Aggressor

by Nick Cook

  It took until dusk to go through the other books. And all for nothing. His head throbbed and print swam before his eyes.

  It was tempting just to ignore the desk, or come back to it the following day. Sleep beckoned, but Girling shook himself awake. He turned on the Angle-poise lamp and inclined it so that it shone directly

  into the well of the desk. Straight ahead were drawers and pigeonholes. He peered inside the latter. There were electricity and phone bills, a receipt from an electrical shop at the bottom of the street, an empty cigarette packet - the Mukhabarat had probably helped themselves - and a photograph. Girling held the picture under the lamp. The colours had faded so much that for a moment he thought it was black and white. Stansell was on the left of the picture, beardless, slim and handsome, cigarette dangling raffishly from his mouth. A woman, blonde hair stiff with lacquer, stood beside him. His ex-wife? Maybe.

  He removed each of the four drawers in turn, emptied them and examined the contents.

  One item, a letter, made him stop abruptly when he saw the name of the addressee. He pulled the letter from the envelope. Stansell’s spidery writing sprawled across five pages. He read the first page and a few lines into the next, then refolded it and put it back, not quite sure what to make of it all, except that he felt grubby and intrusive. There were things in this room that he was never meant to know about. He was glad he had almost finished.

  Before returning all the other things he rapped his knuckles over the desk, satisfying himself that there was no hollow space.

  Girling collapsed, exhausted, into one of the arm-chairs. The police had everything. For all his caution, Stansell had as good as given the tools of his profession to Al-Qadi on a plate. As he stared at the photo of Stansell, relaxed and smiling at the bar of the Metropolitan Club, Girling was overcome by a mixture of disillusionment and depression.

  CHAPTER 10

  Schlitz was the information officer at the US Embassy. He had an office on the second floor that rivalled Stamen’s for chaos. A steady breeze from the air-conditioning unit ruffled the papers on his desk. Rather than clear them away, Schlitz anchored them with ashtrays, a photo-frame, some books, an assortment of pens, anything solid that came to hand.

  The man chain-smoked worse than an Egyptian, which accounted for the gravelly resonance behind his deep, slow Southern drawl. Schlitz offered beer, but Girling stuck to coffee. It was not yet nine o’clock.

  ‘Sure you won’t change your mind?’ Schlitz asked, pointing to the small fridge behind his desk.

  Girling held up a hand. ‘No, thanks. Really.’ He was sitting directly across the desk from the American.

  Schlitz chuckled. ‘And you say you’re a colleague of Stansell’s?’

  ‘I’m still acclimatizing,’ Girling said lamely.

  Schlitz patted his considerable belly. ‘Just so long as the Pharaoh ain’t gotten his revenge on you yet.’

  Girling smiled. ‘I have a tough constitution.’

  Schlitz studied Girling’s business card again. ‘In this place, you need one! Says here you’re the technology correspondent. Is there some kind of exhibition going on in town that I missed?’

  Girling shook his head. ‘I’m minding the Middle East bureau desk for a while.’

  ‘You’ve taken over from Stansell?’

  ‘Only temporarily. The whole thing happened pretty fast.’

  ‘So, what happened to Stansell? The old bastard kept this pretty quiet.’

  Girling leant forward till his face was in the slip-stream of the air conditioner. ‘Can I rely on your discretion, Mike?’

  ‘That’s usually my line.’ Schlitz stopped smiling when he saw Girling’s expression. ‘Sure, course you can.’

  ‘Stansell’s been sent home.’

  ‘Why?’

  Girling leant back again. Schlitz was the gossipy kind. The fact that he summoned Girling so quickly to his office - when all Girling ever expected was to be allowed to leave his business card at the main desk - suggested the guy had precious little else to do except peddle chit-chat with the hacks. That was fine by him.

  ‘We ran a story last week about the terrorists who carried out the Beirut massacre-’

  ‘The Angels of Judgement,’ Schlitz said. ‘Hell of a story.’

  ‘Yes it was.’

  ‘Well?’ Schlitz asked, lighting up another Marlboro.

  ‘Threats were made. Terrorist threats. Against Stansell. My bosses thought it safer if he were to lie low for a while.’ Girling looked straight at Schlitz. ‘So, he’s in England until some of the heat dies down. Only trouble is, the old bastard’s gone and given me a king-sized problem.’

