The Pyramid (37 page)

What she said next surprised Wallander even more.

'I've seen it,' she said. 'I went to Marbella last year. We have ongoing professional training. There's stiff competition between travel agencies these days. One day when I had time, I drove out and looked at their house. I knew the address.'

'Was it large?'

'It was palatial. With a huge garden. High walls all around, and guards.'

'I would appreciate it if you could write down the address for me,'
Wallander said, unable to conceal his eagerness.

She looked through her folders and then wrote it down.

'You said that Emilia was planning to travel in January?'

She entered something into her computer.

'The seventh of January,' she said. 'From Kastrup at 9.05 a.m., via
Madrid.'

Wallander helped himself to a pencil from her desk and made a note.

'So she didn't take charter trips?'

'Neither of them did. They travelled first class.'

That's right, Wallander thought. These ladies were loaded.

She told him which airline Emilia had booked her flight with. Iberia,
Wallander wrote.

'I don't know what happens now,' she said. 'The ticket has been paid for.'

'I'm sure it will sort itself out,' Wallander said. 'How did they pay for their travel, by the way?'

'Always in cash. In thousand-kronor notes.'

Wallander slipped his notes into his pocket and got up.

'You've been a great help,' he said. 'The next time I travel anywhere
I'll come and book my trip here. But for me that will mean charter.'

It was close to four o'clock. Wallander walked past the bank, where he was due to pick up his loan documents and money for the car tomorrow. He braced himself against the wind as he crossed the square.
He made it back to the station by twenty past four. Again he directed a ritual kick at the hinge. Ebba told him that Hansson and Svedberg were out. But, more important, she had called the hospital and been able to speak to Rydberg. He had said that he was feeling fine. But he was being kept in overnight.

'I'll go look in on him.'

'That was the last thing he said,' Ebba replied. 'That under no circumstances did he want to have any visitors or phone calls. And absolutely no flowers.'

'Well, that doesn't surprise me,' Wallander said. 'If you think about how he is.'

'You all work too hard, eat too much junk and don't get enough exercise.'

Wallander leaned over towards her.

'That goes for you too,' he said. 'You aren't as slim as you once were, you know.'

Ebba burst into laughter. Wallander went to the break room and found half a loaf of bread that someone had left. He made several sandwiches to bring back to his office. Then he wrote a report on his conversations with Linnea Gunnér and Anette Bengtsson. He was done at a quarter past five. He read through what he had written and asked himself how they should proceed with the case from here. The money comes from somewhere, he thought. A man is on his way into the shop but turns round on the doorstep. They had a system of signs worked out.

The question is simply what is behind all this. And why were the women murdered all of a sudden? Something has been set in motion but then all at once it collapses.

At six o'clock he tried once more to get in touch with the others.
The only one he managed to reach was Martinsson. They decided to hold a meeting at eight o'clock the next morning. Wallander put his feet up on his desk and went through the double homicide in his mind one more time. But since he didn't feel that he was getting anywhere he decided he might as well continue his thinking at home. And anyway, he needed to clean out his car before he got rid of it tomorrow.

He had just put his coat on when Martinsson walked in.

'I think it's best that you sit down,' Martinsson said.

'I'm fine standing up,' Wallander said grumpily. 'What is it?'

Martinsson appeared conflicted. He was holding a telex message in his hand.

'This just came in from the Ministry of Foreign Affairs in Stockholm,' he said.

He handed the piece of paper to Wallander, who read the message without understanding anything. Then he sat down at his desk and read it again, word for word.

Now he understood what was written there, but he refused to believe that it was true.

'It says here that my father had been arrested by the Cairo police, and that he would be brought before a judge if he did not immediately pay a fine of approximately ten thousand kronor. He had been accused of "unlawful entry and forbidden ascent".'

'What the hell does "forbidden ascent" mean?'

'I called the foreign ministry,' Martinsson said. 'I also thought it seemed strange. Apparently he was trying to climb the Cheops pyramid.
Even though it's against the law.'

