The Diamond Fist: Chapter 11

A/N: Language.

I'm also going to change the events of the last chapter: The two jump off the boat before it gets hit. Also, Wael now is directly involved in Mustafa's removal from power.

Thoughts? Not sure on this chapter.

 Chapter 11

Mustafa

Waves gently rolling into the beach. Turquoise waters shimmering in the sun. Warmth radiating off the sand, covering me in a blanket of sleepiness. The gentle breeze blowing across my skin. Water bubbling, teasing the sand, getting closer before retreating.

I lay on a deck chair in the empty public beach, under the cover of a latex mask. Had I not had a mission, I would have stayed there till nightfall. Sleepiness yearned to embrace me, but I had a mission to do...

My eyelids began to close. Consciousness and the unconscious held a battle, but I managed to send Youssef a message before I succumbed. It was still much too early: eight AM.

“Stupid children. Come on! In! In!”

Springing to life at the sound of Youssef’s voice, I grabbed the two-way radio from behind my back, keeping it clenched an iron grip. It was the moment of truth, as they said. Youssef and I had a daring plan to capture Omar and with luck, his British friend too. Wael’s family would be under my grip; the leader of the revolution would succumb to my pressure; the coat of the shining dark horse that Wael was, slipping unnoticed into government and destroying it from the inside, would be tainted with blood. He had made the core rotten.

The thought excited me. I was tingling, as if I were a child again. Justice, at last! What an exciting possibility to imagine. The same feeling I once had when I signed up for war, to be a hero.  Of course, unfortunate things occurred, but that was to be forgotten.

Now.  Now was the moment. Youssef was carrying out our plan. I gazed at the cliff and wondered whether I would have known about the events taking place within its heart, had I not known about it. Yes, there had been some police calls about strange things happening such as a missing ten year old boy (perhaps he was that blond German one) or snorkelers flailing before drowning or so it seemed, but through the interim leader, the General Adam EL Haddad who was secretly my puppet, we had those ones ignored. “A TV program,” I recalled. Much of the ruling military council members were on my side too, under the mask of neutrality.

“They are running! What do I do, Mustafa? They are leaving! Leaving!”

“Leave them!” I wheezed into the two way radio. “Control the boat and send them to me!”

“Yibnil kalb inta,” I heard him mutter. I smirked, however. Clearly, Youssef did not understand the genius behind my plan.

Opening the didgeridoo shaped case, I pulled the slender weapon out. Youssef and I had spent the day yesterday disguising it. Youssef did not appear to be as ebullient about the plan, but it did not matter. Youssef had been far too young to fight in any war to see that this was the same situation as one of war: against the fools who had occupied Tahrir square. The disguise was brown with painted black curls and patterns. It would do, and did not appear suspicious from far. Furthermore, this bay was guaranteed to be empty.

The weapon was ready from the start, already loaded with a sleek, golden rocket that gleamed in the sun. I swelled with pride. This was the key back to power.

Lifting the RPG onto my shoulder, I did not have to wait in order to spot the boat. It twisted and turned uncontrollably before almost jumping up into the sky and bouncing back onto the water, sending walls of water into the air. I was hoping for a situation where I could use the RPG and it had arrived.

The boat carried on turning across the bay, zigzagging uncontrollably–if this carried on, it would attract attention from an unwelcome, unexpected visitor who somehow found a way to see the boat, despite our protective measures. There was no one there then, but later was the issue. 

“Control the boat, Youssef!” I whispered hoarsely down the two-way radio.

“I am trying!” he cried indignantly, his voice mingling with the constant sound of static. “The boy keeps moving the boat–I am fighting for control! I will try and send the boat to y–“

Growling down the radio, I left it in the sand and grabbed the brown casing of the RPG and aimed for the boat. It moved uncontrollably and squirmed like a child attempting to wriggle out of the metaphorical high chair that was my grip, my return to power.

“From side to side if you can, Youssef! It would make aiming much less difficult!”

The boat obeyed my commands. It couldn’t be tamed, but it was under control–some control–

“Shoot now, I cannot control it for very long... quickly!”

I could see now, the blond boy actively trying to stop the boat from turning while the other flailed. Now was the chance. Aim, pull the trigger–

A shudder, accompanied by a trail of smoke streaming from the RPG with a gleaming golden rocket shooting out of it. The boys tip into the water as the boat advances toward the rocket. It pierces the water and explodes under the boat, sending a jet of water and debris a few metres into the sky. It was almost silent, like the sound of bombs far in the distance.

