Syndrome E

by Franck Thilliez

  He paid the driver—an amazing guy, brimming with funny stories—and called Leclerc to keep him abreast of his inquiries. In exchange, he learned about the death of the old film restorer and the theft of the reel. Things were hopping in France, but not the way he would have wished. The investigation was taking on apocalyptic proportions, bodies were piling up, the mystery was deepening.

  He joined Nahed, who was waiting for him in front of Saint Barbara’s. The young woman was elegantly dressed in fine pleated garments of pastel tones, apparently linen. Her eyes seemed heavily made up, and a touch of very lightweight fabric spilled over her shoulders like a cape. Sharko walked up, motioning to the church.

  “Is this the heart of your city that you mentioned in Lebrun’s car?”

  “Do you like it?”

  “I’m surprised by it.”

  Nahed unveiled her magnificently even teeth. Sharko had to admit that any man would have loved to get lost with her in the maze of the capital. And this evening, he was one of them.

  “Every neighborhood of Cairo is a quiet little town. A space with its own codes and traditions. I wanted you to discover this.”

  She joined her hands in front of her, shyly.

  “My car is a bit farther on. I have what you asked for.”

  “Abd el-Aal’s address?”

  “Mahmoud lived alone, right next door to his brother, at the other end of Talaat Harb Street. The brother’s name is Atef Abd el-Aal and he still lives at the same address.”

  “Talaat Harb…Wasn’t that where Lebrun said we should meet?”

  “Indeed. Talaat Harb is a street from the Belle Époque, full of history and nostalgia. Your counterpart surely wanted to make an occasion of it. I ran into him, after our session at the police station. He took your declination rather well.”

  “All the better. Thank you again.”

  They talked while walking past the Coptic cemetery. Nahed explained that her father, a journalist for Le Caire, had been crippled in one leg following a clash between Copts and Muslims in 1981. Her mother, a Frenchwoman, had lived in Paris before leaving everything behind to come on a mission for the city’s Dominicans. Her parents met; Nahed was born in a modest quarter and had never been outside her homeland. She’d been in French immersion programs to study the language at the university, taught by incompetent professors who spoke it even less than she did. She’d ended up at the French embassy, with the support of the newspaper’s owner, a powerful Egyptian. Good position but small salary; she wasn’t complaining. Here, a job—an honest job, she specified, stressing the word—didn’t allow you to escape the deep-seated, tenacious poverty of Egypt, but it attenuated it and gave you the illusion.

  She invited him to sit in an authentic old Peugeot 504, parked at the edge of Coptic Cairo, near the Amr mosque. They drove up the right bank of the Nile along the Corniche. Daylight was dwindling. The minarets of the distant mosques, the houseboats and awamas lit up. People were walking in family groups and buying yellow beans with lemon. Sharko could feel the power of the river, and the people’s need to honor it.

  They talked some more. When Nahed asked him about his wife, Sharko leaned the arch of his eyebrow against the window, his gaze fixed on the peaceful currents, and confided simply that he missed his wife and daughter and that he’d never see them again, except in his dreams. He didn’t open his mouth after that. What for? What could he tell her? That there wasn’t a single night when their absence didn’t grip him so hard it woke him from his sleep, barely able to breathe? That his job had destroyed the lives of those he held dearest and was dragging him slowly but surely toward the abyss of a joyless old age? No, he had nothing to tell. Not here, and not now. Not with her.

  After about ten minutes, they reached Talaat Harb. Clothing stores as far as you could see, bars, movie houses with French names, old buildings with Haussmannian facades and columns, windows decorated with Grecian-style statues—a reminder that the Egyptian elite, at the turn of the twentieth century, wanted to make the center of Cairo a European district. It almost worked. Pedestrians strolled about in scattered hordes—Americans, French, Italians. Nahed found a parking spot in a neighboring street, and a moment later she was giving the building’s concierge some baksheesh, just because he’d opened the door for her. The baou ab with the henna-dyed beard, miserable in his tattered espadrilles, acted as porter, car washer, and errand runner, in stark contrast with the classy interior of the place. A rich person’s building, apparently, radiating grandeur.

