Fox Tracks

CHAPTER 18

“Do you think they’ll try to kill you?” Crawford asked, voice emotionless as he leaned back in his cozy den chair. Dismay crossed Tariq’s face. “No. I’m not that important.” He paused. “At least I hope I’m not.”

“You’re important enough for Congressman Rickman to accuse you of fronting for the Muslim Brotherhood.” The older man, well dressed even at home, twisted a half smile. “He is, of course, an idiot hoping to get publicity, which he has, claiming this whole hullabaloo is for the sake of national security. All right, you’ve come to me for help. You owe me the truth.”

“Yes, sir.” From his perch on the edge of a Morris chair, Tariq lifted his deep brown eyes to Crawford’s light ones.

“Are you a member of the Muslim Brotherhood?”

“No. I am a Coptic Christian. There are twelve million of us in Egypt and we are under great stress. Churches have been burned. You may not remember but a little over a year ago in Cairo the military publicly abused some of our women. Pushed them around. Mocked them and roughed them up.”

“Rape?”

“No one is saying that, including the victims, but our women were attacked publicly by the military in Cairo because they aren’t Muslim and don’t follow the dress customs of that faith. As for the Muslim Brotherhood, I fear them more than the military. I fear anyone eager to impose their religion upon another.”

“Hmm.” Crawford smiled as his wife Marty came in with a silver tray holding tiny china cups, a small pot of espresso, delicate little plates—upon which rested curled orange peels, lemon peels, and both white and natural sugar cubes—and a large plate with chocolate swizzle sticks. “Thank you, darling.”

Marty kissed him on the cheek, then said to Tariq, “I know we don’t make coffee like you get at home, but I think I’ve come close—and oh, would you like some clotted cream?”

“Clotted cream?” Tariq’s eyebrows rose. “How I loved that when I studied in England. No, thank you. But with great good fortune, I will visit you in the spring with fresh strawberries.”

She clapped her hands without making much noise. “And I’ll have the clotted cream. That’s perfect.” She then looked to her husband, whom she understood and loved despite all. “Anything else?”

He reached up to run his hand down her forearm. “Not a thing.”

She left the two men as her husband poured the coffee.

Tariq nodded slightly as he took the proffered cup. “You are a fortunate man.”

Crawford looked at his wife’s back as she moved down the hall. “One of the reasons I am where I am today is because I found her. I’m not exactly a warm and fuzzy guy. She makes up for it, and she rightly reprimands me for missing things about people.”

Tariq smiled. “My mother’s version of that was to say nothing to my father but to throw up her hands, roll her eyes to heaven, and leave the room.”

The two men laughed, then Crawford continued his interrogation. “For you and your people, it probably doesn’t matter who governs Egypt.”

“Yes and no,” said Tariq. It wasn’t often that he discussed Egyptian politics, even these days with his country in such a tumult. “Coptic Christians will always be a minority. Holding office, getting government or military jobs will be difficult if not impossible. Intermarriage, especially in places that are”—he considered his next word—“unsophisticated can bring death to young women or men. Oh, yes”—he looked at a surprised Crawford—“there are still people like that. Honor killings.”

“We don’t have honor killings in America, but we still have plenty of people that are narrow-minded.”

“Perhaps all countries have extremists,” said Tariq.

“Egypt baffles me. Like most Americans, I thought ridding yourself of Mubarak would solve the problem. It seems to have opened a very large can of worms.”

“That is always the case with dictatorships. Look what happened to Yugoslavia after Tito died. All the Balkans in chaos.”

“You’re right.” Crawford was beginning to appreciate this young man. “I suppose that’s another mess that will never be resolved.”

“And again, religion is a part of it. I remember when the Muslims were killing the Christians. I was just a child, but my father told me it could happen in our country. He said that when the Muslims killed the Christians they cut off the two fingers of their right hands, the index and middle fingers. That image stuck with me.”

“Why on earth would they do that?” Crawford was incredulous. “I mean I’ve heard of giving the finger but—”

“Because when Catholics and other Christians make the sign of the cross they use those two fingers.”

“So they do,” Crawford murmured.

“As I grew up, I learned there had been barbarism enough on both sides, but as we are only ten percent of Egypt’s population, my father’s fears propelled me.”

“Your father must be a rich man to send you to Harrow and Oxford.”

“He was the first Egyptian to import semiconductors. My father is an engineer.”

“And a businessman. And you?”

“He sent me to get the best Western education possible. And then to consider—in the fullness of time, as he would say—is there hope for our people? If not, is there a way out?”

“I see. So Congressman Rickman imperils more than your tranquillity.”

“Yes. I’m at Custis Hall, a place I very much like, to learn more about America. There are plenty of well-educated Egyptians in your big cities but not many in the countryside of the South. I want to know what they think.”

