by Anne Brooke
The first thing I do is ring Jade.
‘Hello, Paul. How are you doing?’
‘Wonderful. You?’
‘Great. What’s it like then, the land of the pharaohs?’
‘Rich if you’re a tourist. Utter poverty if you’re not. Come one day. You’ll love it.’
‘Yes, I know. If only my harsh, unfeeling boss allowed me to take leave.’
‘Oh sure, I forgot. It’s my fault. Any updates on Blake’s schedule I should know about?’
‘No, it’s still worth you being there. I checked. The press office confirms he’s in all morning tomorrow, though he’ll be out at meetings early afternoon.’
‘Thanks. You’re the best. Any other calls I should know about?’
She hesitates, ‘None of your usual clients; they’re all fine. Someone rang earlier, though. Same caller as before, I think. All he said was your name and then he rang off. You will be careful, won’t you?’
‘You know me, indestructible. Don’t worry, I’ll be fine. You just look after yourself and try not to leave early while I’m away. I’ll ring you tomorrow. Let you know how I get on. Who knows, I might even have cracked the case by then. I’m such a genius.’
‘Of course you are,’ she says and hangs up.
As I fling myself onto the bed, I can’t help hoping I don’t find out anything useful too soon.
When I slit open the envelope that Dominic left for me, I find I’m shaking a little.
“Paul”, the note says, “I hope your journey was a good one and I trust you will find the room acceptable. When I am in Cairo, it is where I always stay. Yours, Nic”
Nic. He’s signed himself Nic. A name I only ever called him in bed. Or just before it.
Chapter Three
I eat breakfast in the Khan El Khalili restaurant and pore over the Egyptian phrasebook I discovered in the bedside cabinet last night. As I memorise what I hope might turn out to be a useful set of words, I admire the brass tables, the marble floor, and the intricate white ceiling. I thank God I don’t have to clean it. I glance at my watch for the tenth time this morning and see it’s 7.52am, Egyptian time. Already I know it’s going to be a hot day, in more ways than one. Breakfast is a feast of bread and butter pudding, fruit, yoghurt, and croissants, plus coffee that could line the stomach in a nuclear attack, if there was one, and I take as much as I can. The day ahead will be long and hard.
Outside, I check my map, get in the taxi I’ve ordered, and head off to my first meeting with Delta Egypt. In central Cairo, through the press of traffic and the bustle of the streets, I can see the glistening waters of the Nile, taking with them downstream many lifetimes of history and culture. As we drive past the Egyptian Museum, dusky pink and grand, I wonder if there’ll be time to visit before I leave. We turn into the heart of the Sharia Qasr el-Nil, the city’s financial trading district, and my professional day is about to begin. Time to get into character.
Delta Egypt has the second floor in a four-floor building, situated on the corner of two wide streets packed with shops and bars. The foyer is calm and white, with two statues of eagles either side of a small water fountain, which provides a soothing background gurgle to the hum of the receptionist’s computer. Today, I almost fit into this world, dressed as I am in the suit I chose to visit Dominic’s office.
I stride up to the reception desk and showcase one of the two pieces of spoken Arabic I hope I’ve picked up, at least phonetically. ‘Sabaah al-khayr. Good morning. I’m here to see Mr. Kenzie, of Delta Egypt.’
The dark-eyed woman studies my card.
‘Certainly, sir,’ she says in perfect English. ‘Do you have an appointment?’
‘No, but I need to see him urgently.’
‘I’m afraid, sir, that it may not be possible. Mr. Kenzie is not often here. I’ll try his PA for you.’
‘Trust me,’ I lay my hand on hers as she reaches for the switchboard. ‘If I’d wanted to see Mr. Kenzie’s PA, then I would have asked. It’s the man himself I’m after, and I think you’ll find he’s here.’
The woman frowns, ‘But, sir, it’s standard practice to contact the PA first and I—’
‘No,’ I cut her off. ‘Ring him. If he objects, tell him my name. Tell him it’s concerning DG Allen Enterprises. He’ll see me.’