A wall of fire erupts, albeit a short distance from the place where they dived into the water. I watched, transfixed at what I had done, watching the orange flames like pillars on the surface of the sea dancing in triumph. But this was no triumph. This was a disaster, pure disaster.

The flames carried on licking at the sea, burning off the slicks of petrol that remained. But the boys could not be seen.

*****

“Mustafa! Son of a dog, you stupid, stupid man!”

I had spent the past hour twiddling my thumbs, replaying the events over and over.  Youssef had managed to collect the boys from the water, and presumably took them to the hospital. I had not heard anything from him until I watched him, standing in the doorway, growling.

His face was a deep scarlet red, glowering like hot metal. “Mustafa. Mustafa, you stupid dog!”

I looked at the floor in shame, feeling like a child, caught in the wrong, having eaten all the cookies in the jar. However, this was far more serious. Perhaps I had been a little too excited to test the weapons that I had found in the cupboard near the helipad. The bunker had been in the enemy’s hands, but presumably been vacated by the enemy and left intact in order to keep away unwanted attention during the evacuation of the occupied land. Certainly, Egyptian forces would have noticed if the cliff which the bunker had been built into had been destroyed.

“Mustafa, tell me: why should I stay with an idiot such as you?”

 I remained quiet, watching Youssef grind his teeth. He proceeded to the kitchen and opened several cans of beans and began to cook them. As he did so, he filled several 1.5 litre bottles of water and toasted Arabic flatbread.

“What did you say? I did not hear that. Or are you frightened? Fool,” he added, under his breath, as he stirred the beans. “Speak up, sir!”

“I do appreciate your opinion, Youssef. If you could kindly give me your advice and opinion on–”

“Clearly, that is not the case! I explicitly told you yesterday: this plan could easily go wrong. You underestimated their strength. Surely we should have observed them–or perhaps only me in order to preserve your identity initially. Clearly not for you were obsessed with that weapon in the cupboard like a two year old. The blond boy may have escaped unscathed or perhaps with a few cuts, but Omar, your main target, did not. Thank God that you had sense to tell me so I could rescue them. Fool.”

“Mm.”

Youssef switched off the hob and opened the cover to the cupboard which Youssef feed those captive. Only a square metre cupboard shaped like a small cube, it had two doors on either side: one for Youssef to feed them and another to give them access to the food. A lock was installed so that only Youssef could open the doors from his side, preventing any probability of the prisoners from escaping. This was a new addition. I had used this particular route as a prisoner to escape during my own time here. They had, most likely, forgotten how starved we were and had forgotten one of us could climb through. Who knew that I would be stopping exactly what had liberated us in the future?

"Mustafa. Explain to me: why should I stay to help you? I am your most loyal of your people and yet I am still considering this. Perhaps, there was a reason that–"

"Youssef–"

"Ha! You finally open your mouth you little coward. Coward. Dog. You are like a donkey," he smirks. "Like a child, over-excitable, impulsive and generally a stupid man who takes the criticism that I am giving him right now. Have you submitted? Are you not ashamed to be insulted by me? Perhaps I should add the word "strange" to the list as well, yes?" He chuckled.

Youssef seemed to be enjoying tormenting me. I did not argue back, for one incorrect word which I said would mean he would leave. I realised that I was exposed, powerless, like a warrior without armour or even a weapon on the battlefield. My power had been my pride and it had been taken away from me. Youssef was a valuable person: one would do well to heed his advice.

"I appreciate your opinion, Youssef–"

Youssef snorted and sat down. "Well, dear sir, if you are comfortable with me criticising you in such a way then you may be my slave! Go! It is a great dishonour to be a slave of mine. A great dishonour. Go, you son of a dog! Go make me tea and fetch me Caviar. Woof, woof! You seem to be enjoying being called an animal, so go, haiwany."

I stayed seated, trying not to allow anger to get the better of me and cause me to make a grave error.

"Standing for your rights now? You have sense in your mind? What a great surprise.”

Gritting my teeth, I tried to change the course of the conversation. "How do you think we can advance further in our quest for power?"

