Effendi a-2

by Jon Courtenay Grimwood

  “You asked her?”

  “No, of course I didn’t ask her. You don’t ask children. She was included on the invitation to Ashraf Bey.”

  Terrific. Zara’s glance slid to the empty chairs. Place names still showed who should have sat in them, though the maître d’ had insisted on whisking away the table silver when he realized that Hamzah’s missing guests were likely to remain that way.

  “You didn’t really expect him, did you?” Hamzah asked his daughter gently. There was no anger in his voice, no accusation. Just the acceptance of basic facts. Chief among them was that the last time Ashraf drove out to Villa Hamzah, she’d flatly refused to see him. Actually, Raf hadn’t driven himself at all, Avatar was the one behind the wheel and she’d been cross about that too.

  Expect him? She expected nothing.

  That Av was missing was a given, Zara knew that. Her father only ever saw the kid if he knew her mother was busy elsewhere. And even that was a recent development, poor little bastard. Which was what Av was. In a city where polygamy was normal, to be illegitimate was by definition to be poor, one of the unwanted.

  “Here,” said the major as he handed her a linen napkin, spotless and uncreased, “you might want this . . .”

  Zara looked at him blankly.

  “You’re crying,” he said.

  She was too, which might explain the soft edges to the streets outside.

  CHAPTER 10

  7th October

  The girl at the window was unmistakable as the restaurant car trundled by. Her desolation so real that Raf could almost taste it through glass.

  Been there, felt that.

  He wore dark glasses from habit, a leather coat lined with spider’s silk and boots with toe caps and black metal heels. Behind the Armani shades his eyes had four colour receptors, as they had done from birth, one more than strictly human. His fourth was in ultraviolet, though he could recalibrate across the entire spectrum.

  Sound he adjusted by opening and closing his inner ear. So far, so predictable, if somewhat simplified. Unpredictability started with the fox, which now spat static, swore and raged inside his head.

  The police bike on which Raf sat came with twin headlamps, featuring the very latest in multielement cluster/light guide technology, but he’d disconnected them at the same time as he cut the wires to the brake light and both sets of indicators. The reflectors he’d ripped off by hand. Matte black alloys went with a racer-noir engine cage and a light-swallowing paint job. The whole bike was gloriously transparent to CCTV.

  The paint job was fresh and done by a garage at cost. A lot of people in the city suddenly wanted to be friends with the new Chief of Detectives. As it was, Raf practically had to order his local store to start charging full price for groceries and only the threat of taking his business elsewhere had convinced the manager Raf was serious . . .

  “You certain some fuckwit intends to snatch her?”

  Raf wasn’t sure whether to nod or cry, so he nodded. The fox might be back but it had rebooted to a default personality. And Raf had always thought the fox was the stable one while he suffered the glitches.

  “Says who?” demanded the fox.

  Said every snitch on the precinct’s payroll, every cut-rate whore trying to cop a plea, even a few semihonest members of the public too afraid to leave their names. Rumour had hit the streets on steroids and been breaking lap records ever since.

  The why changed with every telling, but the what was rock-solid, whispered from under veils and escaping like smoke in the cafés from between half-open lips; somehow, and it was a very indeterminate somehow, tables had been turned on Hamzah, the man himself had been made the proverbial offer that can’t be . . . only he had, and as of now, Hamzah’s kid was a walking target. Everybody but everybody who was anybody, who knew that kind of thing, already knew it. Hamzah included.

  “Daddy’s rich?”

  “Come on,” Raf muttered crossly.

  For a while the fox said little, so Raf went back to worrying about Hani, because some days that felt like what he did best.

  Just before leaving home, Raf had asked the kid if there was anything she needed, meaning toast or hot chocolate before bed, and she’d looked at him, her arms like sticks and small face serious, flicked her dark fringe from darker eyes and said, “more time.”

  So that was what he was trying to give her. Time and space. Life’s great shortage for those who already had the luxury of water and food. Since the incident at the warehouse, Zara hated him, fair enough. Raf could live with that, but Hani’s mistrust really hurt. He saw it in her every silence, her refusal to eat when he was in the madersa’s huge kitchen, in sideways glances and half-conscious flickers of fear.