  Schlitz took a deep drag and laughed, snorting the smoke out through his nostrils. ‘Like they’re gonna blow your ass away instead, right? Nice friends you keep there, Tom.’

  Girling laughed, too. ‘Terrorists are the least of my problems.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘My editor’s going to have my balls unless I maintain steam on this one. His attitude is, Dispatches led with it and now we’ve got to stay ahead of the pack. And Stansell’s gone and dumped me in the shit.’

  ‘Tough break,’ Schlitz said. ‘So how can I help you?’

  ‘Is there any chance I can meet with some of your military people? The defence attaché, for example. Anyone who could give me some background on the hunt for the terrorists and the hostages.’

  Schlitz shook his head slowly. ‘No can do, Tom. Maybe in London they’ve got folks who give intel briefs, but I’m not authorized to do that kind of shit. Besides, I doubt if the DA would want to know.’

  ‘Come on, Mike. Dispatches broke this story, for Christ’s sake.’

  ‘I’m sorry, but -’ He paused. ‘I’ll give you this for free. Off the record, though, or it’ll be me who has your balls.’ Schlitz studied Girling’s face for a moment. ‘This Beirut business has got everyone jumping around here. Throughout the embassy the teleprinters are chattering like some sort of dawn chorus. I’ve been in this business a long time - twenty-five years, anyway - but I ain’t seen faces around me this long since... well, since Tehran.’

  ‘So, no progress then?’ Girling said. ‘Franklin is still lost.’

  ‘Don’t go putting words in my mouth, now.’

  ‘I wasn’t.’

  Schlitz’s eyes narrowed, then his face broke into a smile. ‘Never trust a guy you ain’t drunk with, that’s my motto,’ he said, reaching down behind him. He passed over a can of dripping cold Budweiser.

  Girling pulled the ring and brought the can up to his lips.

  ‘I tell you what I’ll do,’ Schlitz said. ‘How about I get you and the DA over to my place? Shirt-sleeve stuff, nothing formal. Do you play volley-ball? We play most weekends. The DA does a mean game and his wife’s not bad either, if you get what I mean. You married, Tom?’

  ‘I was,’ Girling said.

  ‘Here’s the deal, then. If you and the DA get on OK... well, what you do after that is your business.’

  ‘I look forward to the invitation. What’s his name, by the way, the defence attaché?’

  ‘Lieutenant-Colonel Cyrus McBain, United States Air Force.’

  ‘Hardly a name you’d forget,’ Girling said, getting to his feet. ‘Thanks for the beer.’ He’d taken just one sip.

  They shook hands and Girling turned for the door. His hand was on the handle when Schlitz asked: ‘Stansell ain’t in any kind of trouble, is he, Tom?’

  Girling froze for a second. He turned to face the American. ‘Like I said -’

  Schlitz waved him down. ‘I know what you said. Only I was talking to a guy from Reuters. You ever read any of John Silverman’s stuff? He’s good.’ Girling had more than read Silverman’s stories, he had kept in touch with him in the years since he had left.

  ‘Seems he got paid a visit by the police - the serious squad, not those jokers from the ‘Askary,’ Schlitz continued. ‘You know who I mean by the Mukhabarat? Internal security. Some of them are
real bad asses.’

  ‘I know the Mukhabarat,’ Girling said. ‘Maybe I should have told you earlier. I used to work here. A few years back.’

  Schlitz apparently didn’t hear him. ‘The police were asking who Stansell hangs around with, who his contacts are. This pal of mine was pretty upset, I don’t mind telling you. Journalists around here don’t like the Mukharabat much. None of us do.’

  Girling’s grip tightened on the door handle. ‘When did this happen?’

  ‘This morning. I put the phone down on the guy just before you walked in.’

  Sharifa heard a slight sound behind her. The goose-flesh rippled the skin from the base of her slender neck to the hairline above her forehead. She turned and Al-Qadi was there, leaning against the filing cabinet. She guessed he must have been there for quite some time, just watching her.

  ‘I have come to talk to you about Girling,’ he said. ‘Where is he?’

  She said nothing. Defiance leapt at him from her eyes.

