The Cairo Code (13 page)

Weaver raised his shoulders. “I guess it could do no harm.”

Sanson reached for his cap. “We can take my car.”

•  •  •

It was hot in the olive-green Humber, and Weaver rolled down the window. He held on to the door for safety as Sanson turned the staff car into a cobbled street and swerved past a cart drawn by a camel and loaded down with watermelons. His patched eye seemed to make judging corners fraught with danger.

Since returning to Egypt, Weaver had been surprised by how international Cairo had become. The tight streets were crowded with shoppers and soldiers, the crush of bodies and smells almost overwhelming. Aside from half a million Allied troops of every nationality, there were White Russians, French, German Jews, British, and Greeks. Over a hundred thousand foreign refugees had crowded into the city since the war began, and the streets were a babble of strange dialects. The Egyptians didn't seem to mind; the restaurants, brothels, lodging houses, and bazaars were all doing brisk business.

Apart from the uniforms, the war might not be happening at all as far as Cairo was concerned, for there seemed to be no shortage of anything. From tiny cramped shops, competing vendors sold charcoal-cooked kebabs, or juicy kofta from huge bubbling blackened vats of oil. Merchants beckoned from the doorways of cupboard-sized shops, inviting passers-by for a glass of mint tea or Turkish coffee, ready to haggle over the price of anything from a needle to a camel saddle. Stalls were weighed down with food and spices, cheap jewelry and trinkets, cotton and papyrus, carpets and bales of wool cloth, and an endless variety of brass and copperware. And everywhere, as always, there was the pungent, herbal smell of hashish in the air.

Sanson turned down a littered street with an open sewer and pulled up outside what could hardly be described as a house. It was no more than a ramshackle ruin in the middle of a row of shanty dwellings. All the windows were broken and had been replaced with tattered cloth and bits of wood. A couple of scrawny-looking children played with makeshift toys in the dusty street, skinny-ribbed, half-wild dogs barking and yelping at their heels.

Sanson led the way to the entrance, which hadn't even a door, just a beaded curtain. “This way.”

He pushed through the beads and Weaver followed. The first thing that struck him was the overpowering stench. A mixture of stale sweat and rancid food, and that particularly unpleasant, rotting smell you got in the more destitute quarters of Cairo. The place was a pitiful hovel. There was a tiny fireplace, no more than a hole in the grimy whitewashed wall, a rickety wooden table but no chairs, and the floors were bare, filthy concrete.

In one corner sat a wailing, black-robed woman, clutching an infant in her arms. She was surrounded by three grieving females, all dressed in black, despite the terrible heat. Weaver guessed they were relatives or neighbors. Half a dozen noisy, barefoot children were crowded into the room. They seemed unaffected by a death in the house, giggling and smiling playfully at their visitors. Sanson scattered them with a wave of his hand.
“Barra
! Barra!
Outside! Outside!”

When the children scurried out, Sanson spoke with the women mourners, and they shuffled out of the room, leaving them alone with the woman and her child. “This is Evir's widow. She speaks no English, naturally. And you may find it difficult to understand her dialect, so I'd better translate.”

The woman looked well over forty, her skin lined with wrinkles, but Weaver guessed she was probably ten years younger, six births and a miserable life adding a decade to her face. There was a room leading off that served as the sleeping area, but no beds, just a couple of worn rugs scattered on the floor. Weaver felt something tug at his jacket and looked down. A small boy no more than ten with big eyes and a cheeky, dirty brown face, smiled up at him. Weaver patted his head and saw to his horror that the child's hair was infested with lice.

Sanson said to the child,
“Barra!”

The boy clung to Weaver, and Sanson made to pull him away. “No, leave him, he's OK.”

“A word of advice from a former policeman, Weaver. The boy here could probably have your wallet before you know it. His type are born with a hand in the midwife's purse.”

The child seemed harmless, but Weaver guessed that Sanson was probably right. “I guess you'd better explain why we're here.” He nodded at the woman. “You want to ask her if she knows why her husband had the sketch?”