  Most of the time Raf managed to convince himself that it was just his imagination. And then he’d come home to some unguarded look or catch a muttered reassurance from Donna to Hani, as the kid was sent to kiss him good night before trundling off to bed.

  Puddles, Hamzah had said, surprising Raf, the one time they talked. Adults might labour upstream against their grief but children step in and out of sadness, trailing it after them in damp footprints. Only to step back into misery when the ground behind them begins to look dry.

  CHAPTER 11

  7th October

  “I’m fine,” Zara insisted.

  “No, you’re not.” There was a determined expression on her mother’s face. “Major Halim’s absolutely right. What you need is some air.” Madame Rahina glanced at her husband for support but Hamzah was staring pointedly into the bottom of a brandy glass.

  One of the advantages of dinner at Maxim’s was that it held an international drinks licence. Alcohol might be frowned upon, but it was not illegal.

  “Air,” said Madame Rahina. “A good idea . . . Don’t you agree, my love?”

  Hamzah pretended to wake with a start. He knew exactly what was going on and had done from the moment his wife first mentioned inviting the major, but he trusted his daughter to do only what she wanted.

  “I think it’s up to Zara,” Hamzah said carefully. “Personally, I’m going to concentrate on pudding.” The thickset man picked up a leather menu and held it in front of him like a shield.

  Despite herself, Zara smiled.

  The major smiled back and inside her head Zara shrugged. He was handsome in a flinty, movie-star kind of way, what with his granite jaw, brown eyes and hair just a little longer than Army regulations allowed. And he probably hadn’t expected his off-the-cuff suggestion to be pounced on quite so hard by her mother.

  Besides, some problems were best got out of the way.

  “Sure,” said Zara, pushing back her chair. “Why not?” She waited for a second while the major tried to catch the attention of the maître d’, then shrugged. “No sweat,” Zara said. “I can stop it myself.” And with that she reached for the emergency chain, which looped its way down one wall, and yanked.

  Crockery hit the floor. Some from their table or others, but mostly from the arms of a stumbling waiter who’d been stacking plates in an opposite corner.

  A woman screamed.

  The tram stopped.

  “Is there a problem?” The maître d’ was white-faced with anxiety, his French accent as broken as the Limoges china around his feet.

  “Of course there’s a problem.” Zara grabbed the menu from her father. “Look at this. You haven’t even got chocolate ice cream . . .”

  “Cut his engines now.”

  “No.” Raf shook his head.

  “Come on.” The fox sounded disgusted. “It’s a clean shot.”

  It was too. The man stepping down from the abruptly stopped tram had paused to scan Ibrahim Square, one of his hands on Zara’s shoulder, the other thrust deep in his jacket pocket. He said something to the girl and she nodded carefully, but moved away the moment he tried to take her arm.

  What reassured Raf was that Zara looked irritated rather than afraid.

  And yet Place Ibrahim Pasha was deserted
, the restaurant car obviously planned to make good its escape and somewhere below Zara’s feet were catacombs, cut into limestone a thousand years before the birth of the Prophet. Rumour said they spread beneath Pharos in endless dark passageways, rough-hewn chambers and deep oubliettes. Had Raf been Zara, he’d have been terrified.

  “Just do it,” said the fox. “Or maybe you’re afraid?”

  Of killing if necessary? No, Raf shook his head. He didn’t think so . . . If it wasn’t necessary? Then yes, very. And something else was worrying Raf, worrying him enough to make him rewrite his plans on the fly.

  “That uniform . . .”

  “So?”

  “You recognize?”

  “Maybe it’s fake,” suggested the fox.

  “Yeah, that makes sense,” said Raf. Dress in the flashiest way possible. A bottle-green cavalry tunic with gold braid and sword knots to sleeves and collar. The kind of outfit guaranteed to make people look and remember. Rather than choose something anonymous like sécurité, whose black uniform made most people glance away, whether it was intended to or not.

