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Back The Desert of Glass Save as PDF
Chapters (84)
  1. BY MICHAEL C. GRUMLEY
  2. Prologue
  3. 1
  4. 2
  5. 3
  6. 4
  7. 5
  8. 6
  9. 7
  10. 8
  11. 9
  12. 10
  13. 11
  14. 12
  15. 13
  16. 14
  17. 15
  18. 16
  19. 17
  20. 18
  21. 19
  22. 20
  23. 21
  24. 22
  25. 23
  26. 24
  27. 25
  28. 26
  29. 27
  30. 28
  31. 29
  32. 30
  33. 31
  34. 32
  35. 33
  36. 34
  37. 35
  38. 36
  39. 37
  40. 38
  41. 39
  42. 40
  43. 41
  44. 42
  45. 43
  46. 44
  47. 45
  48. 46
  49. 47
  50. 48
  51. 49
  52. 50
  53. 51
  54. 52
  55. 53
  56. 54
  57. 55
  58. 56
  59. 57
  60. 58
  61. 59
  62. 60
  63. 61
  64. 62
  65. 63
  66. 64
  67. 65
  68. 66
  69. 67
  70. 68
  71. 69
  72. 70
  73. 71
  74. 72
  75. 73
  76. 74
  77. 75
  78. 76
  79. 77
  80. 78
  81. EPILOGUE
  82. II
  83. III
  84. IV

There were documents on more than a dozen international companies, along with some of their financial filings, five of which had gone out of business years ago.  Then there were the barely legible, handwritten letters and almost a hundred different Xeroxed pictures and newspaper clippings.  But there was no apparent connection to all of them.  None that she could see.

Why didn’t the imam just tell her what this was all about?  Clearly, the old man had revealed more to him than Mona.  So why not just tell her what she was searching for?

All she knew was that it had something to do with a plane in 1977, owned by someone, or something, that took Abasi Hamed years to piece together. But so far, she couldn’t find a single reference to the airplane incident.  Not even in the hundred or so photocopied articles.  Did the old man think she could read minds?

And why her?  There were hundreds of journalists in Egypt, many of whom were far more prominent, with teams of people or staff who could make much faster work of this than she.

Mona leaned back in her chair and sighed before rubbing her face and pushing her chair back from the table.  She stood and strolled into her apartment’s modest kitchen.

She opened a colored glass cabinet and withdrew a small packet and teabag, filled the steel kettle with water, placed it on a burner, twisting the dial until a large puff of blue flame leaped out and promptly turned it down.

She leaned against the narrow counter and absently stared at the stove.

Why her?  Why not one of the hundreds of male journalists who had access to so many more resources?  Or even a man in her own office?

Mona’s eyes wandered, and she spotted her dim reflection in the glass pane of the adjacent cabinet, her arms folded and a frown on her lips.

Life in Egypt was hard enough for a woman, especially one trying to establish a career.  Between the incessant sexual harassment from her coworkers, the pressure from her entire family to get married and the constant derision from every corner of society for things as trivial as how she wore her hair, it often felt like too much.

Too much to make the constant struggle worthwhile.

Still watching herself in the glass, she reached up with her right hand and released the tight bun behind her head, letting her black hair fall around her shoulders in a private act of defiance.

She didn’t have time for this.  She already had too much work to do—assignments and stories that none of the male reporters wanted and likely no one would read anyway.  All for a meager salary that barely paid for her tiny apartment.

How much longer could she endure it all?  How much–

She suddenly stopped in mid-thought.

In the reflection, Mona slowly tilted her head, returning to a thought just a moment ago.