“Belgium again?”
“Yes. We went through the victim’s phone calls. Among them, Poignet had reached someone named Georges Beckers, who specializes in images and the brain. You gave me his business card. He works in neuromarketing—I didn’t even know there was such a field. Just after he scanned the film, Claude Poignet sent him the URL of the server where he’d stored the copy and asked him to analyze it. We’ve got the digitized film, Lucie. Our tech boys are downloading it. I’m putting a lip-reader on it right now, as well as image specialists. We’re going through it with a fine-toothed comb.”
Lucie gave a silent sigh. The killers had been outsmarted by technology. They had killed someone to preserve their secret, and this secret was now spreading throughout the entire police computer network.
“Did this Beckers discover anything?”
“According to him, old Vlad Szpilman had already been to their research center, with the very same movie, a little more than two years ago. Szpilman was a friend of the former director, who died of a heart attack a few months ago.”
Lucie thought for a moment before answering.
“Vlad Szpilman must have had the same intuition as our restorer did. According to his son, he liked to watch the same film dozens of times over; he had an expert eye. He must have come to suspect that some strange things were hidden in this film. So he had it analyzed. Two years ago is quite a while back, all things considered.”
“Let’s get rolling. Beckers has been alerted, and he’s waiting for us. Okay for you?”
She looked at her watch. A little after eight.
“Let me just run by the hospital. I want to see my daughter and tell her why I can’t fall asleep with her this time.”
22
Sharko wondered if he was really going to walk into the Cairo Bar, a crummy-looking place in a dank, unlit alley in the Tewfikieh district. Along the entire length of the alley rested carts, covered with simple sheets, and black cats scampered atop the chalk walls. Sharko walked down the few steps that led to the bar. You really, really had to enjoy strong sensations to venture into that place. A washed-out sign read COFFEE SHOP; the large windows were covered with sheets of newspaper layered over each other, preventing anyone from seeing what might be going on inside. The facade was as raunchy as the pathetic sex shops that sprouted in certain Paris neighborhoods.
The cop checked one more time that he was carrying his police ID, even though he sincerely doubted it would be of much use here, and plunged into the lion’s den. He was immediately assailed by a heady odor of hashish, mixed with the smells of mint and mu‘assel from the hookahs. The light was muted; the powerful air conditioner rumbled. The thick wooden tables, old Vienna-style lamps, bronze art objects hanging on the wall, and large steins of beer made the place look like an English pub. A waitress, Caucasian and scantily clad, threaded between the shapes, her tray loaded with glasses brimful of alcohol. Sharko had expected to find faces eaten away by syphilis, drugs, or drink. Instead, he was amazed at how attractive the clientele looked, mostly young and flamboyantly dressed.
Just his luck: in the middle of one of the oldest Muslim cities in the world, he’d stumbled into a gay bar.
All I needed!
Honeyed gazes followed him as he walked firmly to the bar, which was manned by a fellow with white skin, blue eyes, and blond hair. Sharko glanced at his watch—the taxi had dropped him off ten minutes early—and nodded toward an amber-colored bottle labeled OLD BRENT.
“Whiskey, please.”
The bartender looked him over a bit too insistently before serving him his drink. Sharko was immediately approached on the right. Here come the come-ons! The guy was in his twenties, swarthy complexion, draftee’s haircut. Around his neck he had tied a scarf tucked into a bright shirt. He whispered into Sharko’s ear:
“Koudiana or barghal, ‘please’?”
“Nothing at all. And fuck off, ‘please.’”
The cop snatched up his glass—they served doses that could kill a horse here—and went off to sit in a corner. He looked over the customers, noted the behavior of the rich in their designer suits and imported shoes, on the make, and of the poor, much more effeminate, dazzlingly beautiful in their modest clothes. Sex and prostitution must have been, here as elsewhere, a means of wresting yourself from poverty, for the space of a night and a few exchanged bills. People greeted each other Egyptian style, four pecks on the cheek and taps on the back; they weren’t yet kissing on the mouth, but the intent was clear. Sharko was bringing his glass to his lips with a sigh when a voice reached him from behind:
“I wouldn’t drink that if I were you. They say a young painter went blind here after drinking that whiskey. The boss, the Englishman, makes his own liquor to double his profits. It’s common practice in the old cafés of Cairo.”
Atef Abd el-Aal sat down opposite him. He clapped his hands and indicated “two” to the waitress. Sharko set down his whiskey with a grimace, without having touched it.
“Your French is damn good.”
“I’ve long frequented a friend of your country. And I work with a lot of your compatriots living in Alexandria. The French make excellent business partners.”
He leaned over the table. He had lined his eyes with khol and combed his fine hair back. His pupils were subtly congested by the effects of hashish, probably taken before coming to the bar.
“No one followed you?”
“No.”
“This is the only place we can be left alone. The police never come down here; certain people around us are powerful businessmen who control the district. Now that the police know we saw each other on the terrace, I’ll be under surveillance. I traveled by rooftop after leaving my house.”
“Why should they put you under surveillance? And why keep an eye on me?”
“To keep you from sticking your nose where you shouldn’t. Give me back the note I wrote you on the terrace. I don’t want to leave any trace of our meeting in this establishment.”
Sharko complied and lifted his chin toward the faces buried in the shadows.
“And what about all these people around us? They’ve seen us together.”
“Here, we’re outside the law and social regulations. We know each other by female names; we have our own codes and our own language. The only goal of our meetings is wasla, the practice of homosexuality between koudiana, the submissives, and barghal, the dominants. We’ll always deny having seen one of our own here, no matter what. We have rules as well.”
Sharko felt as if he were diving into the unsuspected and secret entrails of the city, to the rhythm of the night.
“Explain to me more precisely why you came to Egypt,” said Atef.
Sharko retraced the story in broad strokes, without giving away the confidential aspects of the case. He spoke without getting too detailed about the bodies discovered in France, the similarities in modus operandi with the young Egyptian victims, the telegram his brother had sent. Atef had the somber expression of a djinn. His eyes were veiled.
“Do you really think these two episodes are related, given how far apart they are in time and place? What proof do you have?”
“I can’t tell you that. But I have the feeling they’re hiding things from me, that documents are missing from the file. My hands and feet are tied.”
“When are you going back?”
“Tomorrow evening. But I promise you that if I have to, I’ll come back as a tourist. I’ll find the families of those poor girls and interview them.”