The Labyrinth of Osiris (75 page)

Hefting the carrier on to his shoulder, he turned his back on the valley and set off on the long walk home.

J
ERUSALEM

Joel Regev sat forward as the recovery program threw up the password he needed. Menorah3. Not even weak, which was why the program had delivered in less than five minutes. You’d have thought a policeman would be a bit more cautious about these things, but that wasn’t his concern. None of it was his concern. He was only doing it because Dov had begged him, said it was important. He typed the password into the log-in field and hit OK.

‘You’re in business,’ he called as the screen came up.

Zisky walked through from the kitchen where he was making coffee. Regev vacated the chair for him.

‘I don’t need to tell you this is seriously illegal, hacking a police computer.’

‘It’s only for a few minutes. I just need to check something.’

‘Well, check it quickly. I’ve bounced us around so we can’t be traced, but I still don’t want to take any chances.’

Zisky gave him a thumbs-up and leant into the screen, his glasses glowing in the ambient light. Regev left him to it.

Ben-Roi was dead. The news had come into the station late that afternoon. No absolute confirmation, no details except that an anonymous call had been received from someone in Egypt. Zisky didn’t need details. It was to do with the Kleinberg case. No question. The case that had had Egypt written all over it and that yesterday afternoon had been mysteriously bumped upstairs. Why exactly it had been bumped upstairs no one was saying, although he could take an educated guess. What he did know was that a rumour had been doing the rounds about Ben-Roi sending an e-mail. He’d sent an e-mail, the shit had hit the fan, and that’s when the investigation had been kicked into touch.

He needed to see that mail. Which was why he’d inveigled Joel into deploying his cyber security skills to hack Ben-Roi’s account. Circling the mouse, he clicked on the mail icon, followed by the Sent box. It was the first thing listed. The last message Ben-Roi had ever sent. To Leah Shalev, copied into Chief Gal and Chief Superintendent Baum. Heading: Case Solved.

Tweaking the clips holding his
yarmulke
, he sat back and read.

He’d been hurt by the way Ben-Roi had spoken to him at their last meeting – ‘It’s “sir” to you!’ – but that didn’t in any way diminish his admiration for the man. In a force with more than its fair share of bigots and arseholes, Ben-Roi had proved himself one of the good guys. The best. That’s why he’d got such a buzz out of partnering him these two weeks (‘Although not in
that
sense!’ He could almost hear Ben-Roi’s voice).

And that’s why, also, he had a curious feeling that Ben-Roi would approve of what he was now doing. Was somehow, somewhere, egging him on. Like him, the big man had had his own take on things. They’d made a good team. Could have made a great one.

He read through to the end of the report, his amazement growing with each page. And, also, his admiration at the way Ben-Roi had tied it all together. Then, reaching up and fingering the silver
Magen David
at his neck, he tried to work out what to do. Because he
had
to do something. He couldn’t just let it lie. He owed that to Ben-Roi. And to his mother as well.

‘I’ll be a good policeman,’ he’d promised her that last time in the hospital, holding her hand, stroking her prematurely bald head. ‘Always try to do the right thing, bring the wrongdoers to justice.’

He thought for a couple of minutes, twirling the pendant. Then, with a nod and a smile, he Googled two names. Clicking on the e-mail’s Forward button, he copied over the relevant addresses: [email protected], [email protected]. He changed the subject heading to SCOOP, pressed send, waited till he was sure it had gone, then shut everything down and went through into the kitchen, wondering what sort of bomb he’d set off.

‘Fancy a beer?’ he asked.

L
UXOR

Nathaniel Barren stood on the balcony of his suite in the Winter Palace Hotel, leaning his dropsied hulk against the stone balustrade, gazing out across the Nile towards the distant looming humpback of the Theban hills.

He’d done what was necessary in the Valley of the Kings, returned to the hotel, dined alone. If he was grieving you would never have known it from his expression. Only his hands hinted at some deeper torment, some more tempestuous internal dialogue. His hands were curled into claws, the yellowed nails digging into the surface of the parapet like butcher’s hooks into a carcass.

