Relative Danger (12 page)

Chapter 16

Stuck inside one of the guidebooks was the book of matches with Aisha’s minute scrawl providing directions to Uncle Nasser’s shop in the Khan al-Khalili. The Ashkananis had had one stall or another in the Khan since the sultan Salim the Grim brought Ottoman rule to Cairo in the early 1500s. In the current shop, located near the Bab al-Badistan—the gate of the domes—Ashkananis were selling locally made gold necklaces, pearls from the Arabian Gulf, and precious stones and jewels when Napoleon rode by. Most of the stock was imported from India now, but it was still high-quality merchandise. Nasser, son of Nasser, son of Ali, son of Mohamad, son of Nasser, the latest Ashkanani to own the shop, sat on a folding chair behind a wooden and glass display case, sipping tea.

Few of the shop owners, and certainly none of his sons or his grandsons, knew as much about the type of things sold in this part of the souk as Nasser, but his opinion was only cautiously sought. A slight tilting of his head or a barely audible click of his tongue was enough to knock thirty percent off any previously appraised value. But, and this was rare, if his left eyebrow twitched upward the piece could double in price.

His expertise was jewelry, his passion was mosques. Not the whole mosque, just the minarets, the spindly towers that rose alongside of each mosque and from which the call to prayer was made. He loved the diversity of the minarets, the subtle changes in architectural details that signalled a radical shift in local politics, royal favor, or theology. There were hundreds of minarets in Cairo, and Nasser had seen them all. He saw beauty in each of them, from the smooth simplicity of the winding minaret at the Mosque of Ibn-Tulun, the oldest still standing in the city, to the exquisite carved details on the minaret of Jamin al-Bahlawan, to the stark pencil shapes favored by the Ottomans. Like old friends they greeted him as he drove through the city each morning, and he watched as they slowly decayed, the constant fog of pollution accomplishing in twenty years what the wind and the sun had not done in five hundred. And when one finally collapsed, or was pulled down, Nasser mourned its passing. Nearing ninety, he knew they would outlast him, but probably not by much.

But this morning he had seen an old friend he had not seen for years. The latest urban renewal project—how many thousands of those had this city seen?—had pulled down a condemned boarding house a ten-minute walk away. A modest little minaret in the Fatimid style now peeked out from behind the rubble, the sun lighting four of its eight sides for the first time in sixty years. When he had seen it he laughed out loud and slapped his hands together. They had a lot to catch up on, Nasser and this minaret.

He was still smiling when Doug found the shop just before noon.

“Aisha Al-Kady! That little devil,” Nasser said. “What kind of trouble is she making in Morocco now?” To Doug’s surprise, it took him little time to find the shop—only an hour and a half, which, given the warren of shops and alleys, Doug thought was rather impressive. More surprising, Nasser Ashkanani seemed pleased to meet him and eager to talk. Should he be surprised, he thought, that her own uncle described her as a trouble-seeking devil?

“The last time I was in Morocco, that would be five years ago, Aisha was off to some museum somewhere. Crete? Tehran? Should have been home, looking after the family business. She was just here, Aisha was, not two months ago. I don’t think she mentioned you, I’m afraid.”

“Oh, we just met a few weeks ago. I was in Casablanca to ask her grandfather some questions about some old friends he had. One of them was my uncle. Maybe you knew him. Russell Pearce?”

Nasser Ashkanani didn’t say anything, but leaned over in his chair and began rummaging under the counter. After a minute he reemerged with an inch-thick stack of photographs. He patted each of his coat pockets until he found his glasses, which were sitting on the counter in front of him, and hooked the wire frames around his large ears. He looked at each photo and then tossed it on the glass top of the case displaying finely wrought gold bracelets. Some were in color but most were black and white, with thin white borders and scalloped edges like the old Kodak prints Doug’s father got at the drug store. Some showed Nasser, his arm around a tourist, holding the expensive trinket that he had just sold, others were of Arab men sitting around the shop, in front of the shop, at the coffee shop just down the narrow alley from the shop. Nasser Ashkanani had spent half his life not more than twenty feet from where he sat now. There were many shots of mosques and minarets, and over these Nasser seemed to linger a bit longer. He looked at one photo and set it down for Doug to look at. It showed an older Arab woman in oversized, dark sunglasses and fashionable black clothes. “Umm Kulsoum,” he said, and when he saw no reaction in Doug, he added “the most beloved singer ever. The Nightingale of the Nile. She came here often.” He set down the stack of photos and disappeared under the counter again. Doug could hear the sound of cassette tapes clacking together and then the hiss that comes before the music. A live recording; there was much appreciative crowd noise before the voice started. It sounded like every other Arabic singer he heard, but Nasser smiled as the lyrics started. “Umm Kulsoum,” he said, pointing up to the music that flowed overhead.

