Firebird

by Michael Asher

  ‘You must be losing your touch,’ Hammoudi said. ‘Yesterday you get disarmed by Miss Butter-Wouldn’t-Melt, and today you get nailed by some granny in the souk. Who the hell was she?’

  He poured more araq into my glass and topped it up. Warmth was already spreading through my body from the first one, and the ache in my jaw had diminished. I sipped the araq and attempted a lopsided smile. ‘Had to be a tail,’ I said.

  ‘Who?’ Hammoudi asked. ‘CIA? Militants? FBI watchers looking out for our favourite Special Agent?’

  ‘Could be anybody. Bloody woman had a punch like steel.’

  Hammoudi stared at my jaw again and chuckled. The band were sitting down now, tuning up their instruments and an expectant hum had fallen over the audience. I drained my araq and felt my jaw again. It was numb — the ache had magically disappeared. Hammoudi filled both our glasses and ordered another third of a litre from a passing waiter. ‘Drink!’ he said. ‘You’ll feel better.’

  ‘I shouldn’t,’ I said, picking up my glass.

  ‘So you and Daisy got on all right?’ Hammoudi asked. ‘She’s got the speed of a snake, never saw anyone so sharp. And she doesn’t miss a thing even if she doesn’t let on.’

  ‘She missed the Sanusi amulet.’

  That was a point I hadn’t thought about.

  ‘What about Sanusi?’ Hammoudi asked.

  ‘Scared of something, but I don’t know what. He almost had a fit when Daisy mentioned Firebird.’

  ‘Ah, Ibram’s famous last word. Like I said, nothing came up on that or the name Monod, but I’ve already briefed Halaby. Said he’d look into Sanusi and Monod pronto and meet you here tomorrow night.’

  ‘Good. If anyone can dig up the dirt it’s Halaby. Anyway, Sanusi confirmed that the Sanusiya’s been out of the picture since 1916 when the British kicked their arses with machine guns at Salloum. He got real shirty when we suggested the Brotherhood might have been reactivated.’

  ‘What about the amulet?’

  ‘Reckons a guy called Sayf ad-Din took it. Guy who turned up disguised as an Arab and said he was working for a thing called the “World Council of Islam”.’

  ‘Never heard of it.’

  ‘Neither had Sanusi. Reckoned it was all bogus. In fact, he claimed this Sayf ad-Din was a ghoul. Funny. Fawzi talked about a ghoul too, and apparently Ibram asked the doorman at the Mena whether he believed in them.’

  Hammoudi smirked grimly. ‘You know I never believed in hocus pocus,’ he said, ‘but I just had a feeling about this case. Somehow I felt it might open up the whole can of worms.’

  ‘It’s a tentative connection, Boutros. Sanusi’s wacky enough to have imagined it.’

  ‘Maybe, but you know as well as I do there’s something nasty on the loose in the Khan, whether it’s a ghoul or whatever you want to call it.’

  He was right about that. I’d damn near caught up with it two weeks ago, the night it got the tailor’s boy. Could it be coincidence that Fawzi, Ibram and Sanusi had all mentioned the ghoul? Hammoudi’s intuition about the case must have been more powerful than I thought.

  ‘I tell you Boutros, I saw it that night — something that looked like a human spider — a sort of insect head and legs that were jointed the opposite way from ours. It was just a fleeting glimpse in the shadows, but a few minutes later I found the boy. Sanusi was all boned up on it, and Daisy caught on. I had to tell her the boy died of a rare blood disease.’

  The Colonel loosened his massive shoulders uncomfortably and brooded for a moment. I swallowed araq. ‘By the way,’ I said, changing the subject, ‘you get the ballistics report on Ibram’s death?’

  Hammoudi looked relieved. He was on safer ground talking about bullets and trajectories. ‘Yeah,’ he said, ‘FBI lab confirms the shells were 7.62mm short — those are standard Russian military issue. Also confirmed the weapons used were Klobbs — a handheld machine pistol, normally issued to Russian Special Forces. The coup de grace came from a different weapon, though — a Browning 9mm pistol.’

  ‘Not much there we didn’t know.’

