Aggressor (21 page)

‘The people who assisted the Angels of Judgement here in Cairo are the same people who killed your daughter. Mona. My wife. I'm talking about the animals who beat the brains out of her on a dirt road beside the Nile three years ago.'

Mohammed Hamdi's hand crashed down on the arm of the chair. ‘All right, damn you,' he croaked. ‘But it doesn't alter the fact that they were outside my jurisdiction, my official business.'

‘Official business, yes.' Girling paused. ‘But how did you fill the early days of your retirement, Mohammed Hamdi? Before this illness? Did you do nothing but stay behind these doors nursing your grief? If I know you, Mohammed Hamdi, you would have been out there, looking for the killers of your daughter.'

The ex-inspector's head hung limply on his chest. ‘Yes, I tried,' he whispered.

Girling barely caught the words. ‘Then what happened?'

Mohammed Hamdi's hand crept to the cigarette box again. It took him an age to get one into his mouth, longer to make the lighter work.

‘I journeyed to Asyut, to the very spot she died. The ground was still stained dark with her blood. I spoke to people, I followed leads. You don't forget how to do your job, you know. I was a detective for twenty-five years...'

‘And what did you find there?'

‘A trail.'

‘To where?'

The ex-policeman raised his eyes. They were almost lost in the shadows of their sockets. ‘Everywhere.' Mohammed Hamdi held his hands out wide. ‘It's all around us. It's in the streets, the markets, the rubbish tips... everywhere.'

‘What is?'

‘The hatred that killed her.' He coughed again and his once-strong frame seemed as if it would implode. ‘Hatred murdered Mona,' he said.

‘You found them, didn't you, Mohammed Hamdi? You found Mona's killers.'

‘No.'

‘But you know them?'

‘Yes.'

Girling sat on the edge of his chair. ‘What are their names?'

‘Knowing a name will not help you.' Mohammed Hamdi's voice had begun to sound slow, drugged.

‘Tell me, Mohammed Hamdi. I need to know it.'

‘It is not a real name.'

‘Are you talking about the ringleader?'

‘Yes, the ringleader.''

Girling slipped onto his knees and took Mohammed Hamdi's emaciated hands in his. ‘You've got to tell me,' he said softly.

‘Abu Tarek, his name is Abu Tarek. That is how they know him in the Brotherhood.'

‘And where would I find Abu Tarek?'

‘With the greatest of difficulty. Abu Tarek enjoys the protection of God.'

A lump formed in Girling's throat. ‘He's dead?'

Mohammed Hamdi shook his head.

‘Then... ?'

‘Tom...'

Girling had never heard him say his name before.

‘I loved my daughter far more than my own life. And yet, I think of the power that protects this man when I lie awake in the pit of the black night and I am scared beyond all reason.'

‘I, too, am scared, Mohammed Hamdi. But I've stopped running. And this time, with your help, I may be able to save a life.'

Behind the old man's chair, the shadows moved. Girling glanced up to find his mother-in-law standing over them. He knew his time was short. He switched back to the old man. ‘Just give me an address. Please. I must act quickly.'

‘You want to know who killed our daughter?' It was Mona's mother who had spoken. Mohammed withdrew his hands from Girling's clasp.

Girling stared at her. Her face was hidden behind the veil, but her eyes held him like a sniper's open sights.

‘Yes, tell me,' he said.

‘You killed her. You killed our daughter as though you, yourself, had hurled those rocks.' Her veil bobbed lightly as she spoke. ‘You murdered our daughter the very day that you married her.'

Girling glanced from her to her husband, but his head hung heavily on his chest.

‘Leave us alone,' she said. ‘You are not welcome here. Get out and don't ever come back.'

Girling got up and walked out without saying another word.

It was dark when he left the apartment and all the children had gone.

‘Attention,' Shabanov commanded.

Within the cavernous structure of the long-abandoned anti-blast shelter, his voice carried effortlessly. There was a sharp noise, like parachute silk snapping in the wind, as the Pathfinders and Spetsnaz troops obeyed his command.

Shabanov and Ulm stood side by side on a hastily erected podium made out of crates disgorged from the C-5 Galaxies. The Pathfinders' own transports had come and gone the day before.

