by Ahmed Mourad
Ahmed lifted his head. ‘I told you: God will help.’
He was peering at something behind Omar. The computer screen. It displayed the file containing Alaa’s picture, the picture Omar had taken in the street and converted into a scandalous image.
‘We’re burning the lot. Everything has to disappear. I don’t want to be slapped around. I’ll sell you out at the first slap, I know myself.’
‘Shhh.’
Ahmed got up and pushed Omar from in front of the screen.
‘Take a seat.’
‘Now what do you want?’
‘Open Alaa’s picture in Photoshop.’
‘Didn’t we say we’re through?’
‘And didn’t you say we need all the help we can get to keep these people away from us?’
Omar opened the picture.
‘What’s going on in that head of yours?’ he said.
‘Have you got your ID card?’
‘What do you want with it, lowlife?’
‘You haven’t updated it to a National Number ID yet, have you?’
‘Not yet,’ Omar replied, opening a desk drawer and taking out his wallet.
The wallet was of shabby black snakeskin and couldn’t have been in worse condition if it had belonged to Saladin himself. It was full of bits of paper and banknotes folded like rolls of papyrus. From out of the wreckage Omar extracted his identity card, as ragged as an ancient manuscript or a pirate’s treasure map. On one side was a photograph of a massive blob, its hair dishevelled and wearing a blue shirt like a convict. It was Omar, aged sixteen. Ahmed held the card between his fingertips, examined it then placed it in the scanner.
Omar had reached out to close the drawer when Ahmed saw a silver gleam inside. Stopping Omar’s hand, he opened the drawer further. The thing he had seen was a ring: a ring bearing the letter G. His heartbeat thumped hysterically as he took it from the drawer.
‘What’s this?’ he asked Omar, who was busy scanning the identity card.
‘You’re an idiot.’
‘Who put this ring here?’
‘My mother, perhaps.’
‘I’m not joking!’ Ahmed screamed.
‘Whoa there! Have you gone mad? You put it there.’
‘This ring is nothing to do with me, but I know who wears it, and I know it’s not me.’
‘What’s going on, Ahmed? That ring belongs to you. Have you forgotten about it or something?’
‘That ring does not belong to me.’
‘I swear, I don’t have time for your foolishness.’
‘Omar, for my sake: answer me seriously,’ Ahmed implored. ‘Who does that ring belong to? Did I bring it here?’
‘You had it made for Ghada, my friend. G is the first letter of her name. What happened to you? Smoke too much?’
‘When did I get it made?’
‘I can’t believe you’re joking around at a time like this.’
‘Just answer me. When did I get it made?’
‘After you spoke to her on the phone for the first time and found out her name was Ghada. You had it made at a silversmith’s in Hussein and it cost you sixty pounds. Anything else?’
‘OK, so why did I put it here?’
‘Because you were embarrassed to let her know that you were head over heels in love with her after one meeting. What is this? An interrogation?’
Ahmed returned to the mattress and sat down. He held up the ring and began to inspect it. He put it on his finger and something about it seemed to click, but he had no explanation. The night was so charged with incident that there was no room for anything else to happen.
But then he remembered something: a photograph. A photograph of Galal, taken the last time he had seen him in the casino, just before he had written him the cryptic note.
‘Omar. Open Galal’s recent pictures for me. That one with the young girl.’
‘What made you think of him?’
‘I just want to see something.’
Omar opened the picture. Ahmed craned forwards. He was looking at the top of the screen: at the spot from where the man with the ring had waved at him, the place where he had given him the blank note. He wasn’t there. The table behind Galal and his companion was empty.
‘Did you crop these pictures, Omar?’
‘I didn’t do anything to them.’
‘The background. There was a man in the background!’
‘Which man, Ahmed?’
‘The man who owns this ring!’
‘There was nobody in the background. What’s happened to you?’
