“Hey!” he cried, stumbling forward. “I’m here! Hey! Wait!” He waved his arms and shouted, running as fast as he could, but the two vehicles passed in the distance and soon dwindled into black dots on the southern horizon.
He reached the road and stood there, cursing at the vanishing buses. Now he bitterly regretted leaving the roadway. But at least this meant the road was traveled—albeit infrequently.
He trudged on. The dip in the water had temporarily assuaged his thirst, but it returned quickly. There was no shade anywhere, and he realized it was dangerous to keep walking—it would only increase his need for water. He sat down on a rock by the side of the highway and waited. Hours passed while the blazing sun inched across the sky and began to descend toward the jagged mountains. And then, in the northern distance, Gideon saw the wavering, uncertain image of what looked like a car at the vanishing point of the road. He stood up. It was a vehicle—in fact, several of them. They materialized into a jeep and two olive-drab army vehicles barreling down the roadway at high speed. He rushed to the middle of the road and waved his arms and began shouting as they approached.
The lead jeep saw him and the convoy slowed, then came to a stop in front of him. Gideon staggered up as a military officer in the jeep’s passenger seat got out, holding a canteen.
Gideon fumbled the canteen from the man’s proffered hand, unscrewed the cap, and gulped down the water, spilling it over himself.
“Easy, friend,” said the man in good English, grasping the canteen and pulling it away. “Wait a bit and then drink more.” He was dressed in desert camo, with a black beret on his head and two stars on his shoulder.
Gideon nodded, releasing the canteen. He felt better almost immediately.
“Are you from the ferry accident?” the officer asked.
“Yes,” he croaked. “Yes.”
The officer explained they were part of a rescue team that had been looking for survivors along the coast, with the Egyptian navy picking up survivors in the water.
“Did many survive?” Gideon asked, suddenly hopeful.
“Some.” The officer didn’t answer further. “We’re taking the survivors to Shalateen for treatment and to take statements. Do you have your passport?”
“My friend was on the boat,” Gideon said as he pulled out his passport. “Manuel Garza. Did you rescue him?”
The man spoke briefly to someone else in the jeep, then shook his head. “We have no one by that name. I am sorry.” He examined Gideon’s passport, then tucked it into his breast pocket, extending his hand. “I am Lieutenant al-Nimr,” he said.
Gideon shook it. “Gideon Crew.”
“I’ll keep your passport for now,” said the officer. “May I ask what were you doing on the ferry? It is not a normal method of tourist travel.”
“My friend and I are adventure travelers.”
“And your friend, his name is Garza?” He made a note on a small pad. “Manuel Garza?”
Gideon spelled it for him. “You’re sure no one by that name was rescued?”
“I am sure. Sorry. We will take your statement in Shalateen.”
The jeep started up, Gideon climbed into the back, and the convoy continued south. What seemed like forever, but could not have been more than two hours later, Gideon saw a lone sign appear in a wasteland of sand, written in English and Arabic, SHALATEEN. Moments later a brown, dusty settlement rose into view, low cement houses mingled with scattered acacia bushes, piles of garbage being picked at by goats, a tethered camel resting in some shade, and the twin minarets of a mosque rising into the sky. The convoy drove into town and pulled through a gate into what looked like an official compound, surrounded by naked cinder-block walls topped with concertina wire. They parked in the dirt lot before a large whitewashed building. The lieutenant and his driver got out and motioned to Gideon to do the same.
“When will I get my passport back?” Gideon asked.
“When we’ve taken your statement. Follow me.”
The lieutenant led him into a large open room with a rumbling air conditioner. Three other officers sat at a table at one end, and adjacent to that a man sat behind a desk. In front of the desk was a molded plastic chair. The lieutenant saluted the man behind the desk, spoke in Arabic, handed him Gideon’s passport, and left. The whole setup reminded Gideon of an interrogation room.
The man stood up with a big smile and offered his hand. “I am Captain Farouk. Please sit down.”
Gideon sat in the plastic chair proffered him. Pleading stupidity and ignorance was the way to go, he reasoned; if he proved to be a valuable witness, he might be detained for whatever legal proceedings would ensue. He couldn’t stay in this place any longer than absolutely necessary. He still felt shaken to the core by Garza’s death.
“Please tell us what happened,” said the captain, returning to his desk and folding his hands. An old reel-to-reel tape recorder was set up to one side, and he now turned it on.
Gideon gave a brief account of what had happened, omitting the part about seeing the captain stabbed and the crew deserting the vessel. He also omitted mentioning tossing the lumber in the water. He described how his friend was thrown from the deck when the ferry lurched upward in its death throes, adding the fact that he couldn’t swim. He’d been so frightened, he said, that he didn’t notice anything more.
It seemed all four men were taking notes. “What were you doing on the ferry?”
“We’re adventure travelers,” Gideon explained once again.
“And what is an adventure traveler?” the captain asked.
“Someone who wants to get off the tourist path. We like to go places where visitors don’t normally go, see places that no one else sees, travel by unusual means, mingle with local people.”
“I see. Well, I think that is all for now.”
Gideon said, “May I ask a question?”
“Certainly.”
“How many survivors were there?”
The captain looked at him steadily. “Of the forty or so on board, almost all survived, Allah be praised.”
“Um…” Gideon didn’t quite know how to respond to this obvious lie. There had been at least five hundred on that ferry. It seemed a cover-up was in progress. Well, he thought, there was nothing he could do about it. With Garza dead, it was none of his business.
“We had rescue boats on the scene almost immediately,” the captain said, “and picked up many people in the water. Others made it to shore. Fortunately there were only two or three deaths, your friend being one.”
Don’t argue, thought Gideon.
“The ferry was illegal,” said the captain, “operating without permits or inspections. We picked up the crew north of here and arrested them. They will be punished.”
“I see.” Gideon just wanted to get the hell out of there. “May I have my passport now?”
“Later.”
“When?”
“When we’ve processed your statement.”
“I’m not released now?”
“Not yet.”
Gideon cleared his throat. “I haven’t had anything to eat since yesterday.”
The captain spoke in Arabic, and one of the officers at the table stood up. “Follow me,” the man said.
Gideon followed him out of the room, through dusty corridors, to a cafeteria buzzing with flies. A machine dispensed coffee and a cooler held an array of cellophane-wrapped meat pastries, bread, and cheese. “Please help yourself,” the officer said.
Gideon got himself a coffee with milk and sugar from the machine and took two pastries from the cooler. He sat at a fly-specked table while the officer waited at the door, watching him. When he was done eating, he rose. “What now?”