Firebird (7 page)

‘OK, so I was being a little obtuse for your benefit. You expected a caveman, so that’s what I was giving you. Actually, I know about all this stuff because I did a course in Egyptology with the Tourism and Antiquities Police. I’m also an enthusiast. If you’re interested, I passed out top of my class.’

‘No shit. I’d have said you couldn’t string a sentence.’

‘Thanks. In ancient Egyptian myth, the Firebird was called the Bennu Bird, and it was supposed to represent the soul of Ra, the sun god. The story went that the universe was originally a void of dark waters — the Waters of Nun, they called it — through which a mound of earth one day appeared. They called this the Primeval Mound and the Firebird was the first thing to land on it at dawn on the first morning, giving out this ear splitting cry which was supposed to have set Time in motion. You could say the Firebird was a sort of ancient Egyptian version of the Big Bang’.

‘OK, but what does the Firebird have to do with Ibram?’

‘Odds are Fawzi got it wrong, and what Ibram really said was “bye-bye” or something. Our only solid clue at the moment is the Sanusi amulet — one scrap of evidence that links the killers to a fundamentalist sect, even if it is a bit out of date. If it
was
the Militants, they scored an own goal on this one, though, because Ibram was almost an Egyptian folk hero — a poor boy who made good in the USA .’

‘Sounds a good motive for whacking him,’ Daisy said. ‘Maybe in their eyes he’d done a Salman Rushdie on them. Maybe they considered him a Muslim who sold out to American imperialism and all that. I mean, he was a
very
big wheel in the States — I’ve read his FBI file. Born in the slums of Alexandria, but emigrated with his parents to New York in the 1950s. Learned fluent English in two years, and raced past his classmates. Harvard graduate, Professor of Earth Sciences at Cornell, won the NASA Medal for Exceptional Scientific Achievement — twice. Science advisor to the U S president, consultant to NASA and an expert on the environment — especially desertification, the ozone layer and all those green issues. In on the Mars probe and studied the Martian landscape. He reckoned the nearest thing on earth to it was the Western Desert of Egypt — even wrote a paper on it. He was also on the National Research Council, the Medical Advisory Board of the Atomic Energy Commission, and a consultant for the National Security Council.’

‘On what?’

‘I don’t know, that part of the file was highly classified.’

‘Maybe the Militants just bumped him off because they were jealous of his lifestyle. Or maybe we’re right off course, and it was a grudge killing going back to his Alexandria days. Maybe it’s as simple as that.’

‘Hey look!’ Daisy cried out suddenly. She pointed along the road to where a peak of stone stood out above the roofs of hotels and houses — a single polished facet glowing like a jewel in the sun’s last embers.

‘That’s the Great Pyramid,’ I said.

‘Okaaay!’ Daisy said, beaming. ‘So I got a glimpse of it after all!’

7

The Mena palace was one of the oldest and most famous hotels in Egypt — a rambling mansion of
mash
-
rubiyya
windows and Turkish-style archways standing not more than a hundred metres from the Giza Plateau. Before Cairo had expanded up the Pyramids Road it had stood out in desert, and was used as a hunting lodge by Ismael Pasha — the son of the great Mohammad Ali — in the early 1800s. Later it was bought as a private house by a British couple, Hugh and Ethel Locke-King, who’d eventually turned it into a hotel. In the old days it had had a famous golf course, and in 1915 the British Prince of Wales is supposed to have driven a ball on to the green from the top of the second pyramid. Daisy drove the Fiat under the arch and into a garden full of the perfume of bougainvillea and oleander. The main entrance was set beneath an elaborate portico where a barrel chested commissionaire in Ottoman dress — fez, baggy trousers and an embroidered waistcoat — opened the car door for Daisy, took the keys and parked up the Fiat. Only one of the entranceways to the lobby was functional, and inevitably there was a metal detector beyond it. We were both armed, so we flashed our cards at the blue blazered security men and sidestepped the detector frame.

The decor was marble and brass, the reception curving around beneath a gilt-encased ceiling towards a passage that contained a row of shops — a jeweller, a bookshop, a T-shirt boutique. There appeared to be almost no guests about. An exceptionally polite young Egyptian in a dark suit hurried off to fetch the front desk manager as soon as we showed our ID. The manager was a dapper man called Abd al-Ali, who wore a spotless suit of precisely the right shade of grey, and shoes so highly buffed you could have used them as mirrors. He bowed slightly as he shook hands with me, but gave Daisy only the ghost of a nod. Then he ushered us unctuously to a brass topped table in the lobby bar. ‘May I offer you a beer, coffee, a cocktail?’ he asked. ‘Won’t you try our fresh lime juice? It’s highly recommended.’

