Damnation Page 7

  Winter went with the flow. He passed a Coptic church, a presidential palace with a park and water sprinklers and allowed himself to get sucked up into Port Said, the wide thoroughfare. Port Said divided Cairo into the traditional and modern part. On the opposite side of the road it was all a bit mediaeval and One Thousand and One Nights.

  Because of the way the Nile flooded, the original Cairo didn’t evolve on the river itself, but was built on a slight elevation. It was only in the last 150 years, after the river was tamed, that the city extended westwards, first nestling up to the Nile, then crossing it.

  According to the client file, Orafin’s headquarters were on Port Said. The house numbers weren’t easy to read. Winter wandered more than a kilometre to the north until he found the building with the Orafin logo: a five-storey glass construction with a 1970s façade, stained with soot and fumes. The air-conditioning units jutted out at regular intervals. There was old scaffolding on the roof. It was tax efficient never to finish the building, at least not officially.

  Egypt in summer. Around lunchtime. Really poor timing. He went into the lobby and stopped for a moment. Beautifully cool. Almost cold. And astonishingly quiet. Four security guards equipped with radios. Two in uniform flanked the entrance, two sat looking bored on seats by the lift. Their age and tubbiness suggested they were on the verge of retirement. For a moment Winter envied Orafin’s head of security, who clearly didn’t have to scrimp on staff. There was also a lot of white marble, golden ornamentation and a reception with three very pretty women, also in uniform.

  Smiling, Winter stepped up to the counter and said in English, ‘Hello, my name is Winter and I’d like to speak to Mr Kaddour.’ This was von Tobler’s contact and probably a big cheese at Orafin. In the client database the ‘Title’ field had been empty.

  ‘Good afternoon, sir,’ the woman in the middle answered in almost accent-free English. ‘Do you have an appointment with Mr Kaddour?’ She didn’t consult the bulky, ancient-looking computer and gazed with her perfectly made-up eyes at Winter, who was already a touch sweaty.

  ‘No, I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I didn’t have the chance to arrange a meeting with Mr Kaddour. But it’s an urgent matter and I’d really be very grateful if you could hand him my business card.’

  Winter had learned from experience that you made quicker progress in these situations by remaining as polite and unassuming as possible. He gave the women a business card that bore, besides ‘T. Winter’, only the name and logo of his bank and a telephone number. It was a high-quality card, slightly larger than the standard ones. It left many things unanswered.

  She gestured to a group of red-leather sofas hidden behind columns. Winter nodded and watched the woman go through a door behind the reception. After seven minutes, the door opened again and the woman smiled at him. ‘Mr Kaddour is terribly busy at the moment, but he would be delighted if you would accept his dinner invitation for this evening. He will pick you up from the Shepheard at 8:30P.M.’

  ‘Thank you very much.’ Winter smiled, said goodbye and wondered who’d announced his arrival. He hadn’t told anyone which hotel he was staying in. Clearly he was being followed.

  With several hours till dinner, Winter took the afternoon off. On the way back he walked through the Khan El-Khalili souk and marvelled at the ornate displays of the traders. He didn’t know most of the fruits and spices, but he was beguiled by the intense aromas and colours. He took his time and had no inclination to worry about anyone tailing him.

  At the Al-Azhar mosque he removed his shoes and took a gentle stroll around the vast courtyard. In a shadowy corner he saw a group of young men on the ground, listening to an older man. The mosque was also a university.

  Winter climbed the narrow stairs of one of the minarets and was rewarded with an excellent all-round view of Cairo and the mosque’s courtyard with several exits. Winter looked calmly at the people in the house of worship. He bet himself that his tails were the two not-so-young men in grey, Western suits. Amongst the majority of people in traditional robes they stood a little lost at the edge of the covered walkway on one side of the courtyard. This gave them a good view of the minaret and they were acting as if deep in discussion. Winter couldn’t make out which direction they were looking in, but from the position of their heads he concluded that they were taking discreet but regular glances up at him.

