The Egyptian

by Layton Green

  There was only one article with a photo of Al-Miri, at a symposium on biomedical gerontology six months after the name change. The symposium had been partially funded by New Cellular. Viktor had Ammon print this article.

  Viktor thanked Ammon, left a large tip over his protestations, and wished him well with his law career.

  His next stop: the Cairene police department. Viktor arrived at central police headquarters, a dull grey building stuck in the middle of some god-awful crowded section of downtown. Viktor flashed the detective’s card he’d been given the night before, and again presented his Interpol ID. Fifteen minutes later a brisk, handsome man in his forties stood in front of Viktor, taking in his height with suspicious eyes.

  “Yes? I am Detective Kassem,” the man said, his thick Cairene accent mashing the English words into a clump. “How can I help?”

  “My name is Viktor Radek. I work with Interpol, and I’m here concerning a report filed by the Bulgarian authorities concerning a triple murder with possible connections to Egypt.”

  Viktor pushed a fax across the table to the detective. He studied it and shrugged. “And?”

  “Do you know a Cairene businessman named Zahur Al-Miri Haddara? He’s the CEO of New Cellular Technologies, a biotech company in Cairo.”

  “No.”

  “Could you perform a criminal background check?”

  Even though Grey’s check had come up clean, a local check could never hurt, and the Egyptian police had a reputation for not practicing full disclosure with international authorities.

  “Our resources are not for random inquiries. There are proper channels for this. Now, if you’ll excuse me—”

  “I was given your name because I was told you’re working this case. I have reason to believe this man might be connected to the Interpol inquiry you see before you. An Interpol inquiry is by definition not a random inquiry, and by definition an international police priority. If you don’t wish to help me, I can make a phone call to Interpol, who will in turn contact your supervisor.” Viktor pushed another piece of paper across the desk, a copy of the photo from the Internet café. “If you would run a background check on Mr. Haddara, Interpol will be very grateful.”

  The detective snatched the piece of paper off the desk and walked away. He returned in fifteen minutes, and didn’t bother to sit. “This man has no record, and is a respectable citizen and businessman. What evidence do you have against him?”

  Viktor tapped the desk. His hands were tied at this juncture. He had only Grey’s word as evidence, and he couldn’t risk bringing Grey’s name into the equation just yet. One could never tell with whom the loyalties of local police were aligned. “This man was in New York last week, and I have reliable eyewitnesses placing his employees near the scene of the crime in Bulgaria.” Viktor passed his own card to the detective. “If you discover anything of note concerning this man or his associates, please contact me.”

  The detective gave a curt nod and retreated into the interior of the station.

  • • •

  The detective called Viktor at ten that evening, when Viktor was halfway through a bottle of absinthe he had picked up on Sharia Setta. The detective grudgingly admitted that he had double-checked Al-Miri’s background. Nothing questionable had been found, but when he passed the photo around the station, another detective recognized someone standing near Al-Miri. He recognized him because of his distinctly short and wide stature.

  The name of this man was Nomti Qasem. The officer had recognized him because he’d arrested him in connection with the brutal assault of a man in a bar. It had apparently started as a bar fight, but Nomti had beaten the man to death and served two years in prison for it.

  The detective’s background check on Nomti revealed a disturbing picture. This man, the detective told Viktor, likes to hurt people. He has slipped through the cracks of society, a violent criminal at best, a psychopath at worst.

  Nomti Qasem’s story, as garnered from police files: an absence of birth or identification records suggested the childhood of a street urchin. He was arrested and jailed numerous times in his youth for a variety of offenses, ranging from assaults and robberies to a string of even more troubling arrests for cruelty to animals. Not an easy thing to get arrested for in Egypt, the detective said. A neighbor in the slum where Nomti once squatted had reported him to the police, and the police found the remains of dozens of animals in a field behind Nomti’s cardboard box.

