Vertigo

by Ahmed Mourad

  ‘So they knew each other?’ said Safwan.

  ‘He was the source, sir. He must have sold or given the pictures to Alaa before he died. It was his archive, and Alaa used it to illustrate his articles.’

  ‘Are you sure this is Gouda?’

  ‘Gouda had been working in the casino since the early seventies. He had an employment record and the picture from his identity card.’

  ‘And what about the other one? Ahmed Kamal.’

  ‘The problem with him is that he worked with Gouda on an hourly rate. He was hired, not a permanent member of staff, so he doesn’t have any work papers. I talked to the passport office on the way here and they said that all the Ahmed Kamals are definitely still in Saudi Arabia: no one’s returned. Plus, no one’s sure if it’s Ahmed Something Kamal or just Ahmed Kamal. There’s no third name and no place of residence because he was staying in a disused storeroom at the casino.’

  ‘And the originals of the documents?’

  ‘Obviously these aren’t all the originals, or he only had copies himself. Perhaps most of them went up in flames with him at the flat and this is all that’s left. We’ll never know. But now, sir, there are no more witnesses.’

  ‘I’m not used to relying on time to prove to me that a job’s finished.’

  ‘We have no choice. Ninety-nine percent of it’s over, but that one percent will remain outstanding until time takes care of it. We’ll be following up with the press as well, sir.’

  Safwan’s eyes slid away to the revolving blades of the ceiling fan.

  ‘Leave me alone for a while, Mustafa.’

  ‘As you wish, sir.’

  As he reached the door, Safwan said, ‘Mustafa, tie up the loose strings and close the files. I don’t want anybody hearing about this. It never happened, understood? A single word and all that effort will be in vain. We don’t want to destroy everything that we’ve done.’

  ‘Yes, sir. Understood.’

  Mustafa departed, leaving Safwan staring vacantly. He was thinking about that one percent.

  Back at the Kodak Express, their breathing had begun to return to normal. They had been exposed to a power greater than they were able to bear.

  On the way Ahmed had bought a newspaper, in which he was searching for news of Alaa’s accident. On page fourteen of the third edition was a small report of a gas explosion in Helwan Gardens. It had been triggered by a discarded cigarette butt and had resulted in the death of the flat’s resident.

  ‘Alaa didn’t smoke!’ said Omar.

  ‘Even if he did, he had only just come in through the door.’

  The report felt as though it had been written up beforehand: a meaningless column-filler.

  Once Ahmed had hidden the envelope and the paper containing Alaa’s obituary in a safe place, the two immersed themselves in their work, trying to bury their nervousness in activity.

  It was five o’clock in the afternoon when Ahmed heard a voice calling him.

  ‘Ahmed? Someone to see you.’

  He went out to reception.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘There’s a young lady outside waiting for you,’ said a girl he worked with.

  Ahmed left the store to find the last person he had expected to see standing in front of him. She was wearing a hijab in place of the niqab, and a large suitcase sat on the ground beside her. She looked worn out and broken; pale and fragile like autumn leaves, as though she would crackle if he touched her hand, or fly away if the wind picked up.

  ‘Aya!’

  Hot tears swam in her eyes.

  ‘How are you, Ahmed? I called you. Your phone was off.’

  ‘Welcome home.’

  He couldn’t find the words. Approaching her, he took her in his arms then carried her suitcase inside.

  27

  One month later

  At the far end of the air-conditioned interior of an Internet café in Mohandiseen, amid a babel of games, chat rooms and music videos, two young men, one fat, the other slender and bespectacled, sat at a computer.

  ‘You’re sure it’s working?’ said Ahmed.

  ‘Yes, I’m sure,’ Omar replied.

  ‘So where have we got to now?’

  ‘You’re currently sending an email from Sydney, Australia. Sure as you’re sitting there.’

  ‘Won’t they find out?’

  ‘You won’t find out yourself. This programme that I’ve downloaded changes the computer’s IP address. That’s like the computer’s fingerprint: it’s attached to every piece of data sent to the Internet. You’re home and dry.’