"Do not even try to change the subject, fool! Go! Yallah, yallah, go make me tea, fool! Where is my tea?"

Youssef was stepping closer and closer towards the line. I could not accept this anymore. This was going too far. "Youssef. Enough."

"Thank God! Thank God! The idiot stands up for his right at last! Finally! Where has your sense been, oh dear sir? Dear sir, where has it been?"

It was proving exceedingly difficult in telling whether or not Youssef was joking or being spiteful. Either way, I was not going to tolerate any more of it. If the fool–he was the fool, not I!–opened his mouth another time, there would be serious consequences. I could do well by myself. –

"Have you now sense so that we can talk like real men? Or do you need assistance from Mother Dearest?"

"Youssef. ENOUGH." I stood up–this time, my own face was glowering. I glared at him as if I were trying to wipe off the smug expression on his face. "Enough of the jokes now."

"Enough, now? Okay, old man, okay, uncle," he said, in street language. "As if you would be able to understand the language of your own people, the dialect, rather than the way you speak. I would not be surprised if you thought this was the language of the peasants.."

"Get out, Youssef. Out!" Who did this man think he was? Did he think he was the king? Fool. "I shall not tolerate this nonsense anymore."

Youssef still had the aggravating smile on his face, a smug expression. He said, smirking: "Who do you think you are? The king? Do you think you are King Farouk's descendant? The monarchy has been gone for almost 60 years. You are nothing now. You think you still hold your title of president, but you do not. You are now a normal citizen. Let us see how you feel in the shoes of your slaves."

"They are not slaves; they are my people," I hiss.

"Is that so? You have been treating me like a piece of... like horse manure, like SHIT," he added in English, before returning to rapid Arabic. "I created that website; I create those videos; I feed the prisoners; I hijacked the internet; I clean; I do everything it seems! Where is my reward? Goodness is its own reward only to an extent. I demand at least appreciation and credit for this work. I have spent a while away from my family and you do not seem to understand that. Sit down! I am the one in control here, not you, if you have not noticed by now. I am not a marionette or one of your chess pieces."

"I am sorry for the lack of credit then, Youssef. I did not realise that this had been happening."

"You did then, finally. But I am not going to do this job without reward," he added.

"I have money–"

He stood up. "I do not want money, you incompetent fool! Can you not see that I want a part in your goal?" he cried, before sitting back down.

"You want my position," I murmur softly, staring into empty space.

"I want a share in your power, Mustafa. I am not doing this work for nothing. Whether it is from behind the scenes or if I shall be the face of your new government, it does not matter to me. We are in the middle of the quest for power, so we have plenty of time to look over our plans and watch them. Care to join me?"

Without waiting for a response from me, he sat at my desk and held a pen and a piece of paper in his hand. "Firstly, I need to look at our plans."

I watched him as he wrote on the paper, in an elegant cursive, feeling bewildered at his sudden change in behaviour.

Returning into power

Plan ONE: Use General Adam to open the jails (N.B. Extensive media coverage). Effect: exponential increase in crimes. People frightened for their safety. Elderly and those who are unfit will be frightened. (N.B. Remove police presence off streets for atmosphere of lawlessness)

"Hasn't that already occurred?" I said, watching carefully.

"It has, a few days ago. I have not received this week’s crime statistics yet. Adam's punctuality is disgraceful; it has never been a virtue of his..."

Plan TWO: The website (ongoing). Aim to scare the youth and regular social network users. (To do: Use spam programs and spread on Facebook and Twitter). Also scare off tourists and expose apparent crimes that have been allowed to occur (police presence).

Ongoing? How far have we progressed, then?" I smile.

"One or two videos. Not very many views, thus we need to step it up with that campaign which I have in mind."

My face fell.

"You needn't worry. I am working on trying to find a way to send spam email: the type which when one opens it, they instantly send it to everyone on their contact list," he said, in the tone one would use when explaining division to six and seven year old children. "It is very simple. You appear to be completely baffled but not to worry. I did a degree in computer science just before I had become chancellor. Do you remember?"

"I vaguely remember my assistant at the time, Deena, mentioning something along those lines." It must have been in 2003, two months before the Iraq war. Yes. I had been in power for nearly 10 years, then.

"It is a very simple program. It self replicates."

