From the moment he arrived, Girling had known that time was running out, as if Stansell was being kept in a sealed box with a finite supply of air. If the Guide was as powerful as his father-in-law claimed, one word, should he choose to give it, would be enough to secure Stansell’s release.
Girling raised his eyes to his surroundings. Al-Mu’izz was caught like a trapped nerve between the affluent bustle of the Khan, a few hundred yards away, and the grinding poverty of the City of the Dead, a stone’s throw to the south. The necropolis sprawled somewhere beyond Bab Zuweila, the southern gates of Cairo’s medieval wall. The Mu’ayyad mosque, the Guide’s open prison, nestled in the shade of the gates. On hot days like this, Al-Mu’izz festered like an open sore.
Years before, when Mona had brought him here, showing pride in the craftsmanship paraded in these shops, it had seemed a different place. But that was before the Gulf War and before he had even heard of the Brotherhood.
Upon its foundation in the late 1920s, the Brother-hood’s twin aims had been the eviction of the ruling British elite and the establishment of a fundamental Islamic state. It took them just two decades to realize the first goal and, although a comparatively quiet period followed, it never lost sight of the second. A vivid reminder of their presence hit the world between the eyes when a breakaway group, the Partisans of Allah, assassinated Egyptian President Anwar Al-Sadat in 1981. Sadat had been trying to woo the Brotherhood into mainstream politics, recognizing that it was gaining strength daily, that it was wresting the country from him inch by inch. But the Brother-hood could not negotiate with a man who had sold the Arab birthright for peace with Israel, its sworn enemy. And so one day it rose up and killed him.
He rounded a bend in the street and saw the two minarets of the mosque. The sunlight soared between them, refracting off the dust and the flies that swirled in the air.
As the faithful tramped through the doors of the mosque, Girling scouted for guards. He soon spotted them, two policemen squatting beside a small gas burner in the shadows at the top of the steps.
Girling adjusted his camera, making sure it hung obviously by his side, and nipped into the midst of a group of prayer-goers as they marched up the marble steps. At the top, a column of warm light hit him in the face. He squinted past the turbaned heads of the people in front of him and caught a glimpse of trees and ornate ponds in the open courtyard. The people were already sitting on the floor, ranged in lines before the miqra, the pulpit where the Guide would make his speech. Girling was inside and looking for a place to sit out the service, when a hand grabbed him by the shoulder and spun him round.
The policeman shook a finger in his face. ‘Entry mamnoo’a,’ he said in hybrid English-Arabic.
Girling’s brow furrowed in confusion.
‘Forbidden,’ the other guard explained.
Girling produced the guidebook and began to thumb through its pages. ‘This is the Al-Mu’ayyad mosque?’ he asked, his eyes wide in innocence. He pointed to a page for emphasis.
‘No speak English,’ the first policeman said. He pointed down the steps. ‘Go.’
Girling laughed disarmingly. One of them smiled back. ‘I just want a few pictures,’ he said, lifting his camera.
The first policeman shook his head. ‘For-bid-den during prayers.’
‘I see,’ Girling said, pretending to understand only then. ‘OK, no pictures. I just look, yes?’
The guard remained unmoved until his gaze dropped to the open guidebook and rested on the eighty Egyptian pounds protruding from the pages. There was two months’ salary for each man there. ‘One hour,’ Girling said firmly.
The guards looked first at each other, then down the street. The older one grabbed the money and gave a shrug of resignation. ‘OK,’ he said.
Girling slipped off his shoes and entered the cool tranquillity of the mosque. He crossed the great sahn, the courtyard, and proceeded into the gardens on the other side. He found a bench among the trees and sat down. No one paid him any attention, for prayers had already begun. The sea of bodies moved as one, rising and falling with the exhortations of the prayer-leader.
Girling began to gather his thoughts, to prepare himself for the encounter ahead. But in the stillness that followed, he became conscious only of the depth of his hatred. He told himself over and over that this was not the time or the place for his anger, that he had to forget this man’s deeds. His first duty was to break Stansell out of captivity. The Guide offered a chance. But first he had to put Mona behind him. He held his head in his hands, but like a migraine it would not leave him.
When Girling looked up, the people had turned their faces to the pulpit. An air of expectancy filled the mosque. Across the courtyard, a slight figure was climbing the steps to the miqra. The Guide was older than Girling imagined; his face weather-beaten, skin sallow from a life of asceticism. His hair was hidden by a turban; his cheeks and chin by a patchy grey beard. He wore the long flowing robes of all clerics.
The Guide’s address rang out across the courtyard. Girling listened, trying to understand, but all he caught were snatches of meaning. The Guide was using classical Arabic, the language of literature, and vastly different from the colloquial patois he had taught himself. The Guide’s address was inspirational; an appeal for patience, a reminder of rewards to come. His people listened thoughtfully and every so often there were waves of assent.
When it was over, the crowd rose suddenly, much more quickly than Girling had expected. He leapt to his feet and rushed forward, but the Guide was already half-way from the miqra to a door in the far wall. He battled against the tide of people heading for the street, ignoring their cries of indignation. Girling burst through them just as the Guide was almost through the arch.
Girling shouted in English.
The silence began with those closest to him. They stared accusingly as if he had uttered some deep profanity. Like concentric ripples in a pond, the silence emanated outwards, until it reached the Guide and his entourage. When it touched him, the Guide hesitated, then turned.
‘Do I know you, ‘agnabi?’
Girling tried to speak, but could not find the Arabic.
‘Do you come as a friend?’ the Guide asked. His voice rang clearly across the courtyard.
Girling’s awkwardness had turned his curiosity to concern. He felt the crowd’s hostility at his back.
‘Who are you?’ the Guide asked.
The words came suddenly. Girling spoke the local dialect of a Cairene. ‘I am a journalist, an English journalist. My name is Tom Girling. I have come a long way to see you, Sheikh.’
‘A journalist? What could I possibly have to say to a journalist?’ The Guide waved his hand in a gesture that indicated the high walls of his prison. He took another step towards the door.
‘I did not come here to write down your words. I have come here with an appeal. An appeal for a life. For a man named Stansell, a writer, like me. Have you heard of this man?’ The Guide stopped.
‘Do you know this man?’ Girling repeated. ‘Should I, ‘agnabi?’
‘He has been kidnapped by the Angels of Judgement, or people acting in their name. Here, in Cairo.’
The Guide turned again. ‘What has this to do with me?’