“And my love for you is greater than all of our enemies and evil anywhere in the world,” Susan said. “When you think all are against you, I will always be by your side.” “Unfortunately, your place now needs to be behind me,” Salaam said, giving his wife a smile when he noticed her exasperated expression. “You may be loved by everyone in Egypt, but you are still expected to walk behind your husband, not beside him, at least on this holy day.”

“Of course, my husband,” she replied. Susan gave her husband another soft kiss on the side of his lips, then stepped back the required two paces behind and to her husband’s left, her hands folded before her, her eyes averted. She knew her place well: Dwelling in a nation tom between the past, the present, and the future, it was best to not give traditionalists like Zuwayy, al-Khan, and their followers any reason to question the loyalty or morals of then- country’s leaders. A few moments later, the Republican Guard security forces opened the doors of the great hall, indicating that the procession was about to begin.

Past the Gates of Sultan Qayt Bay, a large courtyard with several ornate minarets and qibla prayer walls separated the Madrasa from the main sanctuary, where the speeches and prayer services for President Salaam’s guests would take place. The path through the courtyard from the tomb to the sanctuary was lined with soldiers, with clergy and other invited guests pressing against the soldiers to watch the procession.

It was Susan, not Kamal, who noticed two unusual things as they proceeded across the courtyard: First, the soldiers lining the procession route were not Presidential Guards, assigned to the protection of the president, but paramilitary soldiers from a unit she did not recognize; and second, they were facing the procession, their backs to the crowd instead of facing them. She turned to look for the Presidential Guard captain who had been stationed at the door to the Madrasa, but he was nowhere to be seen.

As she looked, her eyes caught those of Jadallah Zuwayy, walking several steps behind her. He nodded reassuringly to her, then glanced at Khalid al-Khan and nodded. Susan turned and looked at al-Khan, noticing the silent signal between the two. What was going on here? Why were they—?

Bedlam suddenly erupted. A soldier shouted something from the Madrasa—someone had been killed? Is that what he shouted? It was hard to tell—his voice was strained with pain or fear. There was purposeful movement in the crowd of onlookers, not a random milling about but a determined surge forward. The soldiers guarding the procession line, their backs to the crowd, noticed nothing—even when two men in traditional thawb, sirwal, rida, and turbans burst past them.