Effendi a-2

by Jon Courtenay Grimwood

  “. . . sef,” said a whisper in Raf’s head.

  “Captain Yousef.” Raf offered his hand.

  The man looked pleased to be remembered but slightly embarrassed all the same. “Major Yousef, Excellency. I’ve been promoted.”

  “Congratulations. For services rendered . . . ?”

  Major Yousef looked more embarrassed still. He obviously didn’t think it was appropriate to explain what Raf already knew. The major had come to the General’s attention by refusing to take responsibility for deporting Ashraf Bey as an undesirable and been promoted because this turned out to be a wise decision . . . the fact this promotion had been over the head of older men, including a senior captain the General disliked intensely was, of course, not to be mentioned.

  “Coffee?” Raf asked, as Le Trianon’s headwaiter materialized from within the café. “Or perhaps mint tea?”

  “Neither, I’m afraid, Your Excellency.” The major nodded towards the waiting Bentley. “You’re expected.”

  “The General . . . ?” Raf did his best to look surprised.

  Major Yousef nodded. “There’s been another murder. A dead American. But apparently Your Excellency already knows that . . .” Gesturing towards Raf’s Cadillac, parked on the pavement where the fat man used to park, he added, “I’ll have someone bring your car.”

  At the oak door to the mansion in Shallalat Gardens, Raf was met by a young boy who glanced once at the Chief of Detectives’ haggard face, raised his eyebrows and nodded towards a door behind him.

  “He’s in there . . .”

  The boy paused, as if he intended saying more, then shrugged, mostly it seemed to himself.

  “I know,” said Raf tiredly, “he’s upset.”

  “Upset.” His Highness Mohammed Tewfik Pasha, Khedive of El Iskandryia and also ruler of Egypt, at least in name, stopped dead. “Upset,” he said, staring at Raf with large eyes. “Upset doesn’t cover half of it . . . Oh yes.” The boy paused, remembering something else. “And apparently he knows the truth about your origins.”

  Raf hammered on the study door, waited for a couple of seconds, then hammered again. Instead of hitting it a third time, he straightened his shoulders and walked into the governor’s office, only to find the small room deserted.

  Panelling, mirrors and a floor of white marble, all that came as no surprise. Every high-ranking office in El Iskandryia seemed kitted out with variations on ersatz European, although Islamicist mosaic did at least replace wood panelling in some. What was surprising was a new oil painting taking up most of one wall, its brushwork bright and its heavy gilt frame positively pristine.

  In it, the boy who’d met Raf at the front door wore a bottle-green uniform with three gold loops of braid knotted around each wrist. Other than that, and a thin gold stripe down each side of his trousers, the uniform was bare apart from star and crescent badges either side of its high collar.

  At the boy’s side hung a simple sabre, with a single gold knot on a double length of braid. On his head was a red fez.

  “Dressed like some mutahfiz. . .”

  Which wasn’t a word Raf recognized, though it was obvious from the voice behind him that it wasn’t a compliment.

  “. . . and now apparently you want to lose him his city.” The old man stood swaying at the French windows, white knuckles gripping the top of a Malacca cane. Over his shoulder Raf could see a preternaturally green garden of monkey puzzle, rhododendron, bronze statues and tightly clipped box hedges.

  “Having a bad day?” Raf asked.

  Eyes dark as any storm glared back at him.

  Olive trees. Red earth. A boy falling backward, face shocked.

  Raf blinked.

  “Afraid?” demanded the General.

  “Always,” said Raf.

  The old man looked surprised at that. “Of what . . . Me?”

  Raf shook his head. “Not just of you, of everything. Waking up/falling asleep. Looking in the mirror. Losing a bit of me I’m not even sure exists.”

  “The usual . . .” The old man nodded and absentmindedly put his brandy balloon on the immaculately polished surface of an antique desk, creating a ring. That was how Raf knew Iskandryia’s most famous teetotaller really was drunk. “The condition of life,” said the General. “We live, we die. In between we’re afraid to admit we’re afraid. You know the real definition of courage?”

