Our footsteps were almost silent on the rubberized carpet that curved interestingly between walls of clean, unfaced stone. This place was state-of-the-art, I thought — a little oasis of modern Western medical practice in the middle of North Africa. Closed circuit TV cameras shifted angle slightly as we passed, almost invisible air coolers kept the internal temperature stable, fire doors opened automatically before us. Fawzi’s room had a sterile viewing window, through which we saw a stout, balding man lying in bed on starched cushions. His face was plump and sallow, and his eyes looked like peepholes buried in a mass of red and purple bruise tissue. Like Marvin said, he must have weighed more than three hundred pounds. A saline drip was attached to his arm and monitoring electrodes to his chest and the bridge of his nose, but despite all this he was apparently rambling to an attractive young nurse who was taking his temperature and trying her best to ignore him. At one stage he even tried feebly to pinch her bottom.
‘Now, you can tell that guy’s a Cairene,’ I chuckled, ‘a couple of hours ago he’s on the critical list, and already he’s pinching behinds. You’ve got to hand it to them —you just can’t keep them down.’
Daisy brooded. ‘Cave men quickly revert to their old habits,’ she commented icily.
‘Excuse me, Special Agent,’ the male nurse said suddenly, ‘we searched the patient’s clothes as a matter of routine when he was admitted. We found these little babies in his pockets.’ He held out five inch and a half long cubes the colour of gravy browning, covered in clingfilm.
Daisy cocked a knowing eye at me. ‘So our friend makes a little something on the side,’ she said.
I picked up one of the cubes. It was Lebanese Red — the best quality grass on the streets. Then suddenly it made sense. ‘I should have remembered the name,’ I told Daisy. ‘Fawzi Shukri — I’ve heard of him. Small time grafter who peddles dope to tourists. My team’s picked him up a couple of times, but he always had something interesting to say, so they let him off with a warning.’
‘A ten dollar snitch?’
‘You got it, only here they come cheaper.’ I flashed the nurse a grateful smile. ‘Thank you,’ I told him, ‘these little guys here are going to make it very difficult for Mr Fawzi to withhold the truth.’
‘He’s still a patient,’ he said, ‘and I have to ask that you don’t overtax him.’
‘Oh I won’t,’ I said, pushing through the glass doors, just as the female nurse inside was leaving. The fat man didn’t move — probably he couldn’t anyway, but his slit eyes followed my progress towards the bed.
‘Lord help us,’ he whined feebly, almost to himself, ‘I smell SID. I should have known the fuzz would turn up. I’m a sick man, Your Presence. I haven’t done anything.’ His half-closed eyes fell on Daisy as she slipped in behind me. ‘Help me, miss,’ he stammered, ‘this cop is going to kill me!’
‘It’s all right, Fawzi,’ I said, ‘you’re not under arrest. You’re a hero. Tried to save a foreign visitor from the thugs.’
Fawzi’s mouth formed a big ‘O’ of surprise. ‘Me?’ he said. ‘I was in an accident. I didn’t see nothing.’
‘Don’t you want to help us nail the men who shot you?’ Daisy asked softly.
‘You’re a cop too?’ Fawzi said. ‘An Afrangi woman cop! That’s all I needed!’
‘What happened?’ I demanded.
‘It was an accident, Your Presence. I don’t know anything. Born and bred in Khan al-Khalili, that’s me. We go by the Law of Silence there, you know that? If I was to blab they might finish me off next time.’
‘Don’t give me that Law of Silence bullshit,’ I snapped. ‘They didn’t finish you off when you blabbed to the SID officers who picked you up for dope peddling, did they?’
‘That wasn’t me, Your Presence, that was another Fawzi. It’s a dirt common name in Cairo.’
I opened my hand and showed Fawzi the five cubes of hashish. ‘Down to selling five pound deals now, Fawzi? Not exactly big-time, is it?’
‘They’re not mine.’
‘They were found in your pockets.’
‘Someone must have put them there, Your Presence. I don’t know nothing about it, honest. I don’t know nothing about anything.’
