Firebird Page 3

  ‘Good afternoon, Colonel,’ he said. ‘Good to see you on the job.’

  ‘What’s going on?’ Hammoudi growled.

  ‘The Americans have taken over, sir,’ the captain said. ‘They won’t let any of our boys through the tape.’ He gestured to a tall, massive American with a craggy face and spectacles, who was standing at the tape barrier holding a clipboard and a pen.

  ‘We’ll see about that,’ Hammoudi said. He assumed his most truculent expression and strode straight up to the FBI man. I tagged along behind. ‘What’s this about not letting my men into the incident area?’ he demanded in passable English. The American just grinned at him sleepily. He was almost as tall as the Colonel and wore a pistol in a black shoulder holster over a white shirt that was damp with perspiration. A heavy walkie talkie hung in a pouch at his belt, and an ID card with a photo attached to his shirt pocket read ‘Special Agent Craig, FBI’.

  ‘Sorry,’ Craig said. His voice rasped like he’d eaten sandpaper. ‘No can do, buddy. Legat’s orders. No one but FBI goes through the wire until the chief investigating officer arrives.’

  ‘I am the chief investigating officer,’ Hammoudi said, holding up an ID card inscribed in both English and Arabic. ‘And I am a full colonel, so you can call me sir.’

  The FBI man looked at the card but remained non-plussed. ‘OK...sir,’ he said, ‘your name’s on the list.’ He glanced at me, taking in my antediluvian jeans and sneakers. ‘But who’s this guy?’ he asked. ‘Is he a cop?’

  ‘This is Lieutenant Sammy Rashid of the SID,’ Hammoudi said, ‘my investigating detective on this case.’

  I presented my ID, but the FBI man scanned the list and shook his head. ‘Sorry. The Legat only specified one local officer. Your name isn’t on this list. I can’t let you in.’

  Hammoudi fixed the agent with a ferocious stare. ‘OK, Special Agent Craig, or whatever you call yourself. This is Cairo, not Chicago, and I’m in charge of the case. I have shown you my ID. You have exactly ten seconds to stand aside and let us both through your bloody “wire”, otherwise — you see those men over there?’ He half turned and gestured to the platoon of blackjackets at the barrier. ‘I will order them to get in here, take your tape apart and use it as toilet paper. And you can explain that to the Legat. Let’s not forget you are guests in this country, and believe me, those men will do as I say.’

  I had to admire the agent’s cool. ‘Sir,’ Craig said, ‘I must advise you we have a Tactical Unit deployed for protection. There are powerful scopes trained on you right now. Anyone who threatens U S personnel or property will be taken out.’

  Hammoudi didn’t turn a hair. ‘In that case,’ he said, ‘you will be committing an act of aggression against friendly government forces in their own country. I’m sure President Clinton will be pleased to hear about it. I am still ordering my men in, and you still have ten seconds.’

  For the first time the big American looked uncertain. He shook his head slowly as if dealing with unreasonable savages. ‘OK,’ he said finally, picking his walkie talkie out of its pouch and flicking the ‘send’ button. ‘Hello, sir,’ he rasped in his buzz-saw voice, ‘this is Craig.’ I wondered why Americans always seemed to shout. With a voice like that, the guy hardly needed a radio anyway. ‘Sir,’ Craig went on, ‘there’s a guy here says he’s the CIO —a Colonel, er...Hammoudi. He’s on the list and his ID checks out. But he’s got this kinda doohickey-looking sidekick with him claims he’s the investigating detective. Got ID but he’s not on the list. I told him he couldn’t pass the wire, but it looks like an incident might be brewing, and there are TV cameras out here.’

  The FBI man released the ‘send’ switch and held the radio to his ear. I could just make out the low crackle of a voice. Finally, Craig said, ‘Got it, sir,’ and slipped the walkie talkie back into its sheath. ‘The Legat’s inside there with a bunch of forensics and photographers,’ he said. ‘You can proceed, but I have to ask you both to log on.’

  We signed the sheet on the clipboard and the agent stood aside. As we ducked under the yellow tape, I asked, ‘Who is this Legat guy, anyway?’

  ‘FBI foreign station chief,’ Hammoudi said. ‘It’s one of those slick words the Yanks make up because they’re in too much of a rush to say “Legal Attaché”. Legat is a cushy number given to FBI officers who’ve proved themselves — this one is a guy called Marvin. Used to be FBI Assistant Director for Special Operations.’