  Winter went back down to ground level. To avoid the worst of the heat and turn his mind to the puzzle of the helicopter crash in peace, he sat in a quiet corner of the courtyard. From outside it looked as if he were having a nap. Suddenly he felt hungry. What harm would it do if he cashed in his bet?

  At a stall outside the mosque he bought a flatbread filled with meat and vegetables. And, for good measure, a Coke. The sell-by date had been smudged. But it was cold. He ate standing beside the stall and glimpsed the men in grey suits loitering nearby.

  Winter took a taxi back to the hotel, but asked to be dropped off on the Nile side. As he paid the driver he watched in the rear-view mirror the two grey suits get out of a taxi too, around a hundred metres behind him.

  Between the road along the Nile and the hotel was the hotel’s private park. Palms and head-height red and white oleander bushes provided shelter from the traffic noise.

  He nodded to the gardener-cum-security guard, who was dozing in a green hut by the entrance, hurried halfway to the hotel, then dived sideways into the oleander bushes, where he crouched. After a minute he saw through the leaves the two men coming down the path. Once they’d passed he straightened up, stepped out of the bushes and asked, ‘Can I help you, gentlemen?’

  Visibly startled, the two men spun round. Winter had to suppress a grin. They stammered something about ‘visiting a friend’ and pointed at the hotel.

  Amused, Winter asked, ‘Could I invite you for a drink?’

  The men looked at each other blankly.

  ‘Surely it would be nice for us to get to know each other?’ Winter continued.

  ‘My name is Winter and I arrived from Switzerland this morning.’

  A key function of communication was to say, ‘Hey, I’m here!’ As language evolved in the jungle it was important to keep talking to each other. It was how people could be sure that everyone was still alive, rather than having been gobbled up by a wild animal.

  So Winter continued, ‘It’s pleasantly warm here. A little hot for me, but nice and dry.’

  But communication often creates confusion too. People often talk at cross-purposes, understanding only a fraction of what the other person has actually said. Sometimes this was a bit tedious, but in certain situations it was quite practical.

  ‘As I said, my name is Winter.’

  He held out his hand.

  Baffled, the man on the left also held out his hand. ‘My name is Faruuk. Pleased to meet you.’

  Taking Faruuk’s outstretched fingers, Winter gave him a limp handshake and looked him straight in the eye. As he withdrew his hand, he grabbed Faruuk’s little finger, thrust his arm up in a flash and swivelled through the arch formed by their limbs. Jiu-Jitsu for beginners.

  As he turned around he could feel the joints in Faruuk’s little finger being dislocated. Twice there was a crack and a jolt. Winter got goose pimples. Faruuk suppressed a scream. He snarled and screwed up his eyes in pain. Winter calmly held on to the little finger and asked, ‘Why are you following me?’

  ‘We’re visiting a friend in the hotel.’

  Winter shook Faruuk’s twisted finger. A tried and tested method. No weapon. Minimal damage. Maximum pain. Few parts of the body were more sensitive. The earlobe, perhaps. As a rule, the gums were a bit unappetizing.

  The second man stood there as if thunderstruck.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘Mr Kaddour is keen that nothing happens to you in Cairo. He said we should make sure you didn’t get lost.’

  That was better, and was probably half the of the true story. Winter let go of the little finger and the man stood up strai
ght.

  ‘That’s very kind, but you don’t have to go to so much trouble.’

  Winter left the two of them standing there, went up to his room, took a shower and had a rest. Then he sat on the terrace and ordered a large bottle of mineral water and an Egyptian beer. He waited and watched the sunset on the other side of the Nile. He’d been rather popular recently. Yesterday a private detective, today two men in suits. When the sun vanished fully below the horizon, images of the crash site, Anne, Al-Bader and Strittmatter resurfaced.

  JULY 26 – 21:07

  Two hours later a steward pointed at Winter and behind him a man appeared on the terrace. Kaddour, around fifty with a slight paunch, wore a dark suit. Too many business dinners. From the way he treated the steward, he must be used to issuing orders. His upright gait and short hair suggested a military career.

