Powers of Detection

Powers of Detection Page 19

by Dana Stabenow

  Madame Fouad continued, and I found myself being drawn deeper by the rich tones of her voice.

  “His brother, Seth, has always had designs on the family business. With Ossie gone, his way would be clear.”

  “But what about you, Madame Fouad?”

  She fixed me with a firm gaze. “This is Egypt. We may have become enlightened over time, but this is still Egypt, and I am still a woman.”

  I nodded. “What sort of business is it?”

  She regarded me steadily with those wide, dark eyes, and I found myself having problems keeping my attention focused on the matter at hand. “All sorts of things, Mr. Jacques. Import/export. Other holdings. We have a diverse range of interests. You might say we deal with bits and pieces of everything. But the nature of our business should not concern you.”

  I was prepared to accept that for the time being; I could do some digging on my own.

  “So why me?”

  And that was the question. I could see no reason why someone like her would bother contacting someone like me. She had to have the resources at her disposal to pick anyone she wanted.

  “I need discretion,” she said, her gaze unflinching. “If word of this should get out . . . You are someone outside our usual circles. I very much doubt you would have had previous dealings with my brother-in-law. Perhaps with some of the people he employs from time to time, but no . . . you are not the . . . usual type.”

  “Hmm, you’re probably right,” I said, quite prepared to take her word for it at that moment.

  “I am certain that I am,” she said, lifting her glass for another sip of tea.

  I glanced around the bar, but there was no one in earshot.

  “My rates, Madam Fouad . . .”

  She gave a dismissive wave of her hand. “Are unimportant.”

  And that was that. There was some more small talk, and when prompted, she handed over a faded photograph showing her husband, Ossie, in traditional Egyptian garb. Maybe it had been taken at a party somewhere. He was darker than she, but a good-looking man, all the same, sporting a small dark beard. I studied the photograph, then slipped it away inside my jacket. She fixed me with that deep gaze of hers, and I found myself wanting to help her in any way I could, whether she was half-crazy or not . . . or whether I was half-crazy too. She stood, apparently satisfied that our business was done for now.

  “Madame Fouad,” I said. “How will I . . . ?”

  “I will be in touch with you,” she said, then turned, heading for the exit. She dealt with the check on the way out with a flash of gold.

  I sat there for a while longer, savoring the amber burn in my glass while I worked out what my next move would be. She hadn’t given me a whole lot to go on, and I hadn’t even thought to get her first name.

  -

  The light fell golden across the spans of the 25 July Bridge. The early-evening muezzin calls floated above the city, urging the faithful to prayer. Boats cruised up and down the stretch of brown-green water before me, tinged brassy with the fading sun. I walked past the rank of black-and-white taxis, their drivers waiting to haggle with the well-to-do tourists, looking for three, four times the going rate, heading away from the Gizera Sporting Club, up toward the bridge.

  I had two choices. It was either the City of the Dead or the Khan el-Khalili, where the stallholders would be starting to set up for the evening’s trade. But the Khan was no ordinary souk. You could get just about anything you might want at the Great Khan, if you knew where to look, and me, I knew where to look.

  I might just have given Madame Fouad’s statement more pause for doubt; but to be honest, I needed the work. The flash of gold goes a long way to shutting up that little voice in the back of your head, and in Cairo the dead are as much a part of everyday life as the living. Look at the City of the Dead. The locals have taken up living among the tombs and mausoleums. Not only among, but inside them too. The dead have a life of their own in Egypt, and had since the dawn of time. It was a part of their culture. And I thought I could live with it, especially if someone like Madame Fouad was footing the bill.

  So, I stood there on the banks of the Nile, the wash of garbage and traffic wrinkling my nose, the shouts and car noise swelling around me, and the only question running through my head was where I should go first. Maybe that was wrong. Maybe I should have listened, but there’s so much noise in this grand old city that sometimes you don’t know what might be the little bit that counts.

  A little way up the street, I hailed a cab. He wanted too much, clearly taking me for a foreign tourist, and I walked away. I fared a little better with the next one. He only wanted double the standard rate, but this was Zamalek, so I agreed and climbed into the front seat next to the driver as was the custom. In my Western garb I was going to stand out anyway, but anything you could do to mark yourself as not too removed could only help.

  The driver was good at what he did. Meandering in and out between the trucks and buses, his hand pressed flat against the horn. Sometimes I really wished drivers in Cairo would use their lights in the burgeoning dark or late at night, but I just had to trust to the fact that this cab was probably more valuable than the driver’s life. It was in his own interests to keep us in one piece.

  On the way, I pulled out the faded photograph and studied it. A good-looking Egyptian guy looking like he was out of his proper time. I hadn’t heard of Ra Industries before, as far as I could remember. Ossie was a common enough Egyptian diminutive, but Seth, now that was different. Maybe their parents, like so many others of their class, had had them schooled abroad, wanting them to move above and beyond their roots. Sometimes a name is a simple enough step upon that path. I slipped the photograph back into my inside pocket and tried to avoid watching the near misses as we weaved in and out of the traffic. Maybe, just maybe, Madame Fouad had been speaking metaphorically. That didn’t make sense though, at least not then.

