The Cairo Diary

by Maxim Chattam

  “I remember. Even here people threatened to march on the capital if they weren’t told the truth. And they’re still talking about it in the cafés!”

  Marion continued her explanation as a kind of catharsis: “The medical examiner who had conducted the initial autopsy denied the new version in its entirety; he confirmed that death had been caused by a heart attack. He had been well-briefed—him and the man who carried out the toxicological analyses. I don’t know what they were told, but it worked. They stated that it was a hoax. The autopsy report received by the editors was a forgery. And yet the sender’s fax number corresponded to that of the Médico-légal Institute. The press set out to find the person who sent it. Me.”

  “Did they find you?”

  “No. The cops I’d contacted managed to keep the secret. During this time, they registered an official interest in the affair and opened an investigation. I was told that I would be called as a witness if there was a trial. It was at that moment that the DST came back to see me. They explained that things were going too far, and I must be put somewhere safe.”

  “Since they’re the secret service themselves, what were they afraid of?”

  “The president’s personal bodyguard. The shadowy men in his party. Who knows? They didn’t tell me anything.”

  “I don’t understand. If the DST deals with the balance of the nation, why are they protecting you? Usually, in films, they don’t get bogged down in details. Bang bang, one shot with a silencer, and the embarrassing witness is feeding the fish in the Seine.”

  “In films … in reality, the DST aren’t mercenaries in the pay of the president. They really do act for the good of the country. That’s what I was told. And they’ve proved it with me. A scandal implicating the president in a case of political murder causes a stir; if in addition to this you discover that he’s had someone assassinate the girl who made it all public, it’s civil war! It seems to me that there are interminable power struggles among all the country’s official organs. The DST distrusts the bodyguards at the Elysée, and certain police officers and gendarmes, and so on. So they stick me a long way from everybody, long enough to clear away the undergrowth and see things more clearly. And then bring me back to life. And if there were to be legal proceedings, well, I’ll have my bit to say, as a witness.… All this because of an autopsy report that went astray, the sort of thing that’s so stupid that you can’t believe it could happen. Put that in a film, and everyone will think it’s ridiculous. And then reality shows you that it’s even more simple and ridiculous. In the meantime, I have to hide.”

  “So you came here. Could it last a long time?”

  Marion rubbed her temples; she was tired. “I don’t know. Long enough for things to calm down, I was told. That’s the worst thing. Not knowing when I’ll be going home.”

  Béatrice finished her drink. “My God…” She comforted her friend, placing a hand on her back.

  “I’m going to go,” announced Marion.

  “Do you want to sleep here? I can make you up a camp bed on the settee.…”

  “No, that’s really kind. But I’m going to go back and read a little, that’ll give me a change of thought. I’m sure to see you tomorrow.”

  Marion left her confidante on the doorstep. She could feel Béatrice’s eyes on her until she disappeared around the corner of the street.

  38

  At nine o’clock in the morning, the heat was already so intense that all the Westerners went out with parasols in their hands.

  Jeremy Matheson paid a dragoman to accompany him into the districts of Abbasiya and Gamaliya in order to find out what Azim had done the previous day. Through his guide and translator, he asked a thousand questions, little by little building up a picture of his colleague’s actions.

  Early in the afternoon, he emerged from a long conversation with the imam who had accompanied the lookouts the previous evening. His name had swiftly come to Jeremy’s ears; news of the nightlong watch and search organized by the Arab detective had reached everyone in Gamaliya. On the other hand, Azim’s disappearance had made tongues harder to loosen, but it had not taken Jeremy long to find the appropriate keys, using gentleness, bribery, or a degree of violence where necessary.

  Khalil, the man who had waited on the roof with Azim, joined them at Jeremy’s request.

  He and the imam gave a complete account of the night, Azim’s plan, and how he had responded to the terrified signal of one of the lookouts posted in a southern sector of el-Gamaliya. The man on duty had spotted Azim approaching without managing to follow him for very long, as the detective had melted into the labyrinth of narrow streets and not reemerged. At dawn, all the lookouts had dispersed, sensing that the ghul had struck again, this time choosing an adult victim.

  Leaving the mosque, Jeremy knew two things about the ghul: its physical description, which Azim had given him swiftly over the telephone, and the fact that its lair was in a basement in the southern part of Gamaliya. Jeremy hurried back to his rail car, where he took a shower. The cool water was insufficient to wash the stickiness from his skin and clothing. Unease was still weighing hard upon his heart, as heavily as a migraine on his forehead.

  Jeremy picked up the telephone and called Keoraz’s secretary. He wanted to hear the sound of his voice. To know what he was doing. He couldn’t let go of him.

  The secretary explained that it was impossible to reach Mr. Keoraz. Jeremy insisted, introducing himself as a detective, and the secretary confided that her employer was in town, shopping for a surprise for his wife. He would be back in two hours.

  Jeremy hung up without another word. He opened his mouth and gulped in great lungfuls of air.

  He was taunting the serpent, and in return he must accept being bitten.

  Imagining Keoraz’s repulsive physique offering Jezebel a new dress drove the breath from his body. How had they got to this point? Jeremy stood up, went to pour himself a drink, and stopped on the way. This wasn’t the time. He had better things to do.

