Damnation Read online

‘A colleague of mine. Normally I would have accompanied Al-Bader, but I took last Friday off. I’m in the process of renovating my house.’ Everybody’s building in Egypt, Winter thought; they can understand that. Then he added, ‘But I’d swear by Anne.’

  ‘I see. So it was pure chance that you weren’t in the helicopter yourself ?’

  ‘Yes. This time I was lucky.’ And Anne unlucky. His feelings of guilt roiled again.

  ‘How do you know that you weren’t the intended victim?’ Kaddour said.

  Gazing out into the night, Winter saw the pyramids in the distance and, close-by, a Bedouin walk past with a camel in the pallid light from the restaurant. He had to admit that this was not a completely absurd possibility. He’d made the odd enemy in the past. Occupational hazard. ‘Maybe I was. Not many people knew that we’d swapped places. But there are simpler ways to get rid of me.’

  There was a pause in their conversation. After a while, Winter said, ‘I still think Al-Bader was the more likely target. He’s rich, usually well protected and not loved by all. But we know far too little. For example, why now? Was it just opportunity, or did something trigger it? Are your dealings at a critical point?’

  ‘Permanently.’ Kaddour laughed out loud and added, seriously, ‘No, we have to be fairly flexible with the timeline. Because of the protests following the blackouts, the government is reforming energy legislation. We don’t know how quickly that will go. But we were just one of Al-Bader’s business partners. He told me he was at a conference in Norway on issues of infrastructure and that “we” should meet in the middle. I estimate that Al-Bader’s family is worth six to seven billion – US dollars, of course. And I’m assuming that his investments are spread around the world. It might be worth taking a closer look at his business contacts. As a banker you must be perfectly placed for that.’

  Kaddour raised his eyebrows.

  ‘I’m just in charge of security. At any rate, Swiss banking confidentiality would prevent me from talking about other clients.’

  ‘Oh, come on. Don’t give me that old line. Your boss is much more talkative. He once told me about a well-known German who got rich with yoghurts and moved from Deutsche Bank to your outfit because of your boss’s charm. Out of gratitude he now has free yoghurt till the end of his life. Next time he’s going to seek out a brewing baron.’ Kaddour laughed.

  Winter thought this was a good opportunity to throw in an awkward question. ‘Why did you send Husseini the day before yesterday? Wouldn’t it have been more appropriate for you to come to Switzerland?’

  Kaddour stopped laughing. He hesitated a moment too long to sound convincing and shot Fatima a sideways glance.

  ‘Originally I was intending to come to Switzerland myself. I love your country. But I had to go to the ministry at short notice. The energy minister wanted my advice and that’s why I sent Husseini.’ Pause. ‘Have you come across anything in Switzerland to suggest that I’m in danger too?’ Either Kaddour hadn’t taken Winter’s direct question personally or he was good at diversionary tactics.

  ‘Here we need to keep an eye on the fundamentalists, you see,’ Fatima interjected. ‘We keep receiving threats, but we’re convinced that progress cannot be halted.’ Winter wondered who Fatima meant by ‘we’.

  ‘No, no. You can rest assured that I’ve heard nothing of the sort back at home. But there are rumours that Al-Bader has financed Islamic terrorists.’

  ‘That’s absolute nonsense! Al-Bader is much closer to the Americans than to Al-Qaeda or ISIS. In the West, anyone with an Arabic background and money automatically ends up on a list of terrorists.’

  ‘I thought the same,’ Winter said. ‘But in my business you can’t take any chances.’

  The discussion went back and forth, becoming ever more speculative. After midnight Kaddour excused himself and went inside the restaurant. The bill? Toilet? Phone call?

  Winter was alone with Fatima. She was stunning and Winter was slightly unsettled. For a while they were silent, then she bent forwards and looked imploringly at Winter with her large eyes. ‘I’m frightened. Kaddour was a bigwig in the military and now he has lots of enemies. If you know of anything that could be of a threat to him, you must tell me! Please. He is a good man. I’ve been working for him for three years and he only wants the best for Egypt.’ Winter was taken aback by the intensity of her pleas and spontaneously he placed a hand on Fatima’s for comfort.

  ‘I really haven’t seen any evidence, and nor has my boss said anything.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Although she didn’t pull her hand away, she was clearly a touch embarrassed by the situation. Winter opened his mouth. For a moment they looked at each other and Winter felt an invisible connection. The pyramids were the only, silent witnesses.

  Fatima broke the spell and said, rather formally, ‘You ought to know that the president of Orafin doesn’t dare step out of his house any more for fear of being the target of an attack. He only leaves his house when it is unavoidable, and he has arranged round-the-clock protection for himself from armed guards.’

  Kaddour came back out onto the terrace, with a mobile phone in his hand and a slightly fixed smile on his face. ‘Right, my turtle doves. Shall we go?’ Winter let go of Fatima’s hand and they got up.

  As they were saying goodbye to the owner beneath the canopy, Kaddour’s telephone rang. He checked the display and excused himself.

  A confidential conversation.

  Meanwhile, Fatima was chatting to the owner.

  Winter took advantage of the opportunity to relieve himself before the drive home. He went back into the restaurant and found the door to the toilet hidden behind a curtain. He stepped into the dimly lit room and held his breath. Winter relaxed and emptied his bladder. Bye-bye beer. He was peering through the filthy window into the night when a deafening explosion shook the building. For a split-second Winter saw the yellow fiery glow, then the glass shattered and a piece of metal from Kaddour’s Mercedes hit his skull.

