Vertigo

by Ahmed Mourad

  Ahmed was panting from the build-up of tar in his chest.

  ‘Alaa, is there anybody with you in the flat?’

  ‘No, but its unusually messy up here.’

  ‘Lock up and get out right now.’

  There was a brief silence then Alaa said, ‘Someone’s been in here, Ahmed!’

  It was the last word Ahmed heard before a violent explosion thundered out from Alaa’s flat.

  Ahmed was crossing the street when the popping sound of a vacuum stopped his ears and blue flame shot from the windows. Glass flew in every direction towards the narrow street and the station entrance, and passers-by flattened themselves against the ground in terror. The sound was like the bellowing of a demon.

  It was all over in an instant.

  Ahmed found himself on the ground, his hand over his eyes to protect them from flying glass. All sounds had been cut off, as though someone had disconnected the audio feed from his ears.

  The scene before him was silent. He saw the olive-green Mercedes speed past him, a young man in the back seat raising a radio to his mouth before turning down a side street. Ahmed remained in this state for some ten seconds before his hearing gradually began to return. A tangle of noise: the screams of children and terrified women, and voices growing steadily louder:

  ‘There is no god but God!’

  ‘God is all powerful!’

  ‘Definitely a gas cylinder.’

  ‘Someone call the fire brigade!’

  ‘Anybody got credit on their phone?’

  ‘Protect us, Lord!’

  ‘Watch out, lady! It might go off again.’

  Ahmed rose from his place. Everything looked blurred. His glasses weren’t on his face. He got down on his knees and hunted around on the ground by the faint light in the street that was augmented by the fire’s orange glow. He felt around until his hands found the glasses and raised them to his face, only to find that the right-hand lens was cracked.

  Putting them on, he went to the building’s entrance, hoping to find Alaa wounded, when his way was blocked by two men from the neighbourhood.

  ‘Come over here, son. The fire will eat you up. Where are you going? There’s nobody up there with their soul still in them.’

  ‘Get off!’ he screamed at them. ‘You’re wasting time! Alaa may just be injured.’

  ‘The entire floor’s on fire: it’s not possible that anyone’s still alive. The fire brigade’s on its way. Are you a relative?’

  Ahmed shoved him away and made a leap for the main entrance.

  ‘You’re going to get yourself killed, damn you! Ahmed heard nothing.

  He scarcely knew himself as he stood between the second and third floors. There was a suffocating stench and smoke blinded his eyes.

  ‘Alaa,’ he called. ‘Alaa! Alaa!’

  He was half way up the stairs to the third floor when he heard a second explosion and the sound of something heavy falling. Flame licked out of the apartment like serpents’ forked tongues. Visibility was almost non-existent, like a camera lens left unfocused.

  ‘Alaa!’ he screamed.

  He could go no further.

  A rough hand prodded his shoulder.

  ‘Get out! Get out! Why are you standing here? Is something wrong? Are you injured?’

  It was a man wearing an orange jacket and a helmet and clutching a crowbar: a fireman.

  Ahmed descended to the street and sat on the pavement in front of the station entrance. A man climbed the fire engine’s ladder in an attempt to silence the roaring flames. Ahmed was having trouble breathing as a result of the smoke that had entered his chest. He coughed until his lungs almost split open, then, raising his phone, he reviewed the last number called. He stared at Alaa’s name on the screen and was unable to hold back the tears, weeping for him as though for a brother. For quarter of an hour he stayed like this, until eventually the fire began to die down and go out.

  The place was packed with curious passers-by, police cars and three fire engines. Hoses coiled like snakes and the flood of water on the ground had mixed with the dust to create a bog. Suddenly, people began clustering around the entrance. The firemen were bringing down a load on a stretcher. Ahmed drew closer. The stretcher bore Alaa, or what had been Alaa a short while before. They covered him in a white sheet that failed to hide a blackened hand.

  Ahmed averted his face as a policeman shouted, ‘Does anyone know him? Does anybody know the name of the resident on the third floor?’