He stood for almost thirty minutes, rocking back and forth, the incessant beep of taxis and cars blaring up from below, the chatter of families promenading along the Corniche. Then, with a sigh, he turned and shuffled back into the room.

‘I’ll turn in now, Stephen.’

His manservant stepped from the shadows and with a deferential nod started to prepare his master for bed. He helped him undress and get into his nightclothes, held his arm as he settled his bulk on to the mattress, brought across the tray with his medication – an array of different coloured pills neatly arranged in a line and washed down one after the other with a glass of lightly warmed milk. Once they had been taken, the tray was removed and the manservant eased Barren back on to the hillock of pillows. He drew the sheets up to the middle of his chest, handed him his oxygen mask, examined the dial on the tank to ensure the flow was good. Then, extinguishing all but the night lamp on the bedside table, he wished his master a good night and withdrew.

Alone, Barren stared up at the ceiling. His chest heaved like a blacksmith’s bellows; the room echoed to the gurgle and rasp of his breath. A minute passed, then his eyes started to close, the mucousy lids sliding slowly down over the irises. When all that was left was a thin line of white, his hands suddenly clamped tight around the material of the sheets and he whispered something, a single word, muffled by the misted rubber of the oxygen mask. It sounded like ‘racial’.

And then his eyes closed and he was asleep.

I allow half an hour before returning to the suite. As anticipated, he is completely out. The sedative I added to the milk was most likely not necessary – he has always been a heavy sleeper – but in this instance I must employ even greater caution than usual. I could not abide the thought of him waking mid-cleansing. Fixing me with one of those looks of his. That would be most off-putting. Wouldn’t do at all.

I stand watching him a while. I experience less emotion than I feared I would. I have served for the best part of thirty years, just as my father served before me. You might have thought such a length of time – almost half my life – would provoke greater feeling. As it is, I feel very little. All my agonizing is done. All doubts behind me. Now I am in the tunnel. The tunnel of light. All that concerns me is the cleansing, and doing my job to the very best of my ability.

I cross to the cupboard and remove one of the spare pillows. Lovely pillows they have here, plump and firm. Then, going over to the bed, I ease off the oxygen mask. I lay the mask aside, ensure a firm, grip on the material at each end of the pillow and, without further ado, flatten it over his face, applying sufficient pressure to smother, but not enough to leave discernible marks.

The family have always used us for the special cleansings. The ones that require particular delicacy and discretion. That are of particular significance to the well-being of the family (and they don’t come much more significant than this!). My father, I am told, was a master cleanser. So, too, am I in my own way. I have lost track of the number of times I have been called upon to eradicate a potentially damaging mess.

I have another little job for you, Stephen. The details are in the envelope.

Actually I haven’t lost track at all. The tally stands at thirty-two. Thirty-three, if you count tonight. Which of course I will. Family business is family business, irrespective of who gives the order.

He struggles less than I imagined. Barely struggles at all, in fact. There is one attempted arch of the back, and a certain amount of shuddering, but after twenty seconds he is still. I take no chances and maintain the pressure for a count of two hundred, just to be sure. Then I remove the pillow. His expression I would describe as surprised bordering on vexed, although that is mostly down to the fact that his eyes and mouth are open. I close them and he is transformed. Restful now. Serene even. Just as you’d expect from an unwell man who has died peacefully in his sleep.

I feel no sorrow of any description. No regret, no sadness. The baton has passed. And with it, my loyalty. The tissues, it seems, were not needed after all.

I replace the oxygen mask, smooth the pillows beneath his head, brush down the cleansing pillow and return it to the cupboard. A final check, then I take out the cellular telephone, dial the number and convey the good news.

I always saw something in Master William. Something his father appeared to wilfully ignore. A talent. A potential. Mistress Rachel was a fine woman in her own way, but she was never going to be the future. In my mind, Master William was the only viable way forward.