  He grunted in agreement and flicked a cigarette from a flat packet. He placed it cockily in his mouth, brought up his lighter, then halted in the act of lighting it. On stage, the musicians were sitting down on stools and lifting up their instruments. ‘Any minute now she’ll be on,’ he said.

  ‘Known her long?’ I enquired.

  He pretended to look hurt. ‘It’s not that way at all, I’m like a father to her.’

  The waiter brought the third of araq and another jug of water. I poured myself half a glass and topped it up. Like a father. Bukra flu mishmish, I thought.

  ‘There’s something wrong about that shooting,’ Hammoudi said, lighting his cigarette at last. ‘This coup de grace business. That’s not Militants. It’s a kind of ritual thing — the Sicilian Mafia does it, but it’s never been a Militant trait. And those Klobb machine pistols. They’re special weapons — I mean you could buy them easily enough on the black market, I suppose, but they’re not the kind of thing any idiot could use. Not like the trusty old A K—47 that’s completely grunt-proof — just point it in the right direction and squeeze. No, the Klobb’s a pro’s weapon. And think of the coolness of the op. Broad daylight. In front of spectators. These guys were professional hit men, not politicals. Either ex-military or a Mafia hit team, I’d put money on it.’

  I drank again, probing my jaw. Hammoudi sipped araq and glanced expectantly at the stage. The musicians were waiting in silence. Nadia walked gracefully up to the microphone, her heavy robes swinging, jewellery catching the light. She tossed her luxurious hair, and addressed the audience in a clear, musical voice that held just enough shyness to make it incredibly inviting. I was feeling more relaxed and comfortable now. Too comfortable. The knots of people around us no longer looked like wolves, dogs and pigs, but like hyenas and full-blown vampires. The floor seemed to be rippling slightly, like liquid, and I had the distinct impression I saw one of the snake-charmer’s cobras wriggling under a table. Hammoudi was watching the stage. The spotlights were on Nadia, transfixing her in a rainbow of colour. ‘By the way,’ he added in a faraway voice, ‘that talk about ghouls reminded me. I’ve got some new information.’

  ‘Oh,’ I said. ‘What?’

  But it was too late. Nadia had picked up the microphone and the audience had gone quiet. I turned to look. Suddenly the music started, went straight into a rocking beat without any build up, a snapping rhythm of tablas and castanets that had your feet tapping wildly and made you want to rock to and fro. The strings led the music on subtly, building up inside the clashing beat in an intricate, spiralling pattern that stirred visions of rivers flowing, sands blowing, and gave you the feeling there was something here as ancient as the hills. Then Nadia’s voice came in, quavering in high contralto, as clear as running water yet not overpowering or dripping false emotion like the classical singers. The voice was laid back, a virgin’s voice, not dominating but complementing the music, as if holding a dialogue with the instruments. Nadia sang as if in a trance, swaying only slightly to the beat, then turned abruptly away from the microphone to let the music take over, with a new crash of percussion and swirl of pipes. The rhythm built up and up and the audience began to clap in time.

  Hammoudi watched with sparkling eyes. When Nadia turned back a moment later, I saw she’d picked up a tambourine, and now she stood with her feet apart, shoulders angled passionately as she slapped the skin on her instrument, and began to sing. This time the voice was more forceful and energetic, as if Nadia had suddenly lost that shy, virginal character of the first round. The music became faster and faster, the musicians leaning into their instruments, lost to the world, their hands working in a blur of movement. Nadia began to sway more rapidly, as perspiration tracked down her makeup, and her movements became increasingly sensuous as she rotated her full hips and thrust out her breasts under the velvety robe. She paused again from singing, and now the music had gone wild. She dance
d about the stage with her head up, stretching her neck as if oblivious to anything but the beat. She caught the last bars of a phrase and joined in again, her body moving frenetically, the contralto voice lilting up and up, until it reached a soaring climax. She turned her back on the audience again, and the viols and qanun assumed the part of the human voice, running down slowly, as the instruments seemed to explore variations of the melody. The music grew quieter by degrees until it faded out. Then Nadia turned shyly again and bowed to frenzied applause.

  Hammoudi slapped his great palms together deafeningly. ‘Well?’ he said.

  The music had done something to me. Or maybe it was too much araq. I had sunk an inch into my chair and the top of my head felt like it was coming loose.