  ‘His name’s Alaa, dear,’ an old lady called out. ‘He buys taamiya from me every day.’

  ‘You wouldn’t know what his last name is, madam?’

  ‘I don’t know, dear. He’s called Alaa, that’s all.’

  The people moved back a little, making space for the body to be placed in the ambulance. Clearing a path with its high-pitched siren, it moved through the crowd and disappeared.

  Ahmed grabbed one of the firemen by the elbow. ‘Excuse me, but how did the fire happen?’

  ‘Gas cylinder, captain,’ said the man hurriedly. ‘The cylinder exploded.’

  ‘It just blew up by itself?’

  ‘We don’t know yet. It might have been leaking, or a lit cigarette butt set it off. God knows.’

  ‘Did the guy upstairs die instantly?’

  ‘God knows. Do you know him?’

  ‘No.’

  Ahmed withdrew. From atop the metro’s footbridge he looked at the building through his broken glasses then crossed over to the other side.

  The journey back was interminable. Ahmed stayed with his head in his hands and his eyes closed. Alaa’s last moments on earth never left his thoughts: his voice, his face as he laughed, the defiance inside him, his determination.

  It was eleven o’clock. Eleven! Ahmed jerked forward in a single motion that caused the elderly lady next to him to sit upright. Taking out his mobile phone, he dialled Omar’s number.

  ‘Hello, my friend. Where have you been all day?’

  ‘Omar. Come and meet me right now.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Alaa …’

  ‘What about him?

  Ahmed lowered his voice.

  ‘Alaa’s dead, Omar.’

  ‘What?’ screamed Omar. ‘Damn it! What happened?’

  ‘I’ll tell you when I see you. Meet me at the flat.’

  ‘Just tell me what happened. Don’t leave me like this.’

  ‘Not over the telephone. Go to the flat and wait for me.’

  ‘How long will you be?’

  ‘Half an hour at most.’

  ‘Ahmed, does this have anything to do with the pictures?’

  ‘It might.’

  ‘God damn you! Didn’t I tell you we were going to get screwed?’

  ‘Omar! Hang up and wait for me at the flat.’

  Ahmed hung up and leaned his head against the window behind him, just as another train shot by, screeching madly and sending the carriage rocking. His thoughts were saturated in shock and thick smoke filled his head. He closed his eyes. He didn’t know how many stations had passed when he heard a familiar voice calling to him. ‘Ahmed. Ahmed?’

  He brought his head forward. It was dripping with sweat. The carriage was completely empty, its windows revealing nothing of the world outside, and it felt as though the train were travelling at the speed of light.

  Searching for the source of the voice he found him sitting there, cool as always, inordinately well groomed and wearing a pale yellow double-breasted suit. Just the same as when he had seen him at the casino the first time: handsome confident and cold as an unfired bullet. Ahmed sat bolt upright and almost toppled off his chair when he saw him. The man smiled at him calmly.

  ‘What? Have you seen a ghost?’

  ‘You really are like a ghost,’ said Ahmed, regaining his balance. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘How can you not know me?’

  ‘Should I know you?

  ‘Well …’

  ‘What do you want, exactly?
’

  ‘Exactly what you want.’

  ‘You’re police. I’ve seen you many times and I haven’t once found out who you are.’

  He smiled and took out a cotton handkerchief, which he placed over his mouth.

  ‘Looks like you’ve had a very difficult day.’

  ‘You can’t imagine,’ said Ahmed, looking at the spot on his hand where he wore his ring: the ring with the letter G.

  It wasn’t there.

  In its place was a pale mark on his finger, the kind that comes from sunlight being prevented from reaching the skin, from wearing a ring for a long time, for instance. Ahmed looked at his face and found that he was looking back at him; at his hand, to be precise. Turning to his hands, Ahmed saw what the madman was looking at. His hand was filthy, completely covered in dust, except for a mark on his ring finger, paler than the rest of his fingers. It was a mark created by a lack of sunlight. The mark of wearing a ring for a long time. He examined it. It hadn’t been there before. He rubbed at it with his finger and heard the man say, ‘Understand yet?’