  Once alone with Sharko in the elevator, the young woman covered her head and veiled her face. She transformed herself: enigmatic and suddenly full of secrets. All he could see were her eyes, magnificent jewel cases, while her mouth, divined through the transparency of the fabric, said in a pure voice:

  “It would be silly if Atef Abd el-Aal refused to talk because of some religious scruple.”

  Sharko was charmed, almost entranced.

  “How do you know he’s Muslim?”

  “It’s more likely he is than not.”

  “What do you know about him?”

  “The embassy files didn’t reveal much. He was a vendor, and today he owns two factories that make custom shirts, a successful business that started taking off one year after his brother’s death. He sells the clothes wholesale to the shops in Alexandria. He and his late brother were originally from Upper Egypt. Poor family, from the country. They came to Cairo when they were teenagers, with their uncle.”

  She knocked on a door; another door opened onto the wizened face of an old woman. Nahed began talking with her before turning to the inspector.

  “His neighbor says he’s on the terrace; he always has tea up there at this hour, before evening prayer. We’ll recognize him because he’ll be reading al-Ahram, the independent newspaper.”

  When Sharko arrived on the terrace, he couldn’t believe his eyes. People lived on the roof of the building, inside and out of minuscule tin bungalows. Multicolored lamps hanging from cables bobbed like felucca sails. People were sitting in armchairs or lying on mattresses, at sky level. Lit televisions pierced the falling night on all sides. It was like being in a kind of luminous anthill in open air, teeming and precarious. Nahed leaned in toward his ear.

  “Before, the top echelons of society lived in these buildings—landowners, pashas, ministers. These bungalows were used for storing foodstuffs, doing laundry, or housing the dogs. After the revolution of 1952, everything changed. Today, the sufragi, the former domestics of that time, have taken over the lodgings in the main building and rent out these bungalows to the poor.”

  It was hard to believe, but these people really lived in sheds of less than five square yards, in the middle of the busiest shopping street in Cairo. Poverty wasn’t in the gutter or the subway like in Paris, but up in the air, on the rooftops. Nahed pointed a finger toward the back of the terrace.

  “There he is.”

  Suspicious gazes turned in their direction. Reclining men with bloodshot eyes prepared “coal,” a pebble of opium that they heated before slipping it under their tongue, while others smoked their mu‘assel mixed with hashish in old chichas. Children played dominos, others studied, women cooked. Sharko and Nahed approached Atef Abd el-Aal, who sat on a straw chair looking out over Talaat Harb. He was wearing a nicely cut suit and shined shoes. Slicked-down hair, about forty-five. His steaming cup of tea sat on the white stone parapet. He did not get up to greet them and uttered two abrupt words, which Sharko didn’t understand. At that, Nahed replied with a long tirade in Arabic, explaining the situation. She said that the man with her was an inspector with the French police, who wanted to ask him questions regarding his brother and an old criminal case that had similarities with an ongoing investigation.

  Ataf carefully folded his newspaper on his knees, looked Nahed over from head to foot, and slowly began picking at an amber rosary. Once more, the translator acted as intermediary between the two men.

  “He doesn’t wish to speak anymo
re about his brother.”

  “Tell him that just before he died, Mahmoud was working on a murder case. Three girls, killed four months before his own death. Ask him if he knew about it.”

  Atef kept silent a moment before speaking.

  “He wants to see your police ID.”

  Sharko held it out. Atef stared at it carefully and ran his index finger over the colors of the French flag before handing it back to the inspector. Then he spoke again.

  “He says his brother was very secretive. He never talked about his investigations. That’s why Atef never suspected him of belonging to extremist networks.”

  Sharko let his eyes wander toward the city lights. The air was finally cleansed, the Egyptians returned to their streets, their roots, the calm of their mosques and churches.

  “Did he sometimes take his case files with him? You lived right next door to each other—did he ever do any work at home?”

