Effendi a-2

by Jon Courtenay Grimwood

  Zara slid her hand across Raf’s hip and touched the very edge of his pubic hair.

  “I don’t, you see. Also I don’t have small labia, a clitoral hood or the very top of my clitoris. But apparently I got lucky.” Her voice was hard. “They could have done a full Pharaonic instead of a mild Sunna. You know what that is?”

  Raf knew, but he shook his head. “Tell me,” he said.

  “The first thing you’d have had to do, come our wedding night, was slice through scar tissue. But even with all Dad’s money at her disposal, my mother couldn’t get the hospital at El Qahirah to go that far. So, you see . . .”

  Raf did. Like most things in life, luck was subjective.

  CHAPTER 44

  26th October

  Hani dreamed of gardens. This wasn’t unusual, gardens figured heavily in her stories and in most of the computer games she liked. In fact, Rashid III took place entirely in a nest of walled gardens, complete with fountains, djinn, houris and tiny gazelle. Only her own computer was now dead and, anyway, she’d finished all the levels of Rashid III months ago. All levels/all difficulties/all characters. It hadn’t been a very hard game.

  The software was cheap, though. And that was probably the reason Aunt Nafisa had let her have it.

  When Hani woke, at the first call to prayer, she lay there under the covers, which she wasn’t meant to do, and thought about gardens. Then she thought about God. After that she thought about gardens and God. And then she got up, wrapped herself tightly in her dressing gown and went to find Raf.

  “Jannah means garden or heaven,” Hani told herself as she opened her door. “And paradiso also means heaven. So paradiso means jannah. SS Jannah. And I’ve got a list of other clues.”

  She was talking to herself because Ifritah wasn’t there. Raf had said Hani could come to the mansion with him and Khartoum but the grey cat had to stay with Donna at the madersa. That was because Ifritah was a wild cat and no one had taught her to do her business outside.

  Hani had been planning to look up on the Web how to house-train a cat that was already mostly grown-up, but now she couldn’t do that either. So Ifritah had to stay where she was.

  The man who stood guard outside Raf’s door was called Ahmed. Hani knew this because she’d asked him earlier. He was big and dark and sometimes he looked at her and shrugged to the others when he thought she wasn’t looking.

  Ahmed said nothing, not even when Hani shined a torch in his face. Just raised his eyebrows and turned the handle for her. Hani realized what the raised eyebrows meant when she saw a lump in the bed next to Uncle Ashraf. The lump was sleeping, safely tucked under a sheet, but Hani could see Zara’s hair poking out at the top.

  Hani tried very hard not to be shocked.

  After a little while, she decided that she was shocked and went back to her room. Ahmed said nothing to Hani on her way out either. Instead of going back to bed Hani got dressed, wrote Zara a note that she left with Ahmed, then went down to the kitchens to find Khartoum.

  The rest of the day, while Ashraf worked at the precinct and Zara walked, ghostlike and silent, through the formal gardens at the mansion, looking at statues without seeing them, Hani sat at a kitchen table with an Italian dictionary, three volumes of Dante and a notepad. After a while she decided it might be easier if she just concentrated on the pictures.

  The volumes of the Divina Commedia came from the General’s study, as did the notepad and fountain pen. So too did a list of all the working computers in the city that still had functioning modems/lines/firewire. The list was handwritten, distressingly brief and the original was meant for Ashraf’s eyes only. Which was why Hani kept the copy she’d made in her pocket.

  Ashraf came back as Tuesday evening began its slide into darkness, trailing his shadows behind him; although Hakim and Ahmed didn’t go with Raf when he walked out into the garden to talk to Zara. Whatever he said to her, they slept in different rooms that night.

  CHAPTER 45

  27th October

  Astolphe, Marquis de St. Cloud was enjoying himself. Unfortunately for Raf it was mostly at his expense, though the real target of the Frenchman’s quiet vitriol was Elizabeth Elsing, as St. Cloud insisted on calling Senator Liz.