Ahmed threw himself down on the mattress. A flickering as of camera flashes assailed his eyes: shuttering images of himself sketching the image of a ring on a piece of blank paper, taking the ring from a silversmith’s shop, wearing the ring at the casino, and finally sitting alone at a table at the far end of the casino behind Galal Mursi.
This was more than he could bear. His body slowly relaxed until it surrendered and he slept: he slept more deeply than he had ever slept before. It would be more accurate to say that he lost consciousness. He saw himself standing before a mirror, a mirror in the centre of his room, a mirror that reflected everything in the room except for one detail: himself. He wasn’t in the reflection.
‘Ahmed. Ahmed! Ahmed!’
The voice steadily increased in volume until he opened his eyes. Omar hadn’t moved.
‘What is this?’
‘Did I sleep?’
‘You died.’
He no longer had the capacity to explain or rationalise. It was time to put an emergency rescue plan into operation.
Thrusting the ring in his pocket and dismissing these inexplicable visions, he turned to Omar.
‘Open the pictures of Gouda.’
‘What made you think of him?’
Ahmed closed his right eye, the one behind his missing lens, and peered at the screen. ‘It’s time to repay an old favour.’
25
At half past eight every morning the Bank of Cairo opened its doors to the public. The car belonging to Omar’s cousin Hassan was quite far from the entrance, though still within view, and Ahmed and Omar were sitting in it when they saw the doors open.
Ahmed grasped the door handle. ‘I’m getting out. Remember what I told you: give me fifteen minutes, then move to the square and wait. If I don’t come in another fifteen minutes, go home and destroy everything.’
‘You’ve got the key?’
‘I’ve got the key and the plastic bag.’
‘Try and get a move on.’
‘What matters is that they haven’t beaten us to it. If you see anything, give me a call.’
As he spoke these words Ahmed walked away from the car in the direction of the bank door, while Omar followed his progress in the mirror.
He entered the bank. It was still empty, the only movement a few employees about to start their day. He passed his eyes over the sign above the window: nothing even remotely connected to safety deposit boxes. He began inspecting the faces of the bank clerks, who were busy tidying their workspaces and switching on their computers, and chose a man engrossed in some documents before him.
‘Good morning,’ said Ahmed.
The man answered him without lifting his eyes.
‘Good morning.’
‘I have a safety deposit box with you here, and I wanted …’
‘Mr Ahmed Rashid,’ the man interrupted. ‘Second office on the left.’
‘Thank you.’
Ahmed Rashid was a tall, good-looking man in his late fifties and the manager of the branch.
Ahmed knocked on the door to his office. ‘Good morning.’
‘Good morning,’ Ahmed Rashid replied. ‘Do come in.’
‘You see, my father’s safety deposit box is here and I wanted to open it.’
‘You have an ID card and the letter of authorisation?’ Ahmed gave him his identity card.
‘Here.’
Omar had swapped his photograph for an old picture of Ahmed, h
aving first altered the personal data by means of a surgical operation that lasted the entire night: he had written the name Alaa Gomaa beneath the photograph in place of his own, which he had erased with lemon juice.
Disgusted, Ahmed Rashid opened the tattered card.
‘What on earth is this? This card won’t do.’
‘I’ve been wanting to replace it for a while now, but there’s no time.’
The man held out the card to Ahmed.
‘This card won’t do. It has to be a National Number ID card.’
‘Please, Mr Rashid, I’m in a hurry. Couldn’t we let it go just this once and next time I’ll have it done.’
‘It’s not me who makes the rules. You should have done it already: no one uses those things any more.’
Ahmed noticed a picture frame on his desk. It contained a photograph of three girls of different ages: the youngest was fat with tousled hair and was wearing an Adidas shirt.
‘They’re your daughters, of course.’
Pride appeared on his face. ‘They’re my girls. Sherine, Nermine, and the chubby one is Nevine: the youngest and the sweetest. Their names suit them, don’t you think? The eldest is getting engaged today.’
