by Adam Hamdy
‘Masha’Alla. Masha’Alla,’ Abbas exclaimed. ‘Ziad Malek. I heard you’d disappeared.’ The old man shuffled over and raised his palm in greeting. He was being cautious, avoiding close contact.
The encounter was a good warm-up. Ziad resisted the urge to close the gap between them, grab the man’s neck and squeeze it until the breath left his body. Everyone associated with Deni was tainted. He couldn’t trust any of them. Had Abacus known he’d been set up? He peered into the old eyes for any sign of guilt. Had Abbas been a party to his betrayal?
‘I ran into some trouble, Abbas, but it’s good to be back,’ Ziad said. The old man’s eyes shone with warmth and happiness, but Ziad knew a jackal like Abacus couldn’t survive the criminal underworld for so long without being an expert at masking his true feelings. ‘Is Deni around?’
‘Of course,’ Abbas replied. ‘This is a great day. He will be like an excited child when he sees you have returned.’
Ziad very much doubted that.
‘Come,’ Abbas said as he headed towards the bookshop. ‘Come, follow me. You will put a smile on your old friend’s face.’
Chapter 13
Abbas took a rapid test from behind the counter and checked Ziad on the threshold of the bookshop, but when the result was negative, the old man ushered him on.
There was no smile, at least not to start with. They found Deni in a small seating area near the back of the bookshop. He was in one of four lounge armchairs that were arranged around a low coffee table laden with books and magazines. The bookshop was Deni’s favourite place to do business. The high shelves packed with Islamic poetry and religious texts prevented prying eyes seeing anything that happened this far back, and the store had little custom, meaning undercover cops or FBI would be noticed.
There was a moment’s hesitation as a startled Deni took in what Abbas had brought back with him. Then came the smile. It rose more quickly than the Chechen, who stumbled a little as he got to his feet. His lips curled in the most forced, false expression of joy Ziad had ever seen.
‘Marhaba,’ Deni said, as he stepped round the chairs and pulled Ziad into a tight bear hug. ‘I had lost hope, brother. It’s so good to see you.’
Ziad’s smile never wavered. Not even when he saw Rasul, Deni’s twenty-eight-year-old son, emerge from the stockroom. The vicious and vindictive true heir to the Salamov fortune, Ziad had little doubt Rasul had been part of the plot to get rid of him. Essi’s brother curled his face into a snarl when he caught sight of Ziad in Deni’s embrace, but his expression quickly changed to one of fraudulent happiness as he drew near.
‘Brother,’ Rasul said. ‘I can’t believe our good fortune. Masha’Allah. Mabrouk.’
Ziad stepped back from Deni and shook Rasul’s hand. His smile held, even when he caught father and son shooting each other sideways glances. Images of both men with bullets in their temples or knives in their hearts floated up from Ziad’s vengeful subconscious, but he did not react to them. He would not indulge in the immediate gratification of a violent fantasy. These men would be taken apart piece by piece.
‘Sit, sit,’ Deni suggested. ‘Tell us what happened.’
The four men settled into the armchairs arranged around the table.
‘Can I get you a tea or coffee?’ Deni asked. ‘A cake?’
Unlike his son, Deni’s American accent was tinged with more than a hint of his Chechen heritage. Rasul could have passed for a Caucasian-American in both sound and appearance. He and his father both stood a couple of inches taller than six feet, carried very little excess weight and had the pinched faces of mountain folk from the Eastern Caucasus. Unlike his son, whose dark hair was unblemished, Deni’s was flecked with grey. Rasul dressed like a member of a nineties grunge band – skinny jeans and distressed T-shirts – while Deni wore a light suit.
‘I’m OK,’ Ziad replied. ‘Thank you,’ he added, taking great care to give no hint of the anger he felt towards these men.
‘What happened to you, brother?’ Rasul asked. ‘We searched for any trace, but you vanished.’
‘The Egyptian police raided the meeting. They killed one of the contacts your father sent me to meet,’ Ziad replied. ‘The other was arrested with me, but he turned and cut a deal with the prosecutor. I was sentenced to seven years.’
