by Paul Sussman
Sariya held out his notebook to indicate that he had.
'And?'
'Nothing. She didn't see anything, didn't hear anything. Just found the body, went back to the compound, called 122.'
Khalifa finished his Cleopatra and ground it out beneath the heel of his shoe.
'I guess we ought to take a look at him, then. You've notified Anwar?'
'He's got some paperwork to finish, then he'll be over. Said to make sure the body didn't go wandering off anywhere.'
The detective tutted wearily, used to Anwar the pathologist's tasteless sense of humour, and the two of them set off across the site, feet crunching on the fragments of pottery that littered the desert surface like discarded biscuits. Away to their right some children were sitting on top of a hummock of rubble, one of them clutching a football, watching as lines of policemen combed the desert for clues; ahead, the sun was slowly sinking behind the egg-shaped domes of the Deir el-Muharab monastery, its light thickening from a pale yellow to a rich honey-orange. Here and there shoulders of mud-brick wall heaved themselves from the sand, weathered and forlorn, like primordial creatures rising up from the desert deeps. Otherwise there was little to suggest that they were passing through what must once have been one of the most magnificent buildings in ancient Egypt.
'Hard to believe this used to be a palace, isn't it?' sighed Khalifa, slowing to pick up a piece of pottery with traces of pale blue paint on it. 'In his day, Amenhotep III ruled half the known world. And now . . .'
He turned over the potsherd between his fingers, rubbing at the pigment with his thumb. Sariya said nothing, just made a chopping motion with his hand indicating that they needed to angle to the right.
'Over there,' he said, 'just beyond that wall.'
They crossed a stretch of mud-brick pavement, cracked and broken, and passed through what must once have been a substantial doorway, now reduced to two heaps of rubble with a worn limestone step between them. On the other side a policeman was squatting in a sliver of shade at the foot of a wall. A few metres away lay a heavy canvas sheet with a corpse-shaped hummock beneath it. Sariya stepped forward, grasped the corner of the sheet and whipped it back.
'Allah-u-akhbar!' grimaced Khalifa. 'God Almighty!'
In front of him lay an old man, very old, his body frail and emaciated, his sallow skin wrinkled and peppered with liverspots. He was lying on his front, one arm beneath him, the other splayed out at his side. He wore a khaki safari suit and his head, bald save for a few wisps of whitish-yellow hair, was jerked back and twisted slightly, like a swimmer taking a gulp of air before plunging his face into the water again – an unnatural posture caused by the rusty iron peg spearing upwards from the ground into his left eye socket. His cheeks, lips and chin were caked with a heavy crust of dried blood; a shallow gash angled across the side of his head, just above the right ear.
Khalifa stood staring down at the corpse, noting the dusty hands and clothes, a small rip in the knee of the trousers, the way the head-wound was choked with sand and grit, then squatted and gently poked at the bottom of the iron peg, where it emerged from the sand. It was firmly embedded in the ground.
'From a tent?' asked Sariya, uncertain.
Khalifa shook his head. 'Part of a surveying grid. Left over from an excavation. Been here for years by the look of it.'
He straightened, waving his hand at the flies that had already started buzzing around the body, and walked a few metres away, to a point where the sand was churned up and disturbed. He could make out at least three different sets of footprints, possibly belonging to the police who had been combing the area, possibly not. He squatted again and, removing his handkerchief, picked up a sharp lump of flint with spatters of blood on it.
'Looks like someone hit him on the head,' said Sariya. 'Then he fell forward onto the peg. Or was pushed.'
Khalifa turned over the stone in his hand, gazing at the red-black blood smudges.
'Strange the attacker should leave a wallet full of money in his pocket,' he said. 'And the keys to his car.'
'Maybe he was disturbed,' suggested Sariya. 'Or perhaps robbery wasn't the motive.'
Before Khalifa could offer an opinion there was a shout from further out across the ruin field. Two hundred metres away a policeman was standing on top of a sandy hummock waving his arms.
'Looks like he's found something,' said Sariya.
Khalifa replaced the rock as he had found it and the two of them started towards the man. By the time they reached him he had descended from the hummock and was standing beside a length of crumbled wall along the lower part of which, on cracked mud plaster, was painted a line of blue lotus flowers, faded but still clearly visible. In the centre of the line was a gap where a chunk of plaster appeared to have been removed. On the ground nearby sat a canvas knapsack, a hammer and chisel, and a black walking cane with a silver pommel. Sariya squatted beside the knapsack and lifted back its flap.
'Well, well, well,' he said, removing a brick with painted plaster on it. 'Someone has been a naughty boy.'
He held the brick out towards Khalifa. The detective wasn't looking at him. Instead he had squatted down, lifted the cane, and was staring at its pommel, around which was incised a pattern of miniature rosettes interspersed with ankh signs.
'Sir?'
Khalifa didn't reply.
'Sir?' repeated Sariya, louder.
'Sorry, Mohammed.' The detective laid aside the cane and turned towards his deputy. 'What have you got?'