I nod, but struggled to understand the details of it when Youssef explained it to me. It was far too complex to understand and I was not entirely interested either. Why would one bother about worrying about the virtual world when a whole set of opportunities awaited them in the real world?

Youssef added another subheading.

On seizing power:

Plan THREE: Expose Adam El Haddad's true relations with Ehab. (Encouraging mutiny within the lower ranks of the military?).

"Mustafa, you have a two choices one must make here. One: will you or shall I be the face of the new government?"

"Either way," he said, "plastic surgery has to be taken place. Or the wearing of a latex mask initially."

"Plastic surgery?!" I cried. Did this mean that I had to sacrifice the person whom I would see regularly in the mirror? I would not be Mustafa Ehab anymore.

"Furthermore, you would have to change your name legally. But no matter, you may still keep your family name. Do you like the name Mustafa Ibrahim? It it close to your real family name."

"Youssef, I am concerned about the amount of sacrifices–"

"Perhaps you should have looked after the nation better: health, corruption–"

"I did! Do you not even see what I gave to the country? I gave the country prosperity, peace–"

"Moving on..." Youssef adds to plan three: New face of government to take over. "These people would want someone not affiliated with the military. Perhaps a good option for us would be take on a face of a well liked politician–"

"–Fools–"

"–such as... Wael."

I stand up abruptly. Did he expect me to take on the face of my enemy? This was going much too far. "I refuse to have plastic surgery to look like him!"

"Best of luck with success," he muttered, wryly. Standing up, he headed for the door.

"Wait!" I cried, putting my hand on his shoulder. "Please, carry on. I want to hear the wise words that you have to say."

"I told you and I am telling you once more: many sacrifices must be made. Are you sure that you would like to sacrifice? I can find a way and buy an island off the coast of Dubai or maybe Greece where you and your family can stay, free of worry, surrounded by calm, clear water. It would be tranquil and you would not have to worry."

"No! I wish to die in my country. I could not bear the thought of leaving."

"Very well," he said, returning to his chair. "Allow me, Mustafa. I will be glad to take over the planning fully if you would rather. We can review it later."

"Then so it shall be. I shall make a video now,” I smile. Their screams for mercy would haunt the other captive’s dreams. I planned to force Wael to drown in the captives’ lost pain and screams by watching those videos. I still felt the pain from the torture during the war.

It was time for them to feel pain.

 Chapter 11

Mustafa

Waves gently rolling into the beach. Turquoise waters shimmering in the sun. Warmth radiating off the sand, covering me in a blanket of sleepiness. The gentle breeze blowing across my skin. Water bubbling, teasing the sand, getting closer before retreating.

I lay on a deck chair in the empty public beach, under the cover of a latex mask. Had I not had a mission, I would have stayed there till nightfall. Sleepiness yearned to embrace me, but I had a mission to do...

My eyelids began to close. Consciousness and the unconscious held a battle, but I managed to send Youssef a message before I succumbed. It was still much too early: eight AM.

“Stupid children. Come on! In! In!”

Springing to life at the sound of Youssef’s voice, I grabbed the two-way radio from behind my back, keeping it clenched an iron grip. It was the moment of truth, as they said. Youssef and I had a daring plan to capture Omar and with luck, his British friend too. Wael’s family would be under my grip; the leader of the revolution would succumb to my pressure; the coat of the shining dark horse that Wael was, slipping unnoticed into government and destroying it from the inside, would be tainted with blood. He had made the core rotten.

The thought excited me. I was tingling, as if I were a child again. Justice, at last! What an exciting possibility to imagine. The same feeling I once had when I signed up for war, to be a hero.  Of course, unfortunate things occurred, but that was to be forgotten.

Now.  Now was the moment. Youssef was carrying out our plan. I gazed at the cliff and wondered whether I would have known about the events taking place within its heart, had I not known about it. Yes, there had been some police calls about strange things happening such as a missing ten year old boy (perhaps he was that blond German one) or snorkelers flailing before drowning or so it seemed, but through the interim leader, the General Adam EL Haddad who was secretly my puppet, we had those ones ignored. “A TV program,” I recalled. Much of the ruling military council members were on my side too, under the mask of neutrality.

“They are running! What do I do, Mustafa? They are leaving! Leaving!”

“Leave them!” I wheezed into the two way radio. “Control the boat and send them to me!”