  Ahmed leaned back and put his hands behind his head. ‘Perfect.’

  Omar uploaded a compressed file onto the Internet from an email address he had just created in the name of Alaa Gomaa. The upload complete, he turned to Ahmed.

  ‘What will you put in the subject line?’

  Ahmed’s brow creased in thought for all of ten seconds. ‘Put: a picture of Sally the dancer body-waxing.’

  Omar nodded approvingly. ‘I wouldn’t be able to resist an email like that.’

  He typed the provocative sentence and began adding the email addresses. There were fifty of them: the addresses of every newspaper and magazine in Egypt and a number of major companies, in addition to those of a few friends notorious for forwarding on every email that reached their inbox. The attachment contained everything that had been in the safety deposit box: documents, title deeds, copies of articles and health inspection reports; Alaa’s treasure chest supplemented by Gouda’s pictures. Ahmed and Omar had spent a month transferring them onto a computer then arranging them until they shone as bright as the sun, not forgetting to add the photograph of Alaa and Gouda Photoshopped to appear together. They also made photocopies of every single document and sent them to the office of the prosecutor-general and the ombudsman: a bulging, potentially explosive package.

  ‘Finished. Let’s go.’

  Omar had sent the pictures.

  They went outside and walked along the Nile in the neighbourhood of Agouza. Before leaving, Omar had erased all traces of their presence from the Internet café’s computer and left a little extra gift: something that would force the owner to reinstall Windows on the hard drive.

  ‘Do you think the email will have any effect?’ asked Ahmed.

  ‘Bubonic plague.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘The bubonic plague spread like wildfire and nobody could stop it. Know why?’

  ‘Because nobody knew where it came from.’

  ‘It came from rats. These days the Internet is worse than rats: it finds its way into every home, just like the plague before it. By tomorrow morning a quarter of the Internet users in Egypt will have seen it and in two days it’s impossible to guess where it will be. That business with the sexy subject line will have fathers opening it faster than their sons.’

  ‘I wish Alaa could see this.’

  ‘God have mercy on his soul. At the end of the day everyone will see his picture and know that the guy died for a cause: a worthy cause. That’s not to mention Gouda: he’s the one who never expected to be a hero.’

  ‘I don’t want to get ahead of things. I’m scared to dream.’

  ‘Listen, my gloomy friend: major companies have been brought down by a rumour on the Internet. You’re forgetting about that mineral water company they claimed was causing cancer. The company shut down. We’re sending documents and pictures: you think it’ll be shrugged off that easily? When people want to believe something they will. They’ll tell you you’re wrong even if you saw it and they didn’t. The parcels we sent to the ombudsman and the prosecutor’s office are enough to open a case on their own.’

  We’ll see. This is my last card.’

  ‘And your best.’

  ‘I hope so.’

  28

  Two weeks later, inside a historic building on

  Qasr el-Aini Street

  Spacious and supremely luxurious, the room had a period air and looked as th
ough it dated back to the days of the monarchy. In its centre was a large elongated desk and behind it a high-backed black leather chair on which lay a small orange inflatable cushion of the type used by sufferers of haemorrhoids to relieve their suffering. It was a desk worthy of Sherif Amin, father to Habib. Upon the cushion he sat, his thick spectacles resting on the bridge of his broad nose. His face was as creased as a field left fallow, his heavily dyed hair parted sharply on the right. He hadn’t changed in more than thirty years: short, with long hands, broad shoulders, a penetrating glance and a harsh voice. Today, though, he seemed different, as though the woes of the world were pressing down on his shoulders. He was studying the pages lying before him with considerable interest.

  A short beep cut through the stillness of the room, followed by the voice of his secretary. ‘Sherif basha? Adel basha Nassar is here to see you.’

  ‘Show him in.’