He continued to flip through the stack till he came to a black and white photo, which he held up to get a better view. Doug could see the holes left by thumbtacks, the Arabic script on the back and the date 1948, written in pencil. “Recognize your uncle?” he said as he set the photo down for Doug to see.

The photo was taken outside the shop—you could see the arch of the Bab al-Badistan over the heads of the four people in the group. Although he was much older now, Doug recognized Nasser. He was taller then, a full head of jet-black hair and a finely trimmed mustache. He still had the mustache, not so neatly trimmed, but the hair was now white and there was a lot less of it. Somehow, in the heat of Cairo, he looked cool in a tan suit and tightly knotted tie. He stood with his arm around Russell Pearce, whom Doug recognized despite the open-mouthed smile and fact that he had blinked as the picture was snapped. The black and white photo still captured the dark tan in tints of gray, and the rolled-up sleeves of his white shirt showed the muscular forearms of a ball player or bully. Sweat stains showed through the band on his Panama hat.

At the far end of the group was another man, an Arab, wearing a white linen suit and tie, but who also wore a nervous smile, probably because his arm was gingerly placed around the shoulders of a young and stunning Edna Bowers. This was a closer shot than the photos in her Toronto apartment, but she improved in close-ups. Her hair, which fell about her shoulders like a black waterfall in the Paris photos, was cut short here and parted on the left. The photo cropped her off just below her narrow waist, her pleated, belt-less khakis drooping to show her navel peeking out from under her tee shirt. She was sweating just enough for her two dark-brown nipples to appear on the film. They looked nothing alike, Edna and Aisha, but they both had that sultry aura, that same heart-stopping face. No wonder the Arab guy looked nervous, Doug thought.

“If you are here about your uncle, and Aisha sent you, then you must be after
Al Ainab
. And if you are, you are in the wrong place and you’re a damn fool.” At least he smiled when he said it, thought Doug.

“Damn fool. Yup, that’d be me. And yes, it is about the jewel but it’s also about my uncle. I didn’t know him, he was killed before I was born, and I’m trying to find out what I can about him.”

“I didn’t know he had a family, but then what I didn’t know about him was far more than what I did. His friend here,” he said, tapping the photo on the counter, “there was a strange relationship. But yes, I did know him a bit. Tea?” Nasser waved to a passing waiter from the coffee shop who seemed to be delivering single steaming glass cups of tea to all the shops up and down the alley. Doug studied the photo as Nasser exchanged the required
aslamalekums
with the waiter. What was Edna’s connection in all of this? Did she know more than she was letting on, or far, far less?

“I’m certain my niece bored you to tears with her history of the jewel. She has spent so much of her life in one university or another and so little of it doing something useful. Her English is excellent, as is mine, yes, but I learned English, and of course French, and a bit of German to better serve my customers. It is so much easier getting a man to part with his money when you can speak his language. Her and that jewel.”

“She did seem quite well informed about it,” Doug said.

“Yes and to what point? That is what her grandfather could never understand. She wants to make a name for herself in the academic world. Publish her book. She hunts the world for anything on that stupid grape and pesters me constantly with the same questions, over and over. She needs to settle down, meet a nice man. But no, that damn book comes first. Her
career
. I ask you, what man would want a woman like Aisha?”

Me, for one, Doug thought but nodded sympathetically.

“Now Hammad’s interest in
Al Ainab
is far more practical. To this day he checks his sources all over the world, keeps a list of prospective buyers and jewel cutters. That’s how I know for certain our families are related,” Nasser said, holding up his finger to emphasize the point. “In our blood we are shopkeepers.”

