Aggressor (20 page)

Girling hesitated. To refuse a gift or favour was tantamount to spitting in this man's face. He tipped the burning-hot liquor down his throat. To his relief, the bottle was replaced on the shelf.

‘When you see Stansell, tell him his friends at the Metropolitan Club miss him. He has not visited us in a long time.'

Girling had the feeling the concierge missed Stansell's money more than the man. ‘How long?'

‘A month, maybe more.'

Which meant more like six months, Girling thought. ‘You were trying to remember where Mansour had gone,' he prompted.

‘Ah yes, Mansour.'

‘Did he have family?'

‘No, no family. Mansour was alone. That is why he worked. But his eyes, his legs... no good. He had to go.'

‘Where?' Girling pressed.

‘Maybe in Khan Al-Khalili. Maybe.'

The Khan was a huge fifty-acre tourist market over in Al-Gamaliya, part of the old quarter. Girling knew he could spend a year in there and never even catch a glimpse of Mansour.

‘How do you mean, maybe?'

‘Someone said he saw him working at Kareem's coffee house on the Street of the Judges. But that was nearly a year ago.'

Girling's heart sank. Old Mansour was probably dead by now. He got to his feet.

‘Where are you going?' the concierge asked.

‘To the Street of the Judges.' It had to be worth a shot still.

‘But it is Friday, my friend. Kareem's is closed until sundown.' He bowed his head twice to demonstrate the prayer ritual. ‘On Fridays, until sunset, the Street of Judges is a holy place.'

Girling swore under his breath. ‘By the way, that old sherry keg that used to be behind the bar...' He pointed to a place between the bottles. ‘What happened to it?'

For a moment, the concierge was confused. Girling described the sherry keg, with a brand name he couldn't remember written on the side. Mansour always had treated it as his proudest possession.

‘Ah, that,' the concierge said. ‘We threw it away. I have seen better trash on sale outside the Cairo Museum. This is a hotel, not a third-rate tourist bazaar.'

The noise of the two Antonov An-124s of Voyenno-Transportnaya Aviatsiya, Soviet Military Transport Aviation, rumbled in the heavens as their pilots throttled back to line up on the mobile instrument landing system deployed by the Pathfinders.

The moment they heard the turbofans, Ulm, Doyle, and Jones were out of the blast shelter and into the dusk air, straining for a glimpse of them.

It was Jones who first spotted the lead ship as it passed across the ebbing sun, pulling round in a wide bank to line up on Qena's main runway.

The Pathfinders watched in silence as the aircraft, with their capacity to carry even more than their own giant Galaxies, slipped from the skies as effortlessly as eagles. Even without radar or the luxury of voice communication, the Soviets had picked Qena out of the desert like it was JFK.

‘Some sight, huh?' Doyle said. The Pathfinders' intelligence officer scratched his head. ‘Never thought I'd live to see it.'

The three of them watched the first An-124 cannon past their position, brakes smoking, engines in full reverse as the crew struggled to slow its enormous rolling mass.

Jones followed the progress of the second aircraft down the runway. ‘Us and Ivan - it still don't feel right.'

‘At least, we're out of the wilderness,' the intelligence officer said.

‘Well, pardon my French, sir, but this ain't exactly fucking Disneyland.'

Ulm wandered away from them, down to the taxi-way. The lead Condor, still a hundred and fifty yards away, dwarfed him.

‘What's eating the boss?' Jones asked.

‘What do you think?' Doyle said. ‘Working with Ivan scares the shit out of him, too.'

The first An-124 slewed round to face the anti-blast shelter that had been designated as the Soviets' storage area. It braked sharply, shivering with the vibration. Thirty feet above the surface of the tarmac a door opened and a telescopic ladder deployed to the ground. Shabanov was silhouetted briefly in the doorframe. He had swapped his clean, pressed uniform for combat fatigues. Poking above the camouflage smock was the prized blue and white T-shirt of Spetsnaz.

Shabanov pounded down the steps and came to attention before the American.

‘It begins, Elliot.'

‘Sure.' Ulm found himself shouting over the Condor's idling turbofans. ‘How was the flight?'