  My driver dropped me at the Midan Hussein and I left him there with a quick shukrun. I could have entered the Khan farther down Al Azhar Street, but I liked the long walk up Muski, past the perfumers and the costumes and the bits and pieces designed to trap the unwary tourists. The scents, the sounds, gave me a transition into that canvas-covered other world that is the Khan proper. My goal was farther north, but walking up past the twinned mosques, past the goldsmiths and copper shops of al-Muizz li-Din Allah took me away from modern Cairo, into another time and another place. Everywhere there was noise; the hawkers, the touts, the blare of radios and other music. Everywhere was the smell of another era, another reality. It was almost as if I had stepped into another age.

  I had a couple of contacts in the Khan. One was back in the narrow winding streets that sold antiquities, real and fake, but my main guy, Ismail, plied his trade up in the street of coppersmiths. Keeping one eye open for pickpockets, I headed in that direction, pushing past the streams of native Egyptians and tourists both. I was looking out for familiar faces, too—signposts to the subtle trade that might be going on around me, beneath the veneer of market commerce. I’d learned the faces, the ones that mattered, but on that evening, most of them were strangely absent.

  I stopped in front of Ismail’s tiny store, peering inside at the shelves of burnished copper, the piles of pots and jugs stacked haphazardly in the front. There was no sign of him. But then, as if he sensed my presence, a stained curtain twitched in the back, and a familiar pockmarked face peered out.

  “Zhaik, Zhaik, it is you, my friend. You come to see me.”

  I glanced up and down the street, then grinned. “Ismail, you old crook. How are you?”

  A big yellow grin greeted my statement. “Allah willing, I am well, Zhaik.”

  “And business?”

  Ismail rocked his head from side to side. “Ah, you know.â€
 He came to the front of the store and peered round the corner. He glanced across at the stall across the street with narrowed eyes, tossing his chin at the stallholder opposite. The man gave a quick nod, and after a quick glance up and down the street, Ismail beckoned me inside.

  Behind the stained curtain sat a simple table and a couple of chairs. A dirty stove sat with a pot of tea upon it. Ismail pulled down a couple of tea glasses, wiping them with the hem of his robe as he gestured to one of the seats. He planted the glasses down, pushed a bowl of white sugar lumps into the center, and reached up to turn on a radio that sat atop a battered fridge in the corner. Satisfied, he poured two glasses of tea and sat, pulling his off-white galabiya around himself.

  “So, Zhaik,” he said, suddenly all business, peering across at me with yellowing, watery eyes.

  “I’ve got a new case,” I told him. I dug into my pocket and drew out the photograph, slipping it across the table so he could see it. Ismail picked it up and peered down, his eyes narrowing. He shook his head.

  “You’re sure?”

  He slid the photograph back. “Yes. I am sure. Aiwa.”

  I slipped the picture away again. “Well, his wife says he’s gone missing.”

  Ismail shrugged, as if this was no news, something that happened every day, and he was right.

  I leaned forward. “No, there’s something about this one,” I told him. “You should see the wife. We find him, and I think it’s going to be worth the effort.” I rubbed my thumb and first two fingers together in front of his face.

  Ismail looked up at me, his eyes narrowed, then he grinned. “Is good, Zhaik.”

  “Yes, is good,” I said. “Anyway, they’re loaded, but she wants to keep it quiet. She said something really weird though. She said her brother-in-law had killed him before, and she thought he might have done it again.”

  Ismail’s grin suddenly faded and his eyes widened. “What is this woman, Zhaik?”

  I frowned. “Madame Fouad. That’s her name. I didn’t get a first name. Her husband’s name—the guy in the picture—his name’s Ossie.”

  Ismail gave a slight shake of his head.

  “Anyway, it’s all to do with the brother, or so she says. It’s all to do with the company, Ra Industries. The brother’s name is Seth.”

  Ismail suddenly sucked air through his teeth and shook his head. “I cannot help you, Zhaik.”

  “Come on, Ismail.”

  He leaned forward, close enough that I could smell his breath, his body. “Is bad business, Zhaik. You walk away, yes.”

  “What are you saying?” I said, leaning back.

  He shook his head again. “You go now, Zhaik. You go now.”

  I was about to protest, but Ismail sliced the air with his hand. I didn’t understand, but Ismail had been useful to me in the past, and I didn’t want to upset the relationship. Whatever I’d said had struck a nerve in places he didn’t want me to be. Sometimes their damned superstitions went a little too far. I wondered what it was this time.

  I bid him a quick good bye, and left him there slowly shaking his head, not even bothering to finish my tea.

  -

  For the next few days I pursued my own inquiries. I hit a wall in every direction. I could find no record of the Fouads or anything to do with Ra Industries. Every way I turned, at the merest mention of those names, the shutters came crashing down. The dusty streets and alleyways of Cairo guard their secrets well, but I’d never seen anything like this. Usually a few Egyptian pounds is enough to loosen lips. Not this time. I was left scratching my head, grinding my teeth with frustration, dreading the call from Madame Fouad, knowing I had nothing to give her.

