by Paul Sussman
As the plane banked and dipped, beginning its descent into Cairo Domestic, the ruins of Saqqara drifting slowly by as though viewed through deep, clear water, Khalifa closed his eyes and prayed that the trip wouldn't be a wasted one; that when he returned to Luxor later that evening it would, finally, be with some clear idea about what the hell this whole thing was all about.
El-Maadi, the Cairo suburb where the Gratzes lived, lay on the southern fringes of the city. A quiet, leafy district favoured by diplomats, ex-pats and wealthy businessmen, its expensive villas and long avenues shaded by flame and eucalyptus trees were a world away from the poverty and mayhem that defined most of the rest of Egypt's capital.
Khalifa arrived just after midday, having taken the Metro down from the city centre. He got directions to Orabi Street from a peanut-seller near the station, and ten minutes later was standing outside the Gratzes' apartment block, a large pink building with whirring air-conditioning units bolted to the outer walls, an underground car park, and, opposite, the public payphone whose number had figured so prominently on Piet Jansen's telephone bill.
He lingered for a moment on the front steps, struck by the depressing thought that however hard he worked, and for however long, he would never be able to afford to live in a place like this. Then, flicking away his half-smoked Cleopatra, he passed through into the glass-fronted foyer and took the lift up to the third floor. The Gratzes' flat was halfway down a brightly lit corridor, with a varnished wooden door from the centre of which, like a large, curled tusk, protruded a brass knocker, a matching brass letterbox beneath it.
The detective paused a moment, sensing that what followed was either going to make or break the investigation, then, with a deep breath, he reached out towards the knocker. Before his fingers had reached it, he seemed to have second thoughts, lowering his hand again and instead dropping to his haunches and gently pushing back the letterbox flap. Through the rectangular opening he could make out a dim carpeted hallway stretching off in front of him, very neat and tidy, with rooms opening off to either side. From one of these – the kitchen, to judge by the rack of plates and the corner of a fridge just visible through the doorway – came a faint hum of music, a radio or cassette, and, even fainter, the sound of someone moving around. He brought his ear right up to the letterbox to make sure he wasn't imagining things, then, assured that he had indeed heard movement, straightened up, grasped the knocker and gave three loud bangs.
He counted ten beats, then, when there was no response, he repeated the action, four knocks this time. Still no answer. He squatted and eased open the letterbox again, thinking perhaps whoever was in the kitchen was elderly or infirm and thus simply taking a long time to reach the front door. The hall was empty.
'Hello!' he called. 'Is there anyone there? Hello!'
Nothing.
'Mr Gratz! My name is Inspector Yusuf Khalifa of the Luxor Police. I have been trying to contact you for the last three days. I know you're in there. Please open the door.'
He waited a few seconds, then added, 'If you don't I will have no choice but to assume you are deliberately obstructing a police inquiry and to place you under arrest.'
He was bluffing, but it seemed to have the desired effect. There was a faint choking sob from the direction of the kitchen, and then slowly, hesitantly, a short, plump, elderly woman, Mrs Gratz presumably, shuffled a few steps out into the hallway, supporting herself on a metal walking stick, staring in terror at the letterbox.
'What do you want with us?' she said, her voice weak and unsteady. 'What have we done?'
She was clearly not well: both her calves were heavily bandaged and the skin of her face was cracked and grey, like dried putty. Khalifa felt a pang of guilt for having so obviously upset her.
'There's no need to be afraid,' he said, speaking as gently and reassuringly as the situation permitted. 'I'm not going to hurt you. I just need to ask you and your husband some questions.'
She shook her head, a tress of white hair dislodging from the bun in which it had been clipped and swinging down across her face, giving her a faintly deranged look.
'My husband's not here. He's . . . gone out.'
'Then if I could talk to you, Mrs Gratz. About your friend Piet—'
'No!' She cowered back, half raising her walking stick as though to ward off an attack. 'We haven't done anything, I tell you! We obey the law. We pay our taxes. What do you want with us?'
'Like I said, Mrs Gratz, I need to ask you some questions. About Piet Jansen, Farouk al-Hakim—'
At the mention of this last name her fear seemed to redouble, her entire body trembling as though a pair of invisible hands had grasped her frail shoulders and were vigorously shaking them.
'We don't know anyone called al-Hakim!' she wailed. 'We never had anything to do with him. Why can't you leave us alone? Why are you doing this to us?'
'If you could just—'
'No! I won't let you in without my husband here. I won't! I won't!'
She started to back away down the hall, one hand clutching her stick, the other supporting herself against the wall.
'Please, Mrs Gratz,' said Khalifa, coming down onto both knees, fully aware of the ridiculousness of trying to conduct a conversation in this manner but unable to see any other way of proceeding. 'I have no wish to frighten or harm you. I believe, however, that you and your husband are in possession of important information concerning the murder of an Israeli woman named Hannah Schlegel.'
