But before we ever reach the hotel, the Brigadier is once again called by his supreme being, the Big Unseen, and once again the entire delegation of twenty-five police offers and secret agents and two Danish terrorists comes to a halt and the interrogation begins all over again: - First name! Second name! Third name! I start getting dizzy and the Brigadier kindly decides to jail us. He swiftly clears one of the street station shelters of street police officers and asks us to take over their plastic seats and even joins us together with the head of the black Central Security officers. And there we sit through the night watching the street life, citizens, tourists passing smiling and freely laughing by on their way home, and every second minute the Supreme Being calls, and once again we spell our names and the purpose of our being and the Brigadier once again tries and fails to spell this to his Supreme Unseen. - Who the hell is this? I ask the black Second Lieutenant. - It is like our CIA, you know? Yes, I know the CIA, a kind of shipping company, isn’t it, moving supposed terrorists (like us) from one part of the world to other, freer countries like Syria, Romania or Egypt, countries where you as a police officer enjoy a larger freedom, so to speak, to slap you clients (like us) under the feet, drown them, loosen their tongues through the use of electric chock etc. etc., - yes, I know the CIA, I say. And meanwhile the young film crew sits suspiciously restless in her plastic chair, trying to direct her young and tender chest aka the talisman camera towards the person speaking. – Oh please, turn of that thing now! I whisper, in Danish. I am tired now, and old, and hungry! – Please, I say, - can I have some water?! But there is no water in this provisional street corner jail, so at least they won't be able to perform the famous Egyptian water-torture on us. – I am sorry! says the Brigadier politely. But then I have an idea, after all this sheet metal shelter constitutes a kind of open jail, so – wouldn't You be so kind, Sir, to make one of your officers walk me just one hundred meters down that street, I say and point towards the Shara Mahmoud Basani, - to the small street vendor so that I can buy myself a bottle of water? The Brigadier looks bewildered at his black colleague. They have obviously never had such a question posed by a supposed terrorist. Impossible! But why? I am thirsty, I haven't had anything to drink for at least four hours? They look at each other. And two minutes later I walk down the close-to-deserted street between two police officers, one white and one black, and behind us the plain-clothed whispering Gollum. We enter the street vendor’s wildly lit two square meters, he jumps up and steps back into a wall of sweets as if facing a sudden invasion. I produce a five pound note and he hands me two large bottles of water which the polite white offers to carry. – La la! I say and commence the retreat, triumphantly, in the midst of my entourage. As we pass by a small still open bakers shop I even dare to step aside, and before my guards manage to stop me I have asked for two bread sticks. The rest of the night we spend seated in our provisional semi-open sheet metal shelter prison watching the last tourist and then the last citizen pass by. Finally we are alone, alone among Egyptian police officers. But at least we are on bread and water.
We gave up. Gave up the thought of a future. At last we just were, there, in that provisional jail, spelling our names and reason to be over and over again like a never-ending nightmare. Then once of a sudden the Brigadier turned of his cell-phone, - okay, you can go! – Why? I said, - where? – To your hotel, he said. – But your ... superior? I said and pointed at his mobile phone. – He says you can go, you are free, but, he said, - no more filming, and that flag... – The Flag of Friendship? I said. – Take it to your hotel room, said the Brigadier, - and keep it there, okay. – Okay, we said. And then the Brigadier called out a name, and out of the dark of the night the young shiny white Second Lieutenant reappeared. – Give them their passports, the Brigadier said. – Why? said the Second Lieutenant. – They are free.
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