Firebird

by Michael Asher

  She was early thirties, probably, and dressed in a green Lacoste shirt, white chinos and solid rubber-soled boots. She was very slim and long-legged, but all in proportion and the Lacoste shirt bulged satisfyingly at the front. Her features were twisted up in a ‘don’t-underestimate-me-just-because-I’m-a-woman’ sneer, but I guessed that they were normally quite even, except for her tantalizingly erotic lips which were so full they gave the impression of a permanent pout. She had eyes as blue as hard crystals, smooth skin the café-au-lait colour of someone used to sunshine, and her blonde hair was tied out of her eyes in a long sensuous plait. There were two kinds of women, I thought — the kind who looked good in clothes, and the kind who looked good without them. They weren’t necessarily the same thing. I’d known girls who’d looked ravishing until the moment they took their clothes off, and others who never drew a second glance until they put on a bikini and suddenly knocked you out. I couldn’t help wondering whether this woman’s mannish clothes were actually disguising a magnificently feminine figure. I’d have bet money they were.

  I felt in my pocket for my ID card, and she stiffened. ‘One more move, mister,’ she said. I looked into the barrel of the pistol and grinned, seeing puzzlement come into her eyes.

  ‘It’s my ID ,’ I said. ‘If you damn Yanks are going to pull guns on me in my own country, I’ve at least got the right to show you who I am.’

  ‘OK, but you take your time.’

  I slid my English-Arabic ID card slowly out of my pocket and dangled it in front of her eyes. ‘I’m Lieutenant Sammy Rashid,’ I said, ‘Special Investigations Department, assigned to the Ibram murder enquiry. Now do I get my piece back?’

  She looked at me with eyes narrowed. ‘You don’t look like any cop I’ve ever seen.’

  ‘So what?’ I said. ‘Can I have my weapon back, please?’ She glanced at the ID again then looked me straight in the face. ‘You’ve got green eyes.’

  ‘It’s not my fault. I was born that way.’

  ‘Gyps don’t have green eyes.’

  ‘Yeah, well here’s one who does. Now, gimme back my hardware.’

  She frowned and let her SIG drop. She fished in her bag for the Beretta, and slapped it into my open hand. ‘Hem,’ I said, ‘aren’t we missing something? A gun is damn all use without its ammunition and that was a full clip.’

  She locked my eyes and sighed again, handing me the magazine. ‘What were you doing sneaking around like that?’ she asked.

  ‘I wasn’t sneaking, I was making a search. I’m the investigating detective.’

  The girl opened her eyes wide in surprise. ‘In your dreams, mister. I’m the investigating detective. This case belongs to the FBI.’

  ‘You’d better ask my boss about that. He’s the chief investigating officer on this case, and he’s right downstairs now, talking to your Legat. Now I’ve told you who I am, how about returning the compliment?’

  The girl pointed to the ID pinned to her ample chest, which read ‘Special Agent Daisy Brooke, FBI’.

  ‘Wow,’ I said, ‘I didn’t know they let Barbie dolls into the FBI .’

  I suppose I was still feeling a bit peeved that she’d worked me over so fast. I wanted to needle her, and I knew right away I’d pushed the right button. The girl’s features turned even more vinegary and she gave me a shrivelling look.

  ‘I’ve seen the way you people treat your women,’ she said, ‘and as far as I’m concerned you’re a bunch of Neanderthals who belong in caves. And while we’re on it, I didn’t know they let freaks into the SID.’

  I chuckled, slid the mag into my pistol and replaced it in its shoulder-rig. Then I followed her through the dimly lit corridor and down the stairs into the light. Ibram had already been transferred to a body bag, and someone had drawn the outline of the body on the floor in yellow chalk.

  The forensic team were packing up, and though Hammoudi and Marvin were still locked in discussion, I sensed that the atmosphere was more relaxed.

  Marvin glanced at us as we appeared. ‘So you’ve met?’

  ‘Sir, this man says he’s the investigating detective,’ Daisy said. ‘Could you please tell me what he’s doing on an FBI case?’

  Marvin grimaced. ‘It’s OK, Daisy, it’s all been straightened out. Colonel Hammoudi here has overall authority and he’s assigned Lieutenant Rashid to the case.’

  ‘But I’ve already been assigned to it, sir. I haven’t even had a chance to look at everything yet.’

