They are watching me. They were there today, at the square. The two policemen from Ma’adi – Moonface and the tall one. I am certain they did not follow me there. But when I arrived, there they were, waiting, in the shop across the street, pretending to be customers. Somehow they knew about the rendezvous, the time and place.
I can only suspect that foul Kemetic, may Allah forgive his soul. He was the only one besides you, Claymore, who knew we were to meet. And yet, if anything he said can be believed, there was a third man calling for me. Who could he have been?
This afternoon, after leaving the square and having made very sure that no one could possibly have followed me, I went to the telephone and telegraph office in Ma’adi, and I called my friend in Paris. It might have been him, although I cannot understand how he might have obtained the Kemetic’s number. He was not in, and I did not leave a message.
Tomorrow, I will try again.
I hope you understood my signal. I must do it in a different way next time. And then, perhaps, afterwards, I can repay all those who I must put in danger, and perhaps God can find it in his wisdom to forgive me for what I have done, and for what I must do.
Symbiosis
Clay wandered the city until night fell then backtracked along the Nile, took the metro a few stops and wandered towards Zamalek.
Time was running out. He had to find Rania and get her away – out of Cairo, out of Egypt. Whatever had happened that afternoon at the square, he was now sure that the men following her were cops. They had that look, that air. Her signal back at the square was clear now. For he was now sure it had been a signal: Two o’clock, at the pyramids, Giza. It was a big place, teeming with tourists. They would be far less conspicuous there than on a Cairo street corner.
Clay had just reached the western abutment of the 26th July Bridge, and had stopped to check the traffic before crossing to the downstream side of the bridge, when he saw him. And this time, he had no doubt. It was the same figure – the one who had followed him the day before on the corniche. The man was standing in the darkness between streetlights, bracketed by a couple of parked cars. He was wearing a baseball cap and talking into a mobile phone. His face was obscured.
Clay reversed direction, and before the man had a chance to look up, he vaulted the bridge railing and landed on the embankment slope. Out of view, he moved beneath the bridge and picked his way across the rocks piled up around the abutment, emerging into the dense foliage on the upstream side. Half a dozen feluccas were tied up along the bank, and further along the dark shape of what was once a tourist barge floated beam to shore, boarded up and derelict. Clay moved along the embankment wall until he came to a place where the masonry had crumbled away. Big sycamores sent shadows scattering through the yellow streetlight. He climbed towards the street, stopping just below the lip. The man was still there, still on the phone, but looking out across the street now, towards where Clay had been, swivelling his head left and right.
From where Clay crouched, still in shadow, he could hear the man’s voice, the low murmur, but the words were lost. The man was close, a few strides away, his back turned.
Clay palmed the G21, checked the action. This was going to end here.
He emerged into the light, pushed into fractured shadow. The man was still looking away. He was right there. Clay closed, jabbed the G21 into the man’s kidneys.
‘Move and you die,’ Clay said. ‘Painfully.’
The man jumped, then froze. ‘Okay,’ he hissed. ‘Shit.’
Clay took two steps back and disengaged. ‘Turn around.’
The man complied, raising his hands in front of his chest as if to protect himself.
If Clay had had any doubt about the connection between whatever Rania was mixed up in and the AB’s move to eliminate Crowbar – and, by association, him – it was gone in that instant. The man standing before him was Crowbar’s contact from Kenya, the one who’d procured the Cessna for them; the Rhodesian Crowbar had only ever referred to as G.
‘Give me the phone,’ said Clay.
G held it out.
‘Drop it.’
The phone clattered to the asphalt.
Clay crushed it under his boot.
‘What are you doing here?’
‘Take it easy, man.’
‘Decided to take on Manheim’s contract?’ Clay said. ‘Well he’s dead.’
If anything, G looked even more malarial than when Clay had seen him in Mombasa. Sweat filmed his face, shone yellow in the lamplight. ‘You can’t kill the AB, man.’
‘You here to kill me?’
‘No. I swear.’ G opened his arms wide. ‘I don’t work for the AB, man. Check. I ain’t carrying. Zut, man. Nothing. If I was trying to kill you, don’t you think I’d be packing a slayer?’