  Two days later the call came. It wasn’t Madame Fouad. It was Ismail.

  “Zhaik,” said the breathy voice at the other end of the line. “You must come. I have something for you.”

  “What is it, Ismail?” There was something in his voice—no banter, all seriousness.

  “You must come, Zhaik.” The line went dead.

  I jumped in a cab and headed for the Khan, not even bothering to haggle over the price. Ismail was waiting for me when I got there.

  “What have you got?” He looked nervous, jittery. He shook his head, beckoning for me to follow him into the depths of the marketplace. He didn’t even bother checking that someone would look after his store.

  Ismail lead the way, pushing past stallholders and browsers alike. I knew the section. One of my other contacts plied his trade from a small antiques store in the very area, but the store Ismail led me to was unfamiliar. Ismail ushered me inside a small shop, cluttered with statuary, tomb fragments, and papyri. He closed the door firmly behind us. A moment later, we were joined by a small, rotund sweaty man, with a full black beard and thick glasses.

  “This is Ali,” said Ismail. “This is his shop.”

  I nodded.

  “Come, come,” said Ali.

  He led us into another back room. This one was far cleaner than Ismail’s. On a small table in the room’s center, sat a bundle, wrapped in newspaper and tied up with string. Ali reached across, retrieved a knife, and cut the string; then waved me toward the package. Looking from one to the other, I gingerly reached forward and started unfolding the newspaper. I swallowed and stepped back. What lay revealed was a foot. I reached forward and prodded it with the tip of one finger. It was a foot all right. I peered closer. Neatly manicured nails, slightly dark skin, and a clean cut at the ankle.

  “Where did you get this?” I said.

  “A local fishermen. It comes from the river three days ago.”

  Three days ago? It looked recently removed. Very recently removed.

  “What’s happened? Where has it been kept?”

  “Ali has had it here. I hear about it. I talk to him. I call you, Zhaik. He has it here maybe two days, I think.”

  But that was impossible. Sitting wrapped in newspaper for a couple of days in the Cairo heat, a severed foot wasn’t going to look like that. I reached out and folded the newspaper back over, swallowing back my disbelief.

  “At least put the damn thing in a fridge,” I said.

  There was nothing to indicate that this was who I was looking for, but somehow, deep inside, I knew it was. I turned away from the table, one hand massaging the back of my neck. One foot did not a body make. This was probably a matter for the Cairo police, but I didn’t want to involve them yet. I turned back to Ismail.

  “Get him to keep it here. Ask around. See if anything else has shown up. Until then . . . I don’t know.”

  The next thing to turn up was a head. There was no doubt about who it belonged to. I couldn’t deny the possibilities any longer.

  Right on cue, that evening, the call I was dreading came. I heard her voice on the end of the line, and my heart sank.

  “I have some bad news,” I told her.

  “Yes, what is it?” she said, her voice calm, her tone even.

  “We think we’ve found your husband.”

  “We? What is this ‘we,’ Jacques?”

  I paused at that. “I use a couple of contacts, a couple of people who work for me, Madame Fouad. I can trust them.”

  “All right. So tell me.”

  “Well, we haven’t exactly found all of him.”

  “I see. What have you found?”

  “So far, only a foot and his head. I’m sorry, Madame Fouad.”

  Her next statement blindsided me completely. I expected tears. I expected wailing. “Ah, very good, Jacques,” she said. “You have tru
ly earned your fee.”

  I held the phone away from my ear, staring at it in disbelief. Slowly, I brought it back to my ear.

  “Madame Fouad?”

  “Did you hear me, Jacques?”

  “No, I’m sorry . . .”

  “Make sure to keep the pieces you have safe. Continue searching. I have faith in you, Jacques. I will be in touch to arrange collection of what you have.”

  The connection went dead, and I lowered the phone.

  -

  Over the next couple of weeks, the word went out, and one by one, pieces of the body turned up. A cowherd brought in one. A local farmer another. A tourist guide yet another. Every piece, wrapped in leaves, or newspapers, or blue plastic bags were all in the same perfect condition, as if they’d been severed mere minutes before. I didn’t understand it. I didn’t really want to. Ismail, his pockmarked superstitious face filled with knowing, seemed to accept it as if it was something that happened every day. Every couple of days, Madame Fouad called, monitoring the progress.

  Of course we paid. We paid in bits and pieces for the bits and pieces, and the word spread. By the end, we had fourteen individual parts. We had the whole Ossie Fouad in pieces, all except for one. And maybe he didn’t need that piece anymore. After all, according to my research, he already had a son, a healthy young man called Horace, all set to take over the company when his own time came. I met him when he and his mother came to collect the pieces.

  A good-looking young man, with his father’s skin, he leaned in close to me as he bundled the neatly wrapped pieces of his father’s corpse into the back of a truck.

  “We cannot thank you enough, Mr. Jacques,” he said. “But I would keep out of sight for a while. Your fee should look after you. After my father’s resurrection, my uncle will not be pleased. He doesn’t take kindly to failure. I would give you this word of caution. My uncle Set does not forget and his reach is long. Watch for him in the darkness.”

 

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