  He got up from his chair and adjusted his shirt, his eyes still fixed on the desk in front of him, reading intently. They belonged to some independent newspapers from the previous day, and news of Alaa’s messages reverberated out from their pages. The desk supported a mountain of newsprint that had covered the scandal of his businessman son’s dealings with the Assal Group. They had published pictures of Habib at the casino in the company of Fathi el-Assal and young women, along with full details of the shipments of rotten food and his products that were unfit for consumption and past their expiry date. There were scandalous reports on powerful figures like Ayman Wasfi and his dealings with Israel, plus profiles of a few political figures, including one on the senior and very dignified government advisor who spent his time in the arms of an erstwhile screen siren.

  He heard a knock, then the door opened and Adel Nassar walked in.

  ‘Welcome, Adel basha, welcome!’

  ‘How are you, Sherif bey?’

  Sherif went to his chair and, taking the inflatable cushion, placed it on an armchair facing Adel Nassar. He sat down.

  ‘The piles are killing me.’

  ‘Get well soon. Did you hear the news?’

  ‘I heard it.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘It’s a catastrophe!’

  ‘What will you do?’

  ‘We’ll send him out of the country and then we’ll deal with it. I’m putting him on a plane to London today.’

  ‘So much for Habib. What about his father?’

  ‘Habib’s father knows how to look after himself. El-Assal’s taking the fall for this: all the documents are in his name. Habib was a secret partner. No one will be able to prove a thing.’

  ‘What about the pictures of them together at the casino?’

  ‘That’s the real problem. Maybe we can pass it off as nothing more than friendship; it doesn’t mean they were in business together.’

  ‘But that would harm your reputation.’

  ‘I know. I’m not going to comment until the matter has been forgotten. If the ferry disaster could be forgotten, you think this couldn’t?’

  ‘Do you know somebody by the name of Safwan? Safwan el-Bihiri?’ asked Adel.

  ‘I know him. He used to work with me back in the day.’

  ‘Well, he’s been handed his pyjamas: he’s sitting at home. He was responsible for the Bar Vertigo business with Muhi Zanoun and Hisham Fathi. And he’s got off lightly too.’

  ‘Are you giving me a message?’

  ‘Sherif bey, I haven’t been sent by anyone. I’m here to see what you’ve done about it. This affects the basha.’

  ‘When did he find out?’

  ‘Not too long ago.’

  ‘Well, I’m sure he understands. He knew about all this from the beginning.’

  ‘I wouldn’t be so sure. He’s not going to hang around and wait for his guys to get involved in public corruption scandals. It’s not just you. Half the rodents in parliament have scandals, not to mention Ayman Wasfi. He’s something else altogether. If this gets any bigger he may be forced to take steps. He’ll protect himself.’

  ‘Not me, though, as you well know. Not against me in particular. He knows it, too.’

  ‘Anyway, Habib has to travel today. The travel ban will be issued very soon; I can’t delay it for more than a couple of days.’

  ‘I understand.’

  Adel rose. ‘I’ll leave you now. I’m not going to get in your way; just wanted to check you were OK.’

  ‘Thanks for the visit, ya basha.’

  ‘Cover yourself. The basha might ask for you in the next few hours. Think about what you’ll say to him.’

  Sherif pressed his lips together and nodded.

  ‘We’ll see.’

  ‘Bye now.’

  ‘Goodbye.’

  Adel departed and Sherif remained perched on the cushion on the chair next to his desk. He sat there for nearly half an hour, insensible to the passage of time, his head filled with a thousand answers to a thousand questions. Only one remained unanswered: how long could his throne withstand this scandal?

  Things moved quickly in the days that followed.

  Fathi el-Assal was arrested after his parliamentary immunity had been lifted. From behind bars he issued statements naming powerful figures involved in his schemes.

  Habib Amin fled to London six hours before a court issued a travel ban and a detention order against him.