‘No thanks,’ I said, ‘I’d like to get down to business. We’re here to enquire about the disappearance from this hotel of Doctor Adam Ibram.’

‘Ah, such a tragedy,’ Abd al-Ali said smoothly. ‘I learned of Doctor Ibram’s murder on the afternoon news. Is it true that terrorism is not involved?’

‘Not as far as we know,’ I said, pursuing the official line. ‘We are treating it as a criminal investigation.’

The manager nodded seriously, but I noticed a twinkle in his eyes. ‘I’m glad to hear that,’ he said. ‘These days every puff of wind is put down to terrorism, and the tourist trade suffers as a result. The Mena Palace used to be one of the most popular hotels in Egypt until all the brouhaha about terrorism started. Now it’s all we can do to fill half the place on a regular basis. I try to tell them that Egypt is actually one of the safest countries in the world, and incidents occur once in a blue moon. It’s blown up out of all proportion. Did you know...’ he turned and gave Daisy a sour look, ‘that statistically you are twenty five times more likely to be murdered in the USA than in Egypt? I’d appreciate it if you’d keep the name of this hotel out of the press. Things are bad enough — this’ll only make it worse.’

‘I think we can promise that,’ Daisy said, giving the manager her sweetest ‘good-cop’ smile. ‘When did you first notice Doctor Ibram’s disappearance?’

The manager shifted his gaze from me to Daisy, then back to me. He raised an eyebrow at me interrogatively. ‘It’s OK,’ I told him. ‘This is my partner. You can answer her questions.’

Abd al-Ali made a camp frown at us. ‘As far as I have been able to find out, Doctor Ibram hadn’t returned to the hotel for the past two nights. People like to...well, enjoy the attractions, and of course, there’s no law that says a guest has to return to his room every night. It’s enough that the bill is paid — but even in a hotel like this we do get guests who flit without paying. You’d be surprised, actually. I’ve had people who you would have said were the soul of respectability just slip out leaving their baggage behind them. One guest even left an expensive stereo system. Not that a lovely man like poor Doctor Ibram...well, anyway, I let myself discreetly into his room. His baggage was all there — washing and shaving things laid out in the bathroom. He had some very nice things, actually — clothes very chic — probably Bloomingdale’s. Anyway, I waited until this morning and when he didn’t come back I thought I’d better refer the matter to the tourist police.

This afternoon I saw that hunky detective on the news saying Doctor Ibram had been killed, and that was that. Awful tragedy — and he wasn’t even that old. Well preserved, I should say.’

‘Did Doctor Ibram do or say anything unusual before he disappeared?’

‘I talked to Viktor, one of our commissionaires. He’s a nice man — strong, silent type — who knew Doctor Ibram well. Said he had looked very worried in these last few days. Apparently he asked Viktor if he believed in ghouls. Viktor said yes, and that they were hairy and had one foot like a donkey’s. I must admit it was a bit of a joke with the staff at the time.’

‘And what did you do with Doctor Ibram’s baggage?’ Daisy asked.

‘Well we couldn’t just leave it, you understand,’ Abd al-Ali said, ‘I mean, we might have needed the room. When it was clear Doctor Ibram wasn’t about to come back, I had it packed up and placed in the storeroom.’

‘You had no right to do that,’ Daisy said.

‘Oh yes I did,’ Abd al-Ali said, smiling, apparently pleased with himself for having contradicted her. ‘I can’t be caught out there, miss.’ He drew a folded letter from inside his jacket. ‘That’s a letter from the Giza Tourist and Antiquities Police,’ he said with some satisfaction, ‘whose station is just across the road. They gave me permission to move the baggage.’

I scanned the letter, and saw it was genuine. ‘OK,’ I said, ‘I want to see the stuff now.’

‘But the others are already examining it.’

‘What others?’

‘Some American gentlemen — very brusque types, if you ask me. Acted as if they owned the place. Forgive me, but I assumed you were part of the same party. They had ID cards similar to yours. I believe they’re in the storeroom right now.’

Daisy and I exchanged a glance, shoved our chairs back and stood up abruptly.

‘Show us,’ I said.

