A Chapter from Mustafa on the shorter side here. I warn you - if you've not read the novel page of this (the blue box above this) then you might get a little freaked out by Mustafa
Anyway, feel free to shred this into pieces. How's the pace? I have a feeling it goes too fast but I can't judge. Oh and I do hope I put in enough description
(I always seem to miss that out -.-)Under the spoiler is the summary of previous events.
Spoiler! :
Chapter 4
Mustafa Ehab
Mustafa Ehab
“The best leaders have more than one plan.”
Perhaps my most repeated thought of wisdom during my time in office. Of course, that meant I needed yet another plan along with the plan of the fate of the hostages. Another plan but with different intended effects. The first–a plan to create horror, disgust and fear. The second–confusion, insecurity and fear. I knew exactly how to do it.
I would release the prisoners.
All prisoners convicted of theft or a violent crime would be released to cause havoc and mayhem. Chaos would be widespread. The tourism industry crippled. That in itself would have a major impact on the economy. If I pleased, I could have the Suez Canal closed. Soon, there would be begging for my reinstatement. Then, we would see.
Youssef’s dark eyes were wide with shock. “M-Mustafa–”
“I know what you think,” I replied, smiling. “They will be rounded up like sheep when their duty has been fulfilled. Not to worry.”
“I was a little shocked–rather extreme–”
“Exactly.” My mobile phone, placed on the desk, began to vibrate. A relative, Hassan, was calling.
“Mustafa.” His deep voice was clearly in fear.
“Hello Hassan–something wrong?”
“I’m in a hospital in Al-Qahira and there seems to be something wrong–they recommend I have someone nearby–”
I stood up, instantly. “Youssef, we’re leaving. Hassan–what–”
A few years prior, he had been diagnosed with heart disease. Hassan was already born with a heart defect. I desperately
hoped it was not bad.
***
After landing the helicopter, Youssef and I rushed into the hospital in Cairo.
“Oh dear,” I mumbled, glancing up. The hospital, at least five floors high, was bright and crowded. Large crowds of people walked on glass walkways connecting two sides of the hospital suspended in the ceiling, the sun streaming through the glass roof and bridges, causing me to squint.
The smell of strong coffee from the café floated to my nostrils, along with the scent of fresh flowers.
“How will we find his ward in all of that?” I said, still gazing at the bridges.
“Not to worry,” replied Youssef. I turned to see him studying a map. “I know where he is.”
After buying some flowers and a get-well-soon card from the small store next to the café, we eventually found his room. It was cool and dark. Hassan lay asleep on the bed, with a heart monitor next to him, quietly beeping every few seconds.
Putting the flowers on his bedside table, I tapped his shoulder, before sitting down on a chair. “Hassan,” I murmured.
Slowly, his dark eyes flickered open, before beaming with joy at the sight of me. “Mustafa.”
“Hassan ... what happened?”
“I don’t know. I came for a check-up, began examining me, then I was hospitalized and now–”
“Calm down, they just want to make sure everything is good. I promise you.”
“But what if I have to stay and if it gets worse, she’s delivering in a month–”
I smiled at the sound of a baby crying in the background. Hassan’s wife was pregnant with his third child. “It will be fine. What will you name it?” I asked, trying to divert the subject so Hassan would not panic.
He opened his mouth to speak but was interrupted by the sound of knocking at the door. It quietly creaked open, allowing a tall, dark-haired woman dressed in a clean white coat to enter.
“Mr. Ehab?”
“Yes, doctor.” Hassan sat up on his bed.
“How are you feeling now?” she said. The doctor, with a badge on her chest reading Neeveen Issa, smiled at him, having not noticed me yet. “Good?” she nodded. “Now, we understand what was causing the problems you were having...”
“And?” he said, leaning forward.
“...but I’m afraid that our best option is a heart transplant.”
“Is that a good thing?” he asked. I, myself, was unsure whether to be happy or not.
She adjusted her glasses. “There is always the risk of complications in any operation. The risk is small but will always linger.” She sighed. “The problem we have is that there are no hearts available to be transplanted.”
My own heart dropped in a similar fashion to an anvil dropped upon someone in a cartoon I used to watch as a child.
“B-b-but–what–I um, I-I–”
“There is a temporary solution which may be able to buy you more time, Mr. Ehab, but that will also involve in an operation. Either way, however, you still have time. Very limited time, but there is still time.”
I was bewildered. How did Hassan’s health deteriorate in such a short space of time.
“I-I’ll take it.”
I opened my mouth to speak for the first time the doctor entered. “How much...?”
She looked at me with a strange expression and a hint of slight disgust. “500,000 L.E.”
***
500,000 Egyptian pounds. That was nearly £50,000. It was impossible to get–if I even tried retrieving that money from my bank account, people were sure to find out. I certainly would not have expressed any surprise of monitoring the activity of my bank account.
Now sat at my desk back in Sharm El Sheikh, I picked up the family photo. Despite the fact it was three days since I had “resigned”, it pained me to be away from my wife and my children but I had no choice. I told myself it would be better in the long term, yet that did not help.
I yawned and closed my eyes, thinking I would give my eyes a rest for a second...
“TELL US NOW!” he roars. I feel a searing pain across my bare chest. “When is the next attack–Ismailia, Port Said–”
“I DON’T KNOW! THEY DON’T TELL US–” I bellow before screeching in pain yet again. “Please–”
“YOU ‘RE A LIAR! Tell us now or you’ll be lucky to see the sun rise tomorrow,” he spits. He shakes me hard, my head banging hard on the wall.
“No... no...”
All appears fuzzy and I begin to feel disorientated. My body goes numb; all I feel is warm liquid trickling through my hair and neck.
My eyes flew open, relieved to discover it was simply a dream. However, the acid in my stomach simmered with anger. I may have suffered humiliation more than 35 years previously in the war, but it still angered me to that day.
Now, I had my own prisoners. I would do the same to them but this time, of course, with nearly seven billion watching.
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