They Will Never Know

Wild Rose International Adoption Services
WARNING: Unauthorized use of this system will lead to prosecution under Israelic and international laws.

Login: auspex
Password: ********

Welcome, Alexandra.
WRose>

"Eureka," Damaskenos mumbles, his pale face calmer than the laptop he's using. His long, powerful fingers start massaging information out of the keyboard, scrolling through lists of several thousand names faster than a Cairo nightfall and marking a few for file transfer. Eight minutes is all the albino freelancer gets before the security system kicks him out, but that is all he needs. His own security routines try to cover his digital tracks while he stows away what remains of his bag of 50-piastre coins and strides out of the payphone booth, disappearing in the sweating mass of tourists on Tahrir Square.

Even inside the air-conditioned office on the third floor of Cairo's El-Azhar University, it is hard to breathe; desert dust creeps in everywhere. Professor Bindusara, however, has no time to notice. Never had. As head of the History department of the oldest university in the world, while also being an academic superstar, the acid-eyed Arab always has something to put his incredible mind to--attending conferences in Los Angeles and Tokyo, signing books in Amsterdam, lecturing in Buenos Aires. When the phone rings, forcing his attention away from his writing, it is consequently no surprise.
"Bindusara." His voice, even over the scratchy Egyptian phone lines, is as concentrated as his eyes, or his mind.
"Shalom, Professor. Remember me?" Her near-perfect Arabic abruptly throws Professor Bindusara back twenty-five years and across the heated Israeli border, to a rose garden in Jerusalem and the best week of his youth. The acid is gone when he says "Alexandra." He wants to say more, to repeat the past, but he knows he can't.
"I thought you would. Listen, honey, we have a problem. It's about Jassin." She is in harmony with the phone line; her own scratches run gently through and across the background noise, weaving a finely textured tapestry for Bindusara's ear to enjoy. Absorbed in visions of smooth cheeks, innocent black eyes, he is unable to speak, and she continues. "A reporter from the El-Ahram stole my password and copied Jassin's files from my adoption bureau. In eight hours, the paper goes to print. Can you stop it?"
"Most likely. The editor owes his job to me," Bindusara says, entirely composed again when he has a problem to solve. "Who was the reporter?"
"Oh, I don't know. Some freelance guy. Why?"
"You are still naïve, Alexandra. If I stop his article in the El-Ahram, he will simply have it printed somewhere else, and this is larger than Cairo or Jerusalem alone. Think about it. You--a cultural icon, dictating trends and social life in Jerusalem; I--intellectual champion of Egypt, tightly bound to my government. We are a political anomaly, my dear, and the world would marvel at our antics." I would be damned as a traitor and you as a whore, he thinks. He can't say that. "The world must not know. We have to kill the reporter."
"Oh honey, that is so uncivilized. Let's hire an assassin."
"Discretion never was your finest skill, my dear."

Damaskenos runs the spellchecker and saves his article. He sends an email full of hints and devoid of facts to the El-Ahram and a copy to j.wentworth@senate.seattle.gov, then folds up his computer. With his white hair resting limply on his shoulders, lips arrogantly pursed, he steps out of the old mausoleum that is his home. The slum of Cairo; the City of the Dead. With this article, he figures he'll be out of here in a week. Lucky break. He walks off towards the Cairo Downtown, singing an old French worksong. The debris of the city, the poor and the insane, all follow his steps, to see who could sound so happy in the City of the Dead. A car approaches, running fast between the tombstones, skidding around the corner of a withered mausoleum. There is a dull thud and the singing stops. Some breaks are not as lucky as they seem. The scum of Egypt settle back to their ineffectual dreams again, the excitement gone for today.

Five hours later, seven thousand miles away, Jazz Wentworth stands elegantly erect by the maplewood service counter of the Seattle branch of Wild Rose International Adoption Services, a printout of an email from Egypt in his hand, showering the room in unbridled charisma as he speaks.
"Madam, I understand that you have procedures, but I can assure you that it is in both our best interests to let me read my very own files. You have read this document; you must understand." His vitriolic eyes sear straight through the clerk, the paper in his hand blurred from vigorous brandishing.
"Sir, I really don't care how rich you are, who your father is, or how many people you know in Africa. We are not allowed to open our files without a court order." The clerk looks at her switchboard, where seven blinking red lights tell her that seven people are probably about to hang up. Two green lights turn on. She wishes this dangerously charming young man could go away and try to bribe someone else. Her wrinkled chin droops sadly when a couple of red lights turn off. That does it.
"Sir, I will call security if you stay another minute," she says, cutting him off in the middle of an eloquent plea to her sense of honor. Jazz straightens his bowtie and stares down at the clerk, cocking his left eyebrow. He knows that he will never know. Wordlessly, he turns around and leaves the office. Left on the counter are a computer printout and a single red rose.