‘God keep them safe for you. What lovely girls. If you’d like to get them clothes then please call me.’
The man looked interested.
‘Where is it that you work, sir?’
‘I work for a licensed Adidas dealer. I can get you unbelievable discounts: completely different prices; nothing like you get in the shops.’
‘Know what? You’re clearly a decent young man. I’ll let it go, because of that cheerful face of yours, but bring the new card next time.’
He looked at the card.
‘Your name’s Alaa what? It isn’t clear.’
‘Alaa Hussein el-Sayyid Gomaa’
‘Where did you say your store was?’
26
The man opened several doors before he came to the vault where the safety deposit box room was located. The room was spacious and with drawers covering every inch of its walls. Taking the key from Ahmed, he read the number then walked a little way into the room and stopped at a box that bore the digits 570. He inserted Ahmed’s key and, next to it, the bank’s master key.
The box gave a click. The man pulled it out and placed it on a table in the centre of the room.
‘You’ve memorised the password?’
‘Naturally.’
‘Can I bring you a bag?’
‘I’ve got one, thanks,’ replied Ahmed hurriedly. ‘Sorry, but I have to make my appointment.’
Ahmed Rashid left him to finish opening the box.
The lock’s wheels were like little millstones and he turned them until they read 1933 then pressed a button on the side and the box opened. Inside was a large, bulging yellow envelope with a folded note attached. Ahmed opened the note. It was a short message from Alaa:
Didn’t I tell you that there were people with long claws? If you get this message then I’ve done everything I can. I’ll say again that nothing’s being asked of you. Remember me fondly.
At that very moment, Omar saw a black Mercedes stop outside the entrance to the bank. Three men got out, one of whom carried a radio and wore a pistol on his hip. They were led by Mustafa Arif, who was speaking to Safwan on his mobile phone.
‘I’m outside the Bank of Cairo, sir. I asked at the main branch this morning and they told me that the deposit box key is one of theirs, and I found out that the box is in the Heliopolis branch.’
‘How much longer?’
‘I’ll call you in ten minutes, sir.’
On the front seat of the red car Omar slid down until his head disappeared. He took out his phone and dialled Ahmed’s number. It was that loathsome message: ‘This number is currently unavailable.’ Damn it! He tried again: the same woman answered him.
At that moment Ahmed was folding the note and placing it in his pocket. He had taken out a black plastic bag and was putting the yellow envelope inside when he received a call. He looked at the phone: Omar’s number. It could only mean one thing. He took an envelope from his pocket, tossed it in the box and shut the lid. Taking his bag, he bounded up the stairs from the vault and collided with someone coming down. It was the branch manager, Ahmed Rashid.
‘Mr Alaa, where are you going?’
‘I’m barely going to make my appointment.’
‘Why don’t you come and have some coffee in my office for five minutes?’
‘Sorry. Another time.’
‘Well, could I take your phone number?’
Ahmed gave him a number off the top of his head.
‘I’ll be expecting your call. I’ll give you some amazing discounts: amazing!’
He tried to back away smiling but the branch manager stopped him.
‘Wait. I’ll give you a call so you have my number.’
Without waiting for him to answer, the man dialled the imaginary number and stood there, his telephone against his ear, waiting to hear the sound of Ahmed’s phone ringing.
‘You know, this isn’t my job,’ he said. ‘There’s meant to be a junior employee who does it, but he’s asked if I could come in half an hour late. So it’s my good fortune to have met you.’
Seconds elapsed then Ahmed’s phone gave a quick ring. Astonished, he looked at the screen: it was Omar trying to hurry him up.
‘You’ve got no excuse now. I’ve saved your number and I’ll give you a call so I can collect the girls and come and see you. Do you stock plus sizes?’
Ahmed quickly backed away. ‘It would be an honour, ya basha. All sizes are in stock. An honour. Goodbye.’
‘Mr Rashid, sir? Some people want to see you.’