For another second, she stares at me. Then she stabs a number on her keypad and the two of us wait. There’s a burst of quick-fire speech I can’t understand, and I hear my name, a pause, then she breaks the connection.
She hasn’t mentioned Dominic’s company, and I just have time to file that as an interesting fact to be mulled over later before she directs me to the lift.
‘Second floor, sir,’ she says.
I step out into sunlight and cool air and find myself face to face with a clean-shaven young man dressed in a dark grey business suit.
‘Mr. Maloney?’ he asks, and I nod. ‘Please, come this way.’
I walk in his trail past a row of offices, doors all shut, and then out into a communal area filled with low glass tables and easy chairs on one side and a series of work stations on the other. Most are in use, but one or two people are standing, drinking from small white cups. The smell of coffee is overpowering. The windows curve ’round the length of two walls, and I realise I must be facing the interconnection between the two streets outside. There’s no noise.
‘Please,’ the young man says, ‘sit.’
This doesn’t sound like a suggestion so I obey.
‘When can I see Mr. Kenzie?’ I ask.
My companion smiles. ‘Please, wait. I will find out for you. Help yourself to a coffee if you wish, please.’
He disappears back the way we’ve just come, and enters an office on the right. At once I get up, avoiding the coffee machine and the silent workers, and sit myself at one of the empty computer terminals furthest from the corridor. Nobody pays me any attention. The system I’m looking at is a simple one, just a Windows environment with the usual icons on the left. I speed through the more interesting-looking folders, but all that’s on there is some company background, at least twenty sparkling PR articles, and a resume of the Chief Executive that tells me nothing I don’t already—
‘Ah, Mr. Maloney.’ I glance up as my young escort — or should that be minder? — returns. His brow glistens with sweat even though the air conditioning is working.
‘Yes?’
‘If you could...Mr. Kenzie can see you now.’
‘Good.’ I take my time bringing the computer back to its home page before standing. ‘Please, lead the way.’
He does, still sweating. Five seconds later, I’m in the office of the Chief Executive of Delta Egypt, and the man himself is striding towards me, hand outstretched in greeting. The décor is stark white, softened only by angular black furniture and the cream-coloured orchids on his desk. Blake Kenzie is smaller than I am, clean-shaven, thick-set, and swarthy. All these facts I already know, but nothing I have seen has prepared me for his manner. Pale blue eyes look me up and down without expression, judge me, and then move on. I shiver and suppress the urge to run.
‘Mr. Maloney,’ he says, his accent revealing the mix of his American and Egyptian ancestry. As he speaks, he turns away, and I let go of the breath I didn’t realise I was holding. ‘It’s good of you to come and see us from such a distance. Tell me, can I offer you anything? Mint tea? Coffee?’
‘No. Thank you.’
He pauses. ‘No doubt a wise choice. Here in Cairo our coffee is best served bitter and is not to the taste of our European friends. However, if I may be so intimate, I question the wisdom of some of your other choices. What can I do for you?’
I don’t like his use of the word, intimate, or the way he says it to make it carry a multitude of meanings. Handing him another of my cards, I launch into my spiel, but I’ve barely reached my third sentence when he takes the card, holds it up in front of me, and tears it into two. I stop talking. With a brief shake of his head, he tosses the fragme
nts into the bin without even looking.
‘Please, Paul,’ he says. ‘I may call you Paul, of course? I must say I’m disappointed in you.’
‘Oh. Why?’
‘Simple. When I see people in my office, I like them to tell the truth. I don’t like to see them lie. I don’t like that at all.’
I try to understand what’s behind his gaze, but it’s impossible. ‘If you already know why I’m here, why ask me to explain myself?’
‘Because I like to listen to what people have to say. It’s always interesting. You can tell many things from the way they phrase their statements, even the tone of voice. Did you know that, Paul?’
Yes, I do know that. And if I hadn’t before, then I’m certainly learning it now. But I say nothing, I just wait.
After a fractional pause, he walks right up to me, so close I can smell the cigars on his breath and his herbal aftershave. He continues, ‘I am assuming, and I hope rightly, that this conversation is not being taped in any way. Because if it were, the consequences might be painful. Of course I wouldn’t want, even indirectly, to cause your parents any further grief, bearing in mind the unfortunate events involving your...what is that very English word you use? Sibling?’