  Sherif Amin released a solitary statement, in which he declared: ‘The hand of corruption will never besmirch the honourable. I have faith in the probity of the judiciary, just as I have faith in the innocence of my son, Habib. Were charges to be brought against my son he would be in Egypt within twenty-four hours. I pay no attention to statements made by a corrupt member of parliament who is claiming a relationship with my son to inflame public opinion and stir up the naïve and gullible citizen.’

  Sherif Amin utterly denied that his son owned any tourist resorts, especially on the North Coast.

  Galal Mursi resigned from his post at Freedom and travelled to London. Three months later he fell from the balcony of his fifth floor flat following a dizzy spell. In his last call, made five minutes before he fell, he had ordered a seafood pizza to be delivered to the flat.

  Immunity was lifted from twenty-five members of parliament after pictures of them appeared on the covers of magazines and newspapers and mobile phone screens in the company of Casino Paris’ dancing girls and female customers. Seven of them belonged to the same party.

  The body of Karim Abbas was found in his Zamalek flat with high levels of sedative in his blood.

  Sally disappeared from public view. She was spotted performing the Umra pilgrimage in Mecca during the last ten days of Ramadan and a rumour started that she was due to appear on a chat show to talk about the injustice she had suffered.

  In an interview with a magazine whose cover she graced, the famous actress Ola Zayed made the following comment on her relationship with a senior legal counsellor who had resigned from his post: ‘It was an innocent friendship: I thought of him as my big brother.’

  Ayman Wasfi kept himself out of the limelight: no investigation, no comment. The scandal over his deals with Israel and the imports of adulterated grain flared and died like the flame from a match, although a miniscule ember still glowed.

  The photograph of Alaa Gomaa and Gouda appeared on the pages of the independent press and stories about them began to flourish. Some claimed that they had been partners in the fight against corruption, others that they were father and son, and yet others that Alaa had bought the pictures from Gouda. Nobody, however, had the slightest doubt that at least one of them was still alive.

  No paper could ignore the story, or hold back from publishing the details of the scandals. Some people took heart and began anonymously sending in pictures and information to the newspapers that had previously been suppressed.

  The cattle began to stumble and the knives came out, most of them blunted from long neglect. Whenever a new story appeared, people attributed it to Alaa and Gouda, whichever of them
was still alive. Nobody knew for certain.

  Ahmed’s emails were like rocks shattering a window. The splinters injured some and rattled others. Although some people tried to shrug them off, no one could deny that the emails had struck hard – if they hadn’t actually dealt the lethal blow.

  29

  In the far north, on the shores of the Mediterranean Sea, the chalets were ranged over the soft sand like sugar cubes. The rhythmic sound of the waves set the tempo and the smell of the sea and the cool salt-laden breeze soothed the nerves. There were usually no visitors to the place at that time of year, but tonight was an exception.

  Tonight, feet sunk in the sand, the silhouette of a man stood alone surrounded by the sea. His hands were in his pockets and with empty eyes he watched the waves by the light of the moon.

  It was none other than Tariq, Tariq Hassan Abdallah, the man who had carried out the Bar Vertigo operation.

  Inside the chalet, his wife Somaya was sitting on a cane couch. She was no longer pregnant. She had been blessed with Habiba: a small, delicate creature of nine months who drove the world from her mind when she smiled. She was sound asleep, her tiny thumb in her mouth, lying across the lap of her mother, whose face was ravaged with incessant weeping.

  On the small table in front of her were a number of newspapers, and on their front pages a photograph of her husband, the photograph from Bar Vertigo. Her eyes resisted looking at the picture until at last she rose and gently placed Habiba in her cot. She opened the chalet’s front door and went out, out to where the silhouette stood motionless as a rock, like some eternal feature of the landscape. Her soft feet sank into the sand as she walked up behind him and placed her hand lightly on his shoulder. Without turning to look at her, he reached out behind him and embraced her.

  She couldn’t stop herself from bursting into tears, and wept as she had never wept before.

  ‘Calm down, Somaya,’ he said.

  ‘How can I be calm?’ she replied amid her sobs.

  ‘We’ll go away. We’ll go somewhere where no one knows us.’