Which is why, when he approached me, explained it was time to open up a new chapter, asked for my assistance, it was not really that difficult a decision. The family, you see, is everything. Much more than the sum of its individual parts. That’s what my father taught me. And such is the creed I have lived my life by. With Master Nathaniel ailing, the succession had to be assured. The family’s future protected. And Master William is the future.

Not a difficult decision at all. A no-brainer, as I believe the saying goes.

When I tell him it is done, the Master – the
new
Master – is effusive in his praise. I should not crave such affirmation – it is my job, after all – but I cannot help but feel a certain thrill of satisfaction. He suggests that I treat myself to a holiday, wherever in the world I wish to go, all expenses paid, but why would I wish to do that? My place is with the family. At the heart of the family. Serving in whatever way I can.

I take a last look around – where cleansings are concerned you can never be too careful – then retire to my own room. I am not an extravagant sort of person, but on this occasion I think I might order something from room service. A nice cup of tea, perhaps. With a biscuit to help it down.

The future, it seems to me, is looking bright.

EPILOGUE

T
HREE MONTHS LATER

Senior Detective Arieh Ben-Roi of the Jerusalem Police kept his promise.

How he did it, no one would ever know. The currents in that part of the Mediterranean should have pulled him in completely the opposite direction. Maybe he was carried by a freak wave. Maybe he became tangled in a trawler net. Maybe – and this was what Khalifa always chose to believe – Allah, God, Yahwe gave the big man a helping hand. Because despite the prickly exterior, he had at heart been a good person, and a righteous one, and one of the best friends Khalifa had ever had. Allah saw these things.

Allah saw everything.

Whatever the truth – wave, net, God, some other agency – at around 6.30 a.m. on a clear, warm morning, as screams rang out in the delivery suite of Jerusalem’s Hadassah Hospital, a man walking his dog on the beach just south of Bat Yam saw something floating in the water. Approaching the tide line, he watched as the waves nudged it towards the shore. Closer and closer it came, louder and louder rang the screams, until with a guttural, exhausted cry of release, a healthy baby boy was delivered safe into the world and drew his first breath. At almost precisely the same moment a body lifted on a wave and was laid gently on to the sand. Despite its long immersion it was, by all accounts, perfectly preserved. And had a broad smile on its face.

Arieh Ben-Roi was home.

Khalifa knew all this because out of the blue he’d received a call from Ben-Roi’s partner Sarah. They’d had some contact in the intervening months, Khalifa having written to explain the circumstances of Ben-Roi’s death. In this instance, with a baby to care for, she hadn’t talked for long. Had just filled him in on developments, and asked two favours. Would he be there for Ben-Roi’s funeral? And, also, would he be godfather to their newborn son?

Of course, Khalifa had replied. It would be an honour. On both counts.

Which was why flights and hotels had swiftly been booked (despite Khalifa’s protests he had not been allowed to pay for a thing).

And why he and his family were now standing on a hillside overlooking the Old City of Jerusalem while a simple wooden coffin was lowered into the ground and a rich-voiced rabbi slowly intoned the Jewish burial
kaddish
.

‘
Yisgadal v’yiskaddash sh’mey rabboh.
’

As he listened, head bowed, one hand holding Zenab’s, the other wrapped protectively around Batah and Yusuf, Khalifa found himself reflecting on all that had happened these last three months. All that had changed.

The whole Barren/toxic dumping story had broken in the press, starting in Israel and rapidly spreading to front pages around the world. Unusually in such cases, there had been no attempt at denial or buck-passing. On the contrary, the new head of the company, William Barren, had delivered a very public condemnation of, and apology for, his late father’s running of the corporation. Things would be different under his leadership, he had promised. Starting with the establishment of a fund to clear up the mess his father had bequeathed. The barrels would be removed, the aquifer flushed, compensation paid to all those who had suffered as a result of the pollution. Substantial compensation. Whether the contrition was genuine, or merely a cynical move to shore up the company’s battered reputation, Khalifa had no idea. What he did know was that the Attia family wouldn’t be having to worry about money for a while.