Abd al-Ali shrugged, got to his feet and stopped. ‘There they are,’ he said, pointing to the passage lined with small shops, off the main concourse.

I looked up to see a group of three men in almost identical grey suits, dark ties and black shoes advancing up the passage in line like a military patrol. The man in the centre was carrying a charcoal coloured Samsonite suitcase, which might have been chosen to match his suit, and the other men were riding shotgun in front and behind.

‘That’s Doctor Ibram’s suitcase,’ the manager said.

We made a beeline for the procession and stood holding up our ID cards, blocking the way. ‘Where do you think you’re going with that?’ I demanded. ‘You have no right to remove evidence.’

The little party came to a stop, but the one carrying the suitcase didn’t put it down. The guy in front was a broad faced, sullen looking type, with brooding eyes, and a walrus moustache that drooped around his mouth. ‘Get out of the way,’ he grunted, through gritted teeth, ‘we have diplomatic immunity.’

‘Like hell,’ I said, nodding towards Daisy. ‘This lady is the investigating detective on the American side. Put that damned suitcase down.’

I crossed my right hand inside my jacket and was about to whip out my Beretta, when a cold, hard rod was suddenly poked against the side of my head. ‘Forget it, Lieutenant,’ a bass voice said, and I saw Daisy’s eyes flicker.

I realized that someone had actually managed to slip up behind, unnoticed by me or even Miss Lightning-Hands Special Agent Brooke. Whoever did that had to be good, I thought.

‘Like the man said,’ the voice growled, ‘we have diplomatic immunity. Let them pass.’

The cold metal was taken away, and I spun slowly to see a fourth man in a grey suit, holding a 9mm SIG pistol in his left hand. The man was middle aged, very tall but with spidery long legs and arms that seemed to swing in simian fashion, a tad too long for the body. His face was dark with lines and pockmarks, making it look like it had been steeped for years in pickling fluid. His head was small — a lump on bony shoulders — with no hair but a long fringe at the back which turned outwards like a crest. His nose was long and high, and his eyes were close together giving the impression of two deep wells, impossible to see into clearly. There was a poised, almost brooding quality about him — a feeling that there was something very nasty and very dangerous here waiting to erupt.

‘Shit,’ I said, ‘that’s twice I’ve had a Yank pull a gun on me today! Don’t you people know what the penalty is for pulling a piece on a cop in this country? I could have you inside for twenty years.’

The spidery man made a dry retching sound that passed for a laugh and stuck his pistol inside his jacket. ‘I doubt that very much,’ he said. The words came out slow and in an odd rhythm, I thought.

‘Lieutenant Rashid,’ Daisy cut in suddenly, ‘this is Jan Van Helsing, the CIA’s head of station here in Cairo.’

‘CIA? I thought this was an FBI case.’

‘So did I,’ Daisy said, pouting at Van Helsing, and I realized suddenly that her face was white with anger. ‘It would have helped if you’d informed me, sir,’ she said.

Van Helsing made a sound as if he was sucking grit. ‘I’m not answerable to you, Brooke,’ he said. ‘The CIA takes priority.’

‘Sir,’ Daisy said, ‘you’re making us look a pack of assholes in front of foreign law-enforcement agencies. I’ll have to report this to the Legat.’

Van Helsing sneered, and I suddenly remembered where I’d heard the name before. Van Helsing was the hero of Bram Stoker’s
Dracula
— the guy who’d hammered stakes through vampires’ hearts.

‘Watch your mouth,’ the CIA man snapped. ‘You cross me, Brooke, and I’ll have you stripped of your badge and thrown out into the streets to fuck spics and niggers. And don’t think your daddy will stop me. I can take care of him, too.’

For a moment, my hair almost stood on end. It wasn’t so much what the guy had said — though that was bad enough. It was the way he’d said it — that thick, uneven voice larded with deep set hate. Van Helsing hadn’t got the right name, I thought — Dracula would’ve been more appropriate. I watched the CIA man, realizing that I was almost shaking with resentment, feeling the kind of impotent rage I’d felt as a street—boy in Aswan, feeling the same need to smash out. I gritted my teeth and clenched my fists tight to prevent myself.

‘Now piss off,’ Van Helsing added, ‘before I get riled up.’

Daisy’s eyes blazed at him, and for a moment I thought she’d retaliate. Instead, she just touched my arm. ‘Let them get on with it,’ she said. ‘Let’s go.’