“Yibnil kalb inta,” I heard him mutter. I smirked, however. Clearly, Youssef did not understand the genius behind my plan.

Opening the didgeridoo shaped case, I pulled the slender weapon out. Youssef and I had spent the day yesterday disguising it. Youssef did not appear to be as ebullient about the plan, but it did not matter. Youssef had been far too young to fight in any war to see that this was the same situation as one of war: against the fools who had occupied Tahrir square. The disguise was brown with painted black curls and patterns. It would do, and did not appear suspicious from far. Furthermore, this bay was guaranteed to be empty.

The weapon was ready from the start, already loaded with a sleek, golden rocket that gleamed in the sun. I swelled with pride. This was the key back to power.

Lifting the RPG onto my shoulder, I did not have to wait in order to spot the boat. It twisted and turned uncontrollably before almost jumping up into the sky and bouncing back onto the water, sending walls of water into the air. I was hoping for a situation where I could use the RPG and it had arrived.

The boat carried on turning across the bay, zigzagging uncontrollably–if this carried on, it would attract attention from an unwelcome, unexpected visitor who somehow found a way to see the boat, despite our protective measures. There was no one there then, but later was the issue. 

“Control the boat, Youssef!” I whispered hoarsely down the two-way radio.

“I am trying!” he cried indignantly, his voice mingling with the constant sound of static. “The boy keeps moving the boat–I am fighting for control! I will try and send the boat to y–“

Growling down the radio, I left it in the sand and grabbed the brown casing of the RPG and aimed for the boat. It moved uncontrollably and squirmed like a child attempting to wriggle out of the metaphorical high chair that was my grip, my return to power.

“From side to side if you can, Youssef! It would make aiming much less difficult!”

The boat obeyed my commands. It couldn’t be tamed, but it was under control–some control–

“Shoot now, I cannot control it for very long... quickly!”

I could see now, the blond boy actively trying to stop the boat from turning while the other flailed. Now was the chance. Aim, pull the trigger–

A shudder, accompanied by a trail of smoke streaming from the RPG with a gleaming golden rocket shooting out of it. The boys tip into the water as the boat advances toward the rocket. It pierces the water and explodes under the boat, sending a jet of water and debris a few metres into the sky. It was almost silent, like the sound of bombs far in the distance.

A wall of fire erupts, albeit a short distance from the place where they dived into the water. I watched, transfixed at what I had done, watching the orange flames like pillars on the surface of the sea dancing in triumph. But this was no triumph. This was a disaster, pure disaster.

The flames carried on licking at the sea, burning off the slicks of petrol that remained. But the boys could not be seen.

*****

“Mustafa! Son of a dog, you stupid, stupid man!”

I had spent the past hour twiddling my thumbs, replaying the events over and over.  Youssef had managed to collect the boys from the water, and presumably took them to the hospital. I had not heard anything from him until I watched him, standing in the doorway, growling.

His face was a deep scarlet red, glowering like hot metal. “Mustafa. Mustafa, you stupid dog!”

I looked at the floor in shame, feeling like a child, caught in the wrong, having eaten all the cookies in the jar. However, this was far more serious. Perhaps I had been a little too excited to test the weapons that I had found in the cupboard near the helipad. The bunker had been in the enemy’s hands, but presumably been vacated by the enemy and left intact in order to keep away unwanted attention during the evacuation of the occupied land. Certainly, Egyptian forces would have noticed if the cliff which the bunker had been built into had been destroyed.

“Mustafa, tell me: why should I stay with an idiot such as you?”

 I remained quiet, watching Youssef grind his teeth. He proceeded to the kitchen and opened several cans of beans and began to cook them. As he did so, he filled several 1.5 litre bottles of water and toasted Arabic flatbread.

“What did you say? I did not hear that. Or are you frightened? Fool,” he added, under his breath, as he stirred the beans. “Speak up, sir!”

“I do appreciate your opinion, Youssef. If you could kindly give me your advice and opinion on–”

“Clearly, that is not the case! I explicitly told you yesterday: this plan could easily go wrong. You underestimated their strength. Surely we should have observed them–or perhaps only me in order to preserve your identity initially. Clearly not for you were obsessed with that weapon in the cupboard like a two year old. The blond boy may have escaped unscathed or perhaps with a few cuts, but Omar, your main target, did not. Thank God that you had sense to tell me so I could rescue them. Fool.”