  Raf stood up, brushed dust from his knees and walked back to his bike.

  “Where are you going?” the fox demanded.

  “To talk to Zara.” Breaking stock from barrel, Raf folded his borrowed police-issue nightSniper in two, twisting off the tiny laser sight and dropping that in his pocket. The rest he clipped into place down one of the Honda’s front forks.

  “Very dinky . . .”

  Ignoring the fox, Raf stalked across the square, a figure dressed in black moving across an expanse of unlit ground. He was impressed the major spotted him so quickly.

  “Zara.”

  She turned when he called, the smile freezing on her face. Her eyes raked over him, seeing nothing in the darkness but distant light reflecting off the emptiness of his shades.

  “Still wearing disguises, I see.”

  “You know him?” Major Halim took a hand from his pocket.

  “Oh yes.” She turned to the watchful major, her eyes bitter. “How could I possibly forget Ashraf al-Mansur . . .”

  “The bey?”

  Raf put out his hand, then lowered it again, unshaken. The police had a file on the General’s aide de camp, but then they had a file on pretty much everyone. “Whatever,” said Raf.

  Major Halim had both hands clenched into fists, something Raf doubted the man even realized. And busy emotions worked their way across his movie-star face. Distrust battling doubt, caution fighting mistrust.

  Caution lost.

  Looking at the major’s handmade uniform, his immaculate leather boots, the careful disorder of his dark hair and a discreet signet ring on his left hand that signalled membership in a family known for its closeness to the Sultan in Stambul, Raf knew what was coming. He’d heard those rumours too . . .

  “I have a brother at court,” said the major flatly.

  “An elder brother,” Raf agreed, “Faud Pasha.” Facts collected themselves for use, the structure of the Sublime Porte’s directorate, the rank therein of Faud Pasha. “Second Minister for Internal Affairs.”

  “First Minister,” Major Halim corrected.

  “Acting First Minister,” said Raf firmly. “Married well. Trusted notary to His Sublime Majesty . . .” He could do this. He’d always had the skill, right back to when he was a kid. Every fact in his head was filed, cross-referenced, graded for likely importance. When he was seven Raf failed an exam. He did it to prove to himself that he could. There were other reasons too, but time was teaching Raf that it didn’t pay to dwell on those.

  He glared at the major. “As for you . . . Unmarried, this year’s mistress in Al Qahirah, last year’s in Abukir, neither serious. An adequate trust fund but no capital and currently no way to pay your share of the extortionate repairs to the roof of Miclavez Court . . .”

  Zara’s eyes when Raf checked were wet. For a woman who’d once told him she never cried, she’d taken to doing a good imitation.

  “. . . Oh yes, and you once shot an eleven-year-old felaheen rioter.”

  “He was . . .”

  “Holding an empty starting pistol,” said Raf. “Something cheap, generic and Taiwanese.”

  There were files on every member of Koenig Pasha’s staff. Even one on the General, though the ex-Chief had drawn the line on keeping one on the Khedive himself. Either that, or it was so well hidden Raf had yet to find the thing.

  Keeping those files up-to-date had turned out to be simplicity itself. All Raf had to do was nothing. The web of informers put in place by his predecessor, Felix Abrinsky, kept spinning, once they realized they’d continue to get paid for each snippet of information. “Anything else you’d like to know about your friend?” Raf asked Zara, who promptly turned her back on him.

  “What about you . . . ?” Raf asked the major. “With me so far?” He watched uncertainty replace anger in the major’s eyes. Rumour might hurt but hard information was actively dangerous and Raf tossed it around like a throwing knife.

  “There’s no record of . . .”

  “Look,” said Raf, “let’s simplify things. Your brother checked me out in Stambul and found no record of my being an honorary attaché in Seattle . . .” He ticked points off on his fingers, trying not to miss any. “No one in special forces has heard of me, Sandhurst say I’m not on their files, St. Cyr ditto, I’m not on the Sultan’s official payroll and so far as your brother can find out, I don’t exist.”