Deni tutted and shook his head wistfully.
‘But it has not been seven years,’ Abbas noted.
‘By God’s grace I was able to get early release,’ Ziad said. The true nature of his escape could be learned by anyone who read the relevant edition of the Egyptian national newspapers and recognized his mugshot, but he wasn’t about to share the information with these three. They would hear nothing but good fortune, experience nothing but good humour and consider him nothing but a good friend. ‘And I could not wait to come home.’
‘Do you know how the Egyptians knew about you?’ Rasul asked.
Ziad shook his head. ‘An informant within the contacts’ organization maybe. Or just bad luck. It comes with the territory.’
‘We hope you know it had nothing to do with anyone here,’ Rasul said emphatically.
‘Of course,’ Ziad replied. ‘I would hardly be sitting here if I thought otherwise.’
‘That’s good,’ Rasul said. ‘It’s over now, and we’re glad to have you back safe.’
Lying snake, Ziad thought as he nodded and smiled.
‘Essi said she’d seen you,’ Deni revealed, but even as the words cut him, Ziad kept his smile. ‘I’m sorry, brother. And ashamed that she did not wait. But she could not have known. And she is more American than Chechen now. A full-blown Yankee, like this one,’ he said, tousling Rasul’s hair.
‘I have my old job back,’ Ziad said. ‘I met Harry Martin and he hired me on the spot.’
Deni’s face fell for a moment, before he rallied. ‘Mabrouk. This is a great favour from God. He has blessed us all. Cutter was no good. We kept the business going with him, but he was greedy and unreliable. It will be better to go back to how things were. Working with someone we can trust.’
‘Family,’ Rasul said sagely.
‘Family,’ Ziad agreed, smiling at the snakes who’d betrayed him. They nodded and smiled right back.
Chapter 14
Huxley Blaine Carter provided a Global 8000 jet that took Pearce and the team from Geneva to Cairo, where they were met by an Egyptian contact, a reed-thin former Egyptian Army colonel called Kamal Abdel Nour. He had a kind, open face and an engaging sense of humour that was obvious from the outset.
Pearce introduced himself using the false name Ed Barton. ‘Mr Barton? Hmm . . . maybe Smith would be easier to remember? And Ed isn’t a very good name for an Egyptian. Inta Musri, mish keda?’ Kamal added, astutely noting Pearce’s ethnicity. Few people had ever accurately discerned his mixed heritage and he’d been mistaken for a native of just about every continent on Earth.
‘Let’s just stick to the job,’ Pearce responded.
‘Of course,’ Kamal said, holding his hands up. ‘As you wish.’
The private jet had taxied to a remote part of Cairo International, where Kamal had been waiting alongside a pair of old Land Rover Discoveries.
‘Welcome to Egypt. Please come,’ he said, gesturing at the white cars. Blacked-out windows prevented Pearce seeing who was inside, so he let Kamal lead the way.
The driver’s door of the first vehicle opened and a short, stout middle-aged man with a rough stubble clambered out.
‘This is Sharif, my deputy,’ Kamal said. ‘We’ve been instructed to give you whatever assistance you need. We will take you to your lodgings now. In the morning, as per the message we received, we have arranged visits to the police laboratory and the prison. We will all be tested now.’
Kamal opened the passenger door of the first vehicle and indicated a stack of rapid testing kits. Regular testing for coronavirus had become commonplace since the pandemic, particularly among groups of people working in close contact. Pearce was pleased to see Ka
mal and Sharif taking their safety seriously.
Their lodgings were a four-bedroom apartment on the top floor of an eight-storey block in the heart of Zamalek, a lush four-kilometre-long island in the River Nile. Zamalek was connected to the rest of Cairo by three bridges that spanned from east to west, linking the island to neighbourhoods on both banks of the Nile. Their building was east of the Gezira Club, an exclusive private estate that offered members use of its sporting facilities and extensive parkland. Pearce stood on the apartment’s large roof terrace and looked west at the families gathered around the club’s huge swimming pool. He could hear the squeals of children braving the pool’s evening chill and saw a couple of kids pop out of the water and race to their parents. Towels were immediately flung around them, and the happy foursome huddled around their poolside table to enjoy a meal produced by a pair of waiters.