“Mm.”

Youssef switched off the hob and opened the cover to the cupboard which Youssef feed those captive. Only a square metre cupboard shaped like a small cube, it had two doors on either side: one for Youssef to feed them and another to give them access to the food. A lock was installed so that only Youssef could open the doors from his side, preventing any probability of the prisoners from escaping. This was a new addition. I had used this particular route as a prisoner to escape during my own time here. They had, most likely, forgotten how starved we were and had forgotten one of us could climb through. Who knew that I would be stopping exactly what had liberated us in the future?

"Mustafa. Explain to me: why should I stay to help you? I am your most loyal of your people and yet I am still considering this. Perhaps, there was a reason that–"

"Youssef–"

"Ha! You finally open your mouth you little coward. Coward. Dog. You are like a donkey," he smirks. "Like a child, over-excitable, impulsive and generally a stupid man who takes the criticism that I am giving him right now. Have you submitted? Are you not ashamed to be insulted by me? Perhaps I should add the word "strange" to the list as well, yes?" He chuckled.

Youssef seemed to be enjoying tormenting me. I did not argue back, for one incorrect word which I said would mean he would leave. I realised that I was exposed, powerless, like a warrior without armour or even a weapon on the battlefield. My power had been my pride and it had been taken away from me. Youssef was a valuable person: one would do well to heed his advice.

"I appreciate your opinion, Youssef–"

Youssef snorted and sat down. "Well, dear sir, if you are comfortable with me criticising you in such a way then you may be my slave! Go! It is a great dishonour to be a slave of mine. A great dishonour. Go, you son of a dog! Go make me tea and fetch me Caviar. Woof, woof! You seem to be enjoying being called an animal, so go, haiwany."

I stayed seated, trying not to allow anger to get the better of me and cause me to make a grave error.

"Standing for your rights now? You have sense in your mind? What a great surprise.”

Gritting my teeth, I tried to change the course of the conversation. "How do you think we can advance further in our quest for power?"

"Do not even try to change the subject, fool! Go! Yallah, yallah, go make me tea, fool! Where is my tea?"

Youssef was stepping closer and closer towards the line. I could not accept this anymore. This was going too far. "Youssef. Enough."

"Thank God! Thank God! The idiot stands up for his right at last! Finally! Where has your sense been, oh dear sir? Dear sir, where has it been?"

It was proving exceedingly difficult in telling whether or not Youssef was joking or being spiteful. Either way, I was not going to tolerate any more of it. If the fool–he was the fool, not I!–opened his mouth another time, there would be serious consequences. I could do well by myself. –

"Have you now sense so that we can talk like real men? Or do you need assistance from Mother Dearest?"

"Youssef. ENOUGH." I stood up–this time, my own face was glowering. I glared at him as if I were trying to wipe off the smug expression on his face. "Enough of the jokes now."

"Enough, now? Okay, old man, okay, uncle," he said, in street language. "As if you would be able to understand the language of your own people, the dialect, rather than the way you speak. I would not be surprised if you thought this was the language of the peasants.."

"Get out, Youssef. Out!" Who did this man think he was? Did he think he was the king? Fool. "I shall not tolerate this nonsense anymore."

Youssef still had the aggravating smile on his face, a smug expression. He said, smirking: "Who do you think you are? The king? Do you think you are King Farouk's descendant? The monarchy has been gone for almost 60 years. You are nothing now. You think you still hold your title of president, but you do not. You are now a normal citizen. Let us see how you feel in the shoes of your slaves."

"They are not slaves; they are my people," I hiss.

"Is that so? You have been treating me like a piece of... like horse manure, like SHIT," he added in English, before returning to rapid Arabic. "I created that website; I create those videos; I feed the prisoners; I hijacked the internet; I clean; I do everything it seems! Where is my reward? Goodness is its own reward only to an extent. I demand at least appreciation and credit for this work. I have spent a while away from my family and you do not seem to understand that. Sit down! I am the one in control here, not you, if you have not noticed by now. I am not a marionette or one of your chess pieces."

"I am sorry for the lack of credit then, Youssef. I did not realise that this had been happening."

"You did then, finally. But I am not going to do this job without reward," he added.

"I have money–"

He stood up. "I do not want money, you incompetent fool! Can you not see that I want a part in your goal?" he cried, before sitting back down.