Daisy and I exchanged glances. Only minutes ago we’d had our knives out, but this was business, and we were both professional enough to know it was time for the good-cop-bad-cop routine. Daisy sat down on the chair next to the bed and leaned over Fawzi, smiling sweetly, showing her white teeth. ‘Look Mr Fawzi,’ she said, ‘you’re in a US government facility. This officer can’t touch you here. You’re not under arrest, just like he said. Now, tell us what happened in the back room of the tea shop. Tell us all you remember and I’ll persuade this guy to forget the dope, OK?’
Fawzi shifted his eyes painfully from Daisy to me. Then he grinned weakly. Tukra flu mishmish,’ he said. ‘Tomorrow in the apricots.’
Daisy looked at me, mystified. ‘What the hell does that mean?’ she asked.
‘It’s a expression they have in Cairo,’ I said. ‘Loosely translated, it means “pull the other one”.’
‘Look, Mr Fawzi,’ Daisy said, ‘anything you say stays between us. No need for anybody to know.’
‘I’m saying nothing.’
‘You owe it to the dead man.’
‘Owe it? The guy did nothing for me. I don’t even know who he was.’
Daisy sighed, bowed her head and cupped it in her hands sorrowfully. It was a lovely act, I thought. ‘If you go on like this, there’s nothing much I can do for you,’ she said. She slapped her hands back into her lap and stood up as if she’d suddenly come to a difficult decision. I was rapt in admiration.
‘No, wait,’ Fawzi pleaded, ‘don’t leave me with him. I know SID. I know what they do. They string people up naked and poke electric cattle prods up their arses. Don’t go. I’ll tell you what happened.’
Daisy sat down again. ‘All right,’ she said, taking a notebook and pencil from her handbag. ‘You’re a good guy, Mr Fawzi. No one’s going to poke you with a cattle prod while I’m here. Let’s start with what you were doing in the john.’
Fawzi giggled. ‘What does anyone do in a john?’ he said.
‘But you weren’t answering nature’s call, were you Mr Fawzi?’ I glanced at her in surprise, knowing instinctively that she was right but wondering how the hell she’d been so sure. I realized suddenly that it was intuition — the kind only the best detectives have — and my admiration increased.
‘OK,’ Fawzi said, ‘but it goes no farther than here, right?’
‘Right.’
‘OK, see, I went in there to cut this grass I’d just scored from a dealer. It’s good Red Leb — the very best. All right, I’m not big time, but a man’s got to make a farthing to feed his wife and kids.’
I had to suppress a guffaw. I’d have bet a tenner that Fawzi wasn’t even married. ‘See,’ he went on, anxious to talk now, ‘a lot of tourists come to Sayyidna al-Hussayn after they’ve toured the bazaars, knackered, and sit down at the teashops for a rest. A lot of them ask to smoke a hubble bubble. Most haven’t done it before, and they think it’s sort of romantic — the mysteries of the East and all that baloney. Of course the teashops only serve tobacco, but when I see a likely type I sidle up and whisper to them that it’s not the real thing. If they want to have a real experience, I say, they should try a cube of hashish with it. Some are horrified, but it’s surprising how many go for it.’
‘Right, so you’re in the john carving up your deals, and what happened next?’
‘Well I hear the connecting door bang open and then footsteps, and of course, I’m all of a jitter. I wonder if it’s the rozzers come to nab me. So I shove the dope in my pocket and crouch there sort of holding my breath. Then I realize that the guy who’s come in is panting real heavy — kind of sobbing, you know. Sounds like he’s having a stroke or something — puffing and groaning real bad, he is. So I think, well if this is the fuzz it’s a bloody good
act. It can’t be. If they knew I was there they’d have smashed in the door by now. But then another thought strikes me. What if this geezer does drop dead, and the fuzz arrive and try to pin it on me? Better make a run for it now. Then there’s the click of the phone being lifted and I hear the guy dialling. “So that’s it!” I think to myself — “he’s calling an ambulance!” I hang on just a second more to make sure this isn’t some set—up, then I hear a coin drop and this wheezy voice saying, “Monod, is that you?” in English. I’m no English speaker, of course, but in my line of work you’re bound to pick up a smattering. That’s exactly what it sounded like: “Monod, is that you?” I relaxed a bit then. The guy’s a foreigner, probably a tourist, and he’s made contact with someone. Now’s the time to make a run for it. I slide back the bolt, open the door, and see this old guy on the telephone with his back to me, chest heaving, gripping the phone like he’s trying to crush it. I’m just about to sneak past, when the door busts open and there’s three hooded guys standing there with these little submachine guns, sinister like. Perfect timing, I’m thinking. The pigs set me up good and proper this time. I’m about to give myself up, when they start shooting at the old geezer on the phone. Funny, the guns made this kind of whizzing sound, like electricity. Hardly any noise at all. Surprise, Fawzi! It wasn’t you they was after! Then everything happened so quickly. The old guy pitches over, sort of scrabbling at the air with his hands, trying to scream. The old throat’s working overtime but nothing’s coming out, see, and there’s blood spurting all over everywhere, including me. Then, just as he hits the floor, the old boy grunts, “Firebird”. Just one word, “Firebird” — like that.’