Further into the club, a handful of walkers and joggers followed the track that traced the park’s perimeter. Pearce found himself wondering about his father, Adel, the man who’d abandoned him and his mother. He knew his father was part Egyptian and part Sudanese and that he’d been raised in Cairo. Had he returned here when he’d left Pearce and his mother in London? Was he down there in the club now, making happy with another family? Was he somewhere in the overcrowded, chaotic city? Or was he long gone? Remembered only as a ghost by the son he’d never really known?
Pearce had grown up an outsider, and his isolation had given him strength, but sometimes he felt his solitude more sharply and yearned to find somewhere he could belong. He’d despised Lancelot Oxnard-Clarke, but had felt sorry for the men he’d radicalized into Black Thirteen. Like Pearce, many of them had just wanted a place to belong. Desire that had made them vulnerable to radicalization, Pearce reminded himself. His desire could also be a weakness if he wasn’t careful.
‘When was the last time you were here?’ Wollerton asked, and Pearce turned to see the man step onto the balcony through the French doors that led to the large living room.
‘Six years ago, on a stopover from Iraq,’ Pearce replied.
‘It’s been longer for me. But some things never change. I don’t think there’s anywhere else in the world that manages to function in such chaos. Kamal has gone. Sharif is staying here.’
‘To keep an eye on us?’
‘Probably,’ Wollerton replied. ‘A private security contractor in Cairo is likely to be connected to Egyptian Intelligence, if not a fully paid-up operative.’
‘Then we’d better not do anything to upset them,’ Pearce suggested.
‘Or we should do it now. Sharif’s gone out to get dinner. Apparently he knows the best shawarma place in Cairo.’
‘Everyone always knows the best places,’ Pearce scoffed, but his mouth had already started watering and he realized how hungry he was.
Wollerton smiled. ‘What do you make of HBC?’
‘There was a reason I turned him down,’ Pearce replied. ‘I don’t trust him. You?’
‘Huxley Blaine Carter.’ Wollerton said, chewing over his thoughts. ‘Even his name sounds dodgy. Like a magician or lion tamer. I don’t like him or his French assistant. I think we should be careful. Very careful. I don’t want to get sawn in half.’
‘Or fed to the lions,’ Pearce agreed.
Chapter 15
Leila rinsed her long black hair and allowed the warm water to cascade over her face. She imagined her troubles being stripped away and swirling down the waste pipe along with the day’s grime. If only it was that easy. She was still troubled by the constant guilt that had burrowed deep into her mind. She shouldn’t be here. She should be in Jordan tracking down her sister. But she knew an emotional response wouldn’t have served her well. Pearce was right. The photo Blaine Carter had shown her was three months old. The trail wouldn’t grow any colder with another three weeks’ delay. Reconciled to carry the painful guilt until the job was over or the three weeks were up, Leila rubbed her eyes, turned around and tilted her head back so her hair was directly beneath the shower nozzle. She ran her fingers through her thick tresses and, satisfied any conditioner had been expunged, she shut off the shower and carefully clambered out of the cast-iron bathtub. She tottered unsteadily across the bath mat to the rail where she’d hung her soft bath sheet. She wrapped it around herself, and spun a smaller towel into a loose turban before steadying herself against the rail. Everywhere she looked, she was reminded of Syria. The colonial-era French furniture, the grand mahogany-framed mirrors, the tiny blue and white Islamic tiles, the toilet with the inbuilt bidet – it was as though she’d come home. Except Leila could never go home. Everything she’d known in Syria had been destroyed by war, and everyone dear to her was gone.
Almost everyone, she corrected herself. Hannan might be alive. Leila had to find her sister soon. If the guilt didn’t drive her mad, the hope almost certainly would.
As she gently towelled her hair, Leila became aware of a reflection in the large mirror that hung above the basin. She turned and saw Brigitte Attali watching her through a gap in the door. Leila was certain she’d shut it behind her. Had it slipped open? Or had the Frenchwoman pushed it? And exactly how long had she been standing there? Leila felt her anger rise. She hated the thought of anyone seeing the scars that marred her torso, a consequence of the emergency surgery that had saved her life in childbirth, but which had left her permanently disabled.