Wallander stared helplessly at Martinsson.

'I think you're going to have to fly there and bring him home,'
Martinsson said. 'There are limits to what the Swedish authorities can do.'

Wallander shook his head.

He refused to believe it.

It was six o'clock. The fifteenth of December, 1989.

At ten past one the following day, Wallander sank down into an SAS seat on a DC-9 aircraft called 'Agne'. He sat in 19C, an aisle seat, and he had a vague understanding that the plane, after stops in Frankfurt and Rome, would take him to Cairo. The arrival time was set at 10.15.
Wallander still did not know if there was a time difference between
Sweden and Egypt. In fact, he knew very little in general about what had jerked him out of his life in Ystad, from the investigation of a plane crash and a brutal double homicide, to an aircraft in Kastrup preparing for take-off, headed for North Africa.

The evening before, when the contents of the telex from the foreign ministry had actually sunk in, he had completely lost it. He left the station without a word, and even though Martinsson accompanied him as far as the car park and declared himself willing to help, Wallander had not so much as answered him.

When he got home to Mariagatan, he had two large tumblerfuls of whisky. Then he reread the crumpled telex several more times in the hopes that there was an encoded message in it explaining that it was all an invention, a joke, one that perhaps even his own father had played on him. But he had realised that the Ministry of Foreign Affairs in Stockholm meant business. There was no way out for him other than to accept this as a fact: his demented father had started climbing a pyramid, with the result that he had been apprehended and was now being held in police custody in Cairo.

Shortly after eight o'clock, Wallander called Malmö. As luck would have it, Linda answered. He told her what had happened and asked for her advice. What should he do? Her answer had been very firm.
He had no option but to travel to Egypt the following day and see to it that her grandfather was released. Wallander had many objections, but she dismissed them one after another. Finally he realised that she was right. She also promised him to find out what available connections there were to Cairo tomorrow.

Wallander slowly calmed himself. Tomorrow he was supposed to go to the bank to pick up a car loan for twenty thousand kronor.
No one would ask him what he was going to use the money for. He had enough money to buy a ticket and he could change the rest of the cash to British pounds or dollars in order to pay his father's fine.
At ten o'clock Linda called and said that there was a flight the following day at ten past one. He also decided to ask Anette
Bengtsson for help. Earlier that day, when he had promised to avail himself of the travel agency's services, he had not dreamed it would be so soon.

He tried to pack at around midnight, realising he knew nothing about Cairo. His father had gone there with an ancient pith helmet on his head. But he was unhinged beyond a doubt and could not be taken seriously. Finally, Wallander tossed some shirts and underwear into a bag and decided that would be enough. He was not going to stay away any longer than absolutely necessary.

Then he had a couple more glasses of whisky, set his alarm clock to wake him at six and tried to sleep. A restless slumber carried him towards the dawn at an interminable crawl.

When the bank opened the following day he was the first customer to step through the doors. It took him twenty minutes to sign the loan documents, get his money and exchange half of it for British pounds.
He hoped that no one would ask why half of the payment for the car was to be paid in pounds. From the bank he went straight to the travel agency. Anette Bengtsson couldn't believe her eyes when he walked in through the door. But she was immediately willing to help him book the ticket. The return had to remain open for now. He was astonished to hear the price. But he simply pulled out his thousand-kronor notes, took his tickets and left the agency.

Then he took a taxi to Malmö.

He had taken a taxi to Ystad from Malmö before in a state of inebriation. But never in the opposite direction, and never sober. He would never be able to afford a new car now. Perhaps he should consider getting a moped or a bike.

Linda met him by the ferry terminal. They only had a few minutes together. But she convinced him he was doing the right thing. And she asked if he had remembered his passport.

'You'll need a visa,' she said. 'But you can buy that at the airport in
Cairo.'

Now he was sitting in 19C and felt how the aeroplane gathered speed and tilted up towards the clouds and the invisible air corridors, headed south. He still felt as if he were standing in his office at the station, with
Martinsson in the doorway, the telex in his hand, looking miserable.

