Schlitz patted his considerable belly. ‘Just so long as the Pharaoh ain’t gotten his revenge on you yet.’
Girling smiled. ‘I have a tough constitution.’
Schlitz studied Girling’s business card again. ‘In this place, you need one! Says here you’re the technology correspondent. Is there some kind of exhibition going on in town that I missed?’
Girling shook his head. ‘I’m minding the Middle East bureau desk for a while.’
‘You’ve taken over from Stansell?’
‘Only temporarily. The whole thing happened pretty fast.’
‘So, what happened to Stansell? The old bastard kept this pretty quiet.’
Girling leant forward till his face was in the slip-stream of the air conditioner. ‘Can I rely on your discretion, Mike?’
‘That’s usually my line.’ Schlitz stopped smiling when he saw Girling’s expression. ‘Sure, course you can.’
‘Stansell’s been sent home.’
‘Why?’
Girling leant back again. Schlitz was the gossipy kind. The fact that he summoned Girling so quickly to his office — when all Girling ever expected was to be allowed to leave his business card at the main desk — suggested the guy had precious little else to do except peddle chit-chat with the hacks. That was fine by him.
‘We ran a story last week about the terrorists who carried out the Beirut massacre-’
‘The Angels of Judgement,’ Schlitz said. ‘Hell of a story.’
‘Yes it was.’
‘Well?’ Schlitz asked, lighting up another Marlboro.
‘Threats were made. Terrorist threats. Against Stansell. My bosses thought it safer if he were to lie low for a while.’ Girling looked straight at Schlitz. ‘So, he’s in England until some of the heat dies down. Only trouble is, the old bastard’s gone and given me a king-sized problem.’
Schlitz took a deep drag and laughed, snorting the smoke out through his nostrils. ‘Like they’re gonna blow your ass away instead, right? Nice friends you keep there, Tom.’
Girling laughed, too. ‘Terrorists are the least of my problems.’
‘Oh?’
‘My editor’s going to have my balls unless I maintain steam on this one. His attitude is, Dispatches led with it and now we’ve got to stay ahead of the pack. And Stansell’s gone and dumped me in the shit.’
‘Tough break,’ Schlitz said. ‘So how can I help you?’
‘Is there any chance I can meet with some of your military people? The defence attaché, for example. Anyone who could give me some background on the hunt for the terrorists and the hostages.’
Schlitz shook his head slowly. ‘No can do, Tom. Maybe in London they’ve got folks who give intel briefs, but I’m not authorized to do that kind of shit. Besides, I doubt if the DA would want to know.’
‘Come on, Mike. Dispatches broke this story, for Christ’s sake.’
‘I’m sorry, but — ’ He paused. ‘I’ll give you this for free. Off the record, though, or it’ll be me who has your balls.’ Schlitz studied Girling’s face for a moment. ‘This Beirut business has got everyone jumping around here. Throughout the embassy the teleprinters are chattering like some sort of dawn chorus. I’ve been in this business a long time — twenty-five years, anyway — but I ain’t seen faces around me this long since… well, since Tehran.’
‘So, no progress then?’ Girling said. ‘Franklin is still lost.’
‘Don’t go putting words in my mouth, now.’
‘I wasn’t.’
Schlitz’s eyes narrowed, then his face broke into a smile. ‘Never trust a guy you ain’t drunk with, that’s my motto,’ he said, reaching down behind him. He passed over a can of dripping cold Budweiser.
Girling pulled the ring and brought the can up to his lips.
‘I tell you what I’ll do,’ Schlitz said. ‘How about I get you and the DA over to my place? Shirt-sleeve stuff, nothing formal. Do you play volley-ball? We play most weekends. The DA does a mean game and his wife’s not bad either, if you get what I mean. You married, Tom?’
‘I was,’ Girling said.
‘Here’s the deal, then. If you and the DA get on OK… well, what you do after that is your business.’
‘I look forward to the invitation. What’s his name, by the way, the defence attaché?’
‘Lieutenant-Colonel Cyrus McBain, United States Air Force.’
‘Hardly a name you’d forget,’ Girling said, getting to his feet. ‘Thanks for the beer.’ He’d taken just one sip.
They shook hands and Girling turned for the door. His hand was on the handle when Schlitz asked: ‘Stansell ain’t in any kind of trouble, is he, Tom?’
Girling froze for a second. He turned to face the American. ‘Like I said — ’
Schlitz waved him down. ‘I know what you said. Only I was talking to a guy from Reuters. You ever read any of John Silverman’s stuff? He’s good.’ Girling had more than read Silverman’s stories, he had kept in touch with him in the years since he had left.
‘Seems he got paid a visit by the police — the serious squad, not those jokers from the ‘Askary,’ Schlitz continued. ‘You know who I mean by the Mukhabarat? Internal security. Some of them are real bad asses.’
‘I know the Mukhabarat,’ Girling said. ‘Maybe I should have told you earlier. I used to work here. A few years back.’
Schlitz apparently didn’t hear him. ‘The police were asking who Stansell hangs around with, who his contacts are. This pal of mine was pretty upset, I don’t mind telling you. Journalists around here don’t like the Mukharabat much. None of us do.’
Girling’s grip tightened on the door handle. ‘When did this happen?’
‘This morning. I put the phone down on the guy just before you walked in.’
Sharifa heard a slight sound behind her. The goose-flesh rippled the skin from the base of her slender neck to the hairline above her forehead. She turned and Al-Qadi was there, leaning against the filing cabinet. She guessed he must have been there for quite some time, just watching her.
‘I have come to talk to you about Girling,’ he said. ‘Where is he?’
She said nothing. Defiance leapt at him from her eyes.
Al-Qadi moved toward her. His trousers were damp where his left thigh had rested against the cabinet. Sharifa swivelled to face him, clamping her fingers to the underside of the chair as she did so. She gripped it tightly to stop her shaking.
‘I asked you a question,’ he said, perching on the edge of her desk. He spoke to her in Arabic. In his own language, he lisped just the same.
‘I don’t know where he is,’ she whispered.
‘It’s not quite that simple, is it, ya Sharifa?’ The investigator drew a pencil from the ornamental wooden box in front of her. He pressed the lead point a little way into his thumb and smiled. It was quite sharp.
Still she said nothing.
‘You seemed pleased to see him,’ Al-Qadi probed.
‘Tom Girling and I are old friends.’
He cocked an eyebrow.
‘I was at university with his wife,’ she said.
‘Of course… the girl who died in Asyut.’
‘Mona was killed.’
‘If you say so.’
‘We were best friends.’
‘And now you are his friend.’
‘We were friends then and we’re friends now. We’ll always be friends.’
‘And do you want to pleasure yourself with this ‘agnabi, too, ya Sharifa?’
‘You bastard!’ she whispered.
‘Careful…’ Al-Qadi pointed the pencil at her face.
She bit her lip. Tears of frustration and anger welled up behind her eyes.
‘I suppose you’re going to tell me Stansell was different from the others.’
‘I loved him,’ she whispered. For a moment, it was as if Al-Qadi was not in the room. As if she heard the echo of her own voice. ‘I still do.’