Ataf carefully folded his newspaper on his knees, looked Nahed over from head to foot, and slowly began picking at an amber rosary. Once more, the translator acted as intermediary between the two men.
“He doesn’t wish to speak anymore about his brother.”
“Tell him that just before he died, Mahmoud was working on a murder case. Three girls, killed four months before his own death. Ask him if he knew about it.”
Atef kept silent a moment before speaking.
“He wants to see your police ID.”
Sharko held it out. Atef stared at it carefully and ran his index finger over the colors of the French flag before handing it back to the inspector. Then he spoke again.
“He says his brother was very secretive. He never talked about his investigations. That’s why Atef never suspected him of belonging to extremist networks.”
Sharko let his eyes wander toward the city lights. The air was finally cleansed, the Egyptians returned to their streets, their roots, the calm of their mosques and churches.
“Did he sometimes take his case files with him? You lived right next door to each other—did he ever do any work at home?”
“He says no.”
“Do you know Hassan Noureddine? Has he already been to see you?”
“No again… Given the way he’s answering, I don’t believe he knows anything.”
Sharko took the photo of one of the victims from his pocket and put it down in front of the Egyptian. Nahed gave him an outraged glance, realizing he must have pocketed it at the station house while she was out getting him water.
“What about her?” said the cop. “She doesn’t mean anything to you either? Don’t tell me your brother never showed you her face.”
Atef turned his honey-colored eyes aside, his lips tight. He leapt up and shoved the policeman in the chest.
“Izhab mine houna! Izhab mine houna! Sawf attacilou bil chourta!”
He glared at Nahed, brandishing his cell phone. Some residents of the terrace turned toward them.
“He’s ordering us to leave or he’ll call the police. Let it go—we won’t get anything out of him.”
The cop hesitated, not wanting to quit now. The Arab’s violent reaction might mean he was hiding something. Atef came forward and shoved him again, just as aggressively.
“Izhab mine houna!”
Sharko felt like smashing his face in, but the men on the terrace had stood up and were coming menacingly close, fine-boned Kabyles with nervous features. Things were heating up. Sharko, who had turned toward his possible attackers, suddenly felt a hand in the back pocket of his trousers. His eyes met Atef’s. In a fraction of a second, he understood that the man had shoved something into his pocket and was asking him to keep quiet about it.
Sharko took Nahed by the hand.
“Come on, let’s get out of here.”
They had trouble clearing a path. It was a tangle of elbows and shoulders, and darkening, opium-spiraled eyes. The sound of tsss, tsss hissed from all sides. They flew down the stairs. Nahed was furious.
“You shouldn’t have stolen that photo! How many others do you have?”
“A few.”
“You can be sure Noureddine will spot it and notify the embassy. What were you thinking?”
“Come on, let’s move.”
Nahed rushed ahead in front of him. Sharko dug into his pocket and found a scrap of paper. Still moving, he quietly unfolded the piece of newsprint and read a note scribbled in French:
Cairo Bar, Tewfikieh, one hour. Avoid being seen. She’s watching you.
He immediately pocketed the note and looked at Nahed, full of regret. In her delicate garments, she swayed marvelously as she descended the stairs. And she was betraying him. When they reached the street and began walking, the young woman removed her veil, which she abandoned on her shoulders. Sharko stared at her.
“It’s very strange. Without your veil, you have a completely different face. The mysterious, ambiguous creature suddenly regains the clear complexion of the modern woman. How many personalities are you hiding, Nahed?”
“Just one, Inspector.”
She seemed to be blushing, struggled to find her words.
“And now what do we do?”
Sharko could now see her game more and more clearly. Since reading Atef’s note, everything fell into place. The choice of Nahed as his helper despite the risks with her supervisor. The whereabouts and details about Mahmoud Abd el-Aal, which she’d managed to obtain. They were feeding him scraps while keeping an eye on him. For now, he decided to play it cool; he’d have plenty of time to question her later.
“I think I’m going to go back to the hotel, take a shower, and hit the hay. It’s been a very long day since I woke up in France this morning.”
“You haven’t even eaten yet. Let me invite you to a charming little restaurant in Mohandessin, on the banks of the Nile. They serve excellent fish and Swiss wine—rather than French.”
She wanted to keep him as long as possible. Sharko began thinking she’d probably mistranslated what was said on the terrace, or even at the station house. Like Hassan Noureddine, she controlled the territory, and there was absolutely nothing he could do. Who was behind all this? The police? The embassy? What kind of hornet’s nest had he wandered into?
“I’d love to, but I’m really not hungry. Thank you all the same… Too hot, too exhausted, and too many mosquitoes.”
He took out a map they’d given him at the hotel.
“I can find my way back; it’s just over there. What do you say we meet tomorrow morning at ten in front of the station house? There’s really no rush anymore. The doors are closing one after another, and I’m already getting used to the idea that I’ll go back empty-handed. It’s not my case, anyway.”
She lowered her gaze, looking disappointed. Sharko had an urge to rip her tongue out. Quite the actress.
“All right,” she conceded. “Until tomorrow, then.”
Before he could leave, she added:
“That fat pig Noureddine never laid a hand on my body. And he never will.”
They parted ways. Sharko let her take her distance, and saw her turn around several times. That confirmed his suspicions. Then he walked slowly toward Tharwat Street, which intersected with Mohamed Farid Street. But just after turning off, he disappeared at a run into a narrow alley chosen at random.
The good doggy had slipped his leash.
At this point, Cairo and its burning night belonged to him.
It filled him with limitless satisfaction.
21
In the tech department of the crime lab, a stone’s throw from the squad house, Lucie held in her hands the enlargements of the film frames discovered in Claude Poignet’s eye sockets. Two glazed, coarse-grained surfaces in black and white. The images were practically identical. You could see, in a slightly skewed position, as if the camera had been knocked over, the hem of a pair of jeans and the toe of a shoe that Lucie hadn’t noticed the first time. The background was lost in shadow, but the feet of a table were visible, as was a wall. The ground was a floor.
“Are these shoes combat boots?”
Lucie was talking to the technician sitting next to her at his computer screen. Julien Marquant, forty-plus, was one of the crime scene photographers. At each homicide, he served up the worst on glossy paper. Some people photographed supermodels; for him, it was cadavers. The heads of suicides splattered open by a .22, drowning victims bloated with water, hangings… Julien was an excellent photographer whose talents would remain hidden in the police files. Given the late hour, he was the person most liable to inform his colleague on the subject.