If the mention of al-Hakim's name had provoked a strong reaction, it was nothing compared to the look of abject terror that now swept across her face. She staggered backwards against the wall, one hand pawing at her throat as though she was struggling to draw breath, the other clasping and unclasping around the handle of her walking stick.
'We don't know anything,' she choked. 'Please, we don't know anything.'
'Mrs Gratz—'
'I won't talk to you! Not without my husband here. You can't make me! You can't!'
She began to sob, fierce spasms jerking her body, mucusy tears bubbling from her eyes. Khalifa remained as he was for a moment, then, with a sigh, he lowered the letterbox flap and stood up, shaking the stiffness from his legs.
There was no point pushing her any further. She was too distraught. Whatever she knew about Hannah Schlegel – and she certainly did know something – she wasn't going to tell him in her current state. Some of his colleagues would have simply kicked down the door and dragged her off into custody, but that wasn't the way Khalifa did things. He lit a cigarette, took a couple of drags, then dropped to his haunches again and pushed back the flap. The old woman was just as he'd left her.
'What time is your husband home, Mrs Gratz?'
She didn't answer.
'Mrs Gratz?'
She mumbled something inaudible.
'I'm sorry?'
'Five o'clock.'
He glanced down at his watch. Four and a half hours.
'He'll definitely be here then?'
She gave a weak nod.
'OK,' he said after a brief pause. 'I'll come back. Please tell your husband to expect me.'
He thought of adding 'and no tricks', but couldn't imagine what tricks they'd play so left it at that, lowering the flap, standing and setting off back down the corridor towards the lift. About halfway along he heard her voice calling after him, frail, desperate.
'Why are you hunting us like this? They're your enemies too, you know. Why are you helping them? Why? Why?'
He slowed, thinking of going back to ask what she meant, but then decided against it and, continuing to the lift, pressed the button for the ground floor. Things hadn't turned out quite as he'd hoped.
After he had gone the old woman remained as she was for a long moment, then she slowly hobbled down the hallway into the living room at the far end of the apartment. A small, erect man with a pencil moustache and a pinched, puckered face, like a piece of dried fruit, was waiting just behind the door, his hands held stiffly
at his sides as though he was standing to attention on a parade ground. She shuffled across to him and, opening his arms, he wrapped them tenderly around her.
'There, there, my dear,' he said gently, speaking in German. 'You did the best you could. There, there.'
She pressed her cheek against his chest, shivering like a frightened child.
'They know,' she whimpered. 'They know it all.'
'Yes,' he said. 'It seems they do.'
He held her tight, stroking her neck and back, trying to calm her; then, easing her away, he took the tress of hair dangling across her face and tucked it back into the bun on top of her head.
'We always knew it might come to this,' he said softly. 'It was foolish to think it could last for ever. We had a good run. That's the main thing. Didn't we have a good run?'
She nodded weakly.
'That's my girl. That's my beautiful Inga.'
He reached into his pocket, removed a handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes and upper cheeks, wiping away the tears.
'Now, why don't you go and put on your dress while I sort things out here? No point hanging around, eh? We should be ready for them when they come back.'
TOULOUSE, FRANCE
Jean-Michel Dupont's antique shop was located in a quiet, winding street right in the centre of Toulouse, just a couple of hundred metres from the spectacular red-brick eruption of the Basilique St Sernin, the tip of whose belltower was just visible above the tiled rooftops, like a lighthouse rising above a sea of choppy orange waves.
As agreed, Layla arrived at 1.30 p.m. After pausing for a moment to take in the front of the shop, with its object-filled windows and faded sign announcing LA PETITE MAISON DES CURIOSITÉS, she opened the glass door and stepped inside, a bell clanging loudly above her head.
The interior smelt of polish and cigar smoke, and was crammed with a confused jumble of bric-a-brac, everything from furniture to books, paintings to glassware, china to brass ornaments, although the bulk of the collection appeared to be of a military nature. There were tailors' mannequins dressed in brocade-covered uniforms; shelves lined with caps and helmets; and, against one wall, flanked on either side by a stuffed bear and a panel from a stained-glass window, a long cabinet filled with an array of bayonets and pistols.
'Vous désirez quelque chose?''
A bulky, overweight man had appeared at the back of the shop, dressed in corduroys and a traditional Breton peasant's smock, his shoulder-length hair and goatee beard shot through with peppery streaks of grey. A pair of half-moon spectacles dangled from his neck by a gold chain; a half-smoked cigarillo was clutched between the nicotine-stained fingers of his right hand. With his heavy jowls and lugubrious expression, he looked like a large bloodhound.
'Monsieur Dupont?'
'Out.'