  I nodded and looked around the teashop. From outside it had seemed small and claustrophobic, but inside it was surprisingly deep, and obviously older than you would have judged from the exterior. The ceiling was high and crisscrossed with Moorish-style vaulted arches painted in black and red stripes. Beyond the tables was a bar of hardwood carved with ancient Egyptian symbols — ankhs, Wedjet eyes, falcons and cobras. I followed Hammoudi through the open door to the back room, where a knot of FBI men in suits or white labcoats was grouped around the body.

  Doctor Adam Ibram lay on the floor staring upwards with wide eyes that were partly obliterated by pools of coagulated blood. The blood had soaked into his shirt and dark suit so completely that they had become an almost solid mass. Blood was liberally spattered over the floor and walls. There was a gaping hole in the middle of Ibram’s forehead, and other, smaller wounds scattered over his chest, stomach and thighs. One of his shoes was missing and lay in a corner nearby. There was a nauseating butchery smell in the air — flies everywhere — and I struggled to stop myself losing my breakfast. I’d seen dead bodies before, but I’d never got accustomed to it like Hammoudi, who looked about as concerned as a man weighing up the quality of steaks in a meat market. A telephone swung from its coin box near the body, and at the far end of the room I saw the open door of an Arab-style squat toilet. A few steps beyond the WC there was an entrance arch, covered with a baize curtain, and beyond that I saw a fan revolving slowly, set into a niche in the main wall.

  ‘Now we know why Ibram chose this teashop and not the others,’ I said.

  ‘You mean to take a dump?’ Hammoudi said, grinning.

  I smiled. The Colonel’s black humour seemed an affront to propriety, but I had long ago realized that it was a defensive mechanism. If you stayed too grim in the presence of death, the horror could overwhelm you.

  ‘No, I mean to make a phone call. This is the only joint on the street with a public phone. There’s a big sign right outside. Ibram had to get in touch with somebody urgently, and that phone call cost him his life.’

  At the sound of our voices, one of the FBI men glanced up. He was tall — taller than me, anyway — and he looked muscular, with a gymnast’s chest and beefy arms and legs. His face was creased with lines that looked like they’d been gouged in with a cut-throat, the hair a honed-down silver mat. His eyes were deep-set and guarded, his mouth turned down at the corners giving you the feeling that he could be a very mean son-of-a-bitch indeed.

  ‘Colonel Hammoudi?’ he said, holding out a hand. The accent was clipped — probably New England, I thought. ‘I’m Thomas Marvin, Legat to the US embassy here. I run the FBI team. Glad to have you aboard.’

  Marvin smiled with his mouth, but his eyes stayed cold as permafrost, and he spoke down to Hammoudi as if he was a new kid on the block. The American gave me the same condescending onceover, and I realized that my ragged jacket and jeans were hardly a match for his lightweight Armani suit. ‘Who’s this?’ he asked.

  ‘Lieutenant Rashid, my investigating detective,’ Hammoudi said.

  Marvin fixed his piercing eyes on my prehistoric trainers. ‘We already have an investigating detective.’

  ‘Not a local one,’ Hammoudi said.

  Marvin frowned nastily. ‘This is an FBI case. My ambassador and your minister agreed that there should be only one local officer — a senior detective who was to act as liaison. That’s you, Colonel.’ He shot me a glance as cold as an ice axe. ‘And with all due respect, this is a job for hard-core professionals.’

  ‘I
don’t believe in rubber stamping reports,’ Hammoudi said, ‘if that’s what you expected. My instructions are that I am in charge of this case. I can appoint whom I like.’

  ‘I’m going to have to talk to my ambassador about this.’