‘Pathfinders,' Shabanov said. ‘Do not let your feelings stand before the success of our mission. The fact that it is I and not Colonel Ulm who addresses you is an accident of fate, sealed by the politicians of our two countries. It is not important who leads the operation. American or Soviet, his nationality does not matter. If we are successful, we will all share the credit. Try to understand the significance of this moment. Study your colleagues from Spetsnaz and you will see men no different from you.

‘We have around a week to prepare for the Angels of Judgement. There will be moments when you question my authority. So, let me give you an insight into the GRU's intelligence. The Angels of Judgement have training, they have sophisticated weapons, and they have a fanatical devotion to their leader - not to mention their religion - that we cannot comprehend. The Soviet Army was guilty of complacency when we went into Afghanistan. But we Afghantsi learnt our lesson, didn't we, Ruslan?' Shabanov turned to a sergeant in the front row.

Starshina Ruslan Bitov, a great ox of a man, raised his right hand. Ulm saw that only two fingers remained. Bitov grinned. ‘But they buried the bastard with my thumb up his arse, Comrade Colonel.'

‘Bitov was fortunate,' Shabanov said. ‘The Angels of Judgement will show us no mercy when we go looking for our captive comrades. In one week, we will have to be drilled to perfection. The focus of your attention during this period will be a mock-up of Judgement's camp, to be constructed by my engineers in the desert. It will take time to find a valley that mirrors the one in which the Judgement has made its base; and it will take time to erect the camp itself. In the mean time, we drill. We drill until we have got it right.'

Shabanov drove his fist into the open palm of his hand. ‘One, we fly in to the Sword's camp. Two-' the fist rammed home again ‘-we locate and secure the hostages. Three, we annihilate the terrorists.'

Shabanov's knuckles whitened.

‘Because my men have been hand-picked, among other things, for their linguistic ability, English will be adopted as standard.' Shabanov turned to address his own men. ‘Any deviation from this rule will entail punishment.'

There was a sudden roar from outside as the first of the two An-124s thundered down the runway and lifted into the night sky. Shabanov paused until both aircraft had departed, the sound of their engines receding into the night as they set course for their operating base in Soviet Central Asia.

‘In summary, by the end of our training you will be neither American nor Soviet,' Shabanov said. ‘You will learn to work together, to think together, to trust each other. Such co-operation only comes with practice.

‘So, I want you assembled here at midnight. You will be organized into pairs - one Soviet for every American - and flown by helicopter to separate locations in the desert, one hundred and twenty kilometres from here. It is a classic evade and escape exercise - E and E, as you Pathfinders call it. Each team will make its way back, undetected, within forty hours of the drop-off. Those late back will be made to do the exercise again. Perhaps, too, they will forfeit their place on the mission. I have no room for men who are not fit.'

Ulm studied his men. It was rough, but they could take it. They had endured worse.

‘And to make it more interesting,' Shabanov said, ‘our helicopters will fly combat patrols into the desert to find you. Anyone located will be made to repeat the exercise. And they, too, may find themselves dropped from the mission.'

The Russian took a step backwards. ‘I suggest you rest now. It will certainly be the last you get for two days.'

The taxi, an Egyptian licence-built Fiat that had seen better days, clattered noisily along 26th of July Street.

Girling took in the skyline and plotted the differences over the past three years. The number of luxury hotels had almost doubled; so, too, had the lean-tos and corrugated-iron shanties.

The driver pulled up outside the Khan. After the sombre observances of the holy day, the market was alive with festivity.

Girling paid the fare, crossed the road and took stock. The Khan stretched away in front of him, a sprawling mass of stalls and shops built up around the tiny streets - some no broader than a man's shoulders - that were the capillaries of the ancient bazaar. The arteries that fed them were five main thoroughfares, one of which was the Street of the Judges. Girling consulted the map he had found in Stansell's apartment. By his reckoning, Kareem's coffee house lay a few hundred yards distant and straight ahead. As the crow flies. He knew that nothing would be quite that simple at ground level.