  ‘No one’s taking you off the case, Daisy,’ Marvin said, ‘and if it’s any consolation, I sympathize. But I’ve just been on to the ambassador, and he’s anxious to avoid tension between the law enforcement bodies. We’re on the same side, after all.’

  Daisy stared at my baseball cap, a size too big, and pouted like a bad-tempered child. ‘So now we’re assisting kooks and weirdos,’ she muttered.

  A ghost of a smile played round Marvin’s downturned mouth. ‘The ambassador says let it go, and we agreed that the best thing is to let you two work together, sharing data. You’ll be reporting to the Colonel here, and I’ll be acting as liaison with the ambassador.’

  ‘What?’ Daisy gasped incredulously, ‘you mean partners? With that space cadet? Holy Jesus.’

  I groaned. ‘Do I really have to do this, Colonel?’ I asked Hammoudi. ‘I knew I should have stayed at Giza. I’m going to be the laughing stock of the team, working with this Barbie doll.’

  ‘How long have you been in Egypt, Miss Brooke?’ Hammoudi enquired.

  ‘It’s Special Agent Brooke,’ she said, ‘and I’ve been here a week.’

  I groaned again. ‘That’s all I need,’ I said, ‘a greenhorn Barbie.’

  ‘Actually I’m a counter-insurgency specialist.’

  ‘Yeah?’ I said. ‘Am I supposed to do a jig, or what?’

  ‘Sir, I don’t need this,’ Daisy said, appealing to Marvin. ‘This guy’s a kook.’

  ‘You wouldn’t believe it,’ I said, ‘but I still keep my eyes open, Special Agent.’ I brought out the leather pouch I’d found upstairs and held it up for inspection.

  ‘You missed it, and so did your forensic team. I think one of the perps dropped it when he ran.’

  ‘Jesus!’ Daisy said. ‘That’s pure speculation!’ But she looked embarrassed, I noticed. Marvin took the pouch and examined it with interest, turning it over in his hands.

  ‘What is it?’ he asked.

  ‘It’s an Islamic amulet,’ I said, ‘containing a verse from the Quran written by a holy man or faqi. The verse is inscribed on a tiny piece of paper that is sealed inside the pouch. Believers say the amulet’s got magic properties, and this type is supposed to give the wearer protection against knives and bullets. Now, I’ve seen a few of these things in my time, and as it happens I recognize this amulet. See the inscription on the side there? This thing belongs to a fundamentalist Islamic sect called the Sanusiya Brotherhood. The Sanusiya originated in Libya in the 1830s and became one of the most powerful organizations in the whole of North Africa.’

  All eyes were on me now. I could tell this was news, even to Hammoudi. ‘Go on,’ Marvin said, ‘this is hot stuff.’

  ‘Actually it’s not so hot,’ I said. ‘The sect was disbanded some time around the First World War. This amulet’s a museum piece. As far as I know there haven’t been any Sanusiya Brothers around for eighty years.’

  4

  Outside, the area beyond the barriers had already become a media circus. Gaping citizens were five deep, and local and foreign reporters had homed in like hyenas and were busy chatting up anyone who looked like he might have something to say. You could almost hear the word ‘terrorism’ humming like a mantra, and I knew if someone didn’t put the dampers on it pretty soon the incident would be blown up into another Luxor massacre. Hammoudi surveyed the scene grimly and marched up to the local TV camera like he fully intended to kick it over. The reporter — a young, hip Egyptian in jeans, suede boots and a cowboy shirt — thrust a microphone
at him like a sword and the crowd closed in for the kill, knocking the barriers aside. Videos and tape recorders whirred, and cameras popped. ‘Sir,’ the TV reporter said, ‘isn’t it true that the murdered man was Doctor Adam Ibram, the former NASA scientist, who was over here for a meeting of the Giza Millennium Committee?’

  ‘Yes,’ Hammoudi said, ‘Doctor Adam Ibram — an American scientist of Egyptian origin — was murdered in the early hours of the morning by unknown assailants.’

  ‘Unknown assailants?’ the reporter repeated, smiling. ‘Isn’t it possible that Doctor Ibram was murdered by Militants, who have already threatened to disrupt the millennium celebrations?’

  Hammoudi refused to be drawn. ‘As far as the police can ascertain, terrorism is not involved. I repeat, terrorism is not involved. The police Anti-Terrorist Unit has not been mobilized, and we are treating it as a criminal case.’