Clay had already scanned G’s person for obvious signs of concealed weapons and had seen none. ‘Why, then?’
‘Looking for Crowbar. Need to talk to him, china.’
‘Bullshit.’
‘It’s the truth, man.’
‘Why not just ask me, then?’
G looked both ways. ‘Fucking AB, man.’
‘Make sense, G. And do it fast. You’re running out of time, broer.’
‘They’re everywhere, man. Gotta be careful. They see me talking to you, like now…’ G trailed off, glanced back towards the bridge. ‘I was going to approach you yesterday, on the street. Was about to. But fuck, the way you came at me. Shit. I was scared, man. What people say about you.’
Clay pushed down a pang. ‘How did you know I was here?’
‘That place in Mombasa you made a call from. Got a friend to listen in. Called that number your woman gave you myself. Too easy.’ G smiled, proud of himself.
Clay shook his head. Too easy.
‘Figured sooner or later you’d show up there. I followed you from the guy’s flat. The one you slayed.’
‘I didn’t kill him,’ said Clay. ‘He was dead when I got there.’
G smiled, nodded. ‘Sure, man.’
‘Asshole,’ barked Clay. ‘You took it on, didn’t you?’ Clay stepped back, tightened his finger on the trigger. ‘Why else would you be here?’
G shrank back, trying to make himself small. ‘Sure, man. I thought about it. The AB is offering a lot of money, especially now.’
‘Now?’
‘After what you and Crowbar did in Sudan.’ G wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of hand. ‘But like I said, man. That’s not why I’m here. I don’t work for those assholes. And killing…’ He looked down at Clay’s weapon. ‘Not my thing, man.’
‘So why are you here?’
‘Like I said, I need to talk to Crowbar. Got something to tell him.’
‘Tell me.’
‘I’d rather…’
Clay jabbed the gun into G’s side.
‘Easy, man. Easy. Okay.’ G paused, breathed. ‘There was a break-in at the company’s office in Luanda, two days ago. They took files, hard drives, everything. Crowbar’s business partner was killed.’
‘Jesus.’
‘I came to warn him. The AB is going after everyone in the company. He needs to disappear. Fast.’
‘I’ll tell him.’
G took a step back, swallowing hard. ‘Where is he?’
‘Disappeared.’ Laid him in a hole and put a rifle across his chest and pushed sand down into those empty, Kalahari-sky-blue eyes.
G glared at him.
‘I’ll see him in a couple of days and tell him then.’
G glanced left then right, as if he were looking for someone. ‘The AB are all over this, man. Couple of days may be too late.’
‘Can you get in touch with them?’
‘Who?’
‘The AB.’
‘I have contacts, sure.’
‘Then tell them you killed me. Collect the reward.’ Clay dangled the lure. It was worth a try. He didn’t have a lot of options. ‘I’ll match whatever they’re offering.’
G stared at him, wide-eyed. ‘You’re crazy. Not possible, man.’
‘I’m serious.’
G was shaking his head now, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. ‘They’ll want proof.’
‘Like what?’
‘Something convincing. Photographs. DNA.’
‘They have my DNA on file?’
‘I expect.’
‘Christ.’
‘A finger, maybe.’
‘I’m running out.’ Clay raised his stump.
G grinned. ‘Shit, yeah, sorry man. An ear would do.’
Clay shifted, looked into G’s eyes, tried to see something there. ‘So, you’ll do it?’
‘Look, man. Crowbar and me, we’re friends. Went through a lot of shit together. I know you’re a friend of his too. Still, I don’t know, man. I’ve made it a rule to stay as far away from those assholes as possible. If the AB found out I was lying, I’d be a dead man.’
A couple, arm in arm, left the bridge pavement and turned towards where Clay and G were standing in the shadows. Clay shifted the Glock into his jacket pocket, but kept it pointed at G.
After the couple had passed, he said: ‘Do it. Convince them I’m dead. Consider it a favour to Crowbar.’
‘And if I don’t?’
