In the autumn of 1982 I drove north from Paris toward Hamburg where I was working as a doorman at Bsirs. My journey was stalled outside the city limits by a massive police presence on the Autoroute. CRS police and French Army soldiers lined the exit ramps and guarded the overpasses. My orange VW Bug was the last car on the highway. Two cops waved me to the shoulder of the road. They pulled their guns and searched my car like I was an operative for the terrorist, Carlos the Jackal.

They refused to answer my questions as the purpose of their investigation. Sirens sounded in the distance. A motorcade of official cars was speeding north. Lights flashing a warning. No one and nothing was stopping them. Motorcycle escorts raced past my car at 160 mph. The police cars at the same speed escorted an armored limousine flying the flag of Egypt. The tinted windows prevented any glimpse at the passenger, but I knew who was in the back seat.

“Mubarak.” I mumbled the name of the Egyptian president. He had been visiting Mitterand in Paris. The strongman had taken power after the 1981 assassination of President Sadat and the French security forces were dedicated to the former Air Force General’s safety as long as he was on their soil. Once the motorcade had disappeared from sight, the two police officers waved for me to continue on my way. I was no threat to anyone but myself.

That was the closest I came to President Mubarak.

The long-serving president moves in different circles than I do, but then no one is surprised by that.

Certainly not me, so I don’t expect a collect phone call from an octogenarian in Cairo. He might be an ally of America, but we’re not friends. Sorry, dude, you should have waved at me from your limo. Maybe then I could help you.

Otherwise kel khrak omak which means eat shit for your mom in Arabic.