The Cairo Diary (32 page)

The alarm sounded inside her head. She could no longer go back. In five seconds she had just exploded all of her previous lies. And all the efforts of the DST. What was happening to her? Why was she cracking now?

Béatrice swallowed noisily. She no longer looked remotely like someone about to laugh. She glanced toward the connecting door with the sitting room, checking that it was firmly closed.

“It was the DST who brought me to the Mount one night.”

“The DST?”

“The French secret service. They're in charge of protecting the homeland. That sometimes involves matters that threaten state security. Its equilibrium.”

“Shit,” murmured Béatrice. “What did you do?”

Nervously, Marion smoothed an eyebrow. She'd started now, and she'd have to go on. “Nothing. I was there at the wrong time, that's all.”

“Did you threaten to kill the president, or what?”

Marion waved away the idea and threw her head back. “I don't work in an ad agency. I'm actually a secretary. At the Paris morgue.”

Béatrice's eyes widened in amazement.

“When I came back from vacation, very early one morning, I happened to walk through a dissection room. There was a copy of an autopsy report lying on the floor. I thought there had been an autopsy during the night, it happens sometimes, when there's a real emergency, and that the doctor had just finished his report and brought it down to give to the officer from the judicial police. And that he'd forgotten one copy, which had fallen on the ground. So I picked it up. And skimmed through it.”

She paused. The emotions of the memory and its consequences hit her all at once. “At the end of September, a famous politician died at home of a heart attack.”

“Yes, oh well, that's something everybody knows! Especially with what's been said since.”

“He was autopsied discreetly one night at the Médico-légal Institute in Paris. And it was that report that I found.”

Béatrice frowned as Marion's account poured out in a disjointed flood: “The medical examiner who carried out the analysis of the body stipulated that there had been no heart attack, but poisoning, which was shown by the specialist's toxicology reports. The man had died from ingesting too much Arpamyl, a drug belonging to the group of calcium-inhibitors, prescribed for problems with heart rhythm. When I read that I was surprised, but no more than that; I hadn't fully understood. It was just a political matter to me. I took the report back up, and placed it among my documents while I waited until a bit later to go and hand it back to the doctor concerned when he arrived. But the day went by and he didn't come. On the radio, they were still mentioning a heart attack as the cause of death; they even stated that this had been confirmed by the previous day's autopsy. I sensed that something didn't ring true. So I kept the copy. That evening, they were still saying the same thing. The following morning, the doctor who had carried out the autopsy in question came back. I went to find him to discuss it with him. Immediately he shut his office door and asked me to give him back the report. He confided to me that this was an affair of state, that he and I weren't in a position to judge such things, and that we must forget everything. I could clearly see that he was afraid—he was sweating with anxiety—yet I refused. At that moment, medical secrecy and all the rest seemed completely futile to me. If people talked about serious lies, about a suspicious death, that changed everything. The doctor almost threatened me when I left the room. I immediately faxed the report to the editors of all the major Paris dailies.”

“You did what?”

“I was afraid. And I thought it was the best thing to do. And I called an officer from the judicial police, a cop I knew, to explain it all to him. Later that evening, two guys came to take me to one side and chat with me. Men from the DST. And all the shit started.”

“Did they threaten you?” Béatrice wanted to know.

“No, on the contrary. They told me that things were going to be difficult for me. That I should keep my mouth shut for the time being, and above all not talk about what I had done. It was during the following week that the real scandal erupted, when it emerged that the last person who had visited the politician was unknown, but had been traveling in one of the cars attached to the Elysée Palace. The press lost no time divulging information that smacked of heresy. That the president's wife's hypertension was treated with regular doses of Arpamyl, exactly the substance that had killed the poor man. The media emphasized that there were sizable differences of opinion between the two major politicians, that they were making things difficult for each other for the coming election.

“This story is completely nuts, I know. Everyone says it's impossible that the president could be mixed up in the murder in any way, and at the same time the others say that on the contrary, it's the final act of a man engorged with power, overshadowed by his own ego, who no longer has any idea what he's doing because now he only lives for this illusion of permanent success. They say it's the vice of power, its hidden face, I've read all that. But the idea of me being the originator of the whole sordid mess.… Good grief!”

Marion couldn't stop herself now. “Public opinion started really rumbling, massively, when a new autopsy of the corpse was ordered by way of a second opinion and it was discovered that it had disappeared. The body had been taken from its drawer in the morgue without anybody noticing, vanishing forever. It's then that I fully realized the real implications of what was happening.”

“I remember. Even here people threatened to march on the capital if they weren't told the truth. And they're still talking about it in the cafés!”

Marion continued her explanation as a kind of catharsis: “The medical examiner who had conducted the initial autopsy denied the new version in its entirety; he confirmed that death had been caused by a heart attack. He had been well-briefed—him and the man who carried out the toxicological analyses. I don't know what they were told, but it worked. They stated that it was a hoax. The autopsy report received by the editors was a forgery. And yet the sender's fax number corresponded to that of the Médico-légal Institute. The press set out to find the person who sent it. Me.”

“Did they find you?”

“No. The cops I'd contacted managed to keep the secret. During this time, they registered an official interest in the affair and opened an investigation. I was told that I would be called as a witness if there was a trial. It was at that moment that the DST came back to see me. They explained that things were going too far, and I must be put somewhere safe.”

“Since they're the secret service themselves, what were they afraid of?”

“The president's personal bodyguard. The shadowy men in his party. Who knows? They didn't tell me anything.”

“I don't understand. If the DST deals with the balance of the nation, why are they protecting you? Usually, in films, they don't get bogged down in details. Bang bang, one shot with a silencer, and the embarrassing witness is feeding the fish in the Seine.”

