"Malika," Moz insisted.
"Forget her." The Major's voice was hard. "Worry about yourself." Turning to face the boy, he said, "I need you to tell me the truth. Were you here last Wednesday evening?"
"Of course he was." Jake's voice was equally sharp. "We've already been through this."
"I wasn't talking to you," said Major Abbas. Words that should have reduced Jake to frightened silence.
Jake just sighed. "I've been through it with Mr. de Greuze." He put heavy emphasis on the word "mister," so maybe the Frenchman wasn't a mister at all. He certainly behaved like an officer in the Sécurité, all sweaty skin and suspicious, watchful eyes.
"Well?" Major Abbas demanded.
"I was..." Moz knew exactly where he'd been. On the roof of Dar el Beida, the dog woman's old house opposite the entrance to Derb Yassin. Sun tightening the skin on his neck as he slowly unbuttoned the front of Malika's shirt. "I was with Malika," he said firmly. What else could he say?
The Major and the Frenchman looked at each other, then the Major glanced from Jake to where Moz sat beside Celia.
"You're certain?"
Moz nodded.
In de Greuze's pocket was a folded square of foolscap. A dark stain on one side forming a map of no country Moz could recognize, the other outlined Malika's part in planting a bomb for the Polisario. The confession used the word "I" a lot and Moz was referred to throughout as "he." It was signed in childish capitals.
"What's that?" When Jake stepped forward the Major also stepped forward, putting himself between Jake and the boy.
"Let him read it," Major Abbas said. "He's the only one who can tell us if this is true."
"Of course it isn't," Moz said, handing back the paper. "It's a lie."
"Malika didn't plant the bomb?"
Moz stared at the Major. "She was with me," he said firmly. "That's the truth. She was with me."
"And you were both where?"
"On the roof of Dar el Beida. I'm doing some painting there. An English friend of Jake's is going to buy the house." He would have told them about delivering the drugs for Caid Hammou, but then he'd have been in even worse trouble.
"Moz was not on that roof or any other," Jake said firmly. "The boy was here."
"And I'm expected to believe that?" de Greuze asked. He was looking at Jake when he said this, but it was Celia who answered. And for once her voice was matter-of-fact, no cut-glass drawl to drag her words beyond breaking.
"Moz was here," she said. "For the entire afternoon and evening. None of us even left this riad."
"That's not true..." Moz protested.
The four adults ignored him.
"You have witnesses?"
"Of course." It was Jake who answered the Frenchman. "Celia and I were both here. I say the boy never left my side and Celia is my witness."
"She's your girlfriend." A sour smile accompanied those words.
"No, she's not," said Jake, avoiding the Englishwoman's gaze. "She's my manager, and her name's Lady Celia Vere. Her uncle was British ambassador to Paris."
The look on de Greuze's face suggested this information was new to him. "And you," he said. "Should I know who you are?" His English was heavy but the sarcasm was edged with something that suggested he was reassessing.
Jake smiled. "I don't see why you should," he said. "It's not likely we've met."
The way Jake said this made Celia wince, but de Greuze barely seemed to notice. "I take it Jake Razor isn't your real name?"
"A persona," said Jake. "Nothing more."
"And your real name?" That was Major Abbas.
The name he gave meant little to Moz but de Greuze recognized it instantly and even Major Abbas blinked.
"As in...?"
Jake nodded, casually apologetic. And behind his nod were good schools, family trusts, Norland nannies and a New York bank and City of London brokerage that still bore his name. He'd been given the very best to resent and Jake had the wit to recognize that. Of all the facts stacking themselves up in the head of the elderly Frenchman, only one was really significant.
The financier about to donate Virgin and Child with St. Anne to the New York Met was Jake's grandfather. His donations to the Met, the National Gallery in London, the Paris Louvre and the Prado in Madrid were famous. His donations to competing political parties more famous still.
"You are still American?"
"For my sins," Jake said. "My mother was English," he added, catching Moz's eye. He'd told the boy he came from London. "I went to Westminster."
"It's not true," Moz said.
"Yes it is," insisted Jake. "I lived with my grandmother."
"No," said Moz tearfully. "It's not true that I was here. Malika and I spent the entire afternoon on the roof. She let me get into her knickers," he added desperately, as if that might convince them. "You're both lying."
"Moz." Celia's voice was firm. "You were here."
"No I wasn't." He sounded about twelve, Moz realized. Arguing in a language that wasn't even his own. "You know I was with Malika..." Actually, there was no way they could know that but Moz was beyond caring.
"Look," Celia said. "We know the girl's a good friend of yours but you can't help her. She confessed. When Mr. de Greuze came here we had to tell him the truth. You were with us." Her voice hesitated and something sad flitted across her face.
"With Jake," she amended. "Jake told him everything."
"I had to," Jake said. "It was the only way... And now I'm the one in trouble." He looked between Major Abbas and de Greuze, his eyes troubled, almost apologetic.
"What?" Moz asked. "What did you tell him?"
Although he already knew. Understanding now the look given him by the soldiers on the stairs of the police station, the contempt in the eyes of the Frenchman.
"I showed them the photographs."
What photographs? Moz wanted to shout, but his throat was tight and despair had begun to shake his body. He felt as if the whole world were watching him and the weight of their watching was more than he could bear.
"I'm sorry," Celia said, "there wasn't anything else we could do." Her eyes were huge with tears and she wouldn't look at Jake when he came back from collecting the folder.
There were maybe fifty photographs in all. Most showed Moz sleeping, his head cradled on a thin forearm, his naked body turned on its side and curled around itself like a child suspended in dreams. An upper sheet had been turned down in all of these, sometimes only as far as Moz's hips, although a few showed the sheet turned lower. The last showed him standing naked in a doorway, his head turned towards the camera and a surprised expression on his face.
"You took these?" Major Abbas asked.
Jake nodded.
The spike-haired, gangly boy from the Mellah was beautiful. Not handsome like Hassan or striking as Malika had been but beautiful, a single reed waiting to be broken.
"I'll take those," said Major Abbas, holding out his hand.
"Why?" de Greuze looked puzzled.
"Evidence," said the Major.
CHAPTER 42
Lampedusa, Monday 9 July [Now]
"You know what," said Petra Mayer, fanning photographs out on the mattress in two neat rows. "I can't believe it took me this long to work out. These are you. You're the Arab boy."
The speed with which Prisoner Zero jerked his gaze from the window was impressive.