  “There are dozens,” said Raf, picking up the General’s glass and wiping the desk with his sleeve. “Most of them contradictory.” He swirled the cognac until it coated the inside of the glass, then watched the pale liquid break into rivulets.

  “. . . egs,” said the fox. “. . . gn of a good VSOP.” Raf could remember being told about legs by one of his mother’s lovers, the Animal Channel producer probably. Speaking to the boy about brandy while really trying to impress a drunk obsessive, being too stupid to realize the only thing likely to impress Raf’s mother was money to fund her films.

  “What . . . ?” Raf looked at the General who stood waiting.

  “My definition of courage,” said the old man. “You know it?”

  “Dying well?”

  “Acting as if you believe, even when you don’t.”

  “Same thing,” said Raf as he put down the General’s glass, this time on top of a folded paper that sat on the desk between them.

  A fuzzy picture showed a missing teenager, her long blonde hair uncovered as she stood grinning on a street corner in some city that wasn’t El Iskandryia . . . Paris, maybe, judging from a sugary white basilica behind her.

  What little text there was screamed its certainty that this girl was the butcher’s most recent victim. No underlined links pretended to go somewhere, because Saiyidi wasn’t downloaded from a news vendor. It was run off an old-fashioned press in a cellar somewhere in Karmous and read by those without paid access to newsfeeds or money for vendors. The same kind of urban poor who listened to pirate stations and recognized souk rumour for the truth it was.

  “You promised me the killer was already dead.”

  “She is . . .”

  “She?” Koening Pasha raised his eyebrows at the pronoun. “Whoever told you that was wrong. Sack your informant.”

  “No one told me,” Raf said crossly. “The woman’s dead. I killed her.”

  “So who did it this time?” demanded the General. “Her ghost?” His laugh was bitter, tired also. “Drink,” he said.

  Raf shook his head, then realized that wasn’t an invitation but an order. Glancing round, he found a large bottle of Hine sitting on a semicircular marble table, balanced on top of a fat pile of intelligence reports.

  Half the cognac was gone and its cork was missing. Raf was still looking round for a glass when the General grunted with irritation.

  “Not you, idiot, me . . .” He held out his brandy balloon while Raf filled it halfway to the top. Then, turning unsteadily towards the French windows, the old man stamped back into his garden, not bothering to check that Raf was ready to follow.

  Which he very definitely wasn’t. Raf was too busy skimming an intelligence report, the one under the bottle. It was concise, factual and loaded. According to some second attaché at the temporary Consulate in Seattle, a local triad, represented by a button man named Wild Boy, was offering $1,000,000 for news of someone known as ZeeZee. The man had been tracked to an Ottoman Airways flight bound for Zanzibar. Unfortunately, enquiries at the Ottoman Airways office in SeaTac/Seattle had failed to identify the name under which ZeeZee had travelled or whether his journey had been broken en route.

  What was known, was that the man had travelled on a diplomatic passport, probably issued by Stambul. Though, regretfully, the woman on the check-in desk had not actually looked inside.

  “Remind you of anyone?”

  Raf looked up to find the Khedive standing in the hall doorway, face quizzical.

  “No,” said Raf. “Afraid not.”

  The boy smiled. “Me neither.”

  Under the bi
ggest cypress tree was an ornate bench. Between the cast-iron bench and a nearby oak stood a rain-streaked statue slightly taller than Raf. The statue showed a rudimentary metal tree with a naked girl falling headlong between its stark branches.

  “Pike sverer mellom grenene,” said the General. “Gustav Vigeland—1907. You know what it represents?”

  Eyes wide, mouth open, small fists clenched. Raf could take a reasonable guess. But the General got there first, answering his own question as if he’d been the one asked.

  “Whatever you want it to represent . . . So the next question,” said the General, “is who decides exactly what we represent . . . ?”

  He didn’t wait for the answer to that either.

  “Because I don’t and you sure as hell don’t . . .” The old man raised his brandy balloon and suddenly the dark eyes that stared at Raf over the top of the glass were anything but drunk.

  “The city decides.”