For its part in the scandal, Zoser Freight had been hit with a record fine and the entire board placed under criminal investigation, including the Interior Minister’s brother. Khalifa would never know for certain if the barge that had killed his son had been one of the ones carrying toxic waste, but he took some small comfort in the knowledge that if a company as large and connected as Zoser could be brought low, then there was indeed hope for the new Egypt.

He and Zenab were still grieving deeply for their boy. Always would be. At the same time – and it was hard to explain to anyone who had not themselves experienced such things – their lives had somehow opened up these last few months. The sorrow was as acute as ever, but there seemed to be an ever-widening circle around it. Space for other things to take root and flourish. Pain no longer dominated. There was even talk of trying for another child, although nothing had yet happened.
Inshallah
the time would come.

One of his priorities after the night on the ship had been to return Samuel Pinsker’s ruined notebook, and at the first opportunity that presented itself he had driven south to visit Iman el-Badri. He had done so with a heavy heart, knowing he had broken his promise to her. On arrival, he had been informed that the old woman had died peacefully in her sleep a week previously. The very same night he had come to see her. Almost as if she had held on long enough to perform that last duty of sharing the notebook, and only then allowed herself to rest. He had gone out to her grave, recited the
Salat al-Janazah
and, when no one was looking, scooped a hole in the ground and laid the notebook with her. A week after that he had tracked down Samuel Pinsker’s tomb in Cairo and emptied out a handkerchief of dust from Iman el-Badri’s burial. It was a small gesture, but one that he hoped would mean something to the two of them. As Zenab never ceased to remind him, he was soft like that.

What else?

Barren’s Saharan gas field tender had been quietly dropped; the Nemesis Agenda website had, for no reason anyone could explain, mysteriously disappeared. There was much speculation in chat rooms about CIA involvement, Mossad, international capitalist conspiracy. None of it was ever proved. Nor, in the long run, did it matter. The Agenda had been a beacon, had fired the imagination of all those who believed in a more equitable world. Other groups would carry on its work. The abusers
would
be held to account.

Of Rachel Barren’s tragic story, nothing was ever made public. Or at least nothing Khalifa ever heard about. He hoped and prayed that she was at peace, wherever she was.

Two final things.

Within a day of each other, Khalifa had received two e-mails. One from his childhood friend Mohammed Abdullah, who was now something big in the dotcom industry; the other from Katherine Taylor, a millionaire American crime novelist with whom he had struck up a loose friendship a few years back when she was in Luxor researching a new book. He had completely forgotten the e-mails he himself had sent them, so it came as a very pleasant surprise when both declared themselves delighted to help fund Demiana Barakat’s children’s home. Mohammed Abdullah had gone further and offered the children an all-expenses-paid trip to Cairo to visit Dreampark and the Puppet Theatre and Dr Ragab’s Pharaonic Village. Khalifa had always considered the village rather tacky, but in the circumstances he thought it would have been churlish to say so.

And Rivka Kleinberg? Her murder was an Israeli matter, so Khalifa only knew what he picked up on the internet. While Barren’s involvement was beyond dispute, the Israelis were no nearer to catching the actual killer. The last time he looked, the investigation was focusing on a new lead concerning a Turkish hitman. He awaited developments with interest.

A murmur of ‘
omeyn
’ signalled the ending of prayers and pulled him from his reverie. In front of him the menfolk were forming into a line, stepping forward one by one to empty a shovelful of earth into the grave. As a Muslim, Khalifa wasn’t sure if he should take part, but there was some sort of priest in the line – a short plump man in a black cassock with a purple ring on his finger and a flat silver cross around his neck – so he decided it was probably OK. He joined the queue, taking up position behind a slim young man wearing circular glasses and a knitted blue skullcap.

‘
Ma’a salaam, sahebi
,’ he whispered as he emptied his own shovelful.