‘No,’ I say, taking a step back. I try not to blink. Or sweat. Or swallow. ‘There’s no tape.’
Another pause. ‘Good. Those are the first true words you’ve spoken since you entered the building. Our scanners would have shown if you were lying again, of course, but it pleases me to hear you say it. Now let me tell you the truth also. If I may?’
There’s no choice but I nod anyway, trying to ease the irregular pounding of blood to my ears. Blake Kenzie smiles and saunters away to his desk. Turning his back to me a little and picking up a letter opener, surely for decoration only, he slides it from hand to hand like a toy as he talks.
‘The truth,’ he says. ‘The truth for me is that I have nothing to fear and little of consequence to hide. It pleases me that your client, Mr. Allen, is interested enough in Delta Egypt to go to the extraordinary lengths of hiring you, a private eye from a part of London I have never been unfortunate enough to visit, to do his dirty work for him. I too have people for that kind of business, but I choose not to use them against friends and, I hope, partners. Therefore I suggest you leave and go back to your home. And when you do, I trust you’ll tell Mr. Allen one important thing.’
He pauses, and I see my chance. ‘And what do you suggest that might be, Blake? I may call you Blake, mayn’t I?’
My voice is steadier than I expected, but when he swings round, he’s clutching the paper-knife in his fist and I flinch. After a heartbeat or two, instead of impaling me with it, he drops it onto the table and rearranges his face into another smile. The unexpected anger is more real, though, and I’m pleased I’ve managed to rouse it.
‘No,’ he says. ‘My name, to you, is Mr. Kenzie. Not that it matters, Paul, as I do not think we will need to worry about such niceties again. But, please, be so good as to tell your wage-master two important things instead of one.’
‘These are?’
‘The first is this: If he learns to trust me, then the business we do together will be profitable, and he has little to fear. He will find nothing wrong with Delta Egypt.’
‘And the second, Mr. Kenzie?’
‘The second is perhaps more to the point for us today; tell Mr. Allen that if he uses bad seed, then he cannot expect to harvest good wheat.’
Outside, the air clings to every item of clothing and every part of my body. After such a meeting and the realisation of how much Blake Kenzie knows about me, I need to regroup. There’s no use thinking about it — it won’t change anything. So shaking away all thoughts of the past, I flag down a taxi.
‘Khan al-Khalili,’ I say, the name almost identical to where I took breakfast only an hour and forty minutes ago, but the meaning a lifetime of difference away. The old bazaar, Cairo’s commercial centre. A good place to get Jade a present. Something normal, something expected. A perfume bottle perhaps or an item of Muski glass, as the blue will go with her eyes. A good place also to shake any tail, if there is one. How does Blake know what he shouldn’t? And why?
The taxi deposits me in a square bordered by several cafés and a mosque. I give the driver enough baksheesh to keep his family in stuffed lamb and baklawa for a week, glance ’round to see if I recognise any of the cars now hooting for supremacy around us — I don’t — and amble off in the direction of the nearest water-seller. Once I’ve checked the top’s not been tampered with, I sit on the small stone wall of the square, open the bottle, and pour half of it over my face and neck. The water runs inside my shirt and over my skin, as cool and refreshing as the first touch of a lover’s hand. I shut my eyes for a moment and enjoy the respite, before the blast of city heat rolls back, then I drink the rest of the water and gaze at where I find myself now. Or more vitally who I find myself with.
Several groups of men are drinking at the nearest café, and there are women with young families milling outside the mosque. Donkeys and carts trot through the square and disappear into side streets, their owners shouting and gesticulating as they go. In front of me, a small boy covered with dirt carries a casket of bread twice his size on his head, yelling over and over again in accented English, ‘Bread! Buy! Bread!’
