The Arabesk Trilogy Omnibus (32 page)

“They’re searching Ashraf Bey’s house.”

“He won’t be there…”

The woman spat. “Of course he won’t. He’s under arrest. They’re looking for proof the pig killed his aunt for the money…”

“What money?”

“There was money,” she said shortly. “And there’s a reward for information. That’s what I heard.” The next time Raf looked, the woman was shuffling towards a uniformed officer, ignoring outstretched arms that offered coins for her remaining fruit.

“Out of there.”

Raf was moving in the opposite direction before he realized what the fox had ordered his body to do.
Too fast,
the fox told him, its voice faint. And Raf halted his panic-driven trot to a slow stroll, pushing his way to the front of the crowd. He was helping kill off the fox, by making it appear in daylight. They both knew that. But the fox had never said anything about it, never criticized.

“Head for Mushin.”

The man he’d come looking for stood like a poisoned dwarf just inside Rue Cif, staring hard at the rear door to the madersa. What did the man hope to find? Raf had no idea. Unless the Minister was just there to be seen by the news ’copters overhead and the ground crews.

“Shield,”
whispered the voice in his head and then it was gone, fading to static that fizzled and died. Raf was alone again.

Tossing his half-finished pitta into the dirt, Raf flashed Felix’s gold shield at a surprised police sergeant and stepped over the tape before the man had a chance to check the name or protest. The fact that Raf headed straight for Mushin Bey was enough to make the sergeant step back, muttering bitterly about plain-clothed shitheads.

“Hey, you,” said the Minister. “Back behind the line.” The small man didn’t just look like a cinema usher, he sounded like one too.

Raf grinned and flipped open Felix’s pass to show the shield and then as the Minister’s eyes widened, rammed the barrel of the fat man’s revolver hard into the small man’s thigh. “I’ve got his gun, too,” said Raf, relying on their distance from the crowd and the long sleeve of his own jellaba to keep the revolver hidden.

“You won’t…”

“I just did,” said Raf. He nodded towards the middle of Rue Cif, where the closed-off street stood dark and empty and the crowd and police looked very far away. “Take a walk.”

Mushin Bey wanted to complain, to threaten, to promise Raf that he’d be hunted down like a dog—but one look at the hard edge to the young bey’s face told him not to waste his breath. This man would kill him if necessary. And all that Raf knew about the Minister, he read written in fear on a weasel face and deduced from panic rising from the man’s skin, unsweetened by courage.

He was no more a real head of police than Raf was a real bey. Mushin Bey was a politician, which put him off the list where killing Felix was concerned. The man had needed Felix, rotted liver and all.

“Okay,” said Raf. “It’s murder now you think you can pin Nafisa on me, but it was suicide when you couldn’t. So tell me, who are you protecting?”

“No one,” said the Minister. “As you well know.” He sounded like he believed it. And he tried to stare back, but his pale eyes slid away from the wraparounds bisecting Raf’s face, fear subverting any real anger.

It was a feeling Raf suddenly recognised. Already there was a fragment of worry inside his head telling him to put down the gun and surrender. To give himself up to authority as he always did eventually, once the brief flare of anger had burned out to leave only the taste of failure in his mouth. A death penalty existed in Iskandryia as it did in all Ottoman cities, even the free ones, but he could cut a deal. He didn’t doubt that…

“We know about Felix fixing the autopsy,” the Minister said flatly. “What did you have on him? Little girls, drugs, payoffs…?”

“No one fixed that autopsy,” Raf said crossly, jostling the Minister further back towards an empty area of the street. “Unless it was you?”

Without intending to, Mushin Bey answered with an instinctive shake of his head so minute it was almost subliminal. Raf believed him. What he found impossible to believe was that the man wasn’t covering up for someone else.

“Tell me,” said Raf, “when did you switch from being certain it was suicide to being certain it wasn’t?”

“When you had Felix killed. I assume you suddenly realized he’d stuffed you up with that suicide verdict.”

“When I…? He was dying,” said Raf. “It was a
coup de grâce.”

