‘Oh yes I did,’ Abd al-Ali said, smiling, apparently pleased with himself for having contradicted her. ‘I can’t be caught out there, miss.’ He drew a folded letter from inside his jacket. ‘That’s a letter from the Giza Tourist and Antiquities Police,’ he said with some satisfaction, ‘whose station is just across the road. They gave me permission to move the baggage.’
I scanned the letter, and saw it was genuine. ‘OK,’ I said, ‘I want to see the stuff now.’
‘But the others are already examining it.’
‘What others?’
‘Some American gentlemen — very brusque types, if you ask me. Acted as if they owned the place. Forgive me, but I assumed you were part of the same party. They had ID cards similar to yours. I believe they’re in the storeroom right now.’
Daisy and I exchanged a glance, shoved our chairs back and stood up abruptly.
‘Show us,’ I said.
Abd al-Ali shrugged, got to his feet and stopped. ‘There they are,’ he said, pointing to the passage lined with small shops, off the main concourse.
I looked up to see a group of three men in almost identical grey suits, dark ties and black shoes advancing up the passage in line like a military patrol. The man in the centre was carrying a charcoal coloured Samsonite suitcase, which might have been chosen to match his suit, and the other men were riding shotgun in front and behind.
‘That’s Doctor Ibram’s suitcase,’ the manager said.
We made a beeline for the procession and stood holding up our ID cards, blocking the way. ‘Where do you think you’re going with that?’ I demanded. ‘You have no right to remove evidence.’
The little party came to a stop, but the one carrying the suitcase didn’t put it down. The guy in front was a broad faced, sullen looking type, with brooding eyes, and a walrus moustache that drooped around his mouth. ‘Get out of the way,’ he grunted, through gritted teeth, ‘we have diplomatic immunity.’
‘Like hell,’ I said, nodding towards Daisy. ‘This lady is the investigating detective on the American side. Put that damned suitcase down.’
I crossed my right hand inside my jacket and was about to whip out my Beretta, when a cold, hard rod was suddenly poked against the side of my head. ‘Forget it, Lieutenant,’ a bass voice said, and I saw Daisy’s eyes flicker.
I realized that someone had actually managed to slip up behind, unnoticed by me or even Miss Lightning-Hands Special Agent Brooke. Whoever did that had to be good, I thought.
‘Like the man said,’ the voice growled, ‘we have diplomatic immunity. Let them pass.’
The cold metal was taken away, and I spun slowly to see a fourth man in a grey suit, holding a 9mm SIG pistol in his left hand. The man was middle aged, very tall but with spidery long legs and arms that seemed to swing in simian fashion, a tad too long for the body. His face was dark with lines and pockmarks, making it look like it had been steeped for years in pickling fluid. His head was small — a lump on bony shoulders — with no hair but a long fringe at the back which turned outwards like a crest. His nose was long and high, and his eyes were close together giving the impression of two deep wells, impossible to see into clearly. There was a poised, almost brooding quality about him — a feeling that there was something very nasty and very dangerous here waiting to erupt.
‘Shit,’ I said, ‘that’s twice I’ve had a Yank pull a gun on me today! Don’t you people know what the penalty is for pulling a piece on a cop in this country? I could have you inside for twenty years.’
The spidery man made a dry retching sound that passed for a laugh and stuck his pistol inside his jacket. ‘I doubt that very much,’ he said. The words came out slow and in an odd rhythm, I thought.
‘Lieutenant Rashid,’ Daisy cut in suddenly, ‘this is Jan Van Helsing, the CIA’s head of station here in Cairo.’
‘CIA? I thought this was an FBI case.’
‘So did I,’ Daisy said, pouting at Van Helsing, and I realized suddenly that her face was white with anger. ‘It would have helped if you’d informed me, sir,’ she said.
Van Helsing made a sound as if he was sucking grit. ‘I’m not answerable to you, Brooke,’ he said. ‘The CIA takes priority.’
‘Sir,’ Daisy said, ‘you’re making us look a pack of assholes in front of foreign law-enforcement agencies. I’ll have to report this to the Legat.’
Van Helsing sneered, and I suddenly remembered where I’d heard the name before. Van Helsing was the hero of Bram Stoker’s Dracula — the guy who’d hammered stakes through vampires’ hearts.