  Nomti was conscripted into the Egyptian military, and sent to a barbaric training camp reserved for juvenile offenders. He was written up numerous times for using unnecessary violence, and only lasted as long as he did because of the military’s occasional need for Nomti’s violent proclivities. He was dishonorably discharged after he brutally assaulted a new recruit who turned out to be the son of a Cairene politician.

  After the military, Nomti joined a traveling carnival as a strongman, probably because a traveling carnival was the only employment he could find with a physical abnormality and a dishonorable discharge. This was on record because a year into that job he was arrested for the alleged rape and beating of one of the animal trainers. The trainer decided at the eleventh hour that her story had changed, and Nomti was merely fired. There were a few more minor arrests, a few missing years, and then the altercation that had led to his prison sentence. He was released eight years ago, and his arrest record quieted.

  “Then what happened?” Viktor had asked.

  “A curious thing,” the detective had said.

  Somehow, Nomti had been appointed chief of security at a private company. The name of the company was New Cellular Technologies.

  – 52 –

  Grey left the hotel in a foul mood. When Viktor arrived, Grey introduced him to Veronica and left them in the lounge. Veronica wished Grey a cold good luck and picked up a newspaper, leaving him standing beside her chair feeling foolish.

  Had he not said a proper goodbye? Viktor had been standing there, and Grey hadn’t known what to say.

  Jax and Stefan met him by the door, and Jax put an arm around Grey’s shoulder as they started walking. Stefan fell into step behind them.

  Grey’s eyes roamed the streets. “How far’s this place?”

  Jax said, “You look even more serious than usual. Trouble in paradise? She’s a feisty one, for sure.”

  “She’s a good person,” Grey mumbled.

  “A good person? Are you a monk, also? Shaolin maybe? Did you take a vow of blindness? She’s hot as shit is what she is. And she thinks you built the pyramids single-handedly, if you know what I mean.”

  “She really doesn’t.”

  “Oh, but she does. I tried to cozy up to her last night—sorry about that—and you’d think I was wearing a Nazi uniform and sprouting horns. I’ve seen the way she looks at you when you’re not looking. But hell, who can say what moves one man and what moves another?” He removed his arm and cracked his knuckles. “It’s a bastard thing, love.”

  The conversation had the subtle edge of impending danger, frivolous words tossed about to lessen tension. The problem was, it wasn’t lessening Grey’s tension. He picked up the pace. He soon saw a sign with Arabic lettering, an arrow and a depiction of a cemetery. “That’s the way?” he said, and Jax clicked his tongue.

  They entered the bedlam of Islamic Cairo. Grey cringed at the crowded streets, so narrow the tops of the three and four story contiguous buildings on either side of the mazelike alleyways almost met at the top, blocking the sun. Someone could slip a knife in their backs anytime they wanted. Grey kept his hands at the ready and his eyes on ferret-like alert.

  They moved through the enormous bazaar, wares and trinkets of every imaginable kind hanging from doorways and windows. Poles strung with carpets and silks stretched across the alleys, casting the quarter into even more shadow. The smell of spice and sheesha mingled with the acrid sizzle of fried offal. An endless stream of vendors called out to them as they passed, beckoning them into shadowy
interiors, offering tea with grimy hands and obsequious smiles.

  The teeming commerce gradually gave way, replaced by even narrower streets and even more decrepit buildings, although Grey hadn’t thought either was possible. The stench of trash and raw sewage replaced the intoxicating spices, the shrewd faces on the streets turned grim.

  “Almost there,” Jax said. “Ever been to the City of the Dead?”

  “No.”

  “It’s more of this, with tombstones. A big sprawling ghetto in a cemetery. Five cemeteries, actually, that run together.”

  They walked for another fifteen minutes, deeper into the slums, and then passed under the shadow of a huge complex Jax pointed out as The Citadel. They reached the end of an alleyway, followed Jax to the right, and then Grey caught his breath.

  Jax had not done it justice. Stretching into the lingering dusk as far as Grey could see, thousands of shanties and mud-brick dwellings rose out of a sea of tombs, many of the decrepit homes built literally within the crypts and mausoleums, life and death interwoven in Dickensian frenzy.