And then the Minister explained something that stood Raf’s day on its head and made a mockery of the scribbled and intricate chart of connections carried deep in Raf’s pocket. Mushin Bey wasn’t talking about the shooting. He meant the bomb. They’d found the man who’d delivered it and he was happy to help. The Minister paused for a second and amended that to
very
happy to help. And what really impressed the Minister, and he was prepared to admit this, was Raf’s idea of arranging for the bomb to be delivered to himself. What better way to divert guilt…

“It was meant for me?”

“Don’t…” The Minister didn’t get to the next word because by then Raf was bringing up his gun.

“You know what I think?” Raf said as he flicked back the hammer and positioned the muzzle carefully under the Minister’s chin so any bullet fired would be guaranteed to remove most of the back of the man’s skull. “I think you know who killed Lady Nafisa.”

“Me?” Anxiety shrivelled Mushin Bey’s face. Panic blossoming until it was only a matter of seconds before the Minister either soiled himself or else started pleading for his own life. And every emotion inside the man was stripped naked except for the one that Raf actually sought.

Guilt would have been enough to make him pull the trigger.

“I didn’t murder Felix and I certainly didn’t murder Lady Nafisa.” Raf’s voice was hard. “I’m not so sure you didn’t, but you get the benefit of my doubt…” That was the kind of crap Dr Millbank used to speak all the time. “But
someone
killed them, and if that turns out to be you…

“Remember,” Raf told the man, “I trained in places that wouldn’t even let you through the fucking door.” And with that, he leaned forward and dropped something soft into the Minister’s pocket, smoothing the jacket neatly into place.

“The remains of that plastique I didn’t take,” Raf said simply. “Take you off at the hips, no question.” He thrust one hand into his own pocket and kept it there, closing his fingers round a tube with a spring-loaded button on top. “I’m going to walk out of here. You cause me
any
problems and I’ll leave you as chopped steak all over the street. You understand me?”

The minister did.

Idly clicking the button on a breath-mint dispenser as he walked away, Raf wondered how long it would take Mushin Bey to discover that the object burning a hole in his pocket was actually one uneaten plum.

“Yes, I shot him…”

Two wheels bit and the bike was flying. Hot summer wind rammed its way through ventilation ducts cut into the bike’s aero dynamically perfect fairing, cooling the Japanese v-twin as DJ Avatar red-lined his whole way down the sweep of the Corniche.

“And I’d do it again.”

He was too fired up on the mix, too wired to check his profile in the smoked windows of expensive cafés lining the final stretch of road.

“Right now, tomorrow, next year, whenever.”

Av didn’t recognize the man’s voice—because they’d never spoken—but he knew who it was. Just as he knew for sure it had to be Zara who’d dumped the file into his postbox. Her way of apologizing for who the
morales
drove home and who they kept locked up in a basement for forty-eight hours with a pisspot for company. Though where a murderer and his half-sister fitted together… Well, that was some place he definitely didn’t plan to go for too long.

All the same, the mix was sweet and its message sweeter still. Pure and illegal as the fragments of meth still burning the back of his throat. The police had cracked the club but this was his revenge.

Simple bass went nowhere slowly. The synth line looped colder than liquid nitrogen, crackling with static.

“Believe it. This is DJ Avatar and that was
the Bey.
Coming at you from the wrong side of the mirror…” The boy hit a button on his handlebar: manic laughter drowning out the track and then it was back, sucking its way inside his brain and the brain of everybody else listening, which by now was most of the city.

“Enjoy…” The bass dropped out to be replaced by a double heartbeat and the sound of pure anger, expertly mixed.

“Let me tell you about Felix…”

CHAPTER 40

31st July

A wave rolled over Raf’s shoulder, leaving droplets that
shone like opals in the noon sun, their salt still prickling his factor 40-coated skin.
Let me tell you about…

He couldn’t get Av’s mix out of his skull but had moved beyond minding.

Behind him, the moored VSV operated at half stealth, which gave it the radar profile of a small fishing boat. Raf didn’t even know where he was, only that the vessel was nestling between two rocky headlands off a low island that lacked any fresh water. And that didn’t matter: Zara had brought her own supply and, anyway, VSVs carried small desalination units at the stern.