‘Watch your mouth,’ the CIA man snapped. ‘You cross me, Brooke, and I’ll have you stripped of your badge and thrown out into the streets to fuck spics and niggers. And don’t think your daddy will stop me. I can take care of him, too.’
For a moment, my hair almost stood on end. It wasn’t so much what the guy had said — though that was bad enough. It was the way he’d said it — that thick, uneven voice larded with deep set hate. Van Helsing hadn’t got the right name, I thought — Dracula would’ve been more appropriate. I watched the CIA man, realizing that I was almost shaking with resentment, feeling the kind of impotent rage I’d felt as a street—boy in Aswan, feeling the same need to smash out. I gritted my teeth and clenched my fists tight to prevent myself.
‘Now piss off,’ Van Helsing added, ‘before I get riled up.’
Daisy’s eyes blazed at him, and for a moment I thought she’d retaliate. Instead, she just touched my arm. ‘Let them get on with it,’ she said. ‘Let’s go.’
8
We sat in Daisy’s Fiat in the Mena Palace parking lot and stared for a few silent moments into the night. In the yellow beam of a car park lamp, Daisy’s face looked beautiful and vulnerable for an instant, and I laid a hand on her shoulder. ‘That was rough,’ I said.
She hesitated a moment before shrugging my hand off, and when she rounded on me I saw Miss Hard-Ass had returned with a vengeance. ‘So what?’ she snapped, ‘I’m a big girl, OK. I’m an FBI Special Agent, in case you hadn’t noticed. I don’t need to be patronized by a Neanderthal.’
‘Neanderthal!’ I said. ‘Listen, I’m the one who got a loaded SIG in the ear, remember? And like I said, that’s twice you Yanks have pointed pieces at me in one day. If I’m a Neanderthal, that must make your CIA guy there fucking Australopithecus afarensis. I thought the C IA was supposed to be the world’s Great White Hope, but judging by Van Helsing it’s just a bunch of foul mouthed, ignorant cruds.’
‘Van Helsing’s a creep.’
‘And that’s putting it mildly. Who is that guy?’
‘He’s the top CIA man in Cairo. I’ve seen him around the embassy, that’s all.’
‘He seemed to know you well enough. What was that remark about your father supposed to mean?’
‘Daddy’s a U S senator. Used to be a general — a real soldier, though, not a desk—man. He was captured and tortured in Korea, but never cracked, and came back a war hero. Led a battalion in Nam, too — got wounded a bunch of times, and cited for bravery more than once. Daddy’s dedicated his life to the States — it’s a family tradition, you could say. My grandfather was a general in World War II, and my great-grandfather in the first one. Among the Brookes service goes back to Washington. I had ideals of loyalty and duty drummed into me before I could read.’
‘Poor little rich girl,’ I said, my spark of sympathy now completely extinguished. ‘But I bet you had everything you wanted too — horses, servants, fast cars, motor launches, exotic foreign holidays, swimming pools, big parties on your birthday and at Christmas.’
Daisy gazed at me — wistfully almost, I thought. ‘Yeah, I had all that,’ she said, ‘but it never meant much to me.’
‘Oho,’ I said, ‘well it would have meant a lot to me when I was a street rat in the Aswan bazaars.’
‘Look, I’m sorry about your pa, OK, but the world’s a tough place. I’m sorry you were brought up dirt poor, but you’re still who you are despite
that, and I’m still who I am.’ She drew in her breath and looked out into the night. ‘Daddy’s an idealist,’ she said. ‘You couldn’t find a more honest guy. He got into politics because he thought he could do some good, but it’s full of sleaze balls and hoods. You know what the military-industrial complex is? Yeah, well they rule the world — not only the States, but everywhere. It’s like a secret government. They make the deals, and the rest of us are just cannon-fodder. Daddy was never part of it, not even in the army. He really believes in the Star-Spangled Banner and all that. He’s not alone, but he’s one of the few.’
I considered her sceptically, remembering the quip about power corrupting. ‘Do you think Van Helsing could really mess him up?’ I asked.
‘I’d say no — I mean, he was just trying to make me back off. But when you think of it, who knows what the CIA can do? They’re the most powerful intelligence agency in the world.’