  ‘That’s what I call an ‘Alima!’ I said. My voice came out slightly slurred, I noticed. ‘A perfect performance!’

  Hammoudi beamed proudly and poured us both another araq. ‘Hey,’ I protested, ‘that’s enough. Any more and I’ll have to be carried out.’ But Hammoudi wasn’t paying attention. He was watching Nadia taking her leave, saying she’d be back later.

  He lit another cigarette. ‘Knew her mother,’ he said, ‘beautiful girl, like her. Used to be an ‘Alima too. Father was a real lowlife, though. Small-time heel grifter like Fawzi. Only the guy got himself mixed up with the Shadowmen pushing heroin. Started packing a Colt .45 and thought he’d hit the big time.’

  ‘What happened?’ I asked. ‘You run him in?’

  ‘No, I shot him. Right here in the club.’

  ‘Shit. And she still holds your hand!’

  ‘Why not? The guy spent most of his time beating up on her. After he’d driven the mother to suicide, that was. Did her the biggest favour of her life when I shot him.’

  I looked around, catching a glimpse of a wriggling shadow on the floor, sneaking under one of the tables. ‘Hey!’ I said. ‘You see that?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘There’s a cobra on the loose!’

  Hammoudi grinned. ‘You’re right,’ he said, ‘you’ve had enough.’

  ‘Yea,’ I said. ‘Now, what was it you were going to tell me?’

  Hammoudi scratched his chin. A new performer had started up in a corner — a magician with a strange conical hat like a Tibetan monk. He was choosing volunteers from the crowd and pouring something into their hands — some kind of divination, I supposed. ‘Oh yeah,’ Hammoudi said, ‘Records came up with a name. Professor Milisch Andropov. Ever heard of him?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘He’s a specialist in Earth Sciences — Ibram’s field. Right now he’s a professor at ‘Ain Shams University, but he worked with Ibram for a long while in the States. They were real pals at one time, but ended up having a set-to and weren’t on speaking terms any more. Now Andropov happens to have been on the Millennium Committee too.’

  ‘He isn’t any more?’

  ‘You guessed it. This morning — a day after Ibram gets whacked out — Andropov resigns from the committee. He then applies to his university for a six month sabbatical and skips town.’

  I tried to sit up. The floor was spinning, and there was more than one cobra wriggling under the tables. I lurched slightly and gripped the edge of my chair to steady myself. ‘Where’d he go?’ I asked slowly, making a great effort to enunciate the words.

  ‘Now that’s the most interesting bit. His faculty says he’s at St Samuel’s Monastery in the Fayoum having a “retreat”.’

  I looked at him in dumb surprise. St Samuel’s was where the first reports of the ghoul had come from — the reports that had set my people on its track in the first place.

  ‘They tell me he’s been going to the place for twenty odd years. I phoned the monastery up, and they didn’t want to tell me at first, but I laid down the law, and in the end they admitted he was there. I think you should make St Samuel’s a priority, Sammy.’

  ‘Yes, I will. Sure. But Boutros — Fayoum’s a whole day’s drive from here.’

  Hammoudi had suddenly undergone fission — there were two Hammoudi clones now, both of them smiling crookedly. ‘The FBI’s got a chopper available,’ he said.

  ‘Nah — the bloody Yanks wouldn’t give us priority!’

  ‘Try sweet-talking Miss Daisy Brooke.’

  14

  I still had the hangover when the unmarked FBI Jetstream swooped in over St Samuel’s Monastery near the Fayoum. From a thousand feet it looked like a wedge of interlocking boxes set in a tiny patch of green that was almost lost amid scarps of salmon-coloured rock and sheets of amber sand. The pilot — a grizzled U S veteran with about five gold bars on his shoulder straps — put us down with perfect precision on a landing-strip between shelter belts of pencil cedars, eucalyptus and mesquite. We waited till the rotors stopped whizzing, then jumped out to meet a heavy set monk, who was waiting for us beside a limousine. ‘Brother Paul,’ he said, bowing slightly. His beard was like a dark fan round his face, and he wore silver glasses and a black pillbox hat that went with his black soutane. He shook hands coldly. ‘This is most irregular,’ he told me, ‘the retreat is sacrosanct. The Patriarch is very disturbed about it.’