The sea was wine-dark, the sky a blue so impossible that, even through shades, it looked as if some unseen hand had ditched the presets and started messing with both saturation and brightness. Umber-hued shrubs lined the lower reaches of a stunted hill, their gnarled roots clawed into the thin dirt that had collected between huge rocks—and Raf could smell the scent of lavender blowing towards him on a warm wind.

They were there because Zara had announced that going there would be a good idea. And, without being told, Raf got the feeling that she’d visited the island many times before, though with whom she didn’t say. All Raf knew about her island was that it was three hours from Iskandryia—three hours, that was, if one travelled in a boat that cut through waves the way light skewered darkness.

“Hey, look at me.”

Raf watched as Hani launched herself, head first, off the side of the boat to sink below the waves in a stream of bubbles. She was diving, if it counted as diving to sit on the very edge of the deck and bend forward so far that her arms almost touched the waves.

“Did you see?”

Raf nodded and trod water as Hani splashed her way towards him with clumsy strokes. “Got you,” she said, her arms coming up round his neck: so that Raf was suddenly carrying her slight weight. The child’s hair spread in rat’s tails across a face that was suddenly split by a knowing grin. “Are we running away?”

“Only for today.”

Hani nodded thoughtfully. “Better do some more dives, then.”

From the deck of the VSV, Zara smiled as the child unhooked her arms and paddled back towards the boat. Her father, now—he ran in the opposite direction from responsibility and called it work.

Watching Raf with Hani was like seeing storm clouds clear. Zara knew exactly what had burnt out the storm, because she’d orchestrated it. Well, sort of… It began when Raf was out, checking exactly what was happening at the madersa and she’d started going over all the men she’d known, which wasn’t many. Whatever his reasons, her father had little to do with his brother and so she’d never met her cousins on that side. And her mother was an only child, as if that wasn’t obvious.

Boyfriends: there’d been two in New York. She’d chucked one of them and one had chucked her, but both times it had been over the same thing. Speaking to her friends in student halls, Zara had taken to referring euphemistically to the reason as
cultural differences.

Both boys had been white, both Protestant, both uptight and angry but too repressed to discuss it, do anything about it, except glower or sulk. She saw the same repression in Raf, for all that he was meant to be half Berber. He could undoubtedly do both in-your-face or reserved—violence being the flip side of stepped-back—but a straight-out raise-your-voice hand-waving argument? Zara didn’t think so. Which was why, after he finally got back from talking to Mushin Bey the previous night, she hadn’t given him any option…

And for a while she hadn’t been sure she was right.

Sitting on the floor of the VSV, darkness falling over the Western Harbour outside, Raf had rubbed one hand tiredly across the back of his neck and asked the kind of question you ask when your anger has been coming out of every radio in every cab in the city. And when getting home means walking unnoticed and unknown past slum kids chanting your words in the street.

It was too late to stop Avatar’s mix burrowing worm-like into the city, because
InnerSense/Fight Bac
was racking up heavy rotation, roughly every fourth play. But Raf still wanted to know one thing:

“How the hell did he get it?”

Zara swept the hair out of her eyes and hugged Hani closer. The child was curled up into a little ball, her head on Zara’s knee and the rag dog clutched between sleeping hands.

“Own the streets,” said Zara, quoting a liberation theosophist currently serving twenty-five years solitary in Stambul, “and you’ve got the city… He does it from the back of a bike, you know. Doesn’t need to, that’s just the way it’s developed.”

“Who does?”

“Avatar. My brother…” Zara made it a point of principle never to add the
half.

“Your…?”

Zara nodded, “Yes,” she said. “Av. You met him on the tram. I gave him the sound file.”

“You what?”

Their argument went from there. And at the point when Hani scrambled off Zara’s lap to cower against the bulkhead, her thin legs tucked up to her chin and her eyes wide with fright, having everything out in the open no longer seemed such a good idea to Zara and the damage looked done.

Zara had just finished accusing Raf of being an arrogant, over-bred, emotionally retarded inadequate and Raf was explaining to Zara in over-simple words why it wasn’t his fault if she was some spoilt little rich bitch who’d got done for stripping off at an illegal club.