In the seventy-five seconds it took Claire duBois’s talking head to hit Television 5, Hamzah mutated from a heavily armed teen psychopath to traumatized drought victim, stranded alone in the desert, trying desperately to carry out conflicting orders.
CHAPTER 58
6th November
“If you don’t move,” said the fox, “you’ll be late for Hamzah’s party.”
“Yep,” agreed Raf and reached for his cappuccino.
The power was back on at Le Trianon and the first thing the kitchens had done was whip up a fresh batch of ice cream for Hani, the kind made with vanilla pods. A glass flute of the stuff now sat, almost untouched, in front of her.
“Not hungry?”
Hani shrugged. A minute or so later, while Raf pretended not to watch, she stirred the ice cream to a pulp with her long silver spoon.
“You going to let her get away with that?” asked the voice.
“Probably.”
“You’re talking to the fox,” said Hani.
Raf nodded.
“The one hidden in your head?”
He nodded again.
“Okay.” The small girl put down her spoon, then picked it up again. Le Trianon was absolutely her favourite café and vanilla supposedly her favourite flavour, but Hani obviously wasn’t enjoying herself.
“Colonel Abad mended your fox?”
They’d been over this a dozen times. Raf couldn’t bring himself to believe this was the real problem, but it was the point to which she kept coming back.
“That’s right,” he said.
“How?”
“He took a look inside my head, then fixed a software glitch that stopped the fox from being able to feed.”
“Did it hurt?”
“Too fast,” said Raf. “I didn’t even know it had happened.”
“And Colonel Abad doesn’t really exist?”
“He’s as real as the fox.”
Hani looked doubtful. “How real is that?”
As questions went, this one was more difficult to answer. Actually, as questions went, that one was next to impossible . . . A software program designed to mimic the cunning and charisma of a long-dead revolutionary undoubtedly existed. It had led the Ragged Army, changed sides, then changed back again. Several times, from what it said.
The view of the Washington Post was that it was equal in intelligence to any human and therefore as dangerous. Le Matin disagreed, describing it as a military chess computer, a view also held by Pravda.
“I think it exists,” Raf said carefully.
“But you think the fox exists,” said Hani, brushing crossly at her fringe.
They were seated at a pavement table, even though the weather was cold and the first Saturday in November had brought fewer people than normal out onto the streets. And she’d brought him there because he knew she liked it, if that made sense.
“Zara’s mother says that you’re insane.” Hani’s voice was matter-of-fact, although Raf caught the sideways glance that checked he wasn’t angry. Only he was angry and had been since the trial was aborted five days before.
And in a way he was jealous. Raf sat back in his chair and closed his eyes. He was jealous of Avatar, for retrieving the Colonel. And furious with Zara, who’d known at least some of what Hani was doing.
“Uncle Raf . . .”
Raf opened his eyes.
“I’m sorry. All right . . .” Hani picked up her spoon and ate a mouthful of runny vanilla, as if that might make a difference. “I should have told you.”
“Yeah, you really . . .” Raf swallowed the rest of his words. “Forget it,” he said, turning to more important matters. “You don’t like vanilla ice cream anymore, do you?”
“It’s okay.” Hani shrugged.
“What happened?”
The nine-year-old thought for a second. “I grew out of it,” she said. “It happens.”
A butler met them at the steps. He wasn’t anyone Raf had seen before. And if he seemed surprised to see a blond young man in dark glasses and drop-pearl earring holding the hand of a small black-haired child, he didn’t let it show. At least not that much.
“Ashraf al-Mansur,” said Raf.
“We’re here for the party,” added Hani.
“Can I ask if His Excellency is expecting you?”
His Excellency? Raf smiled. That was a new one.
“This is the Governor of El Iskandryia,” Hani said crossly. “He doesn’t need an invitation.” She squeezed Raf’s hand, as if she thought the butler’s question might have upset him.
“Hamzah is expecting me . . . Expecting us,” Raf corrected himself.
“Very good.” The man turned, obviously intending to leave them on the doorstep until Hani pushed her way in with a sigh.
“English,” Hani said loudly, as the butler stalked away down the corridor, back stiff with disapproval. “Madame Rahina’s price,” she added more softly.
“For what?”
“For not throwing a complete tantrum about you and about Avatar.” Hani sounded like a middle-aged woman discussing a small child rather than the other way round.
“Come on . . .” She set off towards the drawing room, without waiting for the butler to return. And Raf let himself be tugged towards a babble of voices filtering through an ornately carved door.
The Long Drawing Room at the Villa Hamzah, so called to distinguish it from the Square Drawing Room on the floor above, was decorated to Madame Rahina’s taste. Which mostly involved European wallpaper in green-and-silver stripes, gold velvet sofas and faux-Persian carpets from a place called Axminster. At least that was where they came from according to the fox, who layered little bubble facts over every object until Raf ordered it to stop.
“Ashraf . . .”
Hamzah Effendi stepped forward, hand outstretched and grabbed Raf’s own, wringing it hard. “You found us then . . . ?” The barrel-chested man stopped and grinned at his own stupidity. “Of course you found it. You’ve been here . . .”
“Several times,” Raf agreed.
“But not as often as me,” said Hani smugly and let go his hand to scoot away across the carpet to where Zara sat, with a cup of Earl Grey, talking stiltedly to the Khedive.
“I remember when she was never going to set foot in this house again,” said Raf. He spoke without really thinking. As the fox kept reminding him, he did a lot of that.
“She told you?”
Raf nodded. “Months ago. After the beating. When I was patching her up.”
“I didn’t know it had happened until later,” Hamzah Effendi said flatly.
“You had other things on your mind.”
The industrialist glanced at Raf, then realized the comment was no criticism. “Yes,” he said, “I did. And I have you to thank for . . .”
Raf stepped back and held up both hands. “I was there to prosecute you,” he reminded Hamzah.
“Ah,” said St. Cloud as he materialized beside them both. “So that’s what you were doing. We did wonder.” He flashed Raf a smile and, when it wasn’t returned, the Marquis just shrugged and lifted a champagne flute from a passing tray.
And as the young waiter stopped dead, embarrassed not to have realized that St. Cloud needed a drink, the elderly Frenchman finished his first glass, put it back and took another.
“Most kind, dear boy,” he said lightly . . .
“Don’t you think,” St. Cloud said to Raf, “that our host should rescue his daughter from having to talk to that little idiot?” He jerked his head towards the sofa, where Tewfik Pasha still sat with Zara, while Hani squatted impatiently on the arm.
“Maybe she likes talking to him,” said Raf.
The industrialist raised his eyebrows and went to do as St. Cloud suggested.
“What percentage?” Raf demanded, the moment Hamzah was gone.
St. Cloud looked at him.
“What percentage of the Midas Refinery do you currently own?” Raf didn’t bother to keep the anger out of his voice.
“Seven percent, maybe eight . . . Enough to make Hamzah respectable, not enough to make a difference. It’s in all the records.”