“In films … in reality, the DST aren't mercenaries in the pay of the president. They really do act for the good of the country. That's what I was told. And they've proved it with me. A scandal implicating the president in a case of political murder causes a stir; if in addition to this you discover that he's had someone assassinate the girl who made it all public, it's civil war! It seems to me that there are interminable power struggles among all the country's official organs. The DST distrusts the bodyguards at the Elysée, and certain police officers and gendarmes, and so on. So they stick me a long way from everybody, long enough to clear away the undergrowth and see things more clearly. And then bring me back to life. And if there were to be legal proceedings, well, I'll have my bit to say, as a witness.… All this because of an autopsy report that went astray, the sort of thing that's so stupid that you can't believe it could happen. Put that in a film, and everyone will think it's ridiculous. And then reality shows you that it's even more simple and ridiculous. In the meantime, I have to hide.”

“So you came here. Could it last a long time?”

Marion rubbed her temples; she was tired. “I don't know. Long enough for things to calm down, I was told. That's the worst thing. Not knowing when I'll be going home.”

Béatrice finished her drink. “My God…” She comforted her friend, placing a hand on her back.

“I'm going to go,” announced Marion.

“Do you want to sleep here? I can make you up a camp bed on the settee.…”

“No, that's really kind. But I'm going to go back and read a little, that'll give me a change of thought. I'm sure to see you tomorrow.”

Marion left her confidante on the doorstep. She could feel Béatrice's eyes on her until she disappeared around the corner of the street.

38

At nine o'clock in the morning, the heat was already so intense that all the Westerners went out with parasols in their hands.

Jeremy Matheson paid a dragoman to accompany him into the districts of Abbasiya and Gamaliya in order to find out what Azim had done the previous day. Through his guide and translator, he asked a thousand questions, little by little building up a picture of his colleague's actions.

Early in the afternoon, he emerged from a long conversation with the imam who had accompanied the lookouts the previous evening. His name had swiftly come to Jeremy's ears; news of the nightlong watch and search organized by the Arab detective had reached everyone in Gamaliya. On the other hand, Azim's disappearance had made tongues harder to loosen, but it had not taken Jeremy long to find the appropriate keys, using gentleness, bribery, or a degree of violence where necessary.

Khalil, the man who had waited on the roof with Azim, joined them at Jeremy's request.

He and the imam gave a complete account of the night, Azim's plan, and how he had responded to the terrified signal of one of the lookouts posted in a southern sector of el-Gamaliya. The man on duty had spotted Azim approaching without managing to follow him for very long, as the detective had melted into the labyrinth of narrow streets and not reemerged. At dawn, all the lookouts had dispersed, sensing that the
ghul
had struck again, this time choosing an adult victim.

Leaving the mosque, Jeremy knew two things about the
ghul
: its physical description, which Azim had given him swiftly over the telephone, and the fact that its lair was in a basement in the southern part of Gamaliya. Jeremy hurried back to his rail car, where he took a shower. The cool water was insufficient to wash the stickiness from his skin and clothing. Unease was still weighing hard upon his heart, as heavily as a migraine on his forehead.

Jeremy picked up the telephone and called Keoraz's secretary. He wanted to hear the sound of his voice. To know what he was doing. He couldn't let go of him.

The secretary explained that it was impossible to reach Mr. Keoraz. Jeremy insisted, introducing himself as a detective, and the secretary confided that her employer was in town, shopping for a surprise for his wife. He would be back in two hours.

Jeremy hung up without another word. He opened his mouth and gulped in great lungfuls of air.

He was taunting the serpent, and in return he must accept being bitten.

Imagining Keoraz's repulsive physique offering Jezebel a new dress drove the breath from his body. How had they got to this point? Jeremy stood up, went to pour himself a drink, and stopped on the way. This wasn't the time. He had better things to do.

*   *   *

He arrived at the police station on the banks of the Nile in the late afternoon. The pain in his chest had faded.

The terrible news had been awaiting him for less than an hour.

Azim had been found.

In a tomb at the caliphs' necropolis.

Jeremy had someone drive him there, his head leaning back and his eyes closed throughout the journey. To all outward appearances, serene.

He said not a word, walked across the sand to the ancient building, which had partially collapsed, and entered what must have been a lobby.

The setting sun illuminated the center through broad, open apertures, radiating in brilliant red pools, making the grains of sand sparkle pink, orange, and carmine.

Azim was on his knees, his face totally buried in the ground, with only his black hair visible above it. His hands were tied behind his back with a rope that was worn, but stronger than a man's wrists. He was no longer wearing his trousers.

A wooden stake, the same dimensions as the shaft of a spade, was sticking out of his anus, a frothy white substance still covering part of the stake. A large quantity of blood, which had not yet entirely dried, stained the area between the detective's legs, and his thighs were covered with it.

The end of the shaft was flattened, split by powerful blows.

The scenario was crystal-clear.

The wooden bar had been forced into Azim's anatomy by smearing it with soap before making it penetrate further than was anatomically possible by hitting the end with a mallet.

A slow, unbearable death.

Inspectors, mainly Arabs, were milling around the edges of the scene, running up from all over the city to take stock of the horror.

They spoke in low voices, sickened, drawing their own conclusions. To judge from the evidence, Azim had been killed here, as the necropolis was deserted in the small hours and nobody could hear his screams; it was convenient. So the killer must have had a car in order to get here with his victim, which excluded 90 percent of the population.

Jeremy heard someone whisper that he recognized the torture; it was an ancient punishment dating from Egypt's Ottoman period.

Whoever had committed this monstrosity was playing with history.