  Raf thought he should do something about now, so he nodded.

  “You’ve probably heard them all. Isk the whore and Isk the virgin. The city of glass. Solid and ephemeral, transient and timeless. The city within the city. Every cliché from every guidebook. The old man used the analogy of a card house as belief . . .”

  Koenig Pasha was talking about the Khedive’s father, Raf realized. The man who sat for fifteen years in a small teahouse on an island off El Muntaza, which was how long it took him to die. The teahouse became his bed, the island his ward and the Haremlik across its narrow bridge became his hospital, filled with specialists from around the world.

  “And he stole the card-as-belief metaphor from his father . . . An old-fashioned, outdated man.” The General’s voice was uncharacteristically bitter. “But one who was nonetheless intelligent.”

  Seeing the blank look on Raf’s thin face, the General began to explain himself, his long fingers and narrow wrists twitching as he mimicked adding and subtracting playing cards to a card house that wasn’t there.

  “Knock down a couple of cards at the top and only the top rocks. Maybe the top falls, maybe it stands. And if that level falls, it can be rebuilt, using the same cards if you must. But take a card from the bottom and the whole edifice is in danger. No matter how secure the top. Once the lowest level goes, everything goes. The old man knew this. I know this. Felix knew this. Even the boy in there knows this. It seems you don’t.”

  “Iskandryia isn’t a pack of cards,” said Raf.

  “No, it’s myth layered with history, so stiff with legacy code that life barely runs. A free city that half the free world would like to see abolished. Berlin mistrusts us, Paris too . . . Washington. Well, Washington hates us. The only thing still keeping us standing is that we’re too stupid to know we’re dead. You know what our Unique Selling Point is?”

  Raf shook his head.

  “Inertia. Iskandryia’s been a free city for so long no one can quite imagine how North Africa might operate if we weren’t. Well, take a look at the newsfeeds. People out there are beginning to imagine it . . .” The General swallowed back the last of his cognac and breathed in, inhaling the fumes. By the time he’d finished coughing he’d apparently reached a decision.

  “So far as I can see,” said the General, “as Chief you have three main problems.”

  “I have?”

  “The first,” said the General, “is personal. The way life works is public virtue, private vice. You keep doing it the wrong way round. The remaining two problems are more serious . . .” Koenig Pasha’s voice was harsh but thin, its determination at odds with an old man’s frailty. “One big problem, one slightly smaller. First, find out why tourists are being butchered.”

  “We think . . .”

  The old man sighed heavily. “The problem,” he said, “is that you don’t . . . You’re going to tell me the killer’s dead, again. Burned up in that fire. You think I don’t get reports from your office? Forget finding out who carried out the latest atrocity. I told you to find out why it happened.”

  “And how do you suggest I do that?”

  “Break heads. Use the Army. Take whatever you need from the treasury . . .” The old man looked for a moment as if he might be about to rescind that last suggestion, but instead he shrugged. “Just find out. And keep it out of the papers and off the newsfeeds.”

  “That’s the big problem, right?”

  The General’s smile was wintry. Flicking a curled leaf from the arm of the bench, he followed its brief and twisting fall. Then he told Raf what Senator Liz really wanted and exactly why he, the General, couldn’t give it to her.

  With trembling hand, the General took a crisp sheet of paper from his desk drawer and reached for a fountain pen, the black Mont Blanc inlaid with a silver cartouche bearing the arms of Prussia.

  The old man was still writing laboriously when a knock came at the door. A second knock followed and when the General didn’t answer it was Raf who said enter and watched the door open a little. The boy who’d let Raf into the gubernatorial mansion slid sideways through the narrow gap, only to stop and glance anxiously between Raf and the General.

  “General Koenig?”

  The old man nodded but kept writing.

  If the Khedive minded his chief minister sitting while he himself stood it didn’t show. In fact, nothing about the boy suggested he found the situation in any way odd, and only a glance at the ornately framed painting on the wall convinced Raf that he stood opposite El Iskandryia’s absolute ruler.

  “. . . The newsfeeds.”