He looks at me, one small eyebrow raised, but I wave him away and he moves on. As he does so, one of the rolls falls to the ground. He picks it up, spits on it, wipes it on the dust of his robe and replaces it above him. He then makes his way to a group of what look to be Americans on the other side of the square. My skin is prickling with the sensation of being watched, but nothing around me seems at all out-of-place. One of the men in a nearby café makes me look again, even as I’ve almost discounted him and moved on. The man is in his thirties, dressed in long off-white Arabic robes, dark-haired, clean-shaven, nondescript, but something about him draws my eye back. He’s not sitting at the same table as the others but seems to be echoing their conversation in his gestures. They however take no notice of him. Have I seen him somewhere before? Today? It eludes me, and as I continue to puzzle over it, the man raises his eyes from the papers in front of him, sees me looking, and at once glances away.
I begin to approach him, striding forward with a confidence I don’t feel. He gathers his papers and makes a move to leave, but by now I’m too close. I notice a twisted scar on his left cheek and realise he’s one of the people from the Delta Egypt lounge. As I brush against his table, his right hand flickers near a slit in his robes at chest level, but I keep on walking.
I smile brightly, ‘Aasef, sorry.’
And then I’m gone, weaving my way between the tables and towards the bustle and noise of the Khan Al-Khalili. The streets are narrow and lined on either side by stalls. I push my way through the throng of tourists and traders, donkeys and dealers. When I glance behind me, I don’t see the man with the scar, but it’s hard to be sure. The air is laced with pungent spices. With every step, someone smiles, grabs me, tries to sell me waterpipes, carved camels, fridge magnets shaped like pyramids, saffron, or silk. I don’t even mind; it’s harder for anyone to get as close to me as they might want to if someone else is trying to claim a piece of me first. On the other hand, it’s also hard for me to see the enemy, if I’m being pursued at all. Around me, gold, silver, brass, and copper ornaments hang glittering inside the shops like magic curtains concealing a secret cave. Young boys and occasionally women are dyeing cloth, sewing shirts, and carving elephants from stone. Once again, only a few paces from the café have taken me back a thousand years.
After five minutes, I’ve seen nothing that might worry me, and nobody has jostled me with anything more dangerous than a robe called a “galabiya” or a pair of hand-crafted sandals. Maybe I overreacted. Perhaps the innocent man at the café was reaching for a wallet or handkerchief. I turn a corner and see a large sand-coloured stone gate covered with intricate carvings. Next to it, a shop
selling postcards and a window-full of blue Muski glass catches my eye. The danger, if there was any, is past, and I may as well make the most of my time here. As I reach for my cash, there’s a sudden flicker of movement on my left, the impression of tanned flesh and a scarred cheek.
At waist level, the steel of the knife flashes in the morning sun, and there’s no time to cry out.
Chapter Four
With a speed that comes from instinct rather than thought, I twist my body away from my attacker and grab his knife-arm. I slam it back against the stone arch of the gateway.
Scar-cheek lets loose a stream of high-pitched Arabic, and the knife falls to the ground. I punch him in the stomach and yell, ‘Help! Help me!’
At the same time, both of us leap for the knife, but I get there first. The next second he kicks me on the side of the head, and I sprawl on my back in the dust, the knife skittering away from my reach. His dark eyes are fixed on mine, and I know if he has the chance he’ll kill me now. But there’s shouting, a sense of other people closing in, and then he’s gone, through the gate and melting into the crowd. When I glance at the knife, that’s gone, too.
‘Are you okay?’ ‘What was that about?’ ‘Hey, you’re bleeding,’ are the American-twanged phrases I manage to pick out of the medley of foreign sounds and sympathy around my ears. Someone mentions the Tourist Police, but I wave the suggestion away. I try to get up, but stagger and almost fall again. A short, fat man in an orange robe catches me and all but carries me into the postcard shop. Here, I’m fussed through cards, kitsch, and toy camels into a small back room with a sink where the Samaritan turns on the tap, wets a roll of cloth in the stream of light brown water, and holds it onto the side of my head. I’m not convinced this will help, but I’m too dazed to argue. All the time he fires off a series of staccato comments I’ve no hope of understanding. After a minute of this, he’s joined by a tall woman who elbows him aside, looks at me, eases the cloth away from his hand, and shakes her head. She smells of lemons.