Syndrome E

17

When the front door of the A320 opened onto the tarmac of Cairo’s international airport, Sharko felt a wave of fire slap his face. Suffocating air, laden with smoke and kerosene, gripped his throat. The steward had announced a ground temperature of ninety-seven degrees, which had provoked a huge groan from the passengers, tourists for the most part. From the second he set foot on Egyptian soil, the inspector knew he was going to loathe this country.

As arranged, Michael Lebrun was waiting at the end of the passageway. The man was imposing. Planted in light tan slacks and a colonial-style shirt, his face as square as the base of a pyramid, he meticulously sifted through the colored flux that scattered into all corners of the airport. Swarthy, tanned, and short haired, he could easily have been mistaken for a formidable customs officer. The two men exchanged a solid handshake—Sharko’s thumb on top—then Lebrun pulled slightly back.

“I hope you had a good flight. Let me introduce you to Nahed Sayyed, one of the interpreters from the embassy. She’ll accompany you on your travels around the city and help facilitate your dealings with the police.”

Sharko greeted her. Her hands were soft and delicate, her nails cut short. Her long black hair, fine and buoyant, framed an enchanting pair of eyes. She must have been in her early thirties and didn’t look anything like Sharko’s image of Egyptian women: veiled, obedient, living in their husbands’ shadows.

Along the endless air-conditioned hallways, they talked paperwork before anything else. Lebrun advised him to withdraw Egyptian pounds from the airport cash machines, because in town it would be hard to get small bills—tourism oblige. After a few preliminaries—including a customs officer’s interrogation regarding the presence of a miniature locomotive and a jar of cocktail sauce in his luggage—the inspector could finally claim his belongings. As they talked, he began to understand the role Michael Lebrun played in this country. The French ambassador’s right arm in matters of security in Egypt, he also served as technical adviser for the head of the Cairo police, a starred general. His specialty oriented him mainly toward matters of international terrorism. As for Nahed, she listened, a few paces behind, almost effaced.

The explosion of noise, the hubbub of the crowds, and the heat almost made the French cop fall over. He prayed that Eugenie would stay in her little corner, far in the back of his head. But given the circumstances and her lack of interest in architecture, it seemed obvious that she’d waste little time before coming out to make his life hell.

They climbed into a Mercedes Maybach, the largest model available in the country. Despite Inspector Sharko’s insistence, Nahed had wished to sit in back. The powerful car left Heliopolis and dove into the Salah-Salem highway, which would propel them into the guts of Cairo. Ahead of them, the black mass of the center vibrated beneath a copper-colored sky.

On the way, Lebrun handed Sharko a bottle of water as he regained his strength by absorbing lungsful of air recycled by the car’s cooling system.

“Your superior, Martin Leclerc, evidently doesn’t want you to spend too much time, since your return flight is scheduled for tomorrow evening. He suggested you go to the police station today. Personally, I would have preferred to wait a bit, to give you time to rest up and enjoy the city, but—”

“Martin Leclerc doesn’t know the meaning of the word ‘rest.’ So how do we do this?”

“I’ll drop you off at your hotel, on Mohamed Farid Street, not far from headquarters. Nahed can wait in the lobby. She’ll accompany you, in any case, anywhere you want to go. Take some time to freshen up. Then you head over; it’ll be around four, I imagine. Police Chief Hassan Noureddine, the head of the brigade, will be there to receive you.”

“At headquarters, will I have full access to the information?”

Michael Lebrun made a pinched face. Around them, the traffic became heavier. Crowded buses and taxis passed each other on all sides in a deafening cacophony.

“Right now we’re in a delicate situation because of the pig slaughter. With the spread of swine flu, a bunch of deputies in the People’s Assembly won approval to eradicate the animals. Since the end of April, I can’t tell you how many outbreaks of violence there have been between the breeders and law enforcement. You’re not coming at a very good time, and unfortunately my relations with the chief of police aren’t the best in the world. He wields supreme authority over the governorate of Qasr el-Nil, which he rules with an iron fist. Noureddine is ex-Egyptian military, after all. But believe me, Nahed will help you as much as she can. Noureddine knows her extremely well.”

Sharko glanced at the rearview mirror. Nahed sat rigid as a sphinx, framed between the leather headrests. When their eyes met, she turned away toward the window. In an instant, Sharko thought he understood what Lebrun meant by “extremely well.”