  “He says no.”

  “Do you know Hassan Noureddine? Has he already been to see you?”

  “No again…Given the way he’s answering, I don’t believe he knows anything.”

  Sharko took the photo of one of the victims from his pocket and put it down in front of the Egyptian. Nahed gave him an outraged glance, realizing he must have pocketed it at the station house while she was out getting him water.

  “What about her?” said the cop. “She doesn’t mean anything to you either? Don’t tell me your brother never showed you her face.”

  Atef turned his honey-colored eyes aside, his lips tight. He leapt up and shoved the policeman in the chest.

  “Izhab mine houna! Izhab mine houna! Sawf attacilou bil chourta!”

  He glared at Nahed, brandishing his cell phone. Some residents of the terrace turned toward them.

  “He’s ordering us to leave or he’ll call the police. Let it go—we won’t get anything out of him.”

  The cop hesitated, not wanting to quit now. The Arab’s violent reaction might mean he was hiding something. Atef came forward and shoved him again, just as aggressively.

  “Izhab mine houna!”

  Sharko felt like smashing his face in, but the men on the terrace had stood up and were coming menacingly close, fine-boned Kabyles with nervous features. Things were heating up. Sharko, who had turned toward his possible attackers, suddenly felt a hand in the back pocket of his trousers. His eyes met Atef’s. In a fraction of a second, he understood that the man had shoved something into his pocket and was asking him to keep quiet about it.

  Sharko took Nahed by the hand.

  “Come on, let’s get out of here.”

  They had trouble clearing a path. It was a tangle of elbows and shoulders, and darkening, opium-spiraled eyes. The sound of tsss, tsss hissed from all sides. They flew down the stairs. Nahed was furious.

  “You shouldn’t have stolen that photo! How many others do you have?”

  “A few.”

  “You can be sure Noureddine will spot it and notify the embassy. What were you thinking?”

  “Come on, let’s move.”

  Nahed rushed ahead in front of him. Sharko dug into his pocket and found a scrap of paper. Still moving, he quietly unfolded the piece of newsprint and read a note scribbled in French:

  Cairo Bar, Tewfikieh, one hour. Avoid being seen. She’s watching you.

  He immediately pocketed the note and looked at Nahed, full of regret. In her delicate garments, she swayed marvelously as she descended the stairs. And she was betraying him. When they reached the street and began walking, the young woman removed her veil, which she abandoned on her shoulders. Sharko stared at her.

  “It’s very strange. Without your veil, you have a completely different face. The mysterious, ambiguous creature suddenly regains the clear complexion of the modern woman. How many personalities are you hiding, Nahed?”

  “Just one, Inspector.”

  She seemed to be blushing, struggled to find her words.

  “And now what do we do?”

  Sharko could now see her game more and more clearly. Since reading Atef’s note, everything fell into place. The choice of Nahed as his helper despite the risks with her supervisor. The whereabouts and details about Mahmoud Abd el-Aal, which she’d managed to obtain. They were feeding him scraps while keeping an eye on him. For now, he decided to play it cool; he’d have plenty of time to question her later.

  “I think I’m going to go back to the hotel, take a shower, and hit the hay. It’s been a very long day since I woke up in France this morning.”

  “You haven’t even eaten yet. Let me invite you to a charming little restaurant in Mohandessin, on the banks of the Nile. They serve excellent fish and Swiss wine—rather than French.”

  She wanted to keep him as long as possible. Sharko began thinking she’d probably mistranslated what was said on the terrace, or even at the station house. Like Hassan Noureddine, she controlled the territory, and there was absolutely nothing he could do. Who was behind all this? The police? The embassy? What kind of hornet’s nest had he wandered into?

  “I’d love to, but I’m really not hungry. Thank you all the same…Too hot, too exhausted, and too many mosquitoes.”

  He took out a map they’d given him at the hotel.