  Ahmed whipped around and looked beside him. He wasn’t there. Vanished as though he had evaporated. But there were other people. The carriage was suddenly crowded with men, women and children, as though they had materialised out of thin air. He started searching through the carriage, looking at every face. Not a trace of him remained. He inspected the pale mark until he reached his stop: El-Malik el-Salih Station.

  He stood on the platform until the train left. The man didn’t show. It took Ahmed ten minutes to shake off the effects of the strange confrontation before he set out for the flat.

  24

  All was calm in Safwan’s office. Safwan was sitting staring into space, a field of cigarette butts sprouting from the ashtray in front of him, when Mustafa Arif knocked on the door and rushed in excitedly, a victorious expression on his face.

  ‘Right, sir.’

  ‘What’s the news?’

  ‘Everything went just as you ordered, sir.’

  ‘You made sure?’

  ‘The target arrived at the hospital morgue five minutes ago. I waited until I’d heard it with my own ears before telling you. We collected a lot of stuff from the flat before he arrived. We didn’t leave a stone unturned.’

  ‘Were there any originals?’

  ‘Not exactly.’

  ‘What do you mean, not exactly?’

  ‘We found a few personal papers about the Central Bank, an article about bribes and commissions, a second set of copies of the documents we seized from the paper and a few pictures.’

  ‘No originals? No negatives for the photographs?’

  ‘Unfortunately not, but there was one thing.’

  ‘What thing?’

  ‘There’s a key. The key to a safety deposit box.’

  ‘Where is this key?’

  Mustafa took the key from his pocket and handed it to Safwan, who inspected it.

  ‘What bank is this from?’

  ‘The logo isn’t on it. Someone has clearly filed it off. There’s just a number. A serial number.’

  Safwan looked at the key. On one side was the number 570.

  ‘Can you find out what bank this is?’

  ‘Tomorrow I’ll send an agent to visit the banks that have safety deposit boxes.’

  ‘It’s an old bank,’ said Safwan, peering at the key. ‘It’s a manual key, not like the ones at the newer banks.’

  Pushing his chair back, he opened a drawer on the right-hand side of his desk and took out a magnifying glass. Placing the key beneath it, he brought the lens closer.

  ‘There’s some writing etched here,’ he said, looking at the side of the key. ‘He’s clearly tried to remove it with some sharp implement. It says, “The Bank of …” He’s taken off the name of the bank. Well, that narrows it down a bit. It can’t be Egypt Bank or Ahly Bank, but it might be The Bank of Alexandria or The Bank of Cairo. It’s the bank of something. Let me know what bank it is early tomorrow. Where did you find this key?’

  ‘Beneath his underwear in the cupboard.’

  ‘It’s ninety percent certain that the originals are in this deposit box. I want this adventure to end tomorrow, Mustafa.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘And how’s that other business going?’

  ‘We’ve only got one more Ahmed Kamal to check on. We’ll know tomorrow.’

  ‘Keep me posted.’

  ‘I’ll let you know the moment we have news, sir.’

  ‘We’re not done yet, Mustafa. I don’t want to take any chances until we’ve closed this, understood?’

  ‘Understood, sir. By tomorrow night this will all be over. It’s just a matter of time.’

  At the very moment Mustafa was closing the door on Safwan a key was being inserted into the lock of the flat in Manial.

  Having spoken to Ahmed on the phone, Omar was sitting at the computer locking files with a password and hiding anything connected to Alaa and the ill-starred photographs when he heard the sound of a door opening. He stiffened in terror and, leaping up, grabbed Ahmed’s clothes iron and stood beside the door, waiting for the intruder. He heard footsteps drawing closer and raised the iron, ready to bring it plunging down on the intruder. Ahmed appeared, miraculously evading the blow that would have killed him.

  ‘What the hell are you doing?’

  ‘I thought you were someone else. What happened?’