  Al-Qadi moved toward her. His trousers were damp where his left thigh had rested against the cabinet. Sharifa swivelled to face him, clamping her fingers to the underside of the chair as she did so. She gripped it tightly to stop her shaking.

  ‘I asked you a question,’ he said, perching on the edge of her desk. He spoke to her in Arabic. In his own language, he lisped just the same.

  ‘I don’t know where he is,’ she whispered.

  ‘It’s not quite that simple, is it, ya Sharifa?’ The investigator drew a pencil from the ornamental wooden box in front of her. He pressed the lead point a little way into his thumb and smiled. It was quite sharp.

  Still she said nothing.

  ‘You seemed pleased to see him,’ Al-Qadi probed.

  ‘Tom Girling and I are old friends.’

  He cocked an eyebrow.

  ‘I was at university with his wife,’ she said.

  ‘Of course... the girl who died in Asyut.’

  ‘Mona was killed.’

  ‘If you say so.’

  ‘We were best friends.’

  ‘And now you are his friend.’

  ‘We were friends then and we’re friends now. We’ll always be friends.’

  ‘And do you want to pleasure yourself with this ‘agnabi, too, ya Sharifa?’

  ‘You bastard!’ she whispered.

  ‘Careful...’ Al-Qadi pointed the pencil at her face.

  She bit her lip. Tears of frustration and anger welled up behind her eyes.

  ‘I suppose you’re going to tell me Stansell was different from the others.’

  ‘I loved him,’ she whispered. For a moment, it was as if Al-Qadi was not in the room. As if she heard the echo of her own voice. ‘I still do.’

  ‘How touching.’ Al-Qadi’s eyes traced a path from her neck to the shapely outline of her breast.

  ‘I want you to swear now that you had nothing to do with his abduction,’ she said.

  ‘I don’t have to swear anything to you, ya Sharifa. But let me say this. What purpose would it serve me?’

  ‘If you have lied, I will kill you.’

  Al-Qadi sighed heavily. ‘Where was I? Ah, yes. Girling. His whereabouts today are not important.’ He smiled at her with his tiny eyes. ‘Because you are going to tell me his every movement.’

  She gasped. ‘I’d sooner die.’

  ‘I wouldn’t say that too lightly if I were you.’

  ‘I’ve paid my debt.’

  Al-Qadi shook his head. ‘Once a whore, always a whore.’ He moved quickly, grabbed a handful of hair and pulled her head back sharply until she thought her neck would break. He pressed the tip of the pencil to her cheek. She yelped with the pain.

  ‘I could drive this right through your face,’ he said. ‘Such a beautiful face.’

  She gasped. ‘No, please.’

  ‘Then keep your eyes and ears open. You let me know when you see or hear anything, understand? Or else - ‘ She felt his spittle hit her face.

  Al-Qadi released his grip and Sharifa fell back into the chair. She saw the erection straining against the tight linen of his trousers. Al-Qadi looked between her and his watch. Then, he gave a cluck of irritation and moved awkwardly for the door.

  As he rode the lift to the ground floor, Al-Qadi gave his belt a final tug and adjusted his underwear with his other hand. He wanted her badly. Sharifa Fateem was everything. She was high-class - her father was a rich industrialist - she was smart, she had been well educated, she was beautiful, most assuredly so, and she was a whore. It was the knowledge, the know-ledge that was his alone, that teased him so much.

  But today he had other matters to attend to.

  The lift doors opened and Al-Qadi stepped through the lobby and into the scorching sunshine.

  He was worried that he had underestimated Girling. Maybe he had placed too much faith in the man’s records. Yesterday, he had not seen a broken man, a man unable to grip reality after the violent death of his wife. Yesterday, he had not seen the husk of a man described in the records. Until today, Al-Qadi had omitted to consider one very important fact. It was Stansell who had brought Girling back from the dead. Now that Girling was at large some-where in his city, Al-Qadi regretted having not put a tail on him from the moment he arrived.

  He clicked his fingers and the Mercedes with the blackened windows pulled alongside. He ordered his driver to take him back to headquarters in Shubra.