  I shifted nervously behind him, ignoring the microphones jabbed at me, and tried to keep my face out of the picture. A little way off, Marvin was surrounded by another school of media sharks, talking to a CNN camera — probably telling the same pack of lies.

  ‘Why’s the FBI in on this?’ the reporter asked Hammoudi. ‘Is this interference in Egypt’s affairs acceptable?’

  ‘The FBI team is attached to the US embassy here,’ the Colonel said. ‘Its function is to assist the local police with their investigation into the death of an American citizen.’

  Suddenly another reporter wearing a dark suit, a beard and a white turban elbowed his way to the front of the crowd and shoved a portable tape recorder almost into Hammoudi’s face. ‘Is it true that champagne is to be served at the so called millennium celebrations?’ he demanded furiously. ‘Is it also true that there is to be an orgy of eating and Western pop music at a time when most Egyptians are fasting during Holy Ramadan? Is it true that tickets are to cost four hundred dollars each — a year’s salary to many Egyptians?’

  ‘You’ll have to ask the organizers,’ Hammoudi said. ‘The year 2000 is a Western invention,’ the reporter went on, ignoring him. ‘It is meaningless to most Egyptians, both Muslim and Coptic Christian. Doctor Ibram was a Muslim — wouldn’t it be understandable if a fundamentalist sect decided he ought to be punished for his part in this desecration of Egypt’s heritage?’

  Hammoudi’s face stayed deadpan. ‘I told you terrorism is not involved,’ he said again, voice cold as a guillotine, ‘and that’s really all I have to say on the matter right now.’

  He turned on his heel and together we strode back to the teashop, where Daisy was waiting. I noticed her gaze falling on my right ear, and I reached up instinctively and covered the blemish there with the rim of my cap. That was a mistake. Her eyes fixed on the place and never left it until we were right in front of her.

  ‘That’s about it as far as the crime scene business goes,’ Hammoudi said briskly. ‘I know this isn’t an ideal situation for any of us, Special Agent, but believe me, we are on the same side. As Mr Marvin said, you’ll both be reporting to me, and your orders will come out of my office. And watch your mouths with the press. Those boys are squealing for blood as usual. I’m going back to the office now to make my initial report. I’ll leave you two to get to know each other.’

  ‘I think we should go talk to the waiter,’ Daisy said, ‘he might be able to give us a lead.’

  ‘An excellent suggestion,’ I said, ‘only there remains the little matter of communication. Since you don’t speak Arabic, how’re you going to talk to him anyway?’

  ‘Min gaal lek ana mush ‘arif ‘arabi,’ she said, her blue eyes flashing suddenly. ‘Who said I don’t know Arabic? Actually, I speak it fluently!’

  My mouth must have aped a goldfish. ‘You said this was your first time in Egypt?’ I protested.

  ‘Maybe you hadn’t noticed, sonny,’ she said, ‘but Egypt’s not the only Arabic-speaking country in the world. I’ve worked in Saudi Arabia, Kuwait, Bahrain, the Emirates, Oman, Israel and the Yemen. I have a master’s degree in Middle Eastern studies from Berkeley. I speak some Hebrew too.’ Her full lips pouted so antagonistically that for a minute I thought she was going to add: ‘And put that in your self-opinionated pipe and smoke it.’ Somehow I wouldn’t have blamed her if she had.

  Actually, I was still smoking it when I sat down in the passenger seat of her dinky little white Fiat Punto. ‘So,’ I started lamely, as we drove through the police barrier, ‘where’re you from?’

  ‘Monterey, California. It’s a small town — I guess you’ve never heard of it.’

  ‘I’ve been to California,’ I said, ‘and I know where it is, thank you very much.’

  ‘You mean they let you people out of your cages?’

  ‘From time to time. As it happens I’ve been on attachment with the San Francisco Police. And I tell you what — your California is the most racist, sexist society I’ve ever met.’

  ‘We’ve still got to go some to beat you boys.’

  ‘OK, so what’s a nice girl like you doing in the FBI?’

  She gripped the wheel with slender hands and pouted again. Her lips were so opulent that they gave an almost elongated look to the face that was amazingly expressive. I watched them fascinated as they formed and broke, and she saw me looking and flicked her plaited hair sideways with an angry snap of the head.