“In hopes of arousing us to help Coptic Christians in some fashion?”

“That may be too much to hope for, but if I have a good understanding of America, perhaps I can help raise money to send back home.”

“So you think your peoples’ circumstances in Egypt will get worse.”

Tariq nibbled on a swizzle stick, measuring his words. “I pray they will not. But I fear deeply, especially if tensions explode in the Arab world with Israel. We are the leader of the Arab world. A war is not inconceivable and often, when such a situation occurs, people look for a scapegoat in their own country. In Egypt, the Coptic minority is made-to-order.”

“I suppose you are. Why have you come to me?”

“You are on the board of Custis Hall. You are powerful and rich. You know how to get things done. I ask your help in neutralizing Congressman Rickman. Can you stop him from saying such untrue things about me?”

Crawford smiled broadly. He made a steeple out of his hands as he rested his elbows on his chest. “Let me take care of this, but I have a price.”

“Yes?”

“You no longer hunt with Sister Jane. You hunt with me.”

Seeing Tariq’s surprise, Crawford added, “I never forget or forgive an insult.”

“Yet you serve on the board of Custis Hall with her.”

“I do, and we work well together for Custis Hall,” said Crawford, frowning. “We’re both practical and can put things aside, but I will get even with her. Everyone thinks of her as the Artemis of our time. I’m sick of it. Sick of watching people kiss her ass in Macy’s window.”

“Macy’s window?” asked a puzzled Tariq.

“An old expression about obsequious public display. Anyway, it will cut her if you hunt with me.”

“I can but bring myself,” said Tariq. “Custis Hall has its own arrangements with Jefferson Hunt.”

“I know that,” Crawford said, a hint of irritation in his voice.

Tariq inclined his head slightly as if a small bow. “I will do as you ask.”

“Dumfriesshire hounds,” Crawford boasted. “I have Dumfriesshire hounds.”

“I know them well. I have hunted in England and Scotland, sir. Before the ban.”

“I suppose you have.” He laughed loudly. “I hear more people in England hunt now with the ban than without.”

“It is amusing and so very English. They love tradition—and the chase is thrilling, even if no blood is shed.”

Crawford raised his voice. “Honey.”

“Yes, dear,” his wife called from her sunroom.

“Will you bring a fixture card?”

Within a few minutes, Marty handed a fixture card to Crawford, who passed it to Tariq.

“He will be hunting with us now,” Crawford informed his wife.

She smiled. “How wonderful.”

Tariq studied the fixture card, correctly printed on ivory stock, the ink a rich burgundy, two crossed foxtails at the top.

“A fixture card properly given.” Crawford beamed.

That same February 6, the day Jeb Stuart was born in 1833, Donny swung by the Gulf station. He found Art working in the garage on an old carburetor.

“Wonder how many mechanics know what to do with a carburetor these days?” Donny asked.

“Every one of them, if they have any sense.” Art stopped working, wiping his hands on a red rag.

“Know what happened?”

“No,” Art answered.

“Think he shot his mouth off?”

“How in hell would I know? Even when he was loaded, Carter knew what side his bread was buttered on.”

“Well, he pissed off someone.”

Art tried to hide his fear. “That doesn’t mean it has anything to do with business.”

“You’ve got a handgun, right?” asked Donny.

“Sure I do.”

“Carry it. I’m carrying mine.”

Art was about to say more, but then his father walked into the garage.

“Hey there, Sweigart,” said Binky DuCharme.

“Good to see you, Mr. DuCharme.”

“I think it’s finally winter.”

“Me, too.”

“How’s business, apart from hauling with my boy?”

“Not so good.” Donny shrugged. “People don’t want to spend money on landscaping or maintenance in a depression.”

Binky nodded, his eyes a little watery. “But they have to spend it on car repairs. Business is booming here. Folks are hanging on to their old cars. Now, we aren’t sitting in high cotton, but it’s not bad.”

“I can see that. The lot is full. Saw Betty Franklin’s old Bronco. The yellow jacket.” He laughed.

“It is yellow.” Binky shook his head and laughed. “You can always see her coming. Luckily for Betty, it only needed a tune-up, new plugs, nothing major. The Franklins are really having hard times.”

“Yes, they are. They’re good people.” Donny liked hunting with Betty and Bobby.

“Ever think, Sweigart, that the real shits of this world make it big while the good guys finish last?”

“Yeah, the thought has occurred to me.”

Art piped up. “Well, Pop, I guess that means we’ll all finish last.”

The old man folded his arms across his chest. “Who said you were a good guy?”

“Me,” Art replied.

Binky walked over to the tire rack ready to work. Art and Donny knew they couldn’t speak freely.

Under his breath, Donny said, “Carry a .347 if you have one.”

“That’s a lot of firepower.”

“You never know when you might need it.”