Frankfurt airport became a memory of an endless series of corridors and stairs. He took his aisle seat again and, when they came to
Rome in order to make the last connection, he took off his coat, as it had suddenly become very warm. The plane thudded down at the airport outside Cairo, delayed by half an hour. In order to lessen his worry, his fear of flying and his nervousness about what awaited him,
Wallander had had far too much to drink during the flight. He was not drunk when he stepped out into the stifling Egyptian darkness, but he was not sober either. Most of the money was in a cloth bag squeezed in under his shirt. A tired passport controller directed him to a bank where he could buy a tourist visa. He ended up with a large number of dirty notes in his hand and was suddenly through both passport control and customs. Many taxi drivers then crowded round, prepared to drive him to any place in the world. But Wallander had the presence of mind to look around for a van heading to Mena House, which he imagined to be quite large. His plan went this far: to stay at the same hotel as his father. In a small bus, sandwiched between some loud
American women, he then went through the city towards the hotel. He felt the warm night air on his face, discovered suddenly that they were crossing a river that might be the Nile, and then they were there.

When he stepped out of the bus he was sober again. From here on he did not know what to do. A Swedish policeman in Egypt could feel very insignificant, he thought gloomily as he stepped into the magnificent foyer of the hotel. He walked up to the reception desk, where a pleasant young man who spoke perfect English asked if he could be of service. Wallander explained his situation and said he had not reserved a room. The helpful young man looked concerned for a moment and shook his head. But then he managed to find a room.

'I think you already have a guest by the name of Wallander.'

The man searched in his electronic database and then nodded.

'That's my father,' Wallander said and groaned inwardly over his poor English pronunciation.

'Unfortunately, I cannot give you a room close to his,' the young man said. 'We only have simple rooms left. Without a view of the pyramids.'

'That suits me fine,' Wallander said. He didn't want to be reminded of the pyramids more than was necessary.

He registered, was given a key and a small map, and then made his way through the labyrinthine hotel. He gathered that it had been expanded many times over the years. He found his room and sat down on the bed. The air conditioning was cool. He took off his shirt, which was drenched in sweat. He looked at his face in the bathroom mirror.

'Now I am here,' he said out loud to himself. 'It's late at night. I need to eat something. And sleep. Above all, sleep. But I can't, since my crazy father is being held at a police station somewhere in this city.'

He put on a clean shirt, brushed his teeth and returned to the reception desk downstairs. The young man who had recently helped him was nowhere to be seen. Or else Wallander did not recognise him. He approached an older receptionist who was standing motionless and appeared to be surveying everything that happened in the lobby. He smiled when Wallander turned up in front of him.

'I have come here because my father has found himself in difficulty,' he said. 'His name is Wallander and he is an elderly man who arrived here several days ago.'

'What type of difficulty?' the receptionist asked. 'Has he become ill?'

'He appears to have tried to climb one of the pyramids,' Wallander answered. 'If I am right he chose the highest one.'

The receptionist nodded slowly.

'I have heard about it,' he replied. 'It was very unfortunate. The police and the Ministry of Tourism did not approve.'

He retreated behind a door and returned shortly with another man, also older. They spoke rapidly for a short while. Then they turned to
Wallander.

'Are you the old man's son?' one of them asked.

Wallander nodded.

'Not only that,' Wallander said, 'I am also a policeman.'

He displayed his identification, which clearly stated the word 'police'.
But the two men did not appear to understand.

'You mean, you are not his son, you are police?'

'I am both,' Wallander said. '
Both
his son
and
police.'

They pondered what he had said for a while. A couple of other receptionists who didn't have anything to do for the moment joined the group. The incomprehensible conversation resumed. Wallander noticed that he was drenched in sweat again.

Then they asked him to wait. They pointed to a group of sofas in the lobby. Wallander sat down. A veiled woman walked past.
Scheherazade, Wallander thought. She could have helped me. Or
Aladdin. I could have used someone in that league. He waited. An hour went by. He got up and started to walk back to the reception desk. But immediately someone pointed to the sofas again. He felt very thirsty.
The clock had struck twelve a long time ago.