  * * *

  He arrived at the police station on the banks of the Nile in the late afternoon. The pain in his chest had faded.

  The terrible news had been awaiting him for less than an hour.

  Azim had been found.

  In a tomb at the caliphs’ necropolis.

  Jeremy had someone drive him there, his head leaning back and his eyes closed throughout the journey. To all outward appearances, serene.

  He said not a word, walked across the sand to the ancient building, which had partially collapsed, and entered what must have been a lobby.

  The setting sun illuminated the center through broad, open apertures, radiating in brilliant red pools, making the grains of sand sparkle pink, orange, and carmine.

  Azim was on his knees, his face totally buried in the ground, with only his black hair visible above it. His hands were tied behind his back with a rope that was worn, but stronger than a man’s wrists. He was no longer wearing his trousers.

  A wooden stake, the same dimensions as the shaft of a spade, was sticking out of his anus, a frothy white substance still covering part of the stake. A large quantity of blood, which had not yet entirely dried, stained the area between the detective’s legs, and his thighs were covered with it.

  The end of the shaft was flattened, split by powerful blows.

  The scenario was crystal-clear.

  The wooden bar had been forced into Azim’s anatomy by smearing it with soap before making it penetrate further than was anatomically possible by hitting the end with a mallet.

  A slow, unbearable death.

  Inspectors, mainly Arabs, were milling around the edges of the scene, running up from all over the city to take stock of the horror.

  They spoke in low voices, sickened, drawing their own conclusions. To judge from the evidence, Azim had been killed here, as the necropolis was deserted in the small hours and nobody could hear his screams; it was convenient. So the killer must have had a car in order to get here w
ith his victim, which excluded 90 percent of the population.

  Jeremy heard someone whisper that he recognized the torture; it was an ancient punishment dating from Egypt’s Ottoman period.

  Whoever had committed this monstrosity was playing with history.

  Francis Keoraz had proved that he knew history, that he loved it, thought Jeremy, once again.

  The detective signaled to a group of men he trusted and ordered them to ensure that the autopsy was carried out that same night, by Dr. Cork; by him and nobody else.

  Jeremy returned to the vehicle that had brought him there and, without waiting for his driver, took the wheel and drove at top speed toward the ancient wall that was supposed to protect Cairo.

  Once back at Cairo’s central police station, he rushed to the office where Azim had worked and sat down on his creaking chair. He opened each file that lay within arm’s reach and inside the drawers; he analyzed each of his colleague’s recent notes, but found nothing.

  Their direct superior, Calvin Winscott, crossed the central aisle that cut the large room in two. He changed trajectory immediately when he spotted Jeremy sitting at one of the desks and came straight toward him.

  “Matheson, we’ve been looking for you everywhere for an hour, there’s a panic on here, damn it! They’re waiting for you downstairs, move yourself!”

  Jeremy, who was finishing flicking through Azim’s diary, did not answer.

  “The two of us must have a little private talk,” continued Winscott. “This case is far-reaching now, there’s no question of you being on your own anymore. I’m going to put an entire battalion of men on the case. I want to know where we are. Are you listening to me?”

  Matheson nodded vaguely.

  “For the love of God, are you going to pay a little attention to what I’m trying to say to you?” raged Winscott. He seized him by the shoulders, forcing him to look at him. “Jeremy, we have just found out that the whole of Heliopolis is in a state of siege. Every officer is being rounded up.”

  Winscott grimaced nervously, revealing his teeth, before adding, “Keoraz’s son was abducted this afternoon. Mr. Humphreys, from the Keoraz Foundation, is waiting for you downstairs. He wishes to speak to you personally.”

  39

  Humphreys was waiting in a room next to the reception area, his voluminous chest stretching his shirt under a tailored waistcoat. He was running his fingers through his long beard, like a comb. When Jeremy entered, he jumped up faster than if he’d sat on a spring.

  “Detective—”

  Jeremy signaled for him to follow without a word. They left the building and went to a café kept by a Greek, a little farther on. The place was frequented only by Westerners. There, Jeremy asked for two whiskeys and, with a nod, ordered Humphreys to sit opposite him.

  “I have come on behalf of Mr. Keoraz,” began the director. “You know that his son was abducted this very afternoon. Mr. Keoraz wishes to assure himself that you are going to put everything in motion to find his son in the shortest possible time. The child is frail and—”

  “Why is your boss addressing his questions to me?” There was not a hint of compassion in the detective’s voice; he was as cold as a stone.

  “Mr. Keoraz fears that the abduction may be linked to these murders you are investigating. First they involved pupils from his foundation, now it is his own chi—”

  Jeremy stopped him with a gesture of the hand. “The killer attacked those children because they were right under his nose. They represented enviable and easy prey.”

  “How can you say that? It’s imposs—”

  “Not at all!” cut in Jeremy. “I can say it because we know that the killer is someone close to the foundation. It is someone who knows those children, who can approach them without frightening them. He broke into the foundation one night to secretly consult the pupils’ files, to find out as much as possible about them, and he knew the premises. He didn’t break down any doors other than the ones that led to those files—I have that on your own admission, Mr. Humphreys.”