‘And the military-industrial complex rules the world. Doesn’t that make the CIA the cat’s paw of the “secret government”?’
Daisy shot me a curious look. ‘My first impression of you was spot on,’ she said, ‘you don’t sound like a cop at all.’
‘You know something, Special Agent Brooke? Neither do you.’
She sighed and yawned. ‘Weren’t you going to report to Hammoudi?’ she said.
I took her mobile phone and struggled with the controls for a second time. ‘Damn thing!’ I said at last. ‘You need a degree in astrophysics to operate it.’
‘Let me,’ Daisy said, taking the phone and punching in Hammoudi’s contact number.
She handed it back to me. ‘Yes?’ came Hammoudi’s gruff bass voice. ‘Sammy? How did it go at the Mena?’
I described the encounter with the CIA, and Hammoudi swore. ‘So much for the efficiency of the great U S of A,’ he spat, ‘where the right hand doesn’t know what the left’s doing. The ambassador never breathed a word.’
‘Probably didn’t know,’ I said.
There was a moment’s silence, and I imagined the Colonel thumping the desk with his big fist, fighting down the fury. ‘OK,’ he said at last. His voice was controlled but I could hear the heavy breathing, ‘Don’t worry about it. The CIA’s business is U S national security, which includes papering over the cracks when well-known personalities go haywire. It’s probably nothing more than half an ounce of hash or some dirty pictures in Ibram’s suitcase they’re concerned about.’
‘But how the hell can they get away with sequestering evidence in a foreign country?’
Hammoudi snorted. ‘Because this country gets millions of dollars in subsidies from the States, and because Cairo has the biggest American embassy in the world. It’s as simple as that.’
Hammoudi rang off. ‘OK,’ I said, ‘let’s move it.’ Suddenly, she seemed reluctant to start the engine. ‘What’s up?’ I asked.
She frowned. ‘I don’t know,’ she said, and took a deep breath. ‘I think he was lying.’
‘Who? Van Helsing?’
‘No, the front desk man — Abd al-Ali wasn’t it?’
At that moment there was a tap at the window and a face was suddenly flattened against it. I had my Beretta halfway out before I realized it was Abd al-Alihimself. I flashed a curious glance at Daisy, swung the door open and jumped out. ‘Don’t do that!’ I told him. ‘Somebody might get blown away.’
‘Sorry, Lieutenant,’ he said, and I noticed he was holding what looked like the carrying case of a laptop computer, done in some kind of synthetic material with a shoulder strap and a zip. ‘Forgive me,’ he said, ‘but I observed that well...somewhat embarrassing scene...with the American gentlemen in the lobby. Very bad taste if I may say so. I’m only glad there were no guests around, otherwise it would have been a PR disaster. Actually, I felt quite guilty about it, Lieutenant, I did really. If I’d known, of course, I wouldn’t have allowed them to take the case, but they had their ID and naturally, I assumed that it was all on the up and up.’
I sighed. ‘Look, Abd al-Ali,’ I said, ‘you weren’t to know. It happens. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve had quite a hectic day.’
‘I’m sorry to trouble you, Lieutenant,’ he went on persistently, ‘but if I may say so, I do despise these foreigners who come over here and think they can sort of run things. I mean, they’re so arrogant sometimes, and this is Egypt after all...all due respect to the lady, of course.’
‘Yes,’ I said, ‘well thank you.’
‘No, you don’t understand,’ he said, ‘I would have said something to you earlier but I didn’t quite know how to approach the subject.’
‘Abd al-Ali, whatever you have to say, say it.’
‘All right. Well, you see the case the Americans took wasn’t the only one.’
‘What?’
‘There was another case — this one.’ He held up the small computer case. ‘I kept it aside from the other, and when the Americans asked if there was anything else, I must admit I told them a little fib. I don’t know why I did that. Just something in their manner which I didn’t like.’
He handed the case to me. ‘Where did you find it?’ I asked.
‘It was in his room with the other baggage. Of course, I never looked inside.’
‘Thank you, you’ve done the right thing. And if anyone comes asking about Doctor Ibram again, no matter who it is, you give the SID a ring first. OK?’
I watched Abd al-Ali walking back towards the hotel entrance, then I got back in the car, closed the door and locked it. ‘You were right about him,’ I said. ‘He just brought us a present from Santa Claus.’