"You want my position," I murmur softly, staring into empty space.

"I want a share in your power, Mustafa. I am not doing this work for nothing. Whether it is from behind the scenes or if I shall be the face of your new government, it does not matter to me. We are in the middle of the quest for power, so we have plenty of time to look over our plans and watch them. Care to join me?"

Without waiting for a response from me, he sat at my desk and held a pen and a piece of paper in his hand. "Firstly, I need to look at our plans."

I watched him as he wrote on the paper, in an elegant cursive, feeling bewildered at his sudden change in behaviour.

Returning into power

Plan ONE: Use General Adam to open the jails (N.B. Extensive media coverage). Effect: exponential increase in crimes. People frightened for their safety. Elderly and those who are unfit will be frightened. (N.B. Remove police presence off streets for atmosphere of lawlessness)

"Hasn't that already occurred?" I said, watching carefully.

"It has, a few days ago. I have not received this week’s crime statistics yet. Adam's punctuality is disgraceful; it has never been a virtue of his..."

Plan TWO: The website (ongoing). Aim to scare the youth and regular social network users. (To do: Use spam programs and spread on Facebook and Twitter). Also scare off tourists and expose apparent crimes that have been allowed to occur (police presence).

Ongoing? How far have we progressed, then?" I smile.

"One or two videos. Not very many views, thus we need to step it up with that campaign which I have in mind."

My face fell.

"You needn't worry. I am working on trying to find a way to send spam email: the type which when one opens it, they instantly send it to everyone on their contact list," he said, in the tone one would use when explaining division to six and seven year old children. "It is very simple. You appear to be completely baffled but not to worry. I did a degree in computer science just before I had become chancellor. Do you remember?"

"I vaguely remember my assistant at the time, Deena, mentioning something along those lines." It must have been in 2003, two months before the Iraq war. Yes. I had been in power for nearly 10 years, then.

"It is a very simple program. It self replicates."

I nod, but struggled to understand the details of it when Youssef explained it to me. It was far too complex to understand and I was not entirely interested either. Why would one bother about worrying about the virtual world when a whole set of opportunities awaited them in the real world?

Youssef added another subheading.

On seizing power:

Plan THREE: Expose Adam El Haddad's true relations with Ehab. (Encouraging mutiny within the lower ranks of the military?).

"Mustafa, you have a two choices one must make here. One: will you or shall I be the face of the new government?"

"Either way," he said, "plastic surgery has to be taken place. Or the wearing of a latex mask initially."

"Plastic surgery?!" I cried. Did this mean that I had to sacrifice the person whom I would see regularly in the mirror? I would not be Mustafa Ehab anymore.

"Furthermore, you would have to change your name legally. But no matter, you may still keep your family name. Do you like the name Mustafa Ibrahim? It it close to your real family name."

"Youssef, I am concerned about the amount of sacrifices–"

"Perhaps you should have looked after the nation better: health, corruption–"

"I did! Do you not even see what I gave to the country? I gave the country prosperity, peace–"

"Moving on..." Youssef adds to plan three: New face of government to take over. "These people would want someone not affiliated with the military. Perhaps a good option for us would be take on a face of a well liked politician–"

"–Fools–"

"–such as... Wael."

I stand up abruptly. Did he expect me to take on the face of my enemy? This was going much too far. "I refuse to have plastic surgery to look like him!"

"Best of luck with success," he muttered, wryly. Standing up, he headed for the door.

"Wait!" I cried, putting my hand on his shoulder. "Please, carry on. I want to hear the wise words that you have to say."

"I told you and I am telling you once more: many sacrifices must be made. Are you sure that you would like to sacrifice? I can find a way and buy an island off the coast of Dubai or maybe Greece where you and your family can stay, free of worry, surrounded by calm, clear water. It would be tranquil and you would not have to worry."

"No! I wish to die in my country. I could not bear the thought of leaving."

"Very well," he said, returning to his chair. "Allow me, Mustafa. I will be glad to take over the planning fully if you would rather. We can review it later."

"Then so it shall be. I shall make a video now,” I smile. Their screams for mercy would haunt the other captive’s dreams. I planned to force Wael to drown in the captives’ lost pain and screams by watching those videos. I still felt the pain from the torture during the war.

It was time for them to feel pain.