Clay jabbed the G21’s muzzle hard into G’s side. ‘Then you’re just as dead, broer. Only a lot sooner.’
G looked down at the bulge protruding from Clay’s coat and shook his head. ‘Shit, man. I was trying to do you guys a favour.’
‘Do yourself one.’
G shifted his weight to his left foot and hung there a moment. It was as if by putting an extra inch between himself and the Glock’s muzzle he might somehow avoid the danger it posed. ‘You’d have to disappear, man. I mean, really fucking vanish. No trace. Can you do that?’
‘Exactly what I intend to do, broer.’
‘I said, can you do it?’
‘All I need is a few days.’
‘And how do I know you’ll pay?’
‘Because it’s in my interest. If I don’t do this, the AB will keep hunting me. And if you don’t do this, I will kill you. Think of it as symbiosis.’
G looked down the street again, back over his shoulder. ‘You got that kind of kite?’
‘Don’t worry about that. Just do it.’
G rubbed his chin, convincing himself. ‘Okay, man. Okay. Deal. But make it fast. The AB have business here. They’re watching me. And trying to find you. You and that pretty crow of yours.’
Lights pulsed inside Clay’s head, blurred the peripheries of his vision.
‘The AB is looking for your journalist friend, too, Straker. Even if I help you, they’ll still want her.’
Clay drove the point of the Glock hard into G’s kidney. ‘You let me worry about that, G. Here’s the way it will work. Whoever your AB contact is, tell them you’re here looking for me. In two days, three at most, I’ll come to your hotel. You’ll get your DNA, and a down payment in cash. Then I disappear. When I know for sure that the AB thinks I’m dead, I’ll wire you the rest of the money … Too easy.’
‘You’re not giving me much choice.’
‘There’s always a choice.’
G rocked back and forth a moment, as if a sudden bout of vertigo had overtaken him. ‘Sure,’ he whispered. ‘Sure.’
‘Where are you staying?’
‘Ritz Carlton, on the Nile. Ask for Grayson.’
‘Business is good then.’
‘Always.’
Clay lowered the gun and leaned in close. ‘And G. You cross me, it will be the last thing you do.’
G tightened his mouth and forced a grin.
‘Now piss off. And stay out of my way.’ Clay turned and disappeared back the way he’d come, leaving G standing in the darkened street.
It wasn’t until next morning, as he woke to the smell of rising bread and the morning light streaming through the shutters, the sounds of traffic from the street below filling the room, that he realised how close he’d come to leading G to Atef’s flat. Now he regretted not having killed G when he’d had the chance. He could have dumped the body in the Nile. No one would have ever known. Would the Rhodesian have come all this way simply to warn Crowbar? He doubted it. The guy was lying, of that he was sure. But about what? G’s distress had been clear, his fear palpable. And yet, despite everything, Clay wanted to believe that there was hope, that there might be a future for him and Rania. Only by convincing the AB that he was dead – that they were both dead – could they live free of the gnawing fear that one day, somewhere, those faceless powers would catch up with them. At this point, G was his best shot.
Clay pushed himself up, pulled on his trousers, threw on the robe Atef had given him and went into the living room.
Atef waved him over from the kitchen. ‘You slept.’
Clay nodded. ‘Some.’
Atef bid him sit and pushed a plate of croissants and a cup of coffee in front of him.
Clay ate, drank. After a bit, he looked up. ‘I have another favour to ask, Atef.’ He could already feel the guilt pushing in on him, five fathoms of cold South Atlantic standing on his chest. When this was over, he would make it right somehow, bring things into balance. When it was over. He purged it all from his mind, killed the flutterings inside him. ‘I need scissors, a razor, a shirt, trousers, and a light jacket.’
Atef smiled. ‘You tire of being an Upper Egyptian.’ He smiled big. ‘Good. It does not suit you.’
Clay flicked the corner of a smile.
‘The shower is there,’ he said pointing to the far side of the room. ‘Everything you need is in the cupboard. Go. My brother is a tailor. His shop is just below us. I will return in a moment.’
