Animal porn, just a different kind. Cuddly images for a cold planet, used to fund the stuff that really interested her, like filming predators. Not that he was bitter or anything. 'She did a lot of the work for love,' said Raf, forcing himself to be fair. It had to be for love, because, God knew, there'd been little enough money in it. And it probably wasn't her fault the only way she could cope with a damaged world was by examining it through a lens or the bottom of a vodka bottle. But then, nor was her life his fault either, whatever she might have said ...
'Let's go back to the steam room.'
Hamzah smiled. 'Getting a taste for it, eh?'
Sitting side by side and naked in the boiling mist, both men knew the real interview was beginning. But Lady Nafisa hadn't made clear to Raf who had final approval. All she'd said was that he shouldn't commit to any fact that could be checked, that he should keep answers vague and always return a question with a question.
She might know that Raf had spent years locked in a Seattle jail but there was no reason why Hamzah had to know too.
'You've been in America?' The industrialist's voice was studiedly relaxed, almost urbane. He hardly glanced at an ugly slash of scar tissue above Raf's right hip and when he did it was fleeting. Raf could have told him about the operation he'd had at five on a kidney but that story was as boring as the month he'd spent wired to machines.
'Were you working over there?'
'Something like that.' Raf stood and stretched, twisting his head to one side like a man with a bad crick in his neck. It fooled neither of them.
'Lady Nafisa mentioned that you were an honorary attache.'
Did she? Reluctant to lie outright, Raf retreated into something close to the truth. To be honest,' he said, 'most of my time was spent on a doctorate.'
Behind bars, with limited web access and no on-campus visits.
'Finance?' Hamzah asked, looking suddenly interested.
'No,' said Raf. 'Alternative timelines. They've very big in the US right now.' That, at least, was true. 'It's a way of understanding what happened by looking at what didn't but quite easily might have done ... You know, say America had actually joined the Third Balkan War ..."
'They stayed neutral. So did we.'
'Not the 1966-75 conflict,' said Raf, 'The Third Balkan, 1914-15. Say Woodrow Wilson hadn't cut a deal between Berlin and London but had sent in troops on Britain's side. London might have been victorious. The Kaiser might have been fatally weakened ..."
The Kaiser was always going to win,' Hamzah said flatly. 'History is what God writes.'
Raf sighed. 'Just imagine,' he said. 'The Prussian empire breaks up in 1923, just as the Austro-Hungarians almost did. Might the Ottomans have fallen? What would have happened to Egypt's Khedive?'
'The Khedive ..." Hamzah knew better than to accuse a bey of treason. Especially not one who was about to marry his daughter. And no doubt, all this what if was merely some sophisticated game played by people without real jobs. But it sounded like treason to him.
Besides, Hamzah knew what had happened. Every schoolboy across North Africa knew that Islam had trampled colonialism into the ground. On Suvla plain, the English king's own servants from Sandringham had been killed to the last man. The slaughter at Gallipoli broke the warmongers' spirit.
Fatally weakened, the British were driven from Egypt by General Saad Zaghloul. Having stolen Libya in 1911, Italy was forced to give it back six years later, and the French relinquished Tunis.
Fifteen years of smouldering unrest followed. Nationalists, fundamentalists, Bolsheviks ... but money from the Arabian oilfields bought them all off in the end. Mosques were built, hospitals erected and schools set up to educate the children of the poor. His grandfather had been one of them. The child of a felah who sharecropped a single strip of Nile mud far to the south of Iskandryia and resented bitterly the interference of effendi who demanded his child attend class when there was bersim to gather and irrigation channels to be kept open with a broad-bladed hoe.
From felah to effendi in three generations. That was worth something. And Hamzah's doctorate was in engineering. Which was worth something too. The industrialist nodded to his bodyguard and stood up to go. He had bribes to pay, building contracts to negotiate, a new captain to find for the Iraklion run.
Olga, his PA, would be waiting at the office with a long list of people to see and calls he should make. Most of which he would ignore.
'Where were you an attache?' The final question was asked from politeness alone. Beys were obviously different and Ham-zah made no pretence of seeing any value in the theories expounded by his future son-in-law.
'Seattle,' said Raf.
Hamzah sat down again. This time when his gaze flicked to the slash across Raf's ribs they stayed there. And when he looked back again there was something in his eyes that looked very like guilt.
One heavy hand came up to rest briefly on Raf's shoulder. 'I had no idea. No one told me.'
Raf said nothing because that was what someone who'd worked unofficially at the Seattle consulate would have said.
That's confidential, obviously,' Raf muttered finally. 'So please don't mention it to anyone.'
'But I have to tell
'No,' said Raf, looking Hamzah straight in the eyes. 'What I did was insignificant. An honorary attache is just someone's unpaid assistant.'
'And the person you worked for is dead.' It wasn't a question. Hamzah had watched the official broadcasts. And even if he hadn't, the bombing of the consulate in Seattle by Sword of God fundamentalists had filled the world's newsfeeds, swamped the radio stations and briefly turned even pirate TV into rolling 24-hour news channels.
Image after image had been bounced round the planet. Bodies being pulled from the wreckage of a concrete building with heavy balconies. Viewers only knew the consulate once had balconies because CNN researchers had found 'before' shots to emphasize the horror of what came after.
One car bomb alone would have caused structural damage. But the consulate had main streets on three of its sides and the delivery trucks had been perfectly synchronized, their drivers in constant communication. The police deduced that the suicide bombers had been in regular radio contact from several charred fragments of circuit-board and the say-so of a thirteen-year-old band scanner, who'd been irritated to find crypted static where he was expecting juicy neighbourhood gossip.
Chapter Eleven
3rd July
The free city was not just built on the rubble of its own history, it used that rubble in the rebuilding. Greek columns reshaped by Roman artisans now formed part of mosque doorways, having been ripped from an earlier Byzantine church. So, too, the cultures had mixed. Until the rich mix became its own culture.
Berlin thought El Iskandryia barbarous, the White House feared it and Baghdad dismissed the metropolis as decadent and forgotten by God. But realpolitik demanded a Mediterranean free port where oil, cotton and particularly information could be traded. And El Isk got the job.
Roman, Byzantine, Coptic, Muslim ... If ancient Babylon was the whore, then El Iskandryia had long been the courtesan: though for Islam's conquering army she was a sister to be brought back into the family. Napoleon called the city five shacks built over a dung heap. Nelson, being British, couldn't even get the sex right and dismissed the city as a crippled dog. But the insults meant nothing to Isk ...
For Isk was hermaphrodite, ageless. A vampire of a city. Venerable and elegant, with a taste for fresh blood — a taste that it kept hidden behind stately boulevards and impeccable manners, in daylight at least. Night-time found the city stretching itself and yawning to reveal ancient fangs. Though the half-smile never left its face and the dark glint never left its eye.