  ‘For a start, I’m not a “nice girl”,’ she said. ‘For a second, the FBI takes women these days. More than ten per cent of Bureau officers are female.’

  ‘Ten per cent! Am I supposed to be impressed?’

  ‘Listen, to you Arabs women are second class citizens, and you’re scared brainless of them. In Saudi they won’t even give women driving licences! I had a friend in Dubai whose fifteen year old daughter, a beautiful blonde, was out horseriding when a carload of Arab youths spooked the horse till she fell off, then beat her up. A fifteen year old kid! She wasn’t badly injured, but it was still one of the weirdest things I’d ever come across. I mean, rape I could have understood, but there was no sexual assault involved. It took me a long time to work out that they were so scared of the kind of power she had over them that they had to attack her. That’s how terrified you are of the “inferior sex”, and that’s why you keep your women veiled. It’s a kind of control.’

  ‘The veil is optional in Egypt,’ I said, ‘but a lot of women like it. They don’t want to be seen as sexual objects except by their husbands, and the veil earns them a lot more respect from men.’

  ‘Because men don’t find a shapeless lump as threatening as a beautiful blonde girl riding a horse.’

  ‘It wouldn’t happen here.’

  ‘Like hell! I’ve had my butt pinched so much in the past week I’m black and blue.’

  ‘Maybe you should try wearing a veil, then.’

  She flicked her hair aside again, and bared her lips over very white teeth as if she’d have liked to take a chunk out of my neck. ‘Don’t get clever with me, buddy boy,’ she snapped. ‘As far as I’m concerned you forced your way into this investigation. It might go down hunky dory with my chief, but I want to make it clear that I still regard myself as the investigating detective, and that I’m working with you under protest.’

  ‘Hey!’ I said. ‘If you think I want to waste my time escorting a greenhorn of the “inferior sex” you’re crazy. I can’t think why they chose you for the case.’

  ‘Because I’m the best they’ve got. I passed out top of my class at Quantico, which was ninety per cent men, and because I know more about the Arab world than all the other special agents here put together. Probably more than you, too.’

  I clapped my hands silently. ‘Congratulations! Why should Egypt tremble with heroes such as these to defend her!’

  Daisy set her lips into brooding mode and the effect was stunningly attractive. She squeezed the wheel till her knuckles paled, and I could see she was forcing herself to concentrate on the road. ‘Go to hell!’ she said.

  5

  There were US Marines
in full dress blues at the entrance to the embassy hospital facility in Garden City, and I had to concede that they belonged in a whole different ballgame from our blackjackets in their ill-fitting cast-off uniforms and dirty unlaced boots. If things had worked out differently, I thought, I might have ended up as one of these men. If my father had married my mother. If he’d taken us back with him to the States. If. If. If Your life seemed to turn on a pattern of conditionals, but I knew that was just how it appeared. Part of me had realized even as a kid that anyone who could abandon a child as my father had done wouldn’t have been worth growing up with anyway. I knew I’d been lucky. And I’d been doubly lucky, because I’d escaped the fate of an Aswan street-rat, the slow inevitability of turning from petty theft to drugs, extortion and murder, and got myself a life. I knew whom I had to thank for that, and I knew where my real loyalty lay.

  The first thing I noticed about the marine corporal behind the desk, though, wasn’t his immaculate uniform, but his politeness. At least, I thought, these guys didn’t need to act macho to prove how tough they were. Almost as soon as we’d shown our ID and signed the book, a male nurse in a starched labcoat arrived to escort us to Fawzi’s room.

  ‘How is he?’ Daisy asked.

  The nurse looked like the marine corporal in another guise — young, tall, clean-cut, crop-haired — then again, I thought, perhaps he was a marine corporal. You could never tell in a place like this. ‘He’s off the critical list. The danger of gunshot wounds in the thigh is that a whole bunch of main arteries run through there. Getting shot in the thigh is one of the easiest ways of bleeding to death. All you have to do to stop the victim pegging though, is hold a cloth over the wound. This guy can thank his lucky stars whoever was first on the scene realized that.’

  ‘Is he lucid?’ I enquired.

  The nurse laughed. ‘Lucid, I don’t know, but he’s been gabbling in Arabic to anyone who came near him for the past two hours. For a while there we even debated giving the guy a tranquillizer shot just to shut him up!’