As the funeral ended and the crowd started to disperse – and it was a big crowd, very big – a woman holding a baby came up to the Khalifas and introduced herself. Their flight had been delayed and they’d only just got to the cemetery on time, so it was the first chance he’d had to speak to Ben-Roi’s partner Sarah.

‘Say hello to your godson,’ she said, handing him the baby. Zenab, Batah and Yusuf crowded in as he cradled the child.

‘He’s so handsome,’ he said.

And it was true. There was a fineness to his features, a brightness to his eyes that suggested, looks-wise, he had inherited more from his mother than his father. Which Ben-Roi himself would have been the first to admit was no bad thing.

‘I don’t even know his name.’

‘We’ve called him Eli,’ said Sarah. ‘Eli Ben-Roi.’

Khalifa’s throat tightened. ‘But this is a wonderful coincidence! My son . . . we lost our son . . . his name was Ali. Eli, Ali. They are almost the same.’

Sarah smiled and laid a hand on his wrist. The gesture said:
It was no coincidence
.

Khalifa blinked and had to look away. A silence, then Zenab leant over and whispered in his ear.

‘Of course, of course.’

Recovering himself, he kissed the baby’s forehead and handed him back to his mother. He then dipped into his pocket and pulled out a small plastic box.

‘A few years ago, when I first met Arieh, he gave me this,’ he said. ‘I have treasured it ever since. Now I think there is maybe a better place for it.’

He opened the box. Inside, on a bed of tissue, was a small silver menorah on a chain. The menorah Arieh Ben-Roi himself used to wear. Taking it out, Khalifa gently placed it over the baby’s head.

‘There. Just like his father.’

The baby started howling.

‘
Just
like his father,’ said Sarah.

They stood a moment as she settled the child. Then, sensing she needed to be alone for a while, just herself, her baby and Ben-Roi, they excused themselves and moved away. There was a road running up beside the cemetery and they decided to follow it, up on to the top of the hill with its spectacular view across to the Old City. Batah and Yusuf stopped to gaze down into a garden with an aviary full of fluttering birds. Khalifa and Zenab walked on a bit further before sitting down on a wall. In front of them the Dome of the Rock burned gold in the morning sun; around it, corralled by the city’s giant stone-block walls, roofs and domes and towers and the occasional cypress tree were all crammed together so tightly it was impossible to tell where one ended and the next began.

There was tension down there, Khalifa knew it. Anger and resentment and bitterness and hatred. He had his own opinions on the rights and the wrongs of the situation. Seen from up here, however, it all looked quiet and peaceful. No more troubled than toys in a children’s play-box.

And whatever the rights and the wrongs, Ben-Roi had been a friend. A good friend. There was a lesson in that. And hope too.

For several minutes they just sat there in silence, legs dangling, watching as directly beneath them a group of black-coated figures bowed back and forth in front of a tomb. Then Khalifa curled an arm round his wife’s waist and drew her close.

‘I miss him,’ he said quietly. ‘Ali. I loved him so much.’

‘Love him,’ she corrected, nestling into him. ‘He’s here. He’ll always be here.’

Khalifa nodded and pulled her even closer.

‘We’re OK, aren’t we?’

‘Of course we are. We’re Team Khalifa.’

He smiled at that and turned to kiss her, but was interrupted by movement behind them as Batah and Yusuf came up. He satisfied himself with blowing in Zenab’s ear. The children joined them on the wall and they all linked hands. There was another silence, none of them feeling the need to speak, all of them just happy to be there with each other. With their family. Then, lifting a hand, Yusuf pointed.

‘Look, Daddy. Someone’s flying a kite.’

Over in the Old City a tiny red triangle was fluttering and pulling above the jumble of rooftops. They watched it a while. Then, as one, they started singing.

We’re launching our kite into the sky,

We’re making it go up really high.

It was such an inept translation they only managed half a verse before the four of them burst into fits of laughter.