Sanson spoke to the woman as she continued to wail. After a few moments, she babbled something tearfully. It was a tenement dialect, spoken rapidly, and Weaver found it almost impossible to grasp a word.

Sanson looked frustrated. “She says she doesn't know why he'd have such a thing. She says she's puzzled. Not only about the drawing, but why such an important effendi should call at her home.”

“Tell her the information could be important. And any help she can give will be rewarded.”

While Sanson translated, the boy tugged at Weaver's jacket. He reached into his pocket and handed the child a stick of gum. The boy smiled with delight, peeled off the wrapper, and slipped the gum into his mouth.

When the woman replied, Sanson said, “She says her husband never spoke about his private business. And she doesn't know where he might have gone the night he was killed. But the night before his death he told her he was going to meet someone. He left the house about nine and came back before midnight. She wants to know if this helps.”

“Who did he meet?”

“She claims she doesn't know. Her husband never told her where he went, or who he met.”

“She's sure?”

Sanson nodded. “I'm reasonably certain she's telling us the truth, Weaver.”

The woman jabbered something else, and Sanson answered in Arabic, “Be quiet.”

“What did she say?” asked Weaver.

“She wanted me to tell you she has a bare cupboard and six mouths to feed, and for any help the effendi could give a widow, Allah will smile on you. But pay no attention to her.”

Weaver looked at the baby in the woman's arms, at the pitiful squalor around them, and took out his wallet. The experiences of war had hardened his heart to pretty much everything, had toughened him in so many ways, but he couldn't endure the thought of the woman and her small children going hungry. Sanson said, “You don't have to, Weaver. These people always survive. Besides, she told us nothing really useful.”

“No, I'd like to.” Weaver generously peeled off several large notes and left them on the table. The woman clutched her child to her breast and rocked back and forth, sobbing her thanks. As he put away his wallet, Weaver felt the boy tug at his coat again.

“Take it easy, son.”

The boy babbled something. Weaver looked at Sanson. “What the heck did he say?”

“He thinks he knows where his father went.”

Weaver looked beyond the windshield as Sanson's staff Humber trundled into the Khan-el-Khalili bazaar. The streets were bedlam, lined on either side with cavernous huckster shops, heavily laden stalls, and food vendors.

Harassed-looking waiters ran in every direction, carrying silver trays of tea or coffee balanced above their heads. Children carrying huge bales of cotton scurried past, their backs bent double like those of old men. The pedestrian and donkey-and-cart traffic was chaotic. A legless beggar, wearing cut-up parts of a car tire strapped to his stumps, propelled himself past them with frightening strength. Sanson blasted his horn as he inched the car through the throng.

“He says that since his father came out of prison, he wanted to get to know him again, but Evir hardly bothered to even speak with him. So he followed Evir on several occasions. Twice he went to a house in Gamaliya, not far from the El Hakim mosque.”

The boy's name was Jamal and he had wanted to ride up front in the car. He sat between them, and Sanson had questioned him relentlessly since they had left the house. Weaver knew the El Gamaliya district. Its narrow streets contained the Khan-el-Khalili, the area peppered with tenements, cheap lodging houses, and belly-dance halls that doubled as brothels.

“On one occasion,” Sanson continued, “he waited until his father had gone inside the house, then he followed him. He saw him go up a flight of stairs, and knock on a door on the second floor. A man came out into the corridor, and then they both went inside.”

“How does he know his father went there the night before he was killed?”

“He doesn't. But he followed him towards the El Hakim mosque that evening. His father saw him and told him to go home. The boy thinks that maybe he went to the same place.”

“Did he see what the man looked like?”

“Tall, and he had a beard.”

Weaver handed the youngster another stick of gum. The boy nodded his thanks and slipped it into his pocket. Finally, Sanson turned down a narrow cobbled street that came out into a small dusty square ringed with dismal-looking four-story tenement houses and crumbling pavements. The area looked totally forbidding to a foreigner. Most of the buildings were badly neglected, tattered washing hung from balcony windows, and a few shifty-looking men lazed in doorways and on street corners. When they saw the staff car slow down, the effect was immediate. They disappeared.

