32
CAIRO: 10:19 P.M., TUESDAY
The truth had come out in Interrogation Room 4 of the Scorpion, but then it always did. Just as Wazir al-Zayyat had suspected, Hussein Mandali was no ordinary middle school teacher. He was a senior operative of the Sword of Allah and commander of an important cell based in Imbaba. He had also confessed to being present when Sheikh Tayyib recorded his sermon calling for an uprising against the regime, a recording session that had taken place Sunday morning in Apartment 2408 of the Ramses Towers, a luxury block north of the Gezira Sporting Club filled with foreigners, film stars, and newly rich friends of the regime. A quick check of the files had revealed that the apartment in question was owned by a company called Nejad Holdings, and a second check had confirmed that Nejad Holdings was controlled by one Prince Rashid bin Sultan al-Saud.
It was not the first time the prince’s name had arisen in connection with Islamic terrorism in Egypt. He’d funneled millions of dollars into the pockets of the Egyptian jihadists over the years, including fronts and entities controlled by the Sword of Allah. But because the prince was a Saudi—and because impoverished Egypt was beholden to Saudi economic aid—al-Zayyat had had no choice but to turn a blind eye to his charitable endeavors. This is different, he thought now. Giving money to Islamist causes was one thing; providing aid and shelter to a terrorist bent on the destruction of the Mubarak regime was quite another. If the SSI managed to find Sheikh Tayyib hiding in a Saudi-owned property, it might very well give al-Zayyat the ammunition he needed to end Saudi meddling in Egypt’s internal affairs once and for all.
Al-Zayyat arrived at the Ramses Towers shortly after 10:30 and found the building surrounded by several hundred raw police recruits. He knew that many of the young officers secretly supported the goals of the Sword—and that many of them, if given the opportunity, would gladly duplicate the actions of Lieutenant Khaled Islambouli and put a bullet through Pharaoh’s chest. He directed his driver to a spot across the street and lowered his window. Aman from his directorate, spotting the official Mercedes, came over at a trot.
“We went in about two minutes ago,” the officer said. “The place was empty, but it was clear someone had been there recently and that whoever it was had left in a hurry. There was food on the table and pans in the kitchen. Everything was still warm.”
Al-Zayyat swore softly. Was it bad luck, or did he have a traitor in his midst—someone inside the SSI who had alerted the sheikh that Mandali had been captured and was talking?
“Close the Zamalek bridges,” he said. “No one gets off the island without a thorough search. Then start knocking on doors inside the Ramses. I don’t care if you have to ruffle the feathers of the rich and famous. I want to make sure the sheikh isn’t still hiding somewhere inside.”
The officer turned and ran back toward the entrance of the building. Al-Zayyat drew his mobile phone from his pocket and dialed a number inside the Scorpion.
“We hit a dry well,” he told the man who answered.
“Shall we have another go at Mandali?”
“No, he’s dry, too.”
“What do you want us to do with him?”
“We never had him,” al-Zayyat said. “We’ve never heard of him. He’s nothing. He’s no one.”