Ismail looked up at me, his eyes narrowed, then he grinned. “Is good, Zhaik.”
“Yes, is good,” I said. “Anyway, they’re loaded, but she wants to keep it quiet. She said something really weird though. She said her brother-in-law had killed him before, and she thought he might have done it again.”
Ismail’s grin suddenly faded and his eyes widened. “What is this woman, Zhaik?”
I frowned. “Madame Fouad. That’s her name. I didn’t get a first name. Her husband’s name-the guy in the picture-his name’s Ossie.”
Ismail gave a slight shake of his head.
“Anyway, it’s all to do with the brother, or so she says. It’s all to do with the company, Ra Industries. The brother’s name is Seth.”
Ismail suddenly sucked air through his teeth and shook his head. “I cannot help you, Zhaik.”
“Come on, Ismail.”
He leaned forward, close enough that I could smell his breath, his body. “Is bad business, Zhaik. You walk away, yes.”
“What are you saying?” I said, leaning back.
He shook his head again. “You go now, Zhaik. You go now.”
I was about to protest, but Ismail sliced the air with his hand. I didn’t understand, but Ismail had been useful to me in the past, and I didn’t want to upset the relationship. Whatever I’d said had struck a nerve in places he didn’t want me to be. Sometimes their damned superstitions went a little too far. I wondered what it was this time.
I bid him a quick good bye, and left him there slowly shaking his head, not even bothering to finish my tea.
–
For the next few days I pursued my own inquiries. I hit a wall in every direction. I could find no record of the Fouads or anything to do with Ra Industries. Every way I turned, at the merest mention of those names, the shutters came crashing down. The dusty streets and alleyways of Cairo guard their secrets well, but I’d never seen anything like this. Usually a few Egyptian pounds is enough to loosen lips. Not this time. I was left scratching my head, grinding my teeth with frustration, dreading the call from Madame Fouad, knowing I had nothing to give her.
Two days later the call came. It wasn’t Madame Fouad. It was Ismail.
“Zhaik,” said the breathy voice at the other end of the line. “You must come. I have something for you.”
“What is it, Ismail?” There was something in his voice-no banter, all seriousness.
“You must come, Zhaik.” The line went dead.
I jumped in a cab and headed for the Khan, not even bothering to haggle over the price. Ismail was waiting for me when I got there.
“What have you got?” He looked nervous, jittery. He shook his head, beckoning for me to follow him into the depths of the marketplace. He didn’t even bother checking that someone would look after his store.
Ismail lead the way, pushing past stallholders and browsers alike. I knew the section. One of my other contacts plied his trade from a small antiques store in the very area, but the store Ismail led me to was unfamiliar. Ismail ushered me inside a small shop, cluttered with statuary, tomb fragments, and papyri. He closed the door firmly behind us. A moment later, we were joined by a small, rotund sweaty man, with a full black beard and thick glasses.
“This is Ali,” said Ismail. “This is his shop.”
I nodded.
“Come, come,” said Ali.
He led us into another back room. This one was far cleaner than Ismail’s. On a small table in the room’s center, sat a bundle, wrapped in newspaper and tied up with string. Ali reached across, retrieved a knife, and cut the string; then waved me toward the package. Looking from one to the other, I gingerly reached forward and started unfolding the newspaper. I swallowed and stepped back. What lay revealed was a foot. I reached forward and prodded it with the tip of one finger. It was a foot all right. I peered closer. Neatly manicured nails, slightly dark skin, and a clean cut at the ankle.
“Where did you get this?” I said.
“A local fishermen. It comes from the river three days ago.”
Three days ago? It looked recently removed. Very recently removed.
“What’s happened? Where has it been kept?”
“Ali has had it here. I hear about it. I talk to him. I call you, Zhaik. He has it here maybe two days, I think.”
But that was impossible. Sitting wrapped in newspaper for a couple of days in the Cairo heat, a severed foot wasn’t going to look like that. I reached out and folded the newspaper back over, swallowing back my disbelief.
“At least put the damn thing in a fridge,” I said.
There was nothing to indicate that this was who I was looking for, but somehow, deep inside, I knew it was. I turned away from the table, one hand massaging the back of my neck. One foot did not a body make. This was probably a matter for the Cairo police, but I didn’t want to involve them yet. I turned back to Ismail.
“Get him to keep it here. Ask around. See if anything else has shown up. Until then… I don’t know.”
The next thing to turn up was a head. There was no doubt about who it belonged to. I couldn’t deny the possibilities any longer.
Right on cue, that evening, the call I was dreading came. I heard her voice on the end of the line, and my heart sank.
“I have some bad news,” I told her.
“Yes, what is it?” she said, her voice calm, her tone even.
“We think we’ve found your husband.”
“We? What is this ‘we,’ Jacques?”
I paused at that. “I use a couple of contacts, a couple of people who work for me, Madame Fouad. I can trust them.”
“All right. So tell me.”
“Well, we haven’t exactly found all of him.”
“I see. What have you found?”
“So far, only a foot and his head. I’m sorry, Madame Fouad.”
Her next statement blindsided me completely. I expected tears. I expected wailing. “Ah, very good, Jacques,” she said. “You have truly earned your fee.”
I held the phone away from my ear, staring at it in disbelief. Slowly, I brought it back to my ear.
“Madame Fouad?”
“Did you hear me, Jacques?”
“No, I’m sorry…”
“Make sure to keep the pieces you have safe. Continue searching. I have faith in you, Jacques. I will be in touch to arrange collection of what you have.”
The connection went dead, and I lowered the phone.
–
Over the next couple of weeks, the word went out, and one by one, pieces of the body turned up. A cowherd brought in one. A local farmer another. A tourist guide yet another. Every piece, wrapped in leaves, or newspapers, or blue plastic bags were all in the same perfect condition, as if they’d been severed mere minutes before. I didn’t understand it. I didn’t really want to. Ismail, his pockmarked superstitious face filled with knowing, seemed to accept it as if it was something that happened every day. Every couple of days, Madame Fouad called, monitoring the progress.
Of course we paid. We paid in bits and pieces for the bits and pieces, and the word spread. By the end, we had fourteen individual parts. We had the whole Ossie Fouad in pieces, all except for one. And maybe he didn’t need that piece anymore. After all, according to my research, he already had a son, a healthy young man called Horace, all set to take over the company when his own time came. I met him when he and his mother came to collect the pieces.
A good-looking young man, with his father’s skin, he leaned in close to me as he bundled the neatly wrapped pieces of his father’s corpse into the back of a truck.
“We cannot thank you enough, Mr. Jacques,” he said. “But I would keep out of sight for a while. Your fee should look after you. After my father’s resurrection, my uncle will not be pleased. He doesn’t take kindly to failure. I would give you this word of caution. My uncle Set does not forget and his reach is long. Watch for him in the darkness.”