Daisy eyed the case dubiously. ‘I once saw a marine sergeant kick an empty briefcase that had been left outside the US embassy in Beirut,’ she said slowly, ‘only it wasn’t empty. Santa Claus had left a little something inside just for him. Took his foot off. Now they use metal detectors.’
I put the case down on my knee and switched on the overhead light. ‘I haven’t got a metal detector,’ I said, ‘but I’ve got intuition. Trust me.’
‘That’s what the marine sergeant said.’
I winced inwardly and unzipped the case. There was no booby trap, only two documents. The first was a sketch map of some kind with hills and wadis marked on it, but no names, scales or coordinates. I examined it carefully and passed it to Daisy, who held it up to the light.
‘That’s useful,’ she said. ‘Could be anywhere. There’s a half circle on the left edge that might be significant but...’ She ran her hand along the edge and her eyes opened slightly in surprise. ‘It’s been cut off,’ she said, ‘with a blunt knife, probably. This isn’t the full thing — it’s only half the map.’
I took it from her and felt the rough edge with my thumb. ‘You’re right,’ I said, ‘but you’re also wrong. This couldn’t be just anywhere. There’s no rivers, streams or standing water. This is a map of the desert.’
‘Great. Isn’t the Sahara supposed to be nine million square kilometres in area? And it might not even be the Sahara.’
I grunted, placed the map back in the case and took out the other document. It was a sheaf of photocopies, and on the top was a blurred image of a lion-headed woman sitting on a throne. The woman was seen in profile, her ferocious lioness-head capped by a pharaonic headdress, and bearing the sacred sun—disc of the ancient Egyptians with a cobra emerging from it — the Uraeus, a symbol of kingship. She was big-bodied with thick limbs and a single breast shaped like a torpedo. In her right hand she held the ancient Egyptian ankh cross — a symbol of life — and in the other a sacred staff. Below the image, someone had written in English:
Let the Eye of Ra descend
That it may slay the evil conspirators.
I shivered and Daisy stared at me. ‘What is it?’ she asked.
‘Sekhmet,’ I said, ‘the lion-headed goddess. The ancient Egyptians regarded her as the Bringer of Devastation. She was the daughter of Ra, the all-powerful sun god, and represented the destructive power of the sun. In a
nother guise she was the Wedjet Eye or the Eye of Ra — Ra’s secret weapon. He once sent Sekhmet down to earth to destroy all human beings, but it didn’t happen because Ra took pity on them. That verse is from the Hymn to Ra which tells the whole story. Sekhmet was a real bitch.’
I flipped the page up and examined what lay underneath. It was a report by two Dutch geophysicists called Blij and Neuven, reprinted from some scientific journal, on core samples taken at the Greenland icecap in the 1970s. I passed it to Daisy, who raised an eyebrow. ‘Very topical,’ she commented drily. She began to read, moving her well-manicured index finger down the centre of the page, then flipping it over.
‘Hey,’ I said, ‘are you reading that, or just skimming?’
‘Speed reading,’ she told me. ‘Something they teach you at Quantico.’
I left her to it and stared into the night for a few minutes until she closed the last page. ‘Well?’
‘Well, illuminating if you’re into ice cores,’ she said, grinning. ‘Seems these guys analysed cores going back as far as 100,000 BC , and were able to pinpoint years when there’d been some kind of atmospheric disturbance — say from volcanic eruptions, meteorite storms, sunspots — that kind of thing.’
‘And?’
She opened the pages again and showed me some lines that had been highlighted in yellow marker. ‘Those are the only lines highlighted in the whole report,’ she said. ‘There was a major disturbance in about 2500 BC. Anything significant about that date?’
I thought about it for a minute then shrugged. I took the report and placed it with the map in the case and zipped it up. ‘Well, like you said, “illuminating”. Half a map of nowhere in particular and a report on the icecap. Great. Let’s get out of here.’
I switched off the light and Daisy gunned the engine. ‘All that shit with Van Helsing,’ she said, ‘and I never even saw the pyramids. Not up close and personal, anyway.’
‘I tell you what,’ I said, ‘why don’t you meet me there — at Giza — at ten tomorrow morning and I’ll show you round.’
She glanced at me doubtfully. ‘We’ve got work to do.’
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