  • • •

  Veronica watched Grey leave with mixed emotions. The twinge of unease in her stomach grew stronger the further away he walked. She debated returning to her room, but her shot nerves were even worse when she was by herself.

  She started to order a drink, then decided against it. Alcohol would just make her start thinking about what Nomti did to her in her apartment, or that scene out of a horror movie in Stefan’s lab, or the thing she saw in the park outside her window.

  God, Veronica, get a hold of yourself. It was put there to scare me, and nothing more.

  But what the hell was under those bandages?

  These people and this foreign place will not get to me. Grey is going to find that monster that was about to rape me. He’ll find him and kill him. We’ll find the test tube, the police will arrest the entire twisted company, and I’ll go home and write the story and my life will change forever. I can almost taste it, like the edge of a chocolate soufflé waiting to be bit into.

  He’ll change, too. I’ll play so hard to get I’ll drive him insane. It’s easy, it’s just a game. I’m going to win, and he’ll never even know I was playing.

  Why am I even thinking like this? Love isn’t real. Nature is playing me, pulling the marionette strings, and I deny her fascist rule right this very second.

  • • •

  They picked their way through the City of the Dead, Grey still in disbelief that so many people lived in a cemetery. The life of the residents had adapted to the environment: clotheslines were strung between crypts, gravemarkers served as tables and chairs, overflowing sewage tanks sat inside open vaults.

  They walked for a long time, until the number of habitants dwindled. They passed a few junkies hunched over tombstones or sitting in piles of rubbish, and then they were alone in the semi-darkness. Light from a gibbous moon reflected off the crypts with a strange blue glow.

  Jax pointed at a Mosque-shaped mausoleum a hundred yards ahead. “That’s the one.”

  “This is where Dorian does business?” Stefan said, his eyes a bit wild.

  “Dorian’s a very careful man.

  They started forward, then Jax put a hand on Stefan’s chest. “Better if you wait here. I don’t want to spook Dorian. I’ll ease the way and call for you.”

  When they were halfway to the mausoleum Grey noticed a patch of white, brighter than the dulled stone of the mausoleum. As they drew closer Grey realized it was a dinner jacket, and the man wearing it was sitting on a small ledge with his arms folded, his back against the wall of the mausoleum.

  “There’s my boy,” Jax said, and Grey heard the click of a safety. “Just in case,” Jax said.

  They were twenty feet away, and Dorian still hadn’t acknowledged their presence. Dorian was a huge man, his crossed arms stretching the fabric of his suit. Grey didn’t see anyone else; he assumed Dorian had bodyguards in place nearby. “Evening,” Jax called out.

  They took a few more steps towards him, and then Grey stopped moving. He had noticed two things at the same time. “Jax,” he said quietly. “Look down.”

  Jax looked down, his eyes widening at the tiny red dot in the center of his chest that matched the one on Grey.

  “Fuck,” Jax said.

  A slew of men rose from behind the tombstones surrounding the mausoleum, all carrying handguns with laser sights. Jax dropped his gun and put his palms out, and Grey swore to himself as he continued staring in morbid fascination at the second thing he had noticed: the way Dorian’s head lolled too far forward, his chin resting against his chest as if asleep.

  Grey heard footsteps approaching from behind. He could do nothing as rough hands grabbed him, and then pain exploded in the back of his head.

  • • •

  Veronica glanced over at Viktor. He was watching the front entrance, but not with the scary intensity Grey would. Viktor was gazing like his mind was elsewhere. His somber black suit and imposing frame looked out of place among the gaggle of brightly colored, chittering tourists.

  He had a calming presence about him, an air of professorial control and hidden knowledge. At another time that might have annoyed her, but now she was glad for it.

  He ordered and handled his wine like someone who came from money, even though he had barely touched it. He had ordered it out of good manners to the hotel—another sign of wealth.

  She might as well pry while they waited. “Grey mentioned that he met you while working on a case in Zimbabwe?”