  But Winter’s thoughts were distracted. Behind Kaddour, a woman of about thirty stepped onto the terrace. She was wearing a light, sand-coloured trouser suit, a white blouse with a pointed collar and she was almost as tall as Kaddour. The woman had long, black hair and moved gracefully, about half a pace behind Kaddour and to the side.

  Winter stood and the two men greeted each other. Close-up, Winter could see that Kaddour’s suit was dark brown and tailored from fine wool. Beneath this he wore an ivory-coloured shirt with a short stand-up collar. As they shook hands Winter noticed a seemingly genuine, gold, mechanical watch. Kaddour’s handshake was firm and bore out Winter’s initial impressions. His facial expression was neutral and difficult to read.

  ‘Good evening, Mr Winter.’ English, as expected, with a faint accent.

  ‘Mr Kaddour? Delighted to meet you.’

  ‘The pleasure is all mine. May I introduce you to my right-hand woman, Ms Hakim – Fatima Hakim?’

  Fatima Hakim gave a reserved smile as she offered Winter her hand and nodded. Winter briefly looked into her dark eyes with their broadly arched brows. Mascara. He noticed large gold earrings and a fine necklace, also gold, its pendant hiding in the décolleté of her silk blouse. When he bowed his head slightly, he detected the hint of a subtle perfume.

  Winter gestured to them to take a seat. ‘Shall we have a drink?’ He had chosen a round table and now he pulled out one of the thickly-padded garden chairs for Fatima.

  ‘Good idea. We’ll have our aperitif here and then go on to Giza. I’ve reserved a table in a restaurant I’m sure you’ll like. No tourists.’

  A waiter came. As Winter had a beer glass in front of him, Kaddour opted to join him. Fatima ordered something in Arabic. Kaddour made himself comfortable in his chair, his hands together in front of his belly.

  ‘I’m terribly sorry we’re late, but we are in Egypt, and the clocks work differently from in Switzerland. One Egyptian minute corresponds to about five in Europe.’

  ‘No problem. I’m just pleased we can chat in peace. The climate was a little chillier last time.’

  ‘Oh, you mean Husseini, my dear controller? He came back raving about the mountains and your hospitality. He said the view was magnificent.’

  Kaddour grinned, his beer arrived and they clinked glasses. Winter offered a toast to Egypt, Kaddour to the evening and Fatima to the future. They talked about Cairo, its traffic jams, the new bypass and the impact of the Arab Spring on tourism. Small talk. Kaddour used to be CFO of Orafin, but for a number of years now he’d been managing the operative side of the business.

  When Winter asked where Fatima had learned her accent-free English, she beamed at him. Then she explained that her father was a British diplomat with Indian roots. She’d spent her childhood in a variety of metropolises. London became her second home and she’d studied finance at the London School of Economics.

  Kaddour was proud of his right-hand woman. He also made no secret of the fact that he knew von Tobler personally. Kaddour appeared to be well informed about him and Winter. On one of his visits to Switzerland, he’d learned from von Tobler that you eat ‘rösti’ there. He wished Egypt was as green as Switzerland and had as many lakes.

  After the small talk they got into the black Mercedes with its tinted rear windows. Kaddour drove and Fatima insisted that Winter sit in the front. They crossed the Nile and sped towards Fayum. Not everyone on the roads had lights, but Kaddour’s adventurous driving and his large saloon car gave the clear message: out of the way! Winter wondered whether Kaddour simply liked driving or whether he wanted to ensure that nobody was following him.

  They left the bustle of the city and half an hour later Kaddour turned right off the wide Malyk Faisal Road. The restaurant turned out to be a single-storey mud house on the edge of the desert, its red façade illuminated by blazing torches. In the sandy car park were a dozen fancy vehicles, in the company of which the Mercedes no longer stood out. The entrance was covered by a canopy and on the floor was a woven carpet.

  Recognising Kaddour, an elderly waiter greeted the party and led them through the building into a spacious palm garden with a few tables covered in white cloths and lit by candles. The host showed them to a round table in a corner.

  Muffled scraps of conversation mingled with soft background music. It was a mild evening. Sweet scents hung in the air.

