in Arabic.
“I’m still recovering from the conversation at the café,” Alex said to Voltaire. “It’s one thing to know how people feel. Another to hear it spoken to your own face.”
“You’ll hear worse than that if you stay here long enough,” Voltaire said. “Was that the worst anti-Americanism you’ve experienced firsthand?”
“Far from it,” she said. “I may look young but I’ve been in the field for a few years. I’ve heard things. The conversation this evening just stands out as among the most warped.”
“That is the problem the United States has in this region,” he said. “In order to fight the really bad people, you have to convince people that there really is a real evil. They have to believe it in order to help you. That’s a battle we’re losing.”
“We?” she asked.
“I’m on your side,” he said. “I serve America and I root for America. And I deal with the dangers and the misunderstandings here every day. That’s why I brought you here. You saw it for yourself.”
The driver turned the corner abruptly. Alex watched him.
Alex looked around. “Do they have seat belts here?” she asked.
“Seat belts in the Third World?” Voltaire asked. “Got to be kidding. Why don’t you ask for a diet soda, while you’re at it?”
“Okay,” she said.
“This driver is a complete moron, one of the worst I’ve ever encountered. Probably doesn’t even have a license,” Voltaire said. “Do you know the difference between a chimpanzee and a Cairo cabbie?” he asked. “The chimp can be taught to drive a car.”
The driver’s glowering eyes kept alternating between the road and the rearview mirror. She wished he would just watch the road.
“You know why people think the way they do here?” Voltaire asked a few seconds later as their cab jockeyed through the streets of Old Cairo in the direction of Alex’s hotel. “Above and beyond the sorry details of 9/11, this is how many Arabs view their governments. Not just in Cairo, but throughout the Middle East. The people hate their leaders, and they have learned not to believe them. The state-owned media are also hated and distrusted. Therefore, they think that if the government is insisting that Bin Laden was behind the attacks on Washington and New York, he must not have been.”
“A Catch-22 sort of thing?”
“More like Pirandello,” said Voltaire. “ ‘It is so if you think so.’ Perverse, is it not? But it’s what we have to deal with, you and I who do the work that we do. The average Egyptian thinks President Mubarak says whatever the Americans want him to say, and that he’s lying for them because the Americans keep him in power. There’s even an element of truth to this. Mubarak wouldn’t last a day without US support.”
“I’ve forgotten,” Alex said. “Is he elected?”
“Not really. A referendum is held every few years. Mubarak runs and those who vote can vote yes or no. The election is fixed, of course, so the man in power always wins the referendum. Government employees take care of the results. If free elections were held, someone far worse for American and Western interests would be elected. So the United States government doesn’t allow it to happen.”
“So it’s like Saudi Arabia?” Alex said.
“Very similar,” said Voltaire.
They stopped at a light. On the street, eighties-style disco music boomed out of another nightclub for Westerners. In this small part of the globe, Donna Summer was still the queen of the night.
“It’s the same story all across North Africa and up through the western Mediterranean,” Voltaire continued. “Every single country is governed by a bad guy or a really bad guy, so pick your poison and pick it carefully. And I include Israel in my assessment, unless you think Moishe Dayan, Ben Netanyahu, or Ariel Sharon are charm-school alumni. A couple of these guys were almost as crude and lethal as Stalin or Putin. If you want my opinion, and you’re going to get it even if you don’t since we’re riding in the same cab, the whole region is a stink hole, and it’s going to blow up the world one of these days if the Western powers misplay their hand. And you know what? They have a long history of misplaying their hands. Look at two world wars, Korea, Vietnam, Kosovo, Somalia-the list goes on and on.”
The driver turned another corner with a jerk, skidding tires, and a spewing a florid exchange of profanity with another driver.
Alex watched him. The driver’s censorious eyes kept alternating between the road and the rearview mirror. Several times, his eyes focused on hers. She kept her hand near her Beretta. Alex sensed something more than a little wrong with him, maybe something a little psycho. But she couldn’t place it.