  “You suspect one of our own people?” demanded the director indignantly, clapping a hand to his beard.

  “Someone who knows me.”

  “That makes no sense!”

  Jeremy put down his glass just as he was about to raise it to his lips. “Whoever did it took care to select children who had attended my reading classes.”

  “You think that I, or even … Mrs. Keoraz could do such a thing! You are completely wrong!”

  “No, it is a man, which excludes Jezebel, and it is not you, either; you have the keys to the foundation, you wouldn’t have taken the trouble to break down the doors to come and consult the children’s files. It’s someone well-organized, who has sufficient power to have access to information relating to my work. It’s someone who would know that a violent crime committed in Shubra on a day when I was on duty would be entrusted to me, and that sooner or later I would make the link with the slaughter of the children, the same barbarous scenario. Someone who has orchestrated everything since the start, in minute detail, in order to drag me into this chain of events. Someone who wants to implicate me as much as possible in these murders; who wants me to know that he’s addressing me, that it’s done partly for me, against me. He has spun a web of blood, in which Jezebel is also ensnared. I can only see one person who fits.”

  Humphreys shook his head vigorously, refusing to believe in this absurd theory.

  “You are losing your reason! Mr. Keoraz’s son has just been abducted! In broad daylight, while he was returning alone by train from Cairo, at a busy time that was supposed to guarantee his safety. His piano teacher saw him into the streetcar, and his governess was to collect him on arrival. It is a Machiavellian network that is behind this, and you—you are accusing his own father! What kind of investigator are you?”

  “On the contrary, there is no network behind this abduction, just one individual. One individual who knows the child. So that the child agrees to follow him without attracting attention. The trip is a long one between Cairo and Heliopolis, there are many stops, they could have got off anywhere. The fact is that I called your boss this afternoon. Do you know where he was? In town. Looking for a surprise for Jezebel. For two hours, at least. What better alibi than that? All he needed to do was visit a store quickly, buy his gift, and go off to fetch his son and leave him somewhere, probably a house he had bought or rented under an assumed name. He will claim to have strolled from shop to shop, knowing that the salesgirls will have had so many customers that they will be incapable of saying whether they saw him or not. When people of the stature of Keoraz are concerned, the balance of doubt is always in their favor.”

  “You are talking nonsense!”

  Jeremy charged at Humphreys and seized him by the beard, flattening his own face against the director’s perspiring features. “You will go back and see your adored patron and tell him that I am going to make him pay for what he has done,” Jeremy warned him in a whisper. “Sooner or later he will make a mistake.”

  He leaped to his feet and left the café without a backward glance.

  * * *

  It was nearly midnight.

  In the hospital basement, Dr. Cork moistened his cracked lips with a thick tongue.

  “Why is it always me?” he asked, in a voice imbued with a tiredness that was not physical.

  Jeremy came straight back with, “Because I trust you. There aren’t many doctors in Cairo who carry out good autopsies.”

  “There aren’t many detectives in Cairo who order an autopsy for every one of their investigations.”

  Jeremy nodded and lit a cigarette. “We make the ideal couple,” he commented in the cloud of smoke that enveloped him. “So, what about Azim?”

  The doctor folded his arms across his chest before moistening his lips once more.

  “Slow death, probably took a few hours. Phenomenal agony. This stake was inserted into his anus.”

  He indicated the piece of wood,
about four and a half feet long and at least two inches in diameter, which was lying on a table. Half of the shaft was covered with half-dried blood.

  “Penetration was forced by striking the end of the stake that remained outside the body, until—little by little—it perforated the intestines, the stomach.… In short, until the pain immobilized him completely. The torments were such that Azim was incapable of moving once he was impaled, that is for sure. Which signifies that the torturer did not have to stay around to wait for his death.”

  Seeing Jeremy’s impassive expression, the doctor went into more detail: “The guilty party did that to this unfortunate man in the middle of the tombs, and once he had carried out his crime, he was able to go away, leaving Azim to suffer, as hemorrhaging emptied his body of every drop of blood. The murderer did not need to be at the scene for more than five minutes, I would say. Afterward, every shudder must have traveled right down to Azim’s guts, forcing cries of pain or tears from him; I don’t really know what a man might do at that stage. It is unthinkable that he got up, or even tried to remove the stake. His hands were tied behind his back and, again, I must stress: The stake went all the way up to a point beneath his sternum. The slightest movement would have made him mad with pain.”

  “So he waited to die…”

  Jeremy spat out the smoke from his cigarette.

  “Just a moment!” he exclaimed in astonishment. “If the killer didn’t stay there, then why did Azim have his head buried in the sand?”

  Cork brandished an index finger in his face.

  “Because Azim did not wait for his last breath. I think that after an hour, his suffering was so extreme that he attempted to speed up the process. Unable to move his body, he must have started by striking his head against a stone. I’ve been told that there were two large stones beside him, with a little blood on them. And he opened up his forehead and right temple. A little more and he would have broken through the cranium. He gave up just before that happened. He probably waited another while, and tried something else out of despair.”