  The garden was surrounded by a knee-high wall, beyond which the desert began. In the moonlight Winter could see tracks in the sand. An emaciated cat, whose eyes reflected the candles, slunk past, keeping a respectable distance. On the horizon, the small triangles of the illuminated pyramids were visible. Son et lumière for the tourists.

  The food was outstanding. Fatima explained to Winter what the individual dishes were and how each was prepared. Kaddour recounted Egyptian anecdotes which, if they weren’t true, were at least well crafted.

  Winter drifted with the flow, unaware if this was the result of the beer or his sated stomach.

  Kaddour and Fatima were in perfect harmony. They were used to entertaining guests together and Winter wondered whether their relationship went beyond the purely professional.

  When the dessert arrived Fatima explained that it was called Esh el Seraya: ‘Palace Bread’. These flatbreads, soaked in honey, were substantial and sweet.

  Kaddour put a tiny piece in his mouth. ‘In the old days only the pharaohs could afford honey. Today everyone can buy it. The same is true of paper. Papyrus used to be reserved for rich people and priests, but now everyone can use paper. And we are on the verge of the same development with our communications network. Soon all Egyptians will be able to call everywhere with mobiles. Orafin is making this possible. To achieve it, the land by the Nile needs the right infrastructure: roads, concrete, antennae, fibre-optic cables and electricity.’

  Winter’s hosts kept gleaming with pride at the long and distinguished history of Egypt. It was only a small step from the pyramids to Orafin. And it was irrelevant whether Mubarak, the Muslim Brothers or Sisi were at the helm. It was all the same to Orafin whether Younes, Balbaa or El-Markabi was in charge at the energy ministry. Egypt needed electricity, and no government can afford blackouts.

  Leaning back, all Winter said was, ‘And that’s why Orafin wanted to cooperate with Al-Bader?’

  ‘Yes, we have to think beyond our national boundaries. America consists of the United States of America; the European Union has integrated the national states of the Continent. We want the same here in the Middle East. Sooner or later the progressive countries will form an economic union. The Gulf states have the oil money, while we have key contacts and, more importantly, a large number of consumers. Compared to Europe our growth is phenomenal. It’s a huge opportunity for our country. The next step is the nuclear power station north of Cairo. It will provide electricity for everybody.’

  ‘I can well understand that,’ Winter nodded. ‘We’d be happy to help organize the necessary transactions. Switzerland is neutral ground, it’s discreet and very secure for such development.’

  Now Kaddour leaned back too. ‘So you don’t believe it was an accident? The latest statements f
rom the Swiss police are still saying that there could have been a number of reasons for the crash.’ Kaddour had been doing his homework.

  ‘The investigation is being carried out by the public authorities and they work to a different rhythm. Even in Switzerland, official minutes last a little bit longer. But I’m afraid I can’t rule out an attack. I’m sure it was an isolated incident. But I keep asking myself: who might have something against Al-Bader?’

  ‘I’m sorry I cannot be of assistance here, for there are a lot of people who might benefit from a delay. Progress is not embraced by everybody. Religious fanatics have no interest in it. Second, the old generals are vying for power, which puts a block on many decisions.’

  Kaddour was sticking out a finger for each possibility. ‘Third, the competition is fierce. Our rivals would like to get involved with the nuclear power station too. Fourth, you have the Americans, who are unhappy when countries like Egypt expand their knowledge of nuclear technology. As far as the CIA are concerned, it’s only a small step from the peaceful, environmentally friendly use of nuclear technology to the bomb. Just look at Iran. And fifth, perhaps it was just a former business partner Al-Bader ripped off. He is… he was a damn fine businessman, and hard as nails.’

  Now Kaddour stuck out the little finger of his other hand. ‘And sixth, the Saudi royal family are not exactly famous for all getting on with each other.’

  In truth they knew nothing. Fatima had kept quiet, but Winter was certain that she’d been listening very carefully. He wasn’t surprised, therefore, when she said, ‘Perhaps we’re thinking along the wrong lines. If it was an attack, how do we know for sure that Al-Bader was the target? To my knowledge there was a second passenger on board, besides the pilot. Who was that?’