‘A textbook deception. The identification transponders worked flawlessly.'

Behind Shabanov, the visor nose of the An-124 was lifting slowly over the cockpit. Under the glare of floodlights in the Condor's roof, the cavernous interior was bathed in brightness. Already, soldiers strained against the first Mi-24J. The Condor's ramp had no sooner hit the ground than the helicopter gunship was rolled onto the tarmac.

An officer barked orders and the Mi-24 was wheel-ed into the hangar, followed shortly by another. There were two more Mils in the second Condor. The rest of the floor-space in both aircraft was taken up with the building materials Shabanov required for his dummy camp in the desert.

Ulm jabbed a finger in the direction of the helicopter. ‘So that's the Mi-24J. Don't look so special to me.' In fact, it looked much like any other recent edition of the Hind, the helicopter the Soviets made infamous during the Afghan war.

‘Outwardly the same,' Shabanov said. ‘But inside, a new animal.'

‘Yeah?'

Ulm had asked Doyle to make enquiries on the Mi-24J before they left Kirtland, but nobody at the Pentagon knew anything about it. It was that new.

‘It marries the rotors, engines, dynamics, fire-control system, and avionics of the new Mi-38 tank-buster with the Mi-24 airframe. The result, a fifty per cent improvement in performance. The Mil design bureau is very proud of it. They believe it will perform well.'

‘It has to earn the right to fly into Lebanon,' Ulm said.

‘True.' Shabanov looked around him. ‘Where are the Sikorskys?'

‘In the hangars, fuelled up and ready to go. Man, I'd forgotten how much helos hate sand. This kind of sand, anyway.'

‘Give me an hour to stow the equipment,' Shabanov said. ‘Then we hold a briefing for all the men.'

There were children dressed in rags playing noisily on the steps when Girling arrived at the apartment block in Medinat-Al-Sahafeen, a poor district on the edge of the city.

As soon as they spotted him, the children swarmed around his legs, tugging at the hem of his jacket and the cloth of his trousers. Though there were only six of them, they made the noise of a school playground, hands outstretched for his money.

Girling dug into his pockets and distributed his change amongst them. They ran off into the dust squealing with pleasure.

He knocked on the apartment door. Above him, evening light streamed through a hole in the roof. There was a shuffle from within and the door opened.

Girling's mother-in-law was dressed in a helaliya, a sombre all-over garment popular amongst Egyptian country-women. Her kohl-lined eyes widened slightly, the only outward show of surprise she allowed herself. In the few times Girling had met her, she had never once addressed a word to him. Custom forbade communication with strangers, and especially ‘agnabis, in the remote village of her birth. Though her husband was from a simple family himself, neither tradition nor religion had ever placed any constraints upon his behaviour. He had never been afraid to speak his mind.

Girling took a step inside and his mother-in-law retreated behind a door off the living-room. He heard her whispers and the gruff response they elicited. There was the metallic creak of bed springs. It seemed he had interrupted Mohammed Hamdi's late afternoon sleep.

Girling walked into the sitting-room. It contained one or two heavy, ornate pieces of furniture, Egyptian copies of French late-nineteenth-century designs. There was lace everywhere - over the tables, the chair-backs, and in front of the windows. There was a portrait of Mona on a small table beside him. It made him feel as if he were in a funeral parlour.

In the short time they had lived together in Egypt, Mona had brought him here just once. Her father never made any bones about his dislike for him. And for his part, Girling had never made any special effort to turn his view around. Out of deference to the two men she loved, Mona considered it best they should be kept apart.

After her death, it was only natural that her parents should look after Alia. It was natural, too, that they should form a strong attachment to their grand-daughter in the long months of his recuperation. Stansell warned him that they might choose to take the law into their own hands. And so it was that, as soon as he was able, he came to pay his respects and thank them for looking after his baby daughter. He knew from the furtive looks they gave him that Stansell was right, that they were planning to keep her. A week later, on his way to the airport, he arrived without warning. He told them he was taking little Alia home, to England. It had been an undignified, painful occasion. He could still remember the look of rage on Mohammed Hamdi's face and the sound of his wife's wailing behind the closed door of her bedroom as he carried his daughter to the waiting taxi. Because Mona had loved her father deeply, Girling was sad that he had had to act so drastically. But he felt that he had had no choice.