  “I can find my way back; it’s just over there. What do you say we meet tomorrow morning at ten in front of the station house? There’s really no rush anymore. The doors are closing one after another, and I’m already getting used to the idea that I’ll go back empty-handed. It’s not my case, anyway.”

  She lowered her gaze, looking disappointed. Sharko had an urge to rip her tongue out. Quite the actress.

  “All right,” she conceded. “Until tomorrow, then.”

  Before he could leave, she added:

  “That fat pig Noureddine never laid a hand on my body. And he never will.”

  They parted ways. Sharko let her take her distance, and saw her turn around several times. That confirmed his suspicions. Then he walked slowly toward Tharwat Street, which intersected with Mohamed Farid Street. But just after turning off, he disappeared at a run into a narrow alley chosen at random.

  The good doggy had slipped his leash.

  At this point, Cairo and its burning night belonged to him.

  It filled him with limitless satisfaction.

  21

  In the tech department of the crime lab, a stone’s throw from the squad house, Lucie held in her hands the enlargements of the film frames discovered in Claude Poignet’s eye sockets. Two glazed, coarse-grained surfaces in black and white. The images were practically identical. You could see, in a slightly skewed position, as if the camera had been knocked over, the hem of a pair of jeans and the toe of a shoe that Lucie hadn’t noticed the first time. The background was lost in shadow, but the feet of a table were visible, as was a wall. The ground was a floor.

  “Are these shoes combat boots?”

  Lucie was talking to the technician sitting next to her at his computer screen. Julien Marquant, forty-plus, was one of the crime scene photographers. At each homicide, he served up the worst on glossy paper. Some people photographed supermodels; for him, it was cadavers. The heads of suicides splattered open by a .22, drowning victims bloated with water, hangings…Julien was an excellent photographer whose talents would remain hidden in the police files. Given the late hour, he was the person most liable to inform his colleague on the subject.

  “Looks like it.”

  He showed her the photos he’d taken at the victim’s house. Notably the ones of blood found on the floor of the lab upstairs. Lucie made a connection that now struck her as self-evident:

  “It’s his place—Claude Poignet’s. He had cameras, film stock—the movie was shot in his own house. Holy shit…”

  “Yes. The two frames we found in his eyes were negatives, so they came from the original master, rather than from a positive print.”

  Lucie regretted not having reacted sooner. Poignet had explained all that business ab
out positive and negative prints, originals and copies. Julien Marquant tapped his index finger on the photos.

  “You want to know what I think? I think the killers operated the camera. They must have—I don’t know—placed it right next to the victim’s dying body. As if to capture the last images he saw before dying.”

  Lucie shivered as she stared at the photos. Poignet’s final seconds of life were in front of her, before her eyes. The poor man had passed away with those very images—those of a stranger wearing combat boots who was watching him die, while the other one strangled him.

  “As if…Claude Poignet himself were the camera. The bastards wanted to go inside him.”

  “Exactly. You said it yourself—the victim had a processing lab, an old 16 mm camera, and reels of raw stock. The killers used it all. They filmed, then went into the darkroom and soaked the images they wanted in a vat of developer. Then they cut them out and put them in the victim’s eye sockets. The operation is rather technical and must have taken a good hour.”

  Lucie pressed her lips tight. These two sick twists weren’t content with just stealing back the film; they’d devised a screenplay worthy of a horror movie, going so far as to leave the police something to go on. Thoughtful, organized individuals, so sure of themselves that they’d taken the chance of lingering at the crime scene to “play.” Lucie laid out her thoughts:

  “They’ve very kindly given us two elements. The exact position of the body before he was hanged, and the shoes. Combat boots—which confirms that the fellow who went to Szpilman’s and the one who helped commit Poignet’s murder are one and the same. A soldier, perhaps?”

  “Or somebody trying to pass for one. Or neither: anybody can buy combat boots. Especially since they know their way around movies and props. One of them can use a 16 mil camera, take the film out in the darkroom, and develop it. Believe me, if you’re a beginner, you wouldn’t have the first clue how to operate one of those old gizmos.”