Twenty minutes later Clay emerged from the bathroom shorn and clean-shaven, wearing the dark canvas trousers and blue shirt that Atef had handed in to him. The Glock was tucked into his waistband at the small of his back and the dark jacket hid the pistol’s bulk. With his stump thrust into the left pocket of the jacket, he looked almost normal, almost whole. ‘Tourist?’ he said.
‘Not quite,’ said Atef. ‘But better than before.’
A woman and a young boy, perhaps eight or nine years old, emerged from another room. Atef gathered them under his arms. ‘My family, Mr Clay.’
The woman and boy looked up at him. She was stout, plain-looking, with a lovely smile. The boy looked like his father.
Clay bowed, wished them peace.
‘Now, go,’ Atef said to his son. ‘Work hard.’
His wife and son left.
‘Mash’allah,’ said Clay.
‘I am blessed,’ said Atef. He poured more coffee, sat opposite Clay and put the dead man’s journal on the table.
‘Did you read it?’
Atef nodded. ‘As much as I could. Most of the Arabic is written in shorthand so it’s difficult to know what it says. Some of it I could read. Parts only.’ He opened the journal, flipped over a couple of pages and pointed to a sequence of hieroglyphs. ‘This, not.’
‘What can you tell me?’
‘It is like a diary, in order of time.’ Atef leafed back to the first page. ‘It starts in July of last year. Something about his friend coming to him with evidence. It mentions a plan to go to the independent press.’ He flipped forwards a few pages. ‘Much is religious – praise for the old gods. Then, here, some ramblings about the coming revolution.’ Atef closed the book. ‘It is like this, Mr Clay. Pieces of things only. I think this person was magnoon.’ He tapped his head. ‘Crazy.’
‘Any names?’
‘Two: Yusuf Al-Gambal. He is the young man in the photograph, the one I recognised, the scientist. The other was Hamid Al-Farouk, a Lebanese Frenchman.’
A shiver strung its way from Clay’s neck to his tailbone. ‘A lawyer?’
‘Yes, I think so.’
‘Jesus.’ Rania’s husband. Somehow it made perfect sense. ‘That photograph, in front of the courthouse. Him?’
‘I do not know. I have never seen him.’
Clay flicked on the camera, scrolled to the photograph and zoomed in on Hamid’s face. Prominent nose, dark, intense eyes, a shock of dark hair, mouth set flat, serious. The woman beside him, her face partially hidden.
‘Also, Mr Clay, there was another name: Al Assad. The Lion. It is mentioned several times.’
‘The Lion?’
‘He is the leader of Al-Gama’a al Islamiyya, an Egyptian Islamist group. He has been in the news many times in the last weeks. They say he is fighting for the people, against the control of the Consortium. They have exploded bombs in Alexandria and also here in Cairo. So far no foreigners have been hurt, but this may change. The government calls them terrorists.’
‘Was there anything else, Atef, about the court case?’
‘I am sorry, Mr Clay. Too much of it I could not read. Perhaps someone who knows the old language.’
‘Do you know anyone?’
‘I can try.’
‘Please, Atef. Try. It is important.’ Clay reached into his waist belt, pulled out Crowbar’s Jericho and placed the pistol on the table. ‘I want you to have this.’
Atef’s eyes widened. ‘It is so bad?’
‘Not yet, Atef. But if…’
Atef picked up the gun. ‘Maafi mushkilla,’ he said. No problem. ‘I understand.’
Clay stood. ‘I have to go now. I will be back, inshallah, tonight.’
Atef thrust the gun into his pocket. ‘God willing,’ he said.
The Impermanence of Life
It was a big place.
Clay arrived early, stood in line with the other tourists and bought his ticket. It was the first time since arriving in Egypt that he hadn’t felt conspicuous. The place teemed with Europeans, hundreds of them. A dozen languages collided, overlapped, cancelled. Not far away in the queue there were even a few Dutch guys – taller and fairer than he was. If indeed this was what Rania had meant when she’d made that half-second triangle with her two hands clasped close to her chest then it was a good choice.
Absolution Page 21