‘You sure about that, Fawzi?’ I cut in. Firebird. Phoenix, I thought. I have gone forth as the phoenix in the hope of eternal life.
‘That’s what it sounded like,’ Fawzi groaned, ‘I mean it’s a pretty simple word, isn’t it? Fire and bird? You don’t need to have studied English at some fancy school to recognize it.’
‘OK,’ Daisy said. ‘What happened then?’
‘Well suddenly I feel like someone’s just whopped me in the legs with a barbell, and crump! Next thing I know I’m lying on the floor near the old guy, who’s still wheezing away. Suddenly this thug in a shamagh waltzes over cool as a cucumber to the old geezer, slips out a pistol and lets him have it right in the head. Wham! Almost blew my eardrums out. Then the gunman’s looking at me in this beady way, and I remember thinking, “I’m a goner. Forgive me Lord for all my sins!” Suddenly there’s a shout of “Police!” and a rumpus outside. The gunman sticks the pistol in his belt pretty’ niftily, and the three of them scarper out through the curtain and up the stairs as quick as you like. Bloody good job they did, too, else Fawzi wouldn’t be here talking to you. The next one to get it in the head would have been me.’
‘OK,’ Daisy said, almost purring. ‘That’s excellent, Mr Fawzi. You’ve been really helpful.’
Fawzi moaned suddenly. ‘You know, the Khan used to be a pretty peaceful place. OK, there’s always been street grafters, but nothing real serious. But just lately there’s been a whole bunch of weird things happening. Take the ghoul, for example.’
‘What ghoul?’ I asked quickly.
‘The one as has been haunting the Khan at night. Every few months you hear that another kid has been pounced on and all the blood sucked out of his body. I met someone who’d seen it — a great spider thing he said it was, with one leg like a person’s and the other like a donkey’s. They reckon it hides out in the Underworld until it gets hungry, then it comes up thirsting for blood.’
Daisy looked at me and raised an eyebrow. I rolled my eyes in response. ‘OK,’ I said, ‘we can go into that another time. Right now I have just a few questions. Then we’ll leave you in peace.’
‘What about the dope?’
‘I don’t think we’ll need to worry too much about that.’ Fawzi grunted. ‘What do you want to know?’
‘These three guys,’ I said, ‘how were they dressed?’
‘They had shamaghs wrapped round their faces, but they weren’t ordinary ones. Most shamaghs are red or black. Hajis wear bright green ones, but these were olive green like the army wears in the desert. And that’s not all. These guys were dressed exactly alike in those waxed coats — you know, with the flaps over the shoulders. All black. Looked spooky, like a bunch of undertakers. Oh, and the one who gave the old fellow the farewell shot in the nut had like a little leather box tied to his arm — an amulet like the old—time holy men used to wear. I remember thinking it looked way out of place on the guy.’
‘I glanced at Daisy. ‘Would you recognize any of the killers again?’ she asked.
Fawzi closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them. With the mass of swellings around the eye sockets he looked almost like one of those teddy bears that closed and opened its eyes when you tilted it over, I thought.
‘They were hooded, like I said,’ Fawzi continued, ‘and I never got a look at their faces —’
Suddenly the swing door opened and the male nurse put his head in. ‘Sorry, Special Agent,’ he said, ‘but you’ll have to wind it up. The patient’s lost a lot of blood, and you’ve already had too much time.’