Cairo finally revealed its burning heart, that pulsating muscle that Suzanne would so have loved to squeeze in her hands. Sharko ran a sad eye over the minarets with their ornate architecture bordering the universities, the gold-roofed mosques gleaming in the dust raised by the growling tires, the fields reserved for soccer clubs, hidden behind outsized fruit stalls. A fiery urban chaos reigned over it all, making Paris look like a mere village. Twenty million inhabitants who gave the impression of swarming in a pocket handkerchief. Hawkers of automobile parts jutted out into the crowded lanes, people crossed the roads every which way, sometimes assisted by “crossing helpers.” Here, all work was indeed honorable. People pushed wheelbarrows full of bricks; worn-out mules dragged mountains of cloth and rubbed against old black Nasr 1300 taxicabs. On the dangerous sidewalks, veiled creatures ran and spoke on the phone at the same time, their cell phones wedged between their cheeks and their soiled hijabs.

“As you can see, the pedestrian is always right,” said Nahed, smiling. “The pedestrian in the car, that is. You can’t drive in Cairo without a horn. And if you don’t have good ears, you should never cross the street.”

It was the first time Sharko really heard her voice, a lovely blend of French and Eastern savors.

“And how do you live in such an environment day after day?”

“Oh, Cairo has many other faces! In its deepest arteries is where you’ll hear its heart beat.”

“The same arteries where they found the three murdered girls sixteen years ago?”

Sharko had always had a talent for casting a pall on the conversation; diplomacy wasn’t his strong suit. He jerked his chin at Lebrun.

“Can you tell me about that case, since that’s why I’m here?”

“My posting in Egypt only started four years ago. This job requires us to move around a lot. And I haven’t yet seen the file. That’s all I can say.”

Sharko immediately understood that the other man didn’t want to take sides. A diplomat.

“Will this Noureddine bring me to the crime scenes if need be?” the French cop insisted.

“There’s one thing you have to understand, Chief Inspector. The country is moving forward, and the Egyptian authorities hate looking back. What are you hoping to find after all this time?”

“Would you do it, if it comes to that?”

Inspector Lebrun honked in turn, for no good reason. The guy was stressed out, but how could you help it in this whirlwind of noise and steel?

“It’s out of the question for us to run our show without Noureddine’s consent. For one thing, we don’t like that type of solo op at the embassy, since the organization and the cases handled by the Egyptian police are under the seal of defense secrets. On top of which, you won’t have enough time.”

Sharko gave him a tight smile.

“Hence the reason for my quick round-trip, no doubt. And I suppose Nahed isn’t by my side simply to interpret.” He turned around. “Isn’t that right, Nahed?”

“You have a vivid imagination, Chief Inspector,” Lebrun answered in a dry voice.

“You have no idea.”

Mohamed Farid Street. The Mercedes halted in front of the Happy City, a three-star hotel with a pink-and-black facade.

“Clean and stereotypical,” said Lebrun, “given that most of the other hotels in the city were jammed. July in Cairo isn’t exactly devoid of tourists.”

“As long as there’s a bathtub…”

The embassy inspector held out his business card.

“I’ll expect you this evening at 7:30 at Maxim’s restaurant, across Talaat Harb Square, not very far from here. You can listen to Édith Piaf songs and drink French wine. You can tell me all about your meeting with Noureddine, if you wouldn’t mind.”

Clearly they were leaving nothing to chance. Once he stepped outside, Sharko was engulfed by the sweltering heat and instantly drenched in sweat. The grumbling of motors, the strident shriek of horns, and the odors of exhaust were unbearable. With a sigh, he pulled his suitcase from the trunk. When he turned around, Eugenie was standing in front of the hotel, arms folded, still wearing the same outfit. She was pouting as she watched the cars battle it out on an avenue that rivaled the Champs-Élysées.

“…spector?”

Lebrun was waiting, hand outstretched. Sharko regained his wits and shook it nervously. The embassy attaché quickly glanced toward the spot that the French cop had been staring at a few moments before. Nothing there.

“One final piece of advice. Noureddine is no softy. He’s the kind of guy who thinks you’re betraying Egypt the moment you disagree with him—you get my drift. So try not to offend him, and keep a low profile.”

“Shouldn’t be too hard to keep a low profile in the land of the hieroglyphs.”