Doug thought back to his meeting with the mumbling Hammad Al-Kady. “I’m sure his stroke slowed him down a lot. I really wish I had met him before.”

“Stroke?” Nasser said, looking up, his glasses slipping part way off. “Hammad has had a stroke.
Wallah
, no one has told me, no one called. When was this, while you were there?”

“I assumed it was years ago,” Doug said, remembering back. “Aisha had said that it happened about four years ago.”

“Four years ago? No, no, you are mistaken. Hammad was here in Cairo not more than a month ago and I have spoken with his son, Aisha’s father, just last week.”

“But I saw him, right by the pool. He was, well, he was confused. He didn’t know who I was and just kept falling asleep.”

Nasser laughed out loud and readjusted his glasses. “‘I drink so much wine, its aroma will rise from the dust when I am under it.’ Omar Khayyam, the great Arab poet, wrote that in the eleventh century. Hammad should have that carved over his doorway. No, I’m happy to say that you just encountered my old friend Hammad when he was in his cups.”

“Aisha said that it was a stroke, that he’d been like that for years.”

“Oh he’s been like that for years,” Nasser said, “but it has nothing to do with a stroke. Believe me, if Hammad knew you were looking for
Al Ainab
, he would not let you out of his sight. He lost that diamond once before and I’m sure he would do whatever he could to keep from losing it again. And as for Aisha,” he said, shaking his head, “if you know her at all you know that she is quite the little devil, capable of anything.”

“I’m beginning to find that out,” Doug said.

The tea arrived, scalding hot and over sweet. Doug couldn’t pick up the small glass to blow on the tea. Nasser held it in his palm and in one gulp drained half the glass.

“Now about this jewel, tell me what you know.”

Doug told him about the request from Edna, the theft in Casablanca, and what Captain Yehia said about the blood. He told him about the vague clues he received and how a man named Sasha played a role as well. It took less time to explain than he thought it would. His tea was still too hot to sip when he finished.

“Yes it did come to me here. It sat right in that strong box over there,” Nasser said, pointing to a dark corner of the shop. “It wasn’t as large as I had been led to believe, just about the size of the end of my thumb, but its color and clarity were exceptional. Not perfect, of course, but standards change when you have a red diamond. I did not ask questions about how they acquired it and naturally they did not volunteer any information either. I’m not sure how they got it out of Morocco…or how they got themselves out for that matter.”

“The notes I’ve been reading say that you were setting up a sale for them, something about a possible sale in Istanbul or Ceylon.”

“Hmmm, did they?” Nasser said as he shuffled the photos into a stack. He finished his tea and reached behind the counter for a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. “Of course I didn’t have any sales lined up. How could I with such short notice? I had connections in Istanbul when it was still worth having connections there and perhaps I thought someone would be interested. Ceylon makes no sense. Pearls, yes, but not a diamond of this size. I must have been telling a tale to keep them from doing something stupid.”

“From what I read they seemed to have no trouble doing stupid things.”

Nasser laughed, which led to a coughing fit that led to more tea and the second side of the Umm Kulsoum tape, which sounded just like the first. A few tourists popped in the shop now and then, but Nasser Ashkanani knew his customers like he knew his jewelry and waited until the window shoppers left before they continued.

“This was in 1948,” Nasser said, flipping the photo back over. “It was a difficult time. The war, Farouk, the Brotherhood.” He stopped when he realized that none of this registered with the young American. “I don’t know what you think of your uncle but he was a good man. He was honest and loyal. I suppose you could say he was brave, too, but it was a criminal bravery so perhaps it does not count for much. As far as the woman in the picture,” he said, again tapping the photo with his finger, “I don’t remember much about her but I didn’t like her.”

“Really? That surprises me. She seems so nice.” Doug picked up the picture to take another look.

“Too bold. You couldn’t tell her anything, she knew it all. God knows I’m not a conservative man, but there are some things that are just not done. Not done here in Cairo, anyway, even back then. The way she carried on with those, those
lovers
. If her family only knew. Believe it or not,” Nasser said, leaning forward to emphasize his point, “I think it was all her ideas from the start, the theft, the double crossing of the Russian….”