The Abd-Al-Rahman Mandate

Othello Woo doesn't know who has the parchment; nor who murdered Prescott. The only remaining alternative is the American journalist. The involvement of Inspector Cyril Sahani of the Department of Lost and Stolen Antiquities of the Ministry of Culture indicates that they are up to something of importance. The strange meetings with all those Islamic clerics, are inevitably related to the parchment. But Othello is confident that soon he will attain his goal. Now he murmurs to himself: “Men at some time are masters of their fates; the fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars. But in ourselves, that we are underlings.” He's in control of his fate. Patience is one of his virtues. He's aware that two other people are following them, a woman and a Saudi Arabian. The woman seems harmless. Big, bony, reddish hair. Woo swears he has seen her before, her face is vaguely familiar. He has a good memory for people's faces, but he can't place her. He knows eventually it will come to his mind. Woo thinks she is under a false name: Marie Smith. The man is not tall, but hefty and grows a black beard. For the moment there's not much he can do. Woo will have to wait until it's clear what their up to. But of course, he can make it easy for himself, eliminate as many hurdles as possible. The man is staying at a hotel in the center of the city, the New Cairo. Othello has followed him, without the man noticing it. Woo enters the small lobby, looks for a chair and sits with his back to the reception. No one pays attention to him. He is one more Oriental, the world is full of them traveling about. Woo always carries a pocket book edition of Shakespeare which he rereads endlessly. Although he knows much of it by heart he enjoys reading. Now he opens the book; it gives him pleasure just to see the words. He doesn't have to wait for long. The man comes down from his room. Woo senses him without having to turn to look. The man is silent. He leaves the lobby out to the street. Woo walks to the desk, takes out a fifty dollar bill from his wallet, places it on top of the counter, and asks the receptionist: “What is the gentleman's name?” The hotel employee doubts for a second, then pocketing the bill, says: “Mr. Abdul Abhala, from Mali, works for an oil company.” Woo turns around and dashes after Abhala. Oil in Cairo? It's all a lie. He is not African. If he's in oil then he must be Saudi Arabian, just as he thought. The sun falls quickly in the horizon. The skyline is highlighted by the autumn rays. Woo walks behind Abhala. On the next crossing Abdul Abhala takes a right into a wider street. Further down is a mosque. Woo is thankful Ramadam, the month long of fasting, one of the pillars of Islam, ended two weeks earlier. Ramadan complicates matters. Fasting makes people edgy. Abhala arrived recently from Dubai. He is tired but decided to pray before retiring. He takes off his shoes and washes his feet, his hands and face and enters the mosque. He stops briefly in search of a dark secluded corner. He tends to be easily distracted and needs to concentrate. He kneels on the carpet. A recorded voice calls to prayer from the minaret. It's melodious and reverberates on the walls. Othello Woo approaches stealthily, like a tiger stalking. He kneels behind Abhala and pulls from his leg garter a long thin weapon. The blade sharp, rounded like an ice pick. Abhala prays, he prostrates himself and kisses the floor. When he straightens Woo raises his arm, and stabs Abhala in the neck with one forceful and violent jab. The man doesn't yell or cry out. He opens his eyes with an expression of surprise, looks up towards the gilded ceiling, then drops forward the forehead bumping the carpet as if he were again praying. Woo cleans his weapon with Abhala's white robe, pulls up his left leg trouser and clasps it to the leather garter. A thick and viscous spurt of blood starts oozing from the neck on the carpet. A man not far stares in his direction. Othello Woo, still kneeling, clutches his groin, sighs deeply and lowers his face to the carpet. “To the tender-minded does not become a sword” he laughs to himself. When he leaves the mosque, it's already dark. He ambles out to the end of the street where he boards a taxi to his hotel. He rests on the seat, puts his left small finger into his mouth and sucks his emerald ring. One competitor less, he thinks to himself. Now there is only he and the woman…