  Ahmed removed his glasses and threw himself on his back onto the mattress in the middle of the room. He shut his eyes for a full minute, while Omar continued to ask questions. He felt strangely tranquil, as though he had taken a potent sedative. Omar’s voice became an unintelligible whisper. There was an ache behind his right eye, an effect of looking through his broken lens, and his veins felt sluggish, as though his blood had run dry. His shoulder was racked by a throbbing pain like a knife wound. He hadn’t heard a word of what Omar had said except for, ‘I’m going to erase the photographs.’

  Ahmed sat up and removed his shirt.

  ‘There are no photographs to erase, Omar.’

  ‘All right, then tell me what happened.’

  ‘Alaa’s dead. There was someone in his flat before he went up … This terrible explosion …’

  ‘One thing at a time, if you could.’

  Ahmed told him every detail of the meeting, the explosion and Alaa’s death until the drool was practically pouring from Omar’s mouth.

  ‘You’re sure there was a light in the window?’

  ‘As sure as you’re standing in front of me now.’

  ‘And the Mercedes whose number you didn’t manage to get?’

  ‘Everything happened so fast.’

  ‘And you’re telling me to keep the pictures, not to erase them? You’re insane! We’ve had fun but that’s enough.’

  Ahmed suddenly flared up like a kettle boiling over.

  ‘If you don’t want to go on, no one’s going to slap your wrist. Put the pictures on a CD and I’ll deal with it.’

  ‘You’re going to have a go at me? I just want what’s best for you, you idiot. You’re going to get yourself wiped out and you’ll take me with you.’

  ‘I know exactly what I’m doing.’

  ‘You don’t know anything. That temper of yours is going to make you make mistakes, if you haven’t made them already.’

  Omar began walking in circles around Ahmed.

  ‘Now these people have got to Alaa, and it’s not impossible that they’ve got information about you too. Let’s think about this calmly: you spoke to him on the phone?’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Just before the explosion, I told you.’

  ‘I wouldn’t think they’ll have had time to trace you. Turn off your phone as a precaution and remove the SIM card. OK. Do you think they searched the flat? I mean, did they find anything relating to us there?’

  Ahmed was removing his phone battery and taking out the SIM card.

  �
�That’s not what I’m worried about. The problem is, they’ve found the key: all those originals in the safety deposit box that Alaa didn’t want to have on him in case he was arrested.’

  ‘They don’t know the password.’

  ‘That won’t stop them. If they want to know it, they will.’

  ‘That’s if they know the bank. Didn’t you say that Alaa filed off the name?’

  ‘Right. There’s only the box number. But that won’t stop them either; it might delay them for a few hours, that’s all.’

  ‘Show me the key.’

  Ahmed took it from his pocket and gave it to Omar.

  ‘We need to get rid of this. Listen to me, Ahmed.’

  ‘We get the stuff and then we won’t need it anyway.’

  ‘What do you want the originals for? These people won’t let that information be published. It might happen in foreign countries, but not here. Or do you want us to join Alaa?’

  Ahmed buried his face in his hands as Omar went on.

  ‘Listen to what I’m saying, Ahmed. We won’t be able to stand up to these people. The game’s not a game any more. You know very well that we’re just kids to these guys. You tried your best: leave it at Galal and the scandal you made for him. Well done us; up till now, great. Or is this just a suicide mission?’

  ‘That doesn’t alter the fact that I have to open the deposit box.’

  ‘And what if you meet them there?’

  ‘They’re not faster than me. There’s any number of banks and it’s not a simple procedure. I’ll get the originals and then we’ll have a think. I’ll be standing outside the bank early tomorrow. Five minutes and I’ll have the stuff in my hands.

  Omar got up and stood resting his back against the computer table. He looked into Ahmed’s face with pursed lips, narrowed eyes and a frown. ‘That’s your final word?’

  Ahmed didn’t meet his gaze. ‘With God’s help.’

  ‘I knew that you would say that. That “With God’s help” of yours means “No”. Ahmed, we will need all the help we can get to keep these people away from us.’