The Haj - Leon Uris [150]
‘This motor is like looking up a donkey’s ass in a windstorm,’ he opined.
‘So humble a conveyance is certainly unworthy of so noble a man,’ Ibrahim retorted.
Despite the foul condition of the truck, the Syrian made an insulting offer.
‘I would give more to a prostitute, just for her smile.’
When the Syrian huffed off, Ibrahim had Sabri move the vehicle to a new location near the Lions’ Gate of the Old City wall. The second prospective customer was more promising, Ibrahim thought, because his insults came in torrents as he pointed out twenty real or imagined defects in the truck.
‘This vehicle has been rolled in shit,’ he concluded. ‘It is worthless, except for spare parts.’
Ibrahim merely had Sabri move to a third location near the Tomb of the Virgin. By now he knew that everyone along the Wadi el Joz had the word and they also knew Haj Ibrahim was a cool trader.
The fifth potential buyer, from a ‘fine old Palestinian family,’ expressed dismay that he was looking at a stolen truck. He was a self-proclaimed honest man who had a large family and would not risk imprisonment by dealing in hot goods. However ... because of the unusual times. ...
Ibrahim realized that he was the true buyer all the time, a man who had bought and sold dozens of vehicles belonging to anyman’s army. He was also in business with the Bedouin who scoured the desert for abandoned vehicles and stripped them for spare parts.
A test drive was made. Sabri’s repairs had held up famously. Now the man went into a plea of poverty and bargaining ensued for over an hour. They finally narrowed in on a respectable offer of close to three hundred British pounds after refusing to deal in Arab currency. Then came a series of hilarities to indicate a deal had been consummated. For Ibrahim it was a windfall. He could purchase a donkey and goat in Jericho and have enough money left over to keep the cave supplied for months.
After the buyer drove the truck off, Ibrahim made certain he was not being followed and walked with Sabri to the main street of Suleiman Road that ran alongside the wall to the bus terminal.
‘You have done very well for me,’ Ibrahim said abruptly. He handed Sabri a five-pound note. ‘Have a night in the city. I will meet you tomorrow in Jericho at the market.’
Sabri understood this to mean he was still not fully trusted. Ibrahim did not wish to walk around with all that money and Sabri at his side to possibly finger him for robbers. Ibrahim knew that all the ‘prospective’ buyers had been paid off and he wondered if Sabri had also taken a kickback. Sabri covered the insult by smiling and feigning surprise at the five-pound gift and made off to have himself a party.
The Bab el Wad was still being hotly contested and closed to normal bus traffic. Ibrahim first traveled north to the city of Ramallah and caught a bus that ran a parallel route inside Arab territory. The bus ended its run about a mile from the Latrun Fort at the outer encampment of the Arab Legion. Many local farmers and peddlers had set up a roadside bazaar to sell to the troops. A few hundred yards down the road toward the fort, a guard post ended passage for everyone except the soldiers. Ibrahim walked directly toward the guards.
‘Halt! You can go no farther!’
He withdrew the magic forgery from Colonel Hakkar on Iraqi Army stationery and handed it to the guard with an air of authority. The guard could neither read nor write. Two other illiterate guards pondered the paper, one reading it upside down, then called for an officer. He was duly impressed.
A half hour later, Ibrahim had worked himself through the various rings of security to the very doors of the fort.
‘What do you want?’ the officer in charge demanded.
‘I am Ibrahim al Soukori al Wahhabi, the Muktar of Tabah. I wish to go up on the roof so I can gaze upon my village.’
This is a zone of high military security. You have no business being here.’
‘I wish to go to the roof and see my village.’
‘It is not possible. Leave before I have you arrested.’