Girling replaced the picture of his wife a moment before he heard the scrape of the old man's slippers on the bare floor behind him.

Three years before, Mohammed Hamdi had been a big man, with a barrel chest, great, strong arms and the largest pair of hands Girling had ever seen. Now, one look revealed the extent to which the cancer had him in its grip.

From behind their thick pebble glasses, two piercing brown eyes held Girling in a reproachful stare. The look of Mona in those eyes suddenly made Girling's heart go out to the man.

‘You know there is only one reason in the world that stops me from throwing you out of this house, don't you?'

‘I understand your feelings, Mohammed Hamdi.'

‘Is the little one with you?'

‘No. She is in England.'

The light that had shone momentarily in his eyes went out. ‘I see.'

Girling reached for his wallet. He removed a photograph he had taken just a few weeks before and handed it to the old man. ‘Keep it,' he said, awkwardly.

Mohammed Hamdi studied the picture for a little while. ‘For a moment, I thought -'

‘I know. But Alia's in England. She's with my parents. She's happy. She has a good school and friends, many friends. You would be proud of her.'

Mohammed Hamdi held a thin arm towards the door.

‘We have only one thing in common now, and since she is not here...' His voice, though weak, was steady. ‘It would be better, I think, if you left.'

‘I'm asking for a moment of your time, Mohammed Hamdi.'

‘Whatever brings you here, it must be the Devil's own reason.'

‘It is. I'm here because of what happened to Mona.'

Mohammed Hamdi lowered himself shakily into one of the lace-covered armchairs. With his face as sombre as a judge's, he gestured for Girling to sit in the chair opposite. His hand went instinctively for the cigarette box on the table beside him.

‘Explain yourself.'

Girling hesitated. ‘I know you can never look upon me as a friend, but I need your help, Mohammed Hamdi.'

His father-in-law had just inhaled a deep lungful of smoke. For a moment, Girling thought he would choke. His eyes watered, but he managed to exhale without spluttering. ‘My help?'

It took Girling five minutes to explain the circumstances surrounding Stansell's abduction.

‘What does this have to do with Mona? What does this have to do with me?' Mohammed Hamdi asked.

‘You can help me find him.'

‘I've been retired two years now. And besides, even if I wanted to help you...' He held his two hands, fingers pointing inward to show the extent of his body's collapse.

‘I know,' Girling said. ‘I'm sorry.'

Mohammed Hamdi had been a beat policeman for more than twenty years when promotion took him into the criminal investigation branch of the ‘ Askary, the regular police. For all his dogged thoroughness, he had found his efforts constantly confounded by his rivals in the Mukhabarat, the hard bastards from internal security. Girling knew, because Mona had told him. She was intensely proud of her father. A peasant by birth, he had worked hard, in the face of considerable prejudice, to save the money to send Mona abroad. All along, her mother, an intensely religious woman, had objected vehemently to his plans. But Mohammed Hamdi, a true meritocrat, knew the value of a foreign education. And, though his religion demanded otherwise, his desire for his daughter to have the best start in life overcame fears for her soul and the objections of his wife. Mona maintained her mother had never forgiven him.

‘I fail to see that this Stansell has anything to do with my daughter,' Mohammed Hamdi said.

‘When the Brotherhood killed Mona, I turned and ran away, Mohammed Hamdi. I'm not proud of that.' He searched the old man's eyes for understanding, but found none. ‘This time, I'm not running. This time, I have to face the Brotherhood. But first I have to find them. And I don't know where to begin looking.' Girling took a deep breath. ‘These Angels of Judgement could not have operated in Egypt without help. They would have needed a safe house, transport, papers... Do you understand what I'm saying? The only people who could have helped them are the Brotherhood.'

His father-in-law seemed flustered. ‘The Mukhabarat handled all internal security matters. In the ‘Askary, I was responsible for running down petty criminals, car thieves, drug peddlers, burglars, pick-pockets-'

‘You know these men, Mohammed Hamdi. I know you do.'

Mohammed Hamdi coughed and shook his head.