  Without looking up, the General tapped one corner of his desk and a long glass with an opalescent Murano frame lit to reveal a worried woman standing outside an old-fashioned mansion, built in an early-twentieth-century style dismissed as High Arabesque. In an open subframe in one corner, fire engines hosed down the broken shell of something sheet glass and concrete.

  Raf caught the words casino,firebomb and US negotiator. And then the main picture flicked to a woman in a black suit behind a large desk. On the front of the desk was a large seal displaying the American eagle. Chaos, lawlessness and organized crime cropped up in almost every other sentence. Just in case Senator Liz’s anger wasn’t obvious enough, C3N had thoughtfully run Arabic subtitles along the bottom of the screen.

  “Don’t underestimate that woman,” the General said, “she flew UN ’copters back in the little war.” He reached for another sheet of paper and scrawled two lines across its china-clay surface, then signed the sheet with spidery handwriting and pushed it across the desk towards the Khedive, his fingers shaking. “All I need now is your signature for these . . .”

  The boy signed without dragging his attention away from the news, which showed a crime team sifting the wreckage of the smouldering casino. A voice-over was talking, guardedly, about rumours of a dead girl found nearby. Raf got the feeling that more was intentionally being said with the gaps than with the words.

  “Enough,” said the General, tapping his table to blank the screen. “We need to concentrate on getting His Highness out of here . . .”

  “I’m sorry?” The Khedive looked startled, then stubborn. “No,” he said. “I can’t possibly . . . Not now.”

  “Your holiday,” said Koenig Pasha. “What time’s your flight?” The voice was little more than a cross whisper from an old man. And he did look old, if one looked past his immaculate uniform to the liver spots speckling his trembling wrists or the carcinoma scars that puckered one side of his neck, below his sunken jaw.

  “Fik, what time . . . ?”

  Mohammed Tewfik Pasha blinked, tears prickling up until he had to look away. Okay, thought the General, maybe that was a little unfair. He couldn’t quite remember the last time he’d used Tewfik’s pet name. Maybe when he was ten, that time the boy caught scarlet fever and was confined for days to a darkened room with curtains soaked in vinegar, much to the disgust of the palace’s English doctor . . .

  “Early evening,” said the boy. “The flight’s collecting me at sev
enP .M.”

  “And you are going alone?”

  The Khedive shook his head.

  “She’s the wrong choice,” said the General tiredly. “You know that.” He stared at the boy, seeing anxiety turn to stubbornness, and sighed. “Do what you have to do . . . Just remember, your job is to be on that flight. And yours,” he said turning to Raf, “is to make sure His Highness goes.”

  Folding his resignation into three, Koenig Pasha gave the sheet of paper to Khedive Mohammed with a slight bow. The letter to Raf, the General folded just the once and handed over with a nod. Then the old man waited until they’d both read and then reread what he’d written.

  CHAPTER 29

  17th October

  Nothing so slight as a mere ring. Instead, long bursts of increasing frustration filled the large hall.

  Raf had been ignoring the bell for a while.

  Sighing, he looked round for someone to answer the General’s front door and realized there was no one but him. So he went to answer it himself.

  Another bad mistake.

  While he and Zara stood, staring in disbelief at each other, the study door swung back and the young Khedive stormed out, tears of frustration streaming down his soft face.

  Whatever final retort the boy was about to make died when he spotted Zara, with her cases. For a moment, it looked like the boy might walk across to where Zara stood, but then he shot Raf a bitter scowl, turned away and ran up the stairs. Somewhere a door slammed, then there was silence.

  And as Zara stared between her suitcases and the emptiness on the landing above, Raf glanced into the study, his eyes meeting those of the General. What Raf got was an abrupt nod and an amused if wintry smile. And then the old man stretched, stood up from his desk and walked resolutely to the door, which he closed. The General didn’t even pretend to need his cane.

  “What are you doing here?” Zara’s query was curt.

  “Leaving,” said Raf. “To visit a crime scene.” He looked at her. “Oh, yeah, and trying to keep your father from being arrested for murder . . . Take your pick.”