  Following yesterday’s decision by the Grand Jury that Hamzah should indeed face charges, Senator Liz seemed unusually keen that the defendant be tried immediately, found guilty by lunchtime and executed before tea.

  Which was fine, except for the fact that Hamzah Effendi had yet to be formally arraigned. And the reason this had been delayed was that it took until noon for the American woman to agree that St. Cloud should hold the chair. Senator Liz also seemed slightly put out by the number of explosions happening across the city.

  “Bring in the prisoner.”

  “Bring in the prisoner . . .”

  The courtroom was small but it was in the nature of ushers everywhere to shout. Raf heard his demand echo down a corridor outside, then heard an answering tramp of feet. The first argument of the day, long before the scrap for precedence between St. Cloud and Senator Liz, had been about the suitability of the room itself.

  Surprisingly, it was the young German Graf who objected most violently to the meagreness of the room on offer. Stating that its size was an affront to the seriousness of the case. His other complaint, that Hamzah Quitrimala’s arraignment should have been thrown open to the press, drew a snort of laughter from St. Cloud. Berlin wasn’t known for the transparency of its legal process.

  El Iskandryia’s law courts were in Place Orabi, almost directly opposite the tomb of the unknown warrior and occupying what had once been the Italian Consulate. At ground level, the central Hall of Justice was three times the size of the courtroom Raf had chosen, and came replete with gilded chairs set out like small thrones for five judges, a seal of the Khedival arms hung behind the central chair and, above these, carved from Lebanese cedar and gilded with beaten gold, a tugra, the imperial monogram of the Ottoman Porte himself.

  It was, Raf agreed, an altogether more imposing setting. It was also accessible from Place Orabi on one side and Rue el Tigarya on another, making it simple to attack and complex to defend.

  “Defend from whom?” the Graf had demanded.

  “You tell me,” had been Raf’s answer and he made the Graf, Senator Liz and St. Cloud, plus the ushers, the court stenographer and Zara climb three flights of marble stairs to a smaller courtroom usually used for family disputes.

  At the top, just before he went into the room, Raf halted to yank open a steel fire escape. A helmeted Hakim stood on metal steps outside, clutching an old-fashioned Lee-Enfield. Next to Hakim was Ahmed, a Soviet machine gun resting heavy in the crook of his arm. The gun was chopped from sheet steel and finished on a lathe. It had the advantage of having only five moving parts, none of them involving electronics.

  “If shit happens,” Raf said, “this is the way we leave. Don’t look back and don’t stop to help anybody else, just move . . .”

  As Raf turned to go, an explosion ruptured the city’s nervous silence and flames boiled into the air from the deserted railyard at Kharmous.

  “What perfect timing,” said a voice in Raf’s ear. It was St. Cloud, a smile on the old man’s weather-beaten face as he watched smoke stain the sky. “Almost too perfect,” he added.

  Since then the Marquis had been watching Raf, his Cheshire cat smile coming and going, but never quite vanishing from the old roué’s face. Now St. Cloud had the defendant standing in the dock in front of him.

  “Your name?”

  Hamzah Quitrimala gave no answer.

  “You will give the court your name.”

  Eyes expressionless and mouth slack, the thickset industrialist looked as if St. Cloud’s order carried no weight against whatever was happening inside his head.

  “Has this man been tested for mental competence?” the Marquis asked Raf.

  “He has been examined by a doctor . . .”

  “That wasn’t quite wha
t I asked.” St. Cloud’s voice was silky. “Has he undergone the usual tests?”

  “Obviously not,” said Raf. “Since we don’t have access to the usual machines.”

  “All the more reason to hold the trial in Washington,” insisted the Senator and St. Cloud sat back with a smile. Winding up Elizabeth Elsing and letting her go was about as subtle as winding up an old clockwork toy and twice as amusing.

  “That question has already been debated and decided,” Raf said flatly. “The trial takes place here.”

  “Decided by you,” said St. Cloud.

  “Yes,” said Raf, “decided by me.”

  “In your capacity as governor of the city.”

  Raf nodded.

  “As is your right?”