  I ignored the bickering and knelt down to examine the body. The limb and torso wounds formed a pattern, I saw, and the size and colour of the entries told me the shots had been fired from a few metres away, probably from the door. They’d also been fired from submachine guns, because there was a burst pattern on the body, moving down the chest, to the abdomen, to the legs, and all submachine guns tended to pull down. The head wound was quite different, though. The flesh around the entry was black with powder burns, showing that it was a hard contact wound — the muzzle of the weapon had been laid flush against the skin. I lifted one of the limp hands gently. It was cold to the touch, and as I held it between a thumb and two fingers, I suddenly felt my senses twinge. My skin was tingling — a sure sign that I was losing control — and my heart began to thud. It was as if a chasm had opened in the fabric of the universe and I was falling inside it, slipping over the edge of darkness. I fought against it desperately but it was too strong. A wave of nausea engulfed me. The hubbub around me subsided, and the room went out of focus until I was suspended in a void where the only sound was the eerie soughing of the desert wind. At once, I started to get glimpses — faint disjointed images of a sphinx, constellations of stars with Orion’s belt burning brightly, the sun rising over the desert like a giant orange balloon. I saw a vast underground structure filled with huge pillars like giant trees, and a woman with the head of a lioness. I saw images of Doctor Adam Ibram running through a maze of dark alleys, of his face emerging into the light, of a man in a black suit lurking in the shadows. I saw a tall woman in Bedouin clothes with a veiled face, saw Ibram tearing up something with the help of a blunt knife. The last thing I saw was a strange shadow creature with projecting, spidery limbs, whose eyes burned like beacons from beneath a shroud of darkness. I began to shake uncontrollably. Someone — it must have been Hammoudi — shook me suddenly and hard, and I opened my eyes to let real time come flooding in. I knew that only seconds had passed, but in those moments I’d been completely out of it, and I thanked my lucky stars Hammoudi was there to cover up for me as he had done so many times in the past. I stood up, sighing, shaking my head and blinking rapidly to bring myself round.

  Marvin was watching me with wide eyes. ‘You having a fit?’ he demanded.

  ‘No,’ I said, gulping air. ‘Just a bit giddy.’ I paused and took more breaths, and Marvin swung round on Hammoudi accusingly.

  ‘Like I told you,’ he said, ‘this is a job for hard-core professionals. This guy never saw a stiff before or what?’

  ‘Lieutenant Rashid’s one of the best detectives on the force,’ Hammoudi said.

  Marvin whistled. ‘Jesus,’ he said, ‘what are the rest like?’

  ‘I don’t see any rounds or ejected cases,’ I said, ignoring him, trying to strain the shake out of my voice, ‘so I assume you got them. The perps must have fired at least thirty rounds.’

  ‘You’re supposed to be the star detective,’ Marvin said sullenly, ‘work it out for yourself.’

  ‘Oh I have,’ I said, breathing deeply through my nostrils. ‘Three gunmen were chasing Ibram. He ducked in here to call someone for help. He was shot by at least two men from close range while he was on the phone. The first shots were probably fired from submachine guns, but the last shot — to the head — was fired from a pistol at point-blank range. Street grafters? I don’t think so. They wouldn’t have chased a man through busy streets in broad daylight, even with shamaghs over their faces. Grafters work at night. We know he wasn’t robbed, and that could have been because they were interrupted, but then why bother with the headshot? He couldn’t have identified them. What we’re left with, Mr Legat, is first degree murder meditated and planned — a Mafia-style contract killing or a terrorist job. But I think you know that.’

  Hammoudi cast me a worried glance and Marvin stared first at the Colonel, then at me. ‘All I know is that Ibram’s dead,’ he said, ‘and this homicide is officially non-political.’ He brought a tiny cell phone from his pocket. ‘I’m going to call my ambassador right now.’

  Hammoudi laid a huge hand gently on his arm. ‘Look,’ he said, in his most diplomatic voice, ‘if we’re going to work together on this, Mr Marvin, I think we should...how do you say? Level with each other. We know Ibram was a big noise in the States. We can’t rule out a political motive. The important thing is that anything we discover stays under wraps. I don’t think either of our governments wants undue publicity, but we need to know what this is really about.’

  Marvin looked thoughtfully from the Colonel to me, and put the phone back in his pocket. ‘OK,’ he said, ‘I’ll buy it for now. But if one shadow of a whisper gets to the press, I’ll make you wish to God you’d kept your noses the fuck out of it.’ He sighed and shook his head. ‘This is one hell of a mess. Ibram was over here for a meeting of your Giza Millennium Committee.’

  ‘Oh yeah,’ I said, ‘the committee’s planning a huge shindig at the pyramids for the turn of the century. Big opera by Jean-Michel Jarre to be broadcast worldwide on TV with over a thousand singers and musicians. Even the president’s attending. There’s going to be hundreds of thousands of visitors here. The flights and hotels are already fully booked, and the government’s hoping to revive the tourist industry in one go.’