Daisy put her notebook away and got up. She tossed her long plait of blonde hair backwards and pouted at him with her wonderful lips. She had a way of setting her mouth as if she was actually smiling through the pout, so that you couldn’t tell if she was mad at you or giving you the come on. It was a look so enticingly feminine that for a moment all of us — even the male nurse — watched her fascinated. A wave of raw yearning washed over me, so quick and powerful that I couldn’t prevent it. I felt a hotness growing in my groin and I struggled to forget how long it was since I’d actually had a woman. In some lights, I told myself, Special Agent Brooke might be not only pretty, but very, very attractive indeed.
‘Well, goodbye, Mr Fawzi,’ she said, ‘and thanks.’
‘But it goes no further than you,’ Fawzi whispered, ‘and you forget the dope, right?’
‘Right.’
After Daisy had gone, I laid the five deals of hashish on Fawzi’s counterpane.
‘Here, my friend,’ I said, ‘a present from the SID. Enjoy.’
When we drove out of the gate in the white Fiat, I caught a glimpse of a tall Arab woman dressed in loose black robes from head to foot, standing in the shade of the concrete walls. She stared at me through holes in a vampire-like mask of the type some Bedouin tribes wore, and in a flash I was reminded of the woman I’d seen in the vision I’d had while touching Ibram’s dead hand. Then I was distracted by the buzz of Daisy’s mobile, and when I looked again, the woman was gone.
6
‘It’s for you,’ Daisy said, flipping the mobile into my hand, ‘Colonel Hammoudi.’
I fumbled with the controls cursing, and finally put the speaker to my mouth. ‘Sammy here, Colonel.’
‘Good.’ Hammoudi’s voice came back at me, metallic with rasping bass notes. ‘The US embassy’s just released the information that Ibram was staying at the Mena Palace Oberoi at Giza before he died. I want you to get up there and see if you can get anything from the staff, and find out if he left any baggage.’
‘Sir, I could do that job alone,’ I said. ‘It’s nearly five. I’m sure Miss Brooke here needs her beauty sleep.’
‘Oh please!’ Daisy said, her voice loaded, ‘and it’s Special Agent Brooke to you.’
‘Nice try, Sammy,’ Hammoudi said, ‘but you work together. Those are the best terms I could get with the US ambassador.’
‘I read you, sir.’
‘Any joy with Fawzi?’
‘Said the gunmen were wearing long black coats and military-style shamaghs, and he confirmed that one of them was wearing an amulet. It’s sounding more and more like a Militant hit job.’
‘No shit?’ Hammoudi said, impatiently. ‘Anything else?’
‘Two things. Ibram was on the phone to a guy called Monod when he
was stiffed. That name mean anything to you?’
‘Not off hand. I’ll run it through records. What was the other thing?’
‘Ibram’s last words. According to Fawzi he said “Firebird” just before he died.’
‘What in hell is that supposed to mean?’
‘Could mean anything or nothing. Ibram was coughing up blood at the time and in my experience that can lead to some very erratic behaviour. Anyway, the only Firebird I know is an American car. Maybe Fawzi got it wrong — the guy’s not exactly a fluent English speaker.’
‘OK, keep me posted.’
I handed the phone back to Daisy, who put it away in her bag one-handed still doing sixty along the Corniche. Suddenly a whole family — mother, father and two small kids — made a kamikaze rush across the road in front of us, and Daisy slammed on the brakes. She’d been driving one-handed and for a second I thought the car would go out of control, but it simply skidded with a squeal of tyres. For the second time that day, I was impressed with Daisy’s speed. I was about the world’s worst driver, and they’d run in front of us so abruptly I was certain I’d have ploughed straight into them.
‘Jesus H. Christ!’ she said. ‘Don’t you have subways here?’
‘A little item neglected when they planned this great city,’ I grinned, ‘I suppose they thought no one’d have to walk anymore.’
‘So what does the great Hammoudi have to say?’ she asked, inching the vehicle forward again.
‘Our orders are to hit the Mena Palace Oberoi hotel,’ I said. ‘That’s where Ibram holed up before he died. It’s at Giza, right at the foot of the pyramids — about a half-hour drive from here.’
‘Oh boy! So I get to see the pyramids at last!’ She looked so pleased with herself and so childishly enthusiastic that I almost felt sorry to disillusion her. Almost.
‘Not today you don’t, sweetheart,’ I said. ‘It’ll be nearly dark by the time we get there, and anyway they close the site at four o’clock.’
Firebird Page 5