Layla introduced herself, speaking in French. He nodded in recognition and, lodging the cigarillo in the corner of his mouth, came forward and shook her hand, beckoning her round the counter and up a narrow, creaking set of stairs to the first floor. He paused there for a moment, putting his head through a bead curtain and holding a brief muttered conversation with someone in the room beyond – 'My mother,' he explained, 'she'll watch the shop while we talk' – then continued upwards to the second floor, where he opened a heavy wooden door and led her through into a large office-cum-study that occupied the entire upper level of the building. Bookshelves lined two of the walls, a long work counter the third, the latter covered with a clutter of computer equipment – hard-drives, screens, keypads, piles of disks and CDs. Set against the fourth wall, the one furthest from her, was a large glass-fronted display cabinet similar to the one she had seen in the shop downstairs.
He asked if she would like coffee, and when she replied in the affirmative he crossed to one end of the work counter and began busying himself with an electric kettle. Layla hovered by the door; then, curious, she started wandering around the room, perusing first one of the bookshelves – a mixture of antique dealers' manuals and histories of the Third Reich – then the cabinet against the far wall. At first glance this seemed to contain a generalized collection of militaria such as had been displayed downstairs, and it was only after a moment that she realized, with a slight shudder, that it in fact housed a collection of specifically Nazi militaria – medals, bayonets, photographs, items of uniform. On one shelf was arrayed a row of iron crosses with red, white and black ribbons; on another a line of daggers, each with the twin lightning-bolt insignia of the SS inlaid into its handle and the legend MEIN EHRE HEISST TREUE inscribed on its blade.
'SS honour daggers,' explained Dupont, coming up behind her and handing her a steaming cup. 'My honour is loyalty.'
'You sell this stuff?' she asked, taking the cup.
'No, no. To do so in France is illegal. It's merely a private hobby. You disapprove?'
She shrugged. 'It's not the sort of thing I'd want in my house. Given the moral connotations.'
He smiled. 'My interest, I can assure you, is purely aesthetic. I no more sympathize with the activities of the Third Reich than a collector of, say, Roman artefacts sympathizes with that civilization's predilection for slavery and crucifixion. It is the craftsmanship that attracts me, not the ideology. That and the historical context. They are, after all, important artefacts. If you knew more of their background you too would be drawn.'
She gave another shrug, unconvinced.
'You do not believe me? Come, let me show you something.'
He led her to the far end of the cabinet where a safe was set into the wall. Spinning the dial, he opened it and removed a small square case bound in black leather, lifting its lid and holding it out towards her. Inside, lying on a bed of velvet, was a black metal cross surmounted by a magnificently worked silver clasp in the shape of oak leaves and crossed swords, the latter encrusted with what looked like tiny diamonds.
'The Knight's Cross with Oak Leaves, Swords and Diamonds,' he explained. 'Nazi Germany's highest military honour. One of only twenty-seven ever awarded, and the only one conferred for a non-combat role. It is worth more than the rest of my collection put together. More than everything in this building put together. Probably more than the building itself.' He paused a beat, then added, 'Its recipient, I believe, is the reason you have come here today.'
She looked up, eyes widening. 'Not . . . Dieter Hoth?'
He nodded.
'How the hell did you get it?' she asked, coming forward a step and staring at the medal.
'A long and boring story,' he replied, waving his cigarillo. 'And one that I won't waste your time by telling. I merely wanted to make the point that, now you know the context, you too are drawn, despite yourself. The fact that Hoth himself was an extremely unpleasant man, this is neither here nor there. You are interested in his story, and are thus inevitably attracted to the material remains of that story. Moral considerations do not enter the equation.'
He held out the box a moment longer, then returned it to the safe and ushered her into a creaking leather armchair, himself crossing to one of the bookshelves and running a finger along the spines of the volumes lined up along it.
'So, what exactly is it you wish to know about our friend Dr Hoth?' he asked, head tilted to one side, examining book titles.
'Anything you can tell me about what he was doing at Castelombres, basically,' replied Layla, putting down her coffee cup and rummaging in her bag. 'According to Magnus Topping you've done a lot of research into the subject.'
She pulled out her notebook and pen and sat back.
'I also wanted to ask about a footnote in an article you wrote for the web linking Hoth with a man named William de Relincourt.'
Dupont nodded, continuing to trace his finger along the book spines before eventually pulling out a volume and blowing dust off its cover. He flicked through its pages, then came over and handed it to Layla, open about midway through.
'Dieter Hoth,' he said, indicating a grainy black and white photograph. 'One of the very few pictures that exi
st of him.'
A tall, handsome man stared up at her, with sunken cheeks, coal-coloured eyes and a long, aquiline nose. He was dressed in a Nazi officer's uniform, with twin lightning-bolt flashes on the collars.
'Hoth was in the SS?' she asked, surprised.
'The Ahnenerbe,' replied Dupont. 'What you might call the cerebral branch of the SS. He was an archaeologist by profession. A very brilliant one, by all accounts. Headed the Ahnenerbe's Egyptian department.'
Layla's look of surprise intensified. 'He was an Egyptologist?'
'An Egyptian archaeologist is probably a more accurate description. But, yes, Egypt was his specialist field.'
'So what the hell was he doing excavating in the south of France?'
Dupont chuckled, a deep, throaty sound, like a car engine starting.