That he saw no other foreigners did not surprise him. Although a popular tourist attraction by day, the Khan was not the safest place in town for an ‘agnabi to be walking alone after dark.

Girling pulled up the collar of his jacket and plunged into the market. Most of the shop shutters were drawn. He navigated by the pools of light thrown by hurricane lamps and the occasional string of low-wattage bulbs across the entranceways to the coffee houses. In the dark, there was little to distinguish him as an ‘agnabi. He kept going, twisting and weaving along the tiny streets, mixing with the people as he went. Eventually the alley opened up into a main street. The openness of his surroundings, the blazing lights and the hordes of people suddenly made him feel quite naked. The shops, stalls, and coffee houses lay interspersed amid the mosques and the ancient mausoleums shown on the map. He had arrived at the Street of the Judges. He looked left and right, scouring the billboards for a sight of Kareem's. People had begun to stop and stare. It was with immense relief that he spotted the coffee house fifty yards from him on the opposite side of the street.

He brushed past the tables on the pavement, past the old men smoking their water-pipes and into the bright, strip-lit interior. No sooner had he reached the back of the shop than the chatter stopped. Girling found himself the object of uniform curiosity. The only waiter, a middle-aged man with brown teeth and a lazy eye, stopped what he was doing and turned round.

‘We closed,' he said. ‘Too late.' He tapped his wrist where a watch should have been.

‘I'm looking for Mansour,' Girling said.

Lazy-eye frowned and shook his head quickly from side to side, as Egyptians do when they are confused, or claim to be.

‘Old Mansour,' Girling said. ‘I was told he worked here.'

‘No Mansour here,' Lazy-eye said.

‘I was told-'

‘No. You leave now.'

Girling hesitated. In the mirror on the wall in front of him he saw three customers get to their feet. Each was too well-built for his liking. They began weaving a passage through the tables towards him.

Girling held his hands up. ‘OK, I'm going,' he said to the waiter. ‘Aruh,' he reiterated in Arabic, gesturing towards the door.

It was as his eyes swept past the mirror again that he saw the keg. It was low down in the reflection, nestling on a shelf under the work surface in front of him.

Girling switched his gaze back to the three bearing down on him. They were almost there.

There was a doorway set in the rear wall, a curtain across it. Girling brushed past the waiter and pushed the curtain aside. The ante-room was dark except for the glow of a charcoal fire. A man was picking out embers and placing them on small tobacco-filled clays. Some of the clays had been attached to water pipes, ready for delivery to waiting customers out-side.

The figure did not seem to hear him enter. Girling heard the swish of the curtain behind him. He took a step forward and touched him lightly on the shoulder.

Old Mansour turned just as Girling's arms were wrenched back in a full nelson. He tried to shake himself loose, but they had him held fast.

Old Mansour stepped away from the fire and Girling felt the intensity of its heat.

As the light shone full on Girling's face, Mansour's eyes widened in recognition.

Behind him, voices rasped as his assailants questioned Mansour. The old man answered them patiently. The next thing Girling knew he was free and Mansour and he were alone.

Girling looked Old Mansour up and down. He was a little more bowed in the frame, a little sallower of cheek. But it was Mansour, fit, alive.

‘Forgive me, ya Mansour,' Girling said in Arabic. ‘I never meant to embarrass you - ‘

Old Mansour replied in English. ‘It is I who should ask for forgiveness, Mr Tom. They thought perhaps I owed you money. I am sorry. They were only trying to protect me.'

‘It is good that you have friends to look after you, Mansour.'

‘Yes, they are kind to me here.'

‘Mansour, I am looking for Stansell.'

‘I know.'

Girling took a step closer to him. Mansour had the kindest face he had ever seen; blue eyes that were rare for an Egyptian and a white, bushy moustache. ‘Tell me how you know that, Mansour.'

‘Do you remember Uthman, the doctor from Duqqi?' Mansour said.

Girling confessed that he didn't.

‘He used to drink at the Metropolitan Club, back in the old days,' Mansour said. ‘Now he comes here for his water-pipe. The rose water here is the best, they say, the pipes here the smoothest in Cairo. It was Uthman who told me about Stansell. These are terrible days, Mr Tom.'