It was as his eyes swept past the mirror again that he saw the keg. It was low down in the reflection, nestling on a shelf under the work surface in front of him.
Girling switched his gaze back to the three bearing down on him. They were almost there.
There was a doorway set in the rear wall, a curtain across it. Girling brushed past the waiter and pushed the curtain aside. The ante-room was dark except for the glow of a charcoal fire. A man was picking out embers and placing them on small tobacco-filled clays. Some of the clays had been attached to water pipes, ready for delivery to waiting customers out-side.
The figure did not seem to hear him enter. Girling heard the swish of the curtain behind him. He took a step forward and touched him lightly on the shoulder.
Old Mansour turned just as Girling’s arms were wrenched back in a full nelson. He tried to shake himself loose, but they had him held fast.
Old Mansour stepped away from the fire and Girling felt the intensity of its heat.
As the light shone full on Girling’s face, Mansour’s eyes widened in recognition.
Behind him, voices rasped as his assailants questioned Mansour. The old man answered them patiently. The next thing Girling knew he was free and Mansour and he were alone.
Girling looked Old Mansour up and down. He was a little more bowed in the frame, a little sallower of cheek. But it was Mansour, fit, alive.
‘Forgive me, ya Mansour,’ Girling said in Arabic. ‘I never meant to embarrass you — ‘
Old Mansour replied in English. ‘It is I who should ask for forgiveness, Mr Tom. They thought perhaps I owed you money. I am sorry. They were only trying to protect me.’
‘It is good that you have friends to look after you, Mansour.’
‘Yes, they are kind to me here.’
‘Mansour, I am looking for Stansell.’
‘I know.’
Girling took a step closer to him. Mansour had the kindest face he had ever seen; blue eyes that were rare for an Egyptian and a white, bushy moustache. ‘Tell me how you know that, Mansour.’
‘Do you remember Uthman, the doctor from Duqqi?’ Mansour said.
Girling confessed that he didn’t.
‘He used to drink at the Metropolitan Club, back in the old days,’ Mansour said. ‘Now he comes here for his water-pipe. The rose water here is the best, they say, the pipes here the smoothest in Cairo. It was Uthman who told me about Stansell. These are terrible days, Mr Tom.’
Girling felt his pulse quicken. ‘How did Uthman know about Stansell? The police have tried to keep it a secret.’
Old Mansour shrugged. ‘He works part-time at Mukhabarat headquarters in Shubra, working on the bodies — ‘
‘Autopsies,’ Girling prompted.
‘Yes. While there one night earlier this week, he heard about the kidnapping. It came as a great shock when Uthman told me. I liked Stansell very much; you know that, Mr Tom.’
‘Yes, I know.’
‘But now you are here. And you have come for him, I think. This gives me great hope.’
Girling didn’t answer directly. ‘I am hoping you may be able to help, Mansour.’
‘Me? Of course, anything.’
‘Stansell’s contact book,’ Girling said. ‘In emergencies, did he continue to leave it in your keeping after you left the Metropolitan Club?’
Old Mansour’s watery eyes glazed for a moment. ‘The little book of names and telephone numbers?’
Girling knew the old man knew exactly what he meant. ‘Yes.’
‘Maybe he did, Mr Tom.’
‘Do you have it now?’
‘I…it was a sacred arrangement, Mr Tom.’
‘It was the police he wanted you to hide it from, Mansour, not me.’
Girling reached out and pressed a ten-pound note into Mansour’s hand.
Mansour examined the money for a moment before looking up into Girling’s eyes. ‘You know me better than this, Mr Tom.’
Old Mansour’s expression darkened. He walked past Girling and headed out through the curtained doorway.
‘Shit,’ Girling said to himself. The tenner was as much as Mansour made in a month. But money did not yet buy everything in this city. Some people were above bribery. He cursed himself.
He was about to follow after Mansour when the curtain parted again. Mansour was silhouetted against the lights at the front of the shop. He held the mock sherry keg in his hands.
‘After the Metropolitan Club… dismissed me, they threw this out, too,’ the old man said.
‘The book, Mansour…’
‘If you ask for it, Mr Tom, then it must be important.’
Mansour twisted a catch at the base of the cask, opened it and pulled out a small pocket-sized volume, its covers held together by an elastic band. He handled it with reverence, as though it was the Koran, his fingers avoiding the dog-eared corners. The book looked as if it would crumble at the slightest touch. He passed it reverently to Girling. As he did so, Girling noticed the edge of the ten-pound note poking above Old Mansour’s waistcoat pocket.
‘In any case, it will be better in your hands,’ the old man said. ‘It will not be the Mukhabarat that finds him. Uthman says they have put a Captain Al-Qadi on his case.’
‘Do you know him?’ Girling asked.
‘Not me, thank God. But Uthman says he has a certain reputation.’
Girling opened the book carefully. Stansell lived a disorganized existence in most respects, but in his professional life he maintained a rigorous discipline. Against each surname was a first name or an initial, a job title, a date — presumably the day of their first meeting — an address, and a telephone number. From a brief glance Girling estimated there were several thousand entries. Maybe finding the contact book wasn’t the great coup he had cracked it up to be.
‘When did Stansell give you this, Mansour?’
‘Five nights ago, Mr Tom.’
The night he was taken, Girling thought. ‘Did Stansell say where he had come from, or where he was going?’
‘He was in a great hurry. We hardly talked. He used to come here to smoke a little. But not that night. He handed me the book, just like he used to do at the Metropolitan sometimes, and told me he would be back for it when it was safe to come back.’
‘How did he look, Mansour?’
‘That night? Like you had never gone away, Mister Tom.’ Old Mansour paused. ‘With Stansell everything used to be laughter, you remember? But many things changed after you left Cairo. When you find Stansell, will you stay?’
‘I don’t know, Mansour.’ Girling opened and closed the book as he spoke. ‘Where did he go when you stopped working at the Metropolitan Club? They said this morning that they hadn’t seen him there for a long time. I know he used to meet people at the Club on business. Did he tell you where he used to go instead?’
‘I only know of Andrea’s.’
‘Where is Andrea’s?’
‘Out by the Pyramids. When Stansell was here last… not counting the other night, he asked me why our beer was not cold like the Stellas at Andrea’s. He had been at Andrea’s that morning. He came here afterwards to smoke. For the digestion, you understand.’
‘I see,’ Girling said. Andrea’s. Maybe it was something worth checking.
Girling glanced down at the open pages of the book. There, halfway down, was a name, a date, and two telephone numbers. But it was the address which had caught his eye. 22 Ibn Zanki Street was the address that had been ringed and underlined on the map he had found inside the stray volume of Dispatches in Stansell’s apartment.
‘By the way,’ Girling said. ‘I never asked you how you got the keg back.’
Mansour’s eyes twinkled. ‘Stansell found it in the rubbish outside the Metropolitan Club. It was he who returned it to me. Please find him, Mr Tom. It is not the same around here with him gone.’