Girling wandered from the station into the chaos of Ramsis Square. Though it was filled with thousands of people heading off for work he managed to find a taxi before long.
He reached the embassy after a protracted battle with the early morning commuter traffic. The security was elaborate, the checks endless. Only after the armed guards, video cameras, remote entry systems, and air locks, did he get to talk to Lazan on the lobby phone. The defence attache told him to sit tight and wait for an escort who would take him to the second floor. A girl behind the desk handed him his pass, scarcely disguising her distaste for his appearance as she did so.
The escort was a taciturn man in his late twenties who looked almost Scandinavian. The atmosphere in the embassy was distinctly militaristic. But for the fact that everyone sported the relaxed dress-style of Israeli officialdom, Girling imagined he could have been in an IDF command bunker on the Golan Heights.
The lift doors opened on the second floor and Girling was greeted by the quiet chatter of teleprinters and the businesslike rasp of Hebrew. He saw the sense of purpose in the comings and goings of the people in the corridor. The embassy seemed to be a microcosm of the Jewish state — a small patch of land under siege — and it showed in the determination of the people around him.
Lazan was at his desk, the phone jammed to his ear. He cupped his hand over the receiver and told the Scandinavian to bring an extra chair and two cups of coffee.
The office was bare, functional. A picture on the wall of a younger, uniformed Lazan, free of facial scars, posing beside the burned-out hulk of a Syrian T-62, provided an ironic comment on the Islamic skyline beyond the window. The picture was an arrogant gesture, Girling thought, but he would have expected nothing less.
The air-conditioning prickled Girling’s skin. Outside, the sun rose a little higher above the minarets as Cairo began to cook.
The Scandinavian returned with a chair and coffees. Lazan nodded his thanks before the door was closed and the two of them were alone.
Lazan wound up his conversation and put the phone down. ‘Where have you been, Tom Girling?’
The rim of the coffee cup never reached Girling’s mouth. ‘I’m sorry?’
‘I said — ‘
‘I know what you said, Lazan. Didn’t Sharifa tell you?
‘Sharifa? What are you talking about?’
Girling felt the old pain in his side. ‘Oh my God. Al-Qadi…’ He made a lunge for the door, but with surprising agility, Lazan beat him to it.
‘Tell me what is going on, Girling.’
‘I have to get to Sharifa’s. She was supposed to get in touch with you.’ Girling managed to blurt out the succession of events which had led to his ordering her to seek sanctuary with him. ‘I’ve got to get to her.’ He tried to twist from Lazan’s grip, but the Israeli held him firm.
‘No, wait.’ Lazan moved to his desk and punched in an extension number. He spoke quickly into the receiver and hung up. ‘Take the lift to the basement. Ariel Ram — the man who brought you to my office — will drive you to her place. I’ll catch up with you there as soon as I can.’ He gestured to the cane by the door. ‘I’m afraid my leg would only hold you up on the way to the basement.’
Girling opened the door, then hesitated. ‘Why did you call me here?’
‘Think about this on your way. We’re receiving intelligence from the Lebanon of something extraordinary. My people need answers, Girling, and maybe you’re the one to find them. It seems like every important leader of the whole terrorist com-munity in the Levant is on the move. Al-Haqim of Black June, Sheikh Abu Jadid of Hizbollah, Ahmed Jibril of the PFLP-GC, and others. They’re mobilizing and we don’t know why. There are rumours of a shura — a council of war — somewhere in the Lebanon. Tel Aviv is screaming for information, but everyone’s drawing a blank.’
‘Do you think it’s got anything to do with the Angels of Judgement?’ Girling asked.
‘I don’t know. That’s what I’m hoping you’ll tell me.’ He slapped him on the back. ‘That lift’s waiting for you, Tom Girling. Go.’
Girling was out of the passenger seat and bounding up the steps of the apartment block even before Ram had brought the car to a stop. He dispensed with the lift and took to the marble stairs, taking three steps at a time in his impatience to reach the third floor.
Panting for breath, he stood outside her door and leaned on the bell. He sensed someone close by, turned and saw Ram coming up the stairs.
Neither of them said a word. Ram raised his foot and gave the door a sharp kick. It flew open and Girling was inside, calling her name and getting nothing in reply. When he saw the overnight bag by the front door it only served to heighten his anxiety. He checked each room in turn, moving down the corridor, Ram behind, the Israeli’s outstretched hand brandishing a small, compact automatic. Girling stood before the bedroom, its door slightly ajar. It was the last room in the apartment. He peeped through the crack and caught a glimpse of clothes strewn around the end of the bed. He called out her name, but again there was no reply. He took a deep breath and stepped inside. He had braced himself for the worst, but nothing had prepared him for the sight that confronted him.
Al-Qadi lay in the centre of the bed, belly up, arms and legs outstretched. His face had gone a shade that was something between a pasty yellow and a watery grey, his lips a deeper hue of the same, sickening colour.
The tip of his blackened tongue poked from between his teeth. It was just possible to see the hilt of the paper-knife protruding from a hole somewhere below the investigator’s heart. There was blood all over the investigator’s hands. In his last moments of life, it seemed Al-Qadi had tried to prise the dagger from his chest, but the blade had stuck fast between two ribs. The blood had poured through the wound, running over his great stomach in rivulets, soaking the bedcover, the sheets, and the pillows. Al-Qadi had bled like a stuck pig, unable to get up, unable to remove the paper-knife, too shocked, too weak to shout for help. His eyes bulged, unblinking, sightless, like a fish lying gutted on the slab.
Behind him, Ram gagged. Girling fought to keep his mind clear. He, too, felt sickened, but the need to find Sharifa was uppermost in his mind. He saw Al-Qadi’s gun on the floor. As he reached for it, anxious to see if it had been fired, he heard a slight sound from the clothes cupboard in the far wall.
He found her hunched in the very corner, hidden behind suitcases and a pile of clothes. She stared at him, at first not comprehending who he was. He pulled her to him and she began to cry, softly at first, then less so as her mind regurgitated her last moments with the investigator.
Girling held her close until her sobs subsided. Then he took her face in his hands. ‘What happened?’
‘I killed him, Tom.’ She stared at him, eyes wide. ‘I stood here, where you and I are standing now, and I watched him die, slowly, painfully. It must have taken him almost half an hour, just lying there, bleeding to death. And do you know something? I enjoyed every minute of it. I’ve dreamed of this moment for as long as I can remember. And now he’s dead and I’m glad it was me who killed him.’
‘Sharifa, no.’
She rounded on him. ‘Why not? Is it so wrong to want for something like that? Isn’t that what you have wished all along for Mona’s killers?’
He found himself wanting, but unable to answer.
‘He killed Stansell,’ she said.
‘What?’
‘He told me.’
‘But that makes no sense. Al-Qadi couldn’t have been in league with the Angels of Judgement. If they’re half as radical as the Brotherhood, then Al-Qadi was the kind of person they would have despised.’ He shook his head. ‘No, there has to be some other explanation.’