Brigitte realized she’d been spotted and had the good sense to look away as she put her mouth to the gap in the door. ‘Dinner is ready,’ she said, before backing away into shadow.
Leila didn’t acknowledge her, but shuffled over and slammed the door shut as loudly as she could. She didn’t like the Frenchwoman, but they’d done a deal with a devil who’d promised to give them all exactly what they wanted. Leila returned to the mirror and sighed when she saw her troubled reflection. Life had taken a heavy toll on her. What price would this mission extract? How much did she have left to give? As her mind filled with nightmares from her past and shapeless fears of the future, she became aware she’d suddenly lost her appetite.
Chapter 16
Pearce’s breath felt hot against his skin. The face mask was stifling in the brutal heat. The cafeteria had no air conditioning and the block had been evacuated and quarantined as a precaution, so Pearce and Brigitte were experiencing the cumulative effects of over a fortnight of trapped air. They were being shown the sealed crime scene by Ibrahim Yousef, the deputy governor. Officious and pompous with a ponderous sense of self-regard, Yousef struck Pearce as the kind of man who’d have litter bearers if he could have got away with it. He and Kamal seemed to be old friends, and the retired Egyptian army officer played the deputy governor perfectly, laughing at his every joke, and making him feel every inch the potentate.
They’d undergone another test for Covid-19 before being admitted to the prison. When they’d arrived in Yousef’s opulently furnished corner office, the deputy governor had given them a long-winded speech about the sanctity of the crime scene and the difficulty of obtaining access. Kamal had serviced the man’s ego by saying that few in the country would have the power to authorize a visit by two FBI forensics specialists – Brigitte had succeeded in obtaining a couple of passable Quantico Lab IDs – and that hardly any of those who had the power would also have the wisdom to do so. Puffed up by Kamal’s flattery, Yousef had insisted on leading the expedition personally.
They were accompanied by Salah Abushady, the punctilious captain of the guards, who insisted they don particulate filters. He told Pearce and Brigitte that their colleagues from the FBI, who had visited the scene days after the incident at the request of the Egyptian government, had been unable to find any toxins, but had recommended the block remain quarantined until further analysis could be carried out at the lab in Quantico. Yousef was full of bluster and was on the verge of refusing to wear a mask, until Salah reminded him of the terrible way the inmates and guards had died.
Pearce didn’t think he’d get an
ything useful from visiting the scene. He was interested in the human intelligence Yousef and Salah might provide. A prisoner had been able to smuggle masks and the toxic canister into the prison in contravention of the institution’s established security procedures. Pearce wanted to know how he’d done it.
Trussed up in a suit that was a size too small for him, Yousef leaned on the serving counter at the edge of the room and mopped his sweaty brow with the back of his hand.
‘Ya basha,’ Salah remarked, using the colloquial term for boss. ‘Our own police and the FBI said we shouldn’t touch anything.’
Yousef glared at the man and didn’t move. ‘They have done their investigations. And my suit is clean.’
Pearce caught Kamal’s eye. The former colonel was standing by the table the two escapees had been sitting at. He shook his head and smiled, and Pearce moved through the room, towards Brigitte, who was examining the area around the table.
‘We need to get our hands on the Quantico lab report,’ Pearce whispered.
Brigitte nodded. ‘Something for Nahum?’
‘Maybe,’ he conceded. ‘You ever hear of a compound that goes from lethal to inert in such a short space of time?’
The Frenchwoman shook her head. ‘The autopsies found no toxins.’
‘Which is very worrying. A poison that leaves no trace.’ He turned to Salah. ‘Captain, do you have any idea how the visitor was able to smuggle such a dangerous weapon into a secure facility?’
Yousef scowled at his subordinate, who studied the floor with a hangdog expression. ‘Video suggests the fake Coke can was given to the prisoner by one of the chefs. The guard responsible for searching food stocks must have overlooked it, or he was an accomplice.’