The boy pointed to a house across the square, its door open and leading into shadowed darkness. “That's the place,” said Sanson.

He pulled in and jerked on the hand brake. Weaver told the boy to wait in the car.

“OK, let's take a look.”

•  •  •

As they walked across the square, it occurred to Weaver that he had no gun in case there was trouble. He rarely carried his Colt service automatic, but Sanson had a revolver, a standard-issue Smith & Wesson .38, and as they approached the house, he released the holster flap.

“Shouldn't we have called your friend Arkhan?”

“Time for that later. We have a few questions ourselves that need answering.”

The front door of the tenement was open and they stepped into a cool, dark hallway. The bare floorboards were filthy, and there was a smell of rotting wood. Several doors led off to individual apartments, Weaver guessed, and there was a stairway leading up.

“Wait here a moment.”

Sanson went down the hallway and knocked softly on the first door. An elderly woman came out, dressed in black. When she saw Sanson's uniform, she seemed alarmed. Weaver couldn't hear the whispered conversation between them, before the woman went back inside, the door closed, and a bolt rattled.

Sanson came back. “There's an Arab man living alone on the second floor, matching the description the boy gave. The woman doesn't know him except by sight, and she doesn't know his name. He's been renting the flat for about nine months and comes and goes at all hours. He keeps to himself and she hasn't the foggiest what he does for a living.”

“Anything else?”

“She hasn't seen much of him for the last few days.” Sanson looked up towards the landing. “Let's see if he's in.”

Weaver followed him up the creaking stairs. When they reached the first landing, they saw a solid door with three sturdy locks.

“He's careful, I'll give him that.” Sanson knocked. There was no reply. He banged very hard on the door. When still no one answered, he tried once more. Finally, he said in frustration to Weaver, “Wait here.”

“Where are you going?”

Sanson said simply, “I won't be long.”

He went down the stairs, and when he came back minutes later he had a steel wheel brace from the car. In Cairo, a military uniform often carried enough authority for the wearer to do what he wanted, but Weaver was alarmed. “You're going to break in without a warrant?”

“The man may be a suspect in a murder and he could already have fled. The woman said she hasn't seen him in days. Besides, I checked the rear of the building. There's no way to reach the windows without a ladder, and in this neighborhood you can be sure they're well locked. Believe me, Weaver, this way is quicker.”

“But he might be entirely innocent.”

“He might also be guilty, and trying to hide. But if he's innocent, I'll apologize and have the locks repaired.” Without another word, Sanson wedged the brace between the door and the jamb. He jerked the brace hard, and the wood splintered. Then he pulled out his pistol, kicked in the door, and they moved into the apartment.

•  •  •

The place was untidy. It was also empty. Sunlight poured into the room through filthy gauze curtains. There was an old ottoman couch by the window, covered in red velvet, a low coffee table, some cushions strewn around the bare floor, and a metal stove against one wall. Three doors led off, one of them open to reveal a tiny kitchen. Weaver saw a gas stove, a sink, and some cupboards.

The room was pretty bare, and while Sanson went off to check the other rooms, Weaver stepped into the kitchen. There was some canned food on the shelves, jars of sugar, coffee, and a few spices, but the cupboards themselves were empty. He noticed a dark brown-black stain on the sink. He licked his finger, dabbed it on the stain, and brushed it against his tongue.

Coffee.

Sanson called out, “In here.”

Weaver stepped into a bedroom. Like the other room, it was pretty bare and functional. There was a mattress on the floor, covered with dirty gray blankets. No pictures on the walls, or personal belongings, except some empty wooden boxes on the floor, and a tattered cardboard suitcase lying under the bed, containing a couple of djellabas.

“Weaver?”

For a moment, Weaver couldn't see the Englishman, but then he noticed a walk-in closet off to the right, a single red light bulb on overhead, Sanson standing inside. He joined him in the cramped room. “What have we got here?”

There was a miniature camera lying on a wooden ledge, some jars of chemicals, and several rolls of film. A stretch of twine ran from wall to wall, with some clothes pegs attached for hanging negatives out to dry.