“Find the photograph,” Raf demanded. “I want the court to take a good look at this killer.”
Finding the shot took a minute or two of skipping forward and backward, looking for the right image. And all the while, screens flickered with figures that came and went as Jean René trawled angrily through his notebook’s data sphere.
A girl half-buried in a sand dune.
Camels starved to a sack of fur and protruding bone.
A burned-out Seraphim driven by something reduced by flame to the texture of bitumen. Teeth grinning from a lipless mouth.
Images enough to make the ballroom fall silent and its gilded elegance suddenly appear frivolous and out of place. And finally, when it seemed not even the judges could stand another close-up of a dead child, Jean René found the picture for which he’d been looking.
A boy shading his face against the sun as he stared into a hungry lens. The shirt he wore lacked buttons and the trousers had been hacked short in the leg. At his feet rested an open water bottle and a radio.
Half a dozen amulets hung around his neck. Most were beaten silver or brass, with one no more than a bundle of hawk feathers tied tight with a leaf. But the last one, the one that mattered because it led aid workers to get wrong which side he was on, was a small cross carved from bone. The boy’s eyes were hidden by thick dark glasses and a cigarette hung from his bottom lip, tendrils of smoke vanishing into the hot-afternoon air.
Not that much older than Hani really.
“How old would you say this child was?”
“Irrelevant question.” Senator Liz Elsing was out of her chair.
“Overruled,” said the Khedive. “The prosecutor still has the floor, as is his right . . .” Tewfik Pasha’s smile was thin. “Mind you,” he said, “if this is the prosecution, I can’t wait for the defence.”
“How old?” Raf repeated.
Jean René thought about it, looked at the screen, then back at Hamzah, an element of certainty leaving his face. Finally the man shrugged. “I don’t know,” he said. “It’s hard to tell.”
“Then perhaps we should find somebody who can tell us . . .” Raf stared at the public benches and a dozen cameras clicked. “Presumably the SS Jannah has a doctor . . . ?”
There was silence while the judges tried to work out which of them Raf was asking. Finally, they realized he was talking to the Khedive.
Tewfik Pasha nodded, reluctantly.
“And may I borrow your medical officer as an expert witness?”
The boy scowled, skin darkening under immaculately applied makeup. “Of course,” he said. “Provided the captain also agrees.”
The court recessed while the ship’s medical officer was summoned. And then everyone waited again while a tall German woman introduced herself to the court and was sworn in.
“You are Lena Schultz?”
“I am.”
“And you trained where?”
“Heidelberg . . .”
Raf couldn’t resist glancing at von Bismarck. The young Graf leant forward and Raf knew he, at least, would regard her every word as absolute.
“You are the surgeon for the SS Jannah?”
She shook her head and dark hair flicked across to touch her cheeks. “I am not a surgeon,” said Dr. Schultz. “I am a general practitioner.”
“I see,” said Raf, sounding as if he didn’t. “Can you tell me why Utopia Lines employ a general practitioner?”
She looked at him.
“Instead of medical software.” Raf paused, wondering how best to qualify his question. “I thought that statistically . . .”
“Some people,” she said heavily, “actually prefer the human touch.” Some people being rich. At least that was the inference.
“Really?” Raf shrugged. “In that case, don’t such people bring their own?”
“It happens, sometimes.” Her tone made it quite clear she didn’t like that question or him. “Now,” she said. “You need me to present an opinion on a medical matter?”
“Sort of . . .” Raf pointed to where the boy still shielded his eyes from a sun that caught on the edge of his open shirt and cast its shadow across his bare chest and stomach.
“How old is that boy?”
The woman barely glanced at the image. “Impossible to say,” she said firmly.
“Is he twenty?”
“Obviously not.”
“Six?”
She shook her head crossly.
“So you can say,” Raf told her. “That at the very least he’s older than six and younger than twenty . . .”
Sometime between my burning down a school and the killing of Micky O’Brian.
“You didn’t say you wanted a rough estimate . . .”
“We can get specific later,” said Raf. “At the moment, any kind of estimate would be good.”
One minute turned into two and still she gazed intently at the screen . . . Longer than was necessary, but Raf didn’t hurry her. The cameras were hard at work catching every furrow of her brow, every tiny twitch that pulled at her mouth as she lost herself in thought.
“Was this boy well fed?”
From his place in the dock Hamzah shook his head, the movement entirely unconscious. And up on the bench St. Cloud cleared a sour smile from his face so fast only Raf saw it come and go. There were other smiles, fleeting and bitter, from ordinary people on the public benches. Mostly from those, like Khartoum, who were old enough to have the memories.
Into Raf’s head came thoughts of drought-twisted olive groves, crumbling irrigation channels, bushes on which apricots wizened before they were even ripe enough to be picked. Poisoned oases and fields of millet being turned to straw by a sun that hung high overhead.
“Enough,” Raf insisted to himself and the images vanished.
“Well fed . . . ?” He shook his head. “I think that unlikely.”
“In that case . . .” The woman hesitated. “If the child was properly nourished, then I’d put his age at nine, with a sixty percent certainty. You have to look at the wrists,” she added, as if that explained everything. “Chest too, to check development of the rib cage . . . Badly nourished, maybe ten, even eleven. My professional opinion is that the child is unlikely to be much older.”
“Court records say thirteen,” insisted Raf, and he made a point of double-checking the UN report in his hand.
“Thirteen . . . ? Very unlikely.” Dr. Schultz’s stare was a challenge. “Twelve if you must, assuming he’d been starved from birth. Except, of course,” she shrugged, “if he’d been starved from birth, then disease would have killed him before this.”
“So definitely not thirteen?”
“Ashraf Bey.”
Raf turned round to find the Khedive watching him.
“Can you tell me where this is headed?” Tewfik Pasha’s question was abrupt, but there was something unsettled in his eyes. As if the youth had only just become aware that he sat exposed in front of the world’s press, acting as magister while the richest man in North Africa was tried for mass murder.
And there was another truth from which the Khedive could find no escape. It was widely known that Zara had taken al-Mansur as her lover. And for all that the bey wasn’t a true believer, he still had baraka. A difficult quality to pin down, although luck, wisdom and blessing were in there somewhere. All those and an aura of strength that the poor believed clung like attar of roses to anyone who chose the stony path.
“Where is this headed?” asked Raf. “Towards a conclusion, I hope.”
“It matters how old Hamzah was?”
Raf nodded.
“And to whom does it matter?”
To me, Raf almost said but he kept silent on that point. “To the city,” he said instead. “And also to you, as the city’s magister, I presume . . .”
“Yes,” said the Khedive, “you do.”
Raf looked puzzled.
“You presume,” Tewfik Pasha said with a tight smile. “But then, perhaps somebody has to . . . Tell us why it matters.”