  Raf nodded once more.

  “Remind me,” said the Frenchman politely. “In which of your capacities are you now answering my question about the defendant’s mental capacity?”

  “As magister.”

  The elderly Frenchman nodded and turned his attention back to the man in the dock. “We need your name,” said the Marquis. “We need to know that you understand our questions . . .”

  Hamzah opened his mouth but no words came to carry his answer to the waiting court and seconds later the light went out of his eyes.

  St. Cloud shrugged.

  “Is there any man here who speaks for the defendant?”

  “Yes,” came a voice from the back. “I do . . .”

  Heads twisted but Raf didn’t need to look. It was his turn to smile.

  “I said any man,” St. Cloud said gently.

  “Whatever.” Zara walked to the front and stopped beside her father. “Let me speak for him,” she said. “God knows, he needs somebody.”

  “The weight of a woman’s word is a third of that given to the words of a man . . . Isn’t that now the law in El Iskandryia? Come to think of it,” the Frenchman added softly, “I seem to remember that being the law across most of North Africa.”

  “This court operates under the rules of The Hague,” said Raf firmly. “As you well know.”

  St. Cloud nodded. “So you allow this girl to speak for her father?”

  “Yes,” said Raf, without looking at Zara, “I allow it.”

  “Remind me,” said the Frenchman with a sly smile, “in exactly which capacity did you make that decision?”

  “A Grand Jury having unanimously decided that probable cause and sufficient reason exist to bring this case to trial, it is my duty as senior judge to apprise you of the formal charges . . .”

  Pausing, St. Cloud reached for a glass and sipped, very slowly. The tumbler was smeared and the water it held tasted stale. Chances were, the water had been brought in a jug from a standpipe hastily erected in the square outside.

  It was interesting just how much the people of any city relied on electricity without really realizing that fact. At least St. Cloud found it interesting; but then he found almost everything interesting, which had proved a salvation in his long and sometimes difficult life.

  What interested him most, at least most for the moment, was how ready both the German boy and that irritating American were to agree that Hamzah Effendi was faking illness, when it was blindingly obvious that the defendant was crippled by despair. Not guilt, despair . . . The Marquis had been around enough of both to be able to tell the difference.

  Also interesting was that the dutiful daughter who now stood beside the defendant spent more time watching Ashraf Bey than she did looking at her father or the judges. And that for his part, the young Berber princeling worked hard to do the opposite. So far he hadn’t looked at her once.

  “The charge,” said St. Cloud as he carefully put down his glass, “is murder in the first degree, murder in the second degree and culpable homicide. The prosecution will bring a representative case for each of these charges. If all three charges are found, then a fourth charge will be considered to have been brought against you . . . That of a Section 3 crime against humanity . . .

  “Under The Hague Convention you have a constitutional right to be represented. But I see that no law firm has been appointed.” The Frenchman made a show of consulting documents, if handwritten scrawls on cheap, lined paper could so be called. “Do you wish me to appoint counsel?”

  St. Cloud took another slow sip from his glass. He’d first learnt of the trick as a young lawyer, watching an elderly judge in Marseilles. Every few minutes, the woman would stop to sip from a small glass of iced Evian. Rumour said the glass contained vodka but rumour lied. Water was all it ever was. The sipping existed to create natural breaks that let her words trickle into the bedrock of everyone’s thought. Faced with inexorable evidence and enough silence, defendants had been known to change their pleas midtrial, without consulting their lawyers and to their lawyers’ considerable horror. It had taken the Marquis months of watching the judge to work out how the old woman stage-managed it.

  Of course, sometimes it didn’t work.

  “Very well then,” St. Cloud said with a sigh. “This court orders that a public defender be appointed by the city.”

  “No.” It was the first word Hamzah Effendi had uttered since being led into the room, the first word from the man in two days. “No attorney, no public defender.”

  St. Cloud shrugged. “If that’s what you want . . . Do you wish to apply for bail?” He looked at the silent man but it was Zara who answered.

  “Yes,” she said defiantly. “We do . . . I do. And I ask that my father be released on his own recognizance.”

