Chapter 1
Jamal Bin Nasr’s day had not started well. That morning, he had had a fight with his wife, Sawsan - she had thrown his breakfast in the bin, and he had had to go to work hungry. His old Nissan car wouldn't start, so he had to take the bus. The bus was overcrowded during rush hour, and Jamal arrived late at Luxor International airport, sweating profusely. When he tried to get through Security, he found that his security pass had expired, and they wouldn't let him through, even though he was wearing his Customs uniform. He had to go to the Administration Block to get a new pass, and that took an hour.
By the time Jamal reached the Customs checkpoint, the morning flights had arrived, and the Arrivals Concourse was bustling with passengers waiting for their luggage. Jamal's junior Customs Officers were a lazy bunch - they had just been standing around chatting, as the streams of passengers rolled past. It only took Jamal a few seconds of shouting at his officers before they sprang into action.
As the Chief Customs Inspector, Jamal enjoyed certain privileges. His office was private and air-conditioned, with his own personal computer, unlike the other officers who had to share a single PC and work in a cramped space behind filing cabinets under noisy ceiling fans. Even with the windows open, the heat was oppressive.
Jamal started his workday by checking the numerous emails awaiting him on his computer. After about half an hour, there was a knock on his door. It was Tariq, the newest member of the team. Tariq, a young man of 25, was considered quite handsome, which often drew unwanted attention from female colleagues. This boosted Tariq's already high opinion of himself, something that irked Jamal. Jamal never missed an opportunity to put Tariq in his place, knowing that Tariq disliked this. Jamal had no interest in the modern approach of checking on his subordinates' well-being or making small talk about their day.
Jamal shot Tariq a menacing glare. "What is it?"
Tariq hesitated before responding, "My apologies, Captain, but we have an issue."
Jamal's brow furrowed. "What kind of issue?"
"A passenger, a Norwegian tourist, had a restricted item in her belongings." Tariq hesitated.
“So? Deal with it. You know how, don’t you? Or are you incompetent, Tariq? What was it? Gold? Drugs? Alcohol?”
Tariq shook his head. “Not that, sir.”
Jamal raised his voice. “For fuck’s sake, Tariq! What the fuck was it? Stop playing guessing games with me.”
Tariq almost ducked behind the door. “I—I didn’t know how to describe it to you, sir.” Tariq blushed. “Bushra found it. She said to come get you.”
Jamal gave Tariq a stare, then sighed and rose to his feet. He reached for his hat and put it on his head. Tariq ran ahead of Jamal, back out to the concourse.
The stream of passengers had dried up. The morning arrivals were over, and it would be another hour before the next international flights landed. This was the quiet time of the day, when the Customs officers would normally adjourn for coffee breaks. Most of them had gone already, Jamal noted, except for two figures standing by the examination tables set behind the X-ray scanners. One figure was Bushra, one of the three female Customs Inspectors.
Bushra was twenty-five years old, short and busty. Her normally clear complexion was marred by spots, probably the result of her husband divorcing her a year ago for a younger woman. Since the divorce, Jamal heard Bushra had also become more religious. Word had it she had joined the far-right Al Nour Party, a political faction that espoused radical Islam and ultra-conservative values. Bushra had now taken to wearing a hijab, and she excused herself from work five times a day to attend prayers in the airport mosque. Before her divorce, Bushra had been easy-going, chatty, even flirty, but now she was a pain to work with. She was prone to sulking. Jamal had been looking for a reason to fire Bushra, but Bushra did the bare minimum to keep her job. Nevertheless, Jamal made it a point to make Bushra’s working day unpleasant, directing barbed comments at her about her sour face and her spots.
Bushra stood behind the examination desk, with two suitcases open on the surface. On the other side of the desk stood a blonde, white woman, dressed the way white women do when they’re on holiday. The woman was tall, a head taller than Jamal, with shoulder-length hair, pale skin, and sharp features. She was tapping into her phone, seemingly unconcerned.
Bushra turned as Tariq and Jamal approached. “Good morning, sir,” Bushra said grudgingly. Her face was as grumpy as her tone.
“What was so important, woman, that you had to call me out of my office?” Jamal said. He was in no mood for her attitude.
Bushra rolled her eyes and stepped out of the way. “I found this,” she said. She gestured to what was inside the woman’s suitcase. The passenger’s clothes had been lifted out and there, at the bottom of the suitcase in an open leather case, lay a long, pink plastic tube.
Jamal glanced in. He felt his eyebrows rise of their own accord.
Bushra continued, a sliver of delight in her voice. "It's-"
“I know what it is,” Jamal said brusquely.
“Oh, did you?” Bushra chuckled. “I wouldn’t have thought that a married man like you—”
“Save it,” Jamal cut her off. “Shut your mouth, woman. At least I have a marriage. Unlike you. How is the single life of a divorcee?”
That shut her up. Bushra turned her head away, glowering.
The passenger was looking at them now. She lowered her phone, her eyes on Jamal. Jamal stepped up to the desk and looked her over. The tourist stared back, unafraid. She was dressed in the expected immodest fashion of white female tourists. She wore a thin white croptop and a pair of short white shorts. The shorts were so tight that Jamal could make out the outline of her sex. His gaze continued down her lean, bare legs, ending in sparkly sneakers on her feet.
Jamal held his hand out and addressed her in English. “Your passport, please.”