  Girling stood before the bar of the Metropolitan Club. The crooked blades of a fan rotated noisily above his head. He surveyed the room slowly. Both the decaying armchairs were occupied; one by a man wearing a shabby suit who was immersed in the pages of Al-Ahram, Egypt’s highbrow daily paper, the other by a portly gentleman whose snores filled the air. Sunlight streamed through a gap in the blinds. The room was filled with a musty smell that reminded Girling of old books. Stansell liked the Metropolitan, because it was half-way between a decrepit London club and an opium den.

  Girling sat at the bar and hit the bell. The snoring stopped and the newspaper crackled. The man in the suit went back to his reading. The snorer slumbered on.

  Girling heard the shuffle of slippers across flag-stones. The bead curtains parted behind the bar to admit the concierge. His eyes narrowed momentarily as he tried to remember where he had seen this ‘agnabi before. But Girling knew there was only one member of the Metropolitan staff with that sort of memory for faces.

  ‘You would like a room?’

  ‘No, thank you,’ Girling said. It was then that he noticed that the sherry keg that should have been on the shelf behind the bar was gone.

  ‘A drink, perhaps?’ the man asked, following his gaze. ‘We have beer, cold beer in the-’

  ‘No,’ Girling said. ‘Thank you.’ Mansour was no longer there. The thought had never occurred to him. Mansour, as old as the Muqattam Hills and just as proud, was the Metropolitan Club. ‘I was looking for Mansour,’ he said.

  ‘Mansour?’ the concierge asked incredulously. ‘The old man?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Mansour has not worked here for over two years.’ The eyes narrowed in suspicion. ‘Why do you seek him, ‘agnabi?’

  Girling ducked the question. ‘It’s important that I find him.’

  ‘How important?’

  Girling slipped a five-pound note across the wood surface of the bar.

  The concierge looked down and pulled thoughtfully at the edges of his moustache. ‘Not that important, then.’

  Girling reached into his pocket and doubled the amount. ‘It’s very important.’

  The concierge’s fingers went to his moustache again. He began to shake his head slowly from side to side.

  ‘I am a friend of Stansell’s,’ Girling said, anxious to put an end to this game.

  The concierge’s eyes widened. ‘Stansell? Why did you not say so before?’

  Girling looked down and the money had gone.

  The concierge pulled a bottle of araq from the shelf behind him. He filled a glas
s and slid it across the bar. ‘For a friend of Stansell’s.’

  Girling hesitated. To refuse a gift or favour was tantamount to spitting in this man’s face. He tipped the burning-hot liquor down his throat. To his relief, the bottle was replaced on the shelf.

  ‘When you see Stansell, tell him his friends at the Metropolitan Club miss him. He has not visited us in a long time.’

  Girling had the feeling the concierge missed Stansell’s money more than the man. ‘How long?’

  ‘A month, maybe more.’

  Which meant more like six months, Girling thought. ‘You were trying to remember where Mansour had gone,’ he prompted.

  ‘Ah yes, Mansour.’

  ‘Did he have family?’

  ‘No, no family. Mansour was alone. That is why he worked. But his eyes, his legs... no good. He had to go.’

  ‘Where?’ Girling pressed.

  ‘Maybe in Khan Al-Khalili. Maybe.’

  The Khan was a huge fifty-acre tourist market over in Al-Gamaliya, part of the old quarter. Girling knew he could spend a year in there and never even catch a glimpse of Mansour.

  ‘How do you mean, maybe?’

  ‘Someone said he saw him working at Kareem’s coffee house on the Street of the Judges. But that was nearly a year ago.’

  Girling’s heart sank. Old Mansour was probably dead by now. He got to his feet.

  ‘Where are you going?’ the concierge asked.

  ‘To the Street of the Judges.’ It had to be worth a shot still.

  ‘But it is Friday, my friend. Kareem’s is closed until sundown.’ He bowed his head twice to demonstrate the prayer ritual. ‘On Fridays, until sunset, the Street of Judges is a holy place.’

  Girling swore under his breath. ‘By the way, that old sherry keg that used to be behind the bar...’ He pointed to a place between the bottles. ‘What happened to it?’

  For a moment, the concierge was confused. Girling described the sherry keg, with a brand name he couldn’t remember written on the side. Mansour always had treated it as his proudest possession.

  ‘Ah, that,’ the concierge said. ‘We threw it away. I have seen better trash on sale outside the Cairo Museum. This is a hotel, not a third-rate tourist bazaar.’