  ‘Sorry,’ I said, ‘but this is a murder enquiry.’ My head was hurting and my stomach felt queasy after the helicopter ride. I was in no mood for niceties.

  ‘Couldn’t it have waited?’ he demanded.

  ‘Ask the murderers.’

  He shrugged, ushered us into the car and sat next to the driver in the front. We rattled through acres of olive and almond groves, through palmeries and vineyards that looked greener than green against the desert’s pastel hues. ‘Must be a lot more water here than there seems,’ I commented.

  Water’s a problem,’ the monk said without turning round. ‘It’s also a priority. We have some of the best engineers and environmentalists to help us. We have deep bores, but some of them are brackish — in this season we rely on our irrigation tanks. Professor Andropov is a dry land specialist and he has been most valuable to us.’

  Now I understood. Andropov was more than just a guest — he was a benefactor of the monastery. That was why they were so cut up about our disturbing him.

  I looked out of the window and suddenly noticed a string of Bedouin riding fast on lean camels along the roadside. They wore ragged jibbas and layered headcloths the same hue as the desert itself, their features knapped down by generations of thirst and desert winds into their irreducible core. They looked as if they lived in another dimension, and to prove it they ignored us disdainfully as we roared by. It gave me a sudden surge of nostalgia to see them so unexpectedly.

  ‘Who are those guys?’ Daisy asked, staring back after them as they faded into the distance. I could have told her, but I left it to our host.

  ‘They are Bedouin of the Harab tribe,’ he said, ‘people of the desert fringes. They have served the monastery for generations. Without them we could not have survived.’

  I was going to add that they had probably plundered the place periodically too — for Bedouin serve no one but their tribe but I was distracted by the appearance of the monastery itself, looming suddenly up out of the trees. It was a huge rambling mass of high walls that had the same look as the tribesmen we’d just seen — honed down by the erosion of sand and wind over centuries into a form that had somehow established a kind of truce with the environment. The stone blocks were sun—scorched and blackened, and the walls were riddled with eye slits and openings and strange little overhanging trapdoors. The car passed through a long arch and up a tree lined avenue that spoke almost audibly of water richness, towards the newly whitewashed edifice of a church with twin towers. To the left was an ancient block building with external pillars and raised verandahs, which the monk told us doubled as the infirmary and museum. ‘Our monastery has an interesting history,’ he said. ‘Please take a glance in the museum before you leave.’ There was a tiny graveyard outside the building, I noticed, and an old man in a torn jibba and turban was working on the plot with a hoe.r />
  ‘Stop!’ I said suddenly. ‘I’ll take a look right now.’

  The driver stopped the car and the monk turned on me with a puzzled frown. ‘Didn’t you say you were in a hurry?’ he demanded.

  ‘Yes, but there’s something here I want to see.’

  I walked over to the graveyard, and Daisy followed me. The monk sidled up behind us. The old man stopped his work as we approached, leaned on his hoe and felt his back.

  ‘Peace be on you.’ I said.

  ‘And on you.’

  He watched me in silence as I studied the graves. Most were marked with a cross and seemed to be the graves of Christian lay workers who had served the monastery. One, though, was clearly an Islamic burial, marked with an oval of stones around a mound with headstones at either end. A crude wooden inscription read, ‘Mohammad Fustat. 1995.’

  ‘Who’s the sheep among the goats?’ I asked Brother Paul.

  He swallowed. ‘An unfortunate affair,’ he stuttered, ‘I mean...he died in the infirmary. Actually he’d lost so much blood...an accident in the desert.’

  ‘The boy was killed by a ghoul,’ the old man piped up suddenly. ‘Everybody knows it. He was looking for a stray calf in the Cave of the Owls. They told him not to go there, and when he didn’t come back after two days they went looking. Found him still alive, half torn to shreds — and one of them saw a creature running off in the distance.’ He made the sign of protection against evil spirits, and lowered his voice to a whisper. ‘They said it was a hairy beast with one leg like a donkey’s.’

  ‘That’s nonsense,’ Paul said, looking daggers at the old man, ‘just primitive superstition. He’d had an accident — been bitten by a bull camel — he’d almost bled to death. There was nothing we could do.’