  “Completely impossible.” Senator Liz spoke without bothering to defer to the chair. On the other side of St. Cloud, the young Graf nodded frantic agreement.

  “Bail, even with a bond, would be unusual in a case like this,” St. Cloud said softly. “But it might be possible, if the bond is set high enough and you, personally, give your word not to attempt to help your father leave the city.”

  Her word.

  The Marquis smiled at the outrage on the face of the ushers and court stenographer; even Hamzah looked momentarily shocked.

  “You have my word,” said Zara. “Now how much do you want?”

  “For myself,” said the Marquis, “I want nothing.” She had the grace to blush, though her chin came up and she refused to look away. “The sum is a matter for the court,” he added, “though I suggest not less than . . .”

  “No bail,” announced Raf from his seat to one side of the judges. He stood up slowly and stepped into the empty area between the judges and the dock, feeling very alone. Turning to Zara, he spread his hands in apology.

  “I cannot allow bail,” he said flatly. “And that decision is taken in my capacity as governor of this city.” He stared at St. Cloud. “You know as well as I do that if bail is granted, I cannot guarantee his safety . . .”

  “In that case . . . Request for bail dismissed. All that remains,” said St. Cloud, “is for the court to set a date for trial. Since it seems the case will, after all, be tried in Iskandryia.” He smiled sweetly at the Senator. “And since the defendant has refused counsel I would suggest to the other judges that we begin first thing tomorrow . . .”

  “Too soon,” said Raf. “Make it Saturday . . . Iskandryian airspace will need to be opened to fly in Jean René, the photographer who took the shots already seen by the Grand Jury.”

  “Saturday it is.”

  “No.” This time it was Zara who objected. “That doesn’t give my father time to find a character witness.”

  “For a murder charge?” St. Cloud scanned his handwritten notes. There was nothing about a character witness in there.

  “One only,” Zara said. “We’re also in the process of trying to organize travel arrangements.”

  “You have until Sunday,” St. Cloud said firmly. “After that, the trial takes place, whether you have your witness or not.” He glanced at Raf and frowned. “And that decision is taken in my capacity as senior judge.”

  CHAPTER 46

  27t
h October

  “Hani al-Mansur . . .” The child answered her mobile at the first ring, voice extra polite. “Can I ask who’s calling . . . ?”

  Her Nokia was one of only a dozen let into El Iskandryia on special licence from the governor, who turned out to be the person on the other end of the call. She had to ask who it was because these cell phones were analogue, very stupid ones without the option of vision.

  For some reason, Ashraf had been most insistent about the analogue bit.

  Their conversation was short. “Yes,” said Hani, “Ifritah’s fine. She’s here with me and I’m really pleased to see her.”

  She listened to Uncle Ashraf’s next question and sucked her teeth, but not that crossly. “Yes . . . I’ve had supper and I’m ready for bed. No, you don’t need to collect me in the morning. Donna’s going to the market. I’ll walk in with her . . .”

  At the next question, Hani groaned theatrically. “Yes,” she said. “You are fussing. That’s your job.” She listened to Uncle Ashraf’s good-nights, added her own and went back to the keyboard of the bibliotheka ’s only working Web connection.

  “I’m back,” she announced quietly.

  “About time,” said Avatar.

  He owed Raf a life. Hani hadn’t needed to remind him of that but she did anyway . . . Then apologized. Only to decide that she didn’t need to apologize because it was true. After that, she asked him some weird questions about whether Zara now wanted to marry Raf.

  The rest of it Avatar didn’t understand and Hani had given up trying to explain. He got the bit about him forwarding on the spider fax to Zara. Things imploded at the point when Hani added the spider fax to an angel and a wounded man and came up with the fact that hell was cold, purgatory was water-bound and he knew heaven better as the SS Jannah.

  It was only the fact that Hani swore she’d been told this by the General that made Avatar believe any of it was true. So now, at Hani’s insistence, he was looking for the ninth level of hell, otherwise known as Cocytus.