Sariya handed him the mud brick. Khalifa held it out in front of him, examining the decoration. As he did so his gaze kept flicking back down towards the cane, brow furrowed as if trying to remember something.
'What?' asked Sariya.
'Oh, nothing. Nothing. Just an odd coincidence.'
He shook his head dismissively and smiled. Even as he did so, however, there was a hint of unease in his eyes, a faint echo of some deeper disquiet.
Away to the right a large crow landed on a wall and stood staring at them, flapping its wings and cawing loudly.
TEL AVIV, ISRAEL
Having changed into the police uniform, the young man walked swiftly through Independence Park towards the vast concrete rectangle of the Hilton Hotel. Around him families and young couples were out strolling in the cool evening air, chatting and laughing, but he took no notice of them, keeping his eyes focused firmly on the building in front of him, his forehead glistening with sweat, his lips quivering as he mumbled inaudible prayers to himself.
He reached the hotel entrance and passed through into the foyer, a pair of security guards flicking him a cursory glance before noting his uniform and looking away again. He raised a trembling hand to wipe the dampness from his brow, then, in an extension of the same movement, reached beneath his jacket and tugged the first of the ripcords to arm the explosive. Terror, hatred, nausea, excitement – he felt them all. Beyond these, however, enveloping all else, like the outer shell of a Russian doll, was an ecstatic, trancelike euphoria, a searing bliss that hovered right at the very edge of his consciousness like a bright white flame. Revenge, glory, paradise and an eternity in the arms of the beautiful houris.
Thank you for choosing me, Allah. Thank you for allowing me to be the vehicle of your vengeance.
He crossed the foyer and passed through a set of double doors into a large, light-filled room where the wedding party was taking place. Music and laughter washed over him; a little girl ran up and asked if he wanted to dance. He shrugged her off and pushed his way through the guests, the world around him seeming to recede and evaporate like a coloured mist. Someone asked what he was doing there, if there was some problem, but he just continued forward, muttering to himself, thinking of his elderly grandfather, his little cousin killed by an Israeli bullet; his own life, empty, hopeless, choked with shame and impotent anger. And then he was beside the bride and groom. With a scream of mingled fury and joy, he reached down and yanked the second cord, unleashing a whirlwind of heat, li
ght and metal ball-bearings that reduced himself, the newlyweds and everyone else within a radius of three metres to little more than a bloody vapour.
At almost precisely the same moment three faxes were received in swift succession, one by the Jerusalem Office of the World Jewish Congress, one by the news desk of Ha'aretz, one by the Tel Aviv police. All were sent via a mobile network, making their precise place of origin impossible to trace, and all conveyed the same message: the bomb was the work of al-Mulatham and the Palestinian Brotherhood; it was in response to the continued Zionist occupation of the Palestinian homeland; so long as that occupation lasted, all Israelis, of whatever age or sex, would be held accountable for the atrocities inflicted on the Palestinian people.
LUXOR
They remained at Malqata until almost seven p.m., by which point Anwar the pathologist still hadn't arrived. Rather than hang around any longer, Khalifa detailed a group of constables to guard the site and, accompanied by Sariya, set off to visit the dead man's hotel.
'Knowing Anwar, we could be here till midnight,' he grumbled. 'Might as well do something useful with the time.'
The Menna-Ra occupied a prominent position at the heart of Gezira village, a large, bustling settlement of shops and ramshackle houses on the west bank of the river Nile, opposite Luxor Temple. A whitewashed, two-storey building, it was accessed by a narrow dirt road and hemmed in on either side by a jumble of mud-brick dwellings that clung to its flanks like sprays of brown fungus. Khalifa and Sariya arrived early in the evening and were admitted by a slim, middle-aged English woman who, in fluent if heavily accented Arabic, introduced herself as Carla Shaw, the hotel manager. She called for tea and showed them onto a gravelled terrace at the rear of the building, where they sat down on wickerwork chairs beneath a canopy of fragrant red hibiscus blossom. A long, narrow lake ran left to right in front of them, black and murky, its surface rippled by shoals of sleek Nile perch, its palm-fringed shores clogged with pontoons of discarded Baraka water bottles. On the far side an advertisement for Hod-Hod Suliman Balloon Flights was just visible through the trees, painted onto the wall of a house. The air echoed with the barking of dogs, the toot of service taxis and, in the distance, the rhythmic putter of an irrigation pump.
'It wasn't really a shock,' said the woman, curling one jean-clad leg under the other and lighting a Merit cigarette. 'He hadn't been at all well. Cancer, I think, although he never talked about it.'
Khalifa lit a cigarette of his own and threw a glance across at Sariya.
'We'll know more when we get the autopsy,' he said, 'but it seems that Mr Jansen might have . . .'
He broke off, drawing on his cigarette, uncertain how to phrase what he wanted to say.
'There are certain irregularities about his death,' he said finally.
The woman looked over at him, eyes widening slightly. She wore heavy black eyeliner that seemed to accentuate her expression of surprise.