  ‘That’s right. There’s a lot of careers riding on it — and a mega infusion of cash from the States. That’s how come a U S citizen like Ibram got to be sitting on the board.’

  ‘The Militants are already talking about putting the kibosh on the celebrations,’ Hammoudi added. ‘New Year’s Eve falls in Ramadan, so the fundamentalists aren’t going to be impressed with a lot of champagne-swilling foreigners on the rampage. Security’s going to be a nightmare.’

  ‘Exactly,’ said Marvin. ‘If it happens, the century’s biggest party could turn into the biggest security fiasco of the millennium — something the Hate Groups will be crowing about for the next thousand years.’

  Hate Groups, I thought, so that was what they called them now. It was only partly right. It always seemed to me that the Militants’ biggest motivation was fear. They were frightened silly of a universe they couldn’t control or understand, and had invented a set of phoney certainties to cling to like a drowning man clings to a floating spar. And they were prepared to kill anyone they thought was going to take that spar away from them. But perhaps hate and fear were just two different words for the same thing, anyway.

  ‘You think Ibram’s murder is related?’ I asked.

  ‘He was a member of the board,’ Marvin said. ‘Now he’s a stiff. This could be the opening gambit.’

  ‘What about the waiter?’ Hammoudi asked. Marvin pointed to a yellow chalk mark in the shape of a stout human body by the toilet door. ‘A big guy,’ Hammoudi commented.

  ‘Pavarotti lookalike,’ Marvin said. ‘Guy must weigh three hundred pounds, but it’s all horizontal. Hit in the thighs. Out like a light when your men got here, but they managed to stop him bleeding to death. He’s in our embassy medical facility in Garden City. Guy called Fawzi Shukri.’

  Fawzi Shukri, I thought. The name went off like a buzzer in my head, but when I tried to listen it faded out. Marvin pointed to a stitch pattern of bullet holes on the lower part of the toilet door, and I went to examine them. ‘They got him cold as he came out of the john,’ Marvin said, ‘but they didn’t finish the job. When your footsloggers appeared, seems they beat it through that curtain. There’s a flight of stairs behind there up to a corridor that takes you back into the bazaar.’

  ‘I’m going to have a look at it,’ I said and before Marvin could say anything I moved towards the curtain.

  3

  I brushed it aside and found a flight of bare stone steps leading up between mud-coloured walls from which p
laster had fallen out leaving pustules of brilliant white. It was dark on the stairs, and at the top I found a long arched tunnel leading down to what was probably the external door. Shafts of light shot into the gloom from tiny flower-patterned windows. I took a pencil flashlight from my pocket and searched the ragged carpet carefully. It was thick with dust, dead flies and fragments of plaster. No one had cleaned the place in weeks. At the far end of the corridor I spotted an object on the floor and bent down to pick it up. It was a sealed pouch of uncured leather not more than an inch square, fixed to a short string. I had just stuffed it into my jacket pocket, when the door banged open and a blonde-haired woman stood there, thrusting the muzzle of an S I G 9mm automatic at me with both hands. I’d only just realized what was happening when she stepped forward again and without letting her aim waver even a fraction, slid her left hand under my jacket and picked out my Beretta, hooking her middle finger through the trigger-guard like she was hooking a fish.

  For a fraction of a second I was completely fazed. On the streets of Aswan where I’d been dragged up you were either fast or you were dead. I’d seen some pretty swift moves in my time, but this was so slick it was almost supernatural. In a split second the girl had clocked where I wore my weapon and how, and disarmed me at the speed of light. I didn’t know if she’d been born a human flash or if the move had been practised over and over, but one thing I was certain of: she was a pro.

  ‘Who the hell are you?’ she demanded. ‘And what are you doing in a restricted area? This is FBI only.’ Two heavy weapons are a bitch to handle when you’re trying to keep a bead on someone, and I watched with professional interest to see what she was going to do. She didn’t bat an eyelid — just drew out the magazine with one hand and dropped both pistol and magazine coolly into the Gucci handbag she wore over her shoulder. I was miffed that I’d been caught with my pants down, but I was also impressed. I almost expected to see her empty the shells out one-handed, too. I kept my mitts loose and looked her up and down.