The voice of a female employee came from one of the teller windows. The branch manager shook Ahmed’s hand and went to meet his visitors.
Ahmed hurried out to the street and headed over to Omar, who was hunkered down behind the steering wheel. He banged on the roof of the car and Omar sat upright, gunned the engine and they took off.
Inside the bank the branch manager was standing with Mustafa Arif.
‘Mr Rashid, my name is Colonel Mustafa Arif.’
The branch manager inclined his head.
‘Ahmed Rashid: branch manager.’
‘We have the key to a safety deposit box we’d like to open.’
‘Of course, of course. What of it? You have a letter of authorisation?’
‘Anything you need.’
He was interrupted by a voice from the door. It was an extremely skinny employee and he looked rushed.
‘Mr Rashid,’ he said, approaching the branch manager, ‘am I late?’
‘You’re just in time. Or should I carry on doing your job all day?’
He turned to Mustafa Arif.
‘This is Hani, the employee responsible for our deposit boxes. He’ll make sure you get everything you need.’
Then, turning back to Hani, ‘Hani, this is Colonel Mustafa. See he gets everything he asks for.’
‘Come this way, sir,’ said Hani, indicating to Mustafa that he should follow him, just as the branch manager drew him to one side.
‘I have to leave now, Hani. It’s Sherine’s engagement today, as you know. You deal with them and see they get what they want.’
‘Leave everything to me, Mr Rashid. Congratulations. And turn off your mobile phone so that no one can disturb you.’
Hani left him and went to the vault with Mustafa Arif.
‘What box number is it, sir?’
They were standing in front of the door to the vault. Mustafa handed him the key.
‘It’s the number written on this key.’
‘The key isn’t yours, sir?’
‘It isn’t, no.’
Hani stopped.
‘That’s a problem. Does that mean you don’t have the password, sir?’
Mustafa placed his hand on Hani’s shoulder.
‘I have a warrant from the
public prosecutor. This box contains things damaging to the security of this country. You don’t want to know who’s waiting for me to call and tell them everything’s all right, believe me.’
‘But, sir, I can’t do this by myself. I have to notify management and Mr Rashid has left.’
‘Open it and then you can call anybody you want. I’m holding you responsible for every wasted minute.’
‘Well, could I see your identity card and the prosecutor’s warrant? I’ll just photocopy them quickly.’
Mustafa removed his identity card from his wallet and, opening Hani’s hand, slapped it on his palm.
‘Photocopy them if you want, but I’ve got to be out of here in five minutes. Open the box and then you can do what you like with my ID: frame it if you have to.’
Hani vanished for a minute and returned with two colleagues, an envelope and a key. He pulled out the box and entered the password.
‘Thank you for everything you’ve done,’ said Mustafa. ‘Now leave me alone for a minute. I’ll call for you when I’m done. OK?’
The bank employees walked off. He waited until they were out of sight then opened the box. Inside he found the envelope that Ahmed had left behind. He opened it to find some negatives and a photograph: a photograph of two people.
He took out his phone and called a number.
‘So: all done?’ asked Safwan.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Well, get over here immediately. Are you keeping track of the business with the passports?’
‘There’s no need any more, sir. When you see what I’ve got here you’ll understand.’
‘Come on then, and don’t be late.’
‘Just the time it takes to get there, sir.’
Mustafa placed the envelope on Safwan’s desk. Safwan opened it and took out some negatives of people at the casino and a single printed picture.
‘That’s Alaa Gomaa, I know his face, but who’s that with him?’
‘That’s the photographer from Casino Paris that I told you about, sir.’
‘Ahmed Kamal?’
‘No, sir. That’s Gouda, who passed away a while ago.’
In front of Safwan sat an exceptionally intimate picture of a smiling Gouda hugging Alaa Gomaa. It was an Omar special, utterly unmistakeable. He had spent all night working on it, as he had never worked before, checking over every detail. An unsigned masterpiece if ever there was one.