'How do you mean, irregularities? You're saying he was—'
'I'm not saying anything as yet,' said Khalifa gently. 'The body needs to be properly examined. There were unusual aspects to Mr Jansen's death, however, and we need to ask some questions. All perfectly routine.'
The woman took another deep puff on her cigarette, reaching up with her free hand to fiddle with a crescent-shaped earring in her left ear. Her hair was an unnatural jet black, as though it had been dyed. She was attractive, in a slightly faded sort of way.
'Ask away,' she said. 'Although I don't know if I can be any help. Piet kept himself pretty much to himself.'
Khalifa nodded at Sariya, who pulled out his notebook and pen.
'How long have you worked for Mr Jansen?' he asked.
'Almost three years.' She inclined her head slightly, tugging at the earring. 'It's a long story, but basically I was out here on holiday, made some local friends, they told me Piet was looking for someone to run the hotel – he was too old to cover the day-today business himself – and I thought, "Hell, why not?" I'd just got divorced, you see. There was nothing for me back in England.'
'He had no immediate family?'
'Not that I know of.'
'He was never married?'
The woman took another drag on her cigarette.
'My impression was that Piet wasn't particularly interested in women.'
Khalifa and Sariya exchanged a look.
'Men?' asked the detective.
The woman waved a hand noncommittally. 'I heard he liked to go to Banana Island. He never said anything about it, and I never asked. It was his business.'
There was a crunch of feet on gravel and a young man appeared carrying a tray with three glasses of tea and a small candle lamp on it. He set it down on a table beside them and disappeared again. Khalifa reached for a glass.
'It's not an Egyptian name, Jansen,' he said, sipping.
'I think he was from Holland originally. Came to Egypt fifty, sixty years ago. I'm not exactly sure when. A long time.'
'Did he always live in Luxor?'
'He bought the hotel back in the 1970s, so far as I know. After he retired. I think he was in Alexandria before that. He never really talked about his past.'
She took a last puff on her Merit and ground it out into a scarab-shaped brass ashtray beside her. Above them the first stars were appearing, fat and blue, like fireflies.
'He didn't live here, by the way,' she said, stretching back and clasping both hands behind her neck so that her breasts thrust outwards against the material of her shirt. 'In the hotel. He's got a house over on the east bank. Up near Karnak. He used to drive over each morning.'
Khalifa's brow furrowed slightly, then he motioned his deputy to take down the address.
'So when did you last see Mr Jansen alive?' asked Sariya once he'd finished scribbling, eyes focused on the point where the woman's shirt pulled open slightly, revealing a hint of pink bra.
'About nine this morning. He came over at seven as usual, did some paperwork in the office, then left a couple of hours later. Said he had some business to attend to.'
'Did he say what sort of business?'
This from Khalifa.
'Not in so many words, but I guessed he was going to look at the monuments. It's what he seemed to spend most of his time doing. He was always visiting them. Seemed to know more about them than most experts.'
A small grey cat came stalking along the edge of the terrace, pausing for a moment to size them up before leaping into the woman's lap. She ran her hand gently along its back, tracing the line of its spine, tickling its ears.
'We found certain items near his body,' said Khalifa. 'A walking cane, a canvas bag.'
'Yes, those were his. He always took them when he went exploring. The cane was for his leg. Some old injury. Car accident, I think.'
There was a splashing sound from the far side of the lake as a small boat moved out onto the water, one man rowing, another standing in the prow holding a net, their figures shadowy and indistinct in the thickening darkness. Khalifa sucked away the last of his cigarette and tamped it out in the ashtray.
'Did Mr Jansen have any enemies?' he asked. 'Anyone who would wish him any harm?'
The woman shrugged. 'Not that I know of. But then, like I told you, he kept himself to himself. Never gave much away.'
'Friends?' asked Khalifa. 'Anybody at all he was close to?'
Another shrug. 'Not in Luxor, so far as I'm aware. There was a couple he used to visit up in Cairo. He was there only last week. Anton, I think the husband was called. Anton, Anders, something like that. Swiss. Or German. Or maybe Dutch.' She threw up her hands apologetically. 'Sorry. I'm not really being much use.'
'Not at all,' said Khalifa. 'You're being extremely helpful.'
'The truth is, Piet was a bit of a loner. Kept his private life private. In three years I never once saw the inside of his house, you know. He was . . . secretive almost. I dealt with the hotel and that was it. We didn't have much to do with each other outside business.'
'OK, Taib,' she said. 'I'll be along in a minute.'
She turned to Khalifa.
'I'm sorry, inspector. We've got a private party tonight and I need to start organizing dinner.'
'Of course,' said Khalifa. 'I think we've covered everything we need to.'
The three of them stood and walked back into the hotel lobby, a large, whitewashed space with a reception desk at one end and a narrow staircase in the corner leading to the upper storey. An elderly man in a dirty djellaba was mopping the tiled floor, humming to himself.
'There was a photo in Mr Jansen's wallet,' said Khalifa as they stopped to admire a row of Gaddis prints on the wall. 'Of a dog.'