  Raf’s cold smile was wasted in the darkness, but his voice carried enough ice to make even Zara shiver. “Have you any idea of the level of security clearance that signifies?”

  Slowly, reluctantly, Major Halim shook his head.

  “Did you check me with my father?” Raf continued.

  “The Emir?”

  Yeah, the Emir of Tunis, apparently. That was what his aunt Nafisa had said, just before she got herself stabbed; Raf still didn’t believe it, and it was hard to know in retrospect if she’d believed it or not. Whatever, no one had yet come out and said it wasn’t true.

  “Well? Did you?” said Zara, sounding suddenly interested.

  “Yes, I did.” The major looked nervous. “He wasn’t able to answer.”

  “Why not?” Raf asked, and knew he’d won when the major actually shuffled his feet, looking like the small boy he must once have been back before Zara was born.

  “He was unwell.”

  “You mean my father’s mad,” said Raf. “Stark raving.” That was what Iskandryian intelligence had down in their files. The Khedive’s second cousin lived in a tent near Nefzaoua Oasis, surrounded by heavily armed girls in green jumpsuits and guarded at all times by an elderly Frenchwoman. In private the Emir apparently favoured simple wool jebbas, but his public dress never changed from a striped jellaba, worn with a general’s peaked hat.

  He lived for hawks, grew generation after generation of saline-resistant grasses in a biodome on the edge of Chott el Jerid, Tunisia’s salt-crusted inland sea, and had once hired a Soviet cryptographer and one of Caltech’s most brilliant geneticists to extract meaning from the randomness of junk DNA.

  Political decisions the Emir made after consulting the heavens. Not listening to a pet astrologer, though that would have been bad enough, but asking questions of the constellations themselves. And when he spoke, in public or private, reports had it that he spoke only in complex couplets, perfectly cadenced and delivered after long thought.

  Among the Berber tribes, who still traversed the empty sands and rock seas with little care for international borders, he was regarded as North Africa’s sole sane ruler. It was a minority opinion and one with which it was obvious Major Halim didn’t agree.

  “So tell me,” said Raf, “who am I?”

  The major looked at the young princeling in the black leather coat, the dark glasses and black gloves whose pale hair blew in the slight night breeze. “The son of the Emir of Tunis,” he said without hesitation.

  Raf nodded and offer
ed his hand. This time they shook.

  “Very touching,” said Zara. “Now if you’ve both finished with the male-bonding shit, perhaps Major Halim could escort me home. Of course,” she added crossly, “if this wasn’t El Isk I could get myself home. Since I’m perfectly capable of walking, chewing gum and looking where I’m going at the same time. But since this is Iskandryia and any woman alone at night is obviously a prostitute . . .”

  Raf grinned. Then smiled some more at Major Halim’s discomfort. “This is nothing,” he said, “you wait until you know her better and she gets really cross.”

  “Better . . . ?” The major executed a tiny bow in Zara’s direction. “Much as I’d welcome the chance to get to know Miss Quitrimala better, I’m afraid that’s impossible.” His tone was genuinely regretful.

  “Don’t tell me,” said Zara, “you couldn’t cope with a third mistress.”

  “It’s not that,” the major said, looking shocked. “I’m leaving for Berlin next week, on secondment to the Thiergarten. After that, if everything goes smoothly, I hope to become Iskandryia’s attaché to Stambul.” For a moment, admitting this, the major seemed almost bashful. But Zara was too cross to notice.

  “Then what,” she asked furiously, “was gate-crashing my supper about? All that sucking up to my mother. And the crap about me needing air and taking a walk . . .”

  “This is difficult,” said the major and glanced at Raf. When it became obvious that Raf refused to take his cue to withdraw, Major Halim sighed. “The Khedive intends to take a holiday . . . Well deserved obviously.”

  Zara opened her mouth to speak, then closed it again. A sudden tension locked her shoulders, which refused to budge, even when she twisted her head from side to side. Zara had a nasty idea she knew exactly what was about to come next.

  “His Highness was wondering if . . .”

  “Have you talked to my parents about this?”