  Viktor tilted his head to look at her. “That’s right.”

  “He said the case almost killed you and Grey. Wasn’t there a girl involved as well, that he was seeing?”

  “Nya Mashumba. Our local liaison.”

  “I knew it,” Veronica muttered. “What kind of case was it?”

  Viktor smiled thinly. Before he could answer, they both noticed someone approaching the hotel at a fast clip. The person drew closer, and she saw that it was Stefan.

  “That’s strange,” Veronica said. “Why is he alone?”

  – 53 –

  Veronica knew something was wrong. Stefan was walking too fast, hunched too far over, glancing from side to side. She slipped out of her chair and met him as he walked into the hotel. One look at his face and her stomach went into freefall.

  “Is Grey—”

  “My room,” Stefan said without breaking stride, his accent thicker than normal.

  They took the stairs to the third floor. As soon as they entered Stefan’s room he punched the wall and started muttering in Bulgarian. Veronica tried to calm him, but he shrugged her off. The shaken composure of the normally even-keeled Stefan frightened her. “Where’re Grey and Jax? Stefan! Calm down and tell us what’s going on.”

  Viktor was watching in silence. Stefan put a hand on the wall, and Veronica noticed it was trembling. His nostrils flared as he took deep breaths. “When we arrived at the meeting place, Jax asked me to wait behind. He didn’t want to startle the contact with too many people.”

  Veronica’s voice rose. “Stefan, where are they? Are they injured?” Oh God, if anything had happened to Grey…

  “I watched them walk to the contact. The contact was sitting down, his back against a crypt. He never moved. I believe he was dead. I knew something was wrong, and I—I couldn’t move. I should have run to them.”

  “What happened?”

  “Many men with guns rose up from the tombs and surrounded them. Someone hit Grey on the head, and he collapsed.”

  Veronica covered her mouth with her hand. She felt light, disembodied. Stefan’s next words floated away from her.

  “Jax put his hands over his head and someone hit him too. That’s all I saw.” He looked away. “I ran. I found a taxi and asked him to stop five blocks away to make sure I wasn’t followed.”

  “You gave them a chance by coming here,” Viktor said. “There was nothing you could’ve done.”

  Stefan slum
ped to the floor. Veronica heard the words leave her mouth, but she didn’t feel them. “Do you think that they’re… that Grey is…”

  “No. I believe they wanted to capture them.”

  Veronica felt a flood of emotion pour through her, and she bit down on her lip when she started to sob. She knew in that moment, with the certainty of the heart, that she loved him. She loved him and he might be gone.

  Viktor’s heavy brow was creased, but his voice held steady. “Come,” he said. “It’s not safe here. Grey or Jax might be carrying something that could identify the hotel.” Viktor helped Stefan to his feet. “We’re going to the police.”

  • • •

  No one said a word in the taxi. Veronica felt ill as Viktor led them through the front entrance of the police station and asked for Detective Kassem. Viktor showed his card and stressed that it was an emergency, although it was unclear if anyone understood what he was saying.

  After an interminable wait a handsome plain-clothes detective entered through the front door, spotted Viktor, and curled his finger. He led them to his office, and Stefan relayed the events again.

  Detective Kassem tapped his pen. “Did you see Mr. Haddara or Mr. Qasem at the cemetery?”

  “Who?”

  “Al-Miri and Nomti,” Viktor said.

  Stefan spit his words. “The short man was there. He hit Grey with his gun.”

  The detective frowned and picked up the phone. He dialed and had a lengthy conversation in Arabic which included an abundance of hand-waving. When the conversation was over he replaced the receiver. “Egyptian police take assaults against Americans very serious, and this man has police record. Your statement is sufficient for us to visit these men and ask question. You need to come with me to make identification. According to your story, it was dark, and you were far. Perhaps these businessmen are not the men you see.”

  • • •

  With every passing minute Veronica felt Grey slipping further away, as if she were having a nightmare and they were in a dark water, his fingers just outside her grasp, floating into the void.