There were still many people in the lobby. The American women from the bus left with a guide who was apparently going to take them out into the Egyptian night. Wallander closed his eyes. He jumped when someone touched his shoulder. When he opened his eyes the receptionist was there, together with a number of police officers in impressive uniforms.
Wallander got up from the sofa. A clock on the wall read half past two.
One of the police officers, who appeared to be about his own age and who was also wearing the most stripes on his uniform, saluted him.

'I hear you have been sent here by the Swedish police,' he said.

'No,' Wallander said. 'I
am
a police officer. But above all I am Mr
Wallander's son.'

The policeman who had saluted him immediately exploded into an incomprehensible torrent of words directed at the receptionists.
Wallander thought that the best thing he could do would be to sit down again. After about a quarter of an hour the policeman brightened.

'I am Hassaneyh Radwan,' he said. 'I now have a clear picture. It is a delight to meet a Swedish colleague. Come with me.'

They left the hotel. Wallander felt like a criminal surrounded by officers who were all carrying weapons. It was a very warm night. He sat down beside Radwan in the back of a police car that immediately revved into action and turned on its sirens. Just as they were driving away from the hotel grounds, Wallander saw the pyramids. They were illuminated by large spotlights. It happened so fast he could not believe his eyes. But they were actually the pyramids that he had seen depicted so many times. And then he thought with dread about the fact that his father had tried to climb one.

They drove east, the same way he had come from the airport.

'How is my father doing?'

'He is a very determined man,' Radwan answered. 'But his English is unfortunately difficult to understand.'

He doesn't speak any English at all, Wallander thought helplessly.

They drove through the city at high speed. Wallander caught sight of some heavily loaded camels moving with slow dignity. The bag inside
Wallander's shirt was rubbing against his skin. Sweat streamed down his face. They crossed the river.

'The Nile?' Wallander asked.

Radwan nodded. He took out a packet of cigarettes but Wallander shook his head.

'Your father smokes,' Radwan remarked.

No, he doesn't, Wallander thought. With increasing trepidation, he now started to question if they were in fact on their way to see his father, who had never smoked in all his life. Could there be more than one old man who had tried to climb the pyramids?

The police car slowed down. Wallander had seen that the name of the street was Sadei Barrani. They were outside a large police station where armed guards stood in small sentry boxes outside the tall doors.
Wallander followed Radwan. They came to a room where garish neon tubes glowed in the ceiling. Radwan pointed to a chair. Wallander sat down and wondered how long he now had to wait. Before Radwan left
Wallander asked him if it would be possible to buy a soft drink. Radwan called over a young policeman.

'He will help you,' Radwan said and then left.

Wallander, who was extremely unsure of the value of his notes, gave the policeman a small wad of them.

'Coca-Cola,' he said.

The policeman looked wide-eyed at him. But he said nothing, he simply took the money and left.

A little while later he returned with a carton of Coke bottles. Wallander counted fourteen in all. He opened two of them with his penknife and gave the rest to the policeman, who shared them with his colleagues.

It was half past four. Wallander watched a fly that was sitting still on one of the empty bottles. The sound of a radio came from somewhere.
Then he realised there was actually something that this police station and the one in Ystad had in common. The same night-time peace. The waiting for something to happen. Or not. The policeman who had sunk down into his newspaper could have been Hansson poring over his horse races.

Radwan came back. He gave Wallander a sign to follow him. They walked down an endless succession of winding corridors, up and down stairs, and at last stopped outside a door where a policeman was standing guard. Radwan nodded and the door opened. Then he signalled for Wallander to step inside.

'I'll be back in half an hour,' he said and left.

Wallander stepped inside. Inside the room, which was illuminated by the ubiquitous neon tubes, were a table and two chairs. His father was sitting on one of them, dressed in a shirt and trousers but barefoot.
His hair was sticking up. Wallander suddenly felt pity for him.