  JULY 27 – 17:03

  When Winter woke up, he was lying in a bed on his back. Naked. Covered with a coarse sheet. There was a hellish pain in his head. The blood was throbbing against the inside of his skull.

  Where was he?

  Then his memory returned: Cairo! Kaddour and Fatima. The restaurant with the filthy bathroom window. The dazzling explosion.

  Somewhere outside, a muezzin was calling to prayer; the incomprehensible monologue penetrated his aching skull. Street noise. Winter tentatively opened his eyes. A simple lamp hung from the brownish ceiling.

  He carefully turned his head.

  Light slanted in through closed shutters.

  Winter cautiously checked his temple and found a large dressing, padded with cotton wool. There were smaller dressings on his nose, cheeks and chin.

  The slivers of glass from the window.

  Beside the bed was a chair with his things placed carefully on top: watch, wallet, keys, phone and a neatly folded handkerchief.

  And a glass of water too! His throat was as dry as a bone. Winter was grateful for the drink. And for the fact that he was alive. He sat up. The glass was covered with a saucer. He sipped the lukewarm water hesitantly at first, then gulped the rest.

  The clock showed six minutes past five. Morning or afternoon? Impossible to tell from the way the light was coming in. Beside the bed and between the two narrow windows stood an antique chest of drawers with a marble top. On it were some clothes. In the backlight Winter could make out his trousers. At the foot of the bed was a door with a key in the lock. Not prison, then.

  Good.

  From the way the room was furnished, it didn’t look like a hospital either. To the left, above the bed, hung a yellowed photograph – at least a hundred years old – that showed a half-finished Eiffel Tower. If I’d paid better attention in history lessons, Winter thought, I’d be able to date this photo accurately. Wasn’t it a world exposition?

  Winter was too exhausted to think. His head hurt. The best thin
g would probably be to get more sleep. He closed his eyes. After a while he heard someone carefully opening the door. He didn’t move and pretended he was asleep. Someone entered the room, moving softly and circumspectly. Shuffling on the balls of their feet.

  He smelled Fatima’s perfume and opened his eyes.

  She gave a contented smile and said, ‘Nice to have you back. How do you feel?’

  ‘Better.’ Discovering how difficult it was to speak, Winter said no more, opting instead to feel the plaster on his temple again.

  ‘That’s good. You slept the whole day.’ It was evening, then.

  ‘What happened? Where am I?’

  ‘Kaddour is dead. Those bastards blew up the Mercedes. They found you unconscious in the toilets. You were struck by a piece of metal and probably have concussion.’

  She was wearing a loose, beige, cotton blouse; ankle-length, brown and very wide trousers, and her long hair was held up with a comb slide. No jewellery.

  When Fatima sat on the edge of the bed Winter could feel her weight on the mattress and, through the sheet, that she was close to him.

  ‘The owner of the restaurant drove us back to Cairo in his car and I put you up here. I told the police you were a friend of the family. They were pleased that they didn’t have to worry about a foreigner too. But in cases of concussion the patient has to be monitored.’

  For a moment Winter wondered what ‘family’ she was talking about, and said, ‘Thanks. Thanks very much. I think I’m much better already.’

  He was happy not to have ended up in hospital. He gave those places a wide berth wherever possible. After all many people didn’t actually become sick until they got to hospital, even in the so-called First World.

  ‘Bastards!’ All of a sudden Fatima was seething with rage. Her composure was gone and she was clenching her delicate hands. ‘Those fucking extremists. I always thought Kaddour was pretty safe, but clearly they will resort to anything. He was only the operational head.’ She paused, then added sadly, ‘For me he was more than a boss. He was my mentor, almost like a father to me.’

  ‘I’m really very sorry.’

  Fatima sighed, her anger subsided, and then she smiled ruefully.

  ‘Are you sure it was extremists?’ Winter asked.

  ‘Yes. Well, I can’t be certain, but they must have followed us. The police found a detonator. When Kaddour went to his car the bomb exploded. It was a primitive device. Typical of fundamentalists.’ She shook her head.

  ‘What about you? Did nothing happen to you? You were under the canopy at the entrance.’

  ‘I was lucky. I was talking to Ali, the owner. We were standing, thank goodness, behind his delivery van, which protected us from the explosion.’ She cocked her head and added, thoughtfully, ‘We were extremely lucky. Kaddour had gone to fetch the car. If he weren’t such a gentleman we’d have probably been in the car too. If, if, if… It’s simply fate. Allah is great.’ She stood up.

  ‘If you feel up to it, we could have dinner together this evening. Just something simple.’ Winter smiled and gave a weak nod. ‘The bathroom is next door and I’ve put out my father’s shirt for you.’ She pointed to the door, then the chest of drawers.

  ‘Thanks.’

  Stroking the marble ledge with her hand, Fatima peered out of the window and then turned back to Winter. Once again he said, ‘Thanks.’

  ‘You’re welcome.’ She left the room, closing the door behind her.

  Lying in bed Winter thought a bit. Then he got up, carefully. His brain was still a little sluggish, and with each movement it felt as if it knocked against his skull. Wrapped in the sheet, he spent a few minutes looking through the gaps in the shutters at the pulsating activity in the street. But in truth all he saw were colours. He’d lost all sense of time and felt as if he’d been in Cairo for months, even though he couldn’t remember a thing.

  After a while he padded his way into the bathroom, which was astonishingly large and cooler than the bedroom. The walls were decorated with oriental tiles. The basin was yellowed and supported on either side by a metal rod. The fittings were too short and impractical. The mirror had a wealth of grey spots at the edges.

  Winter examined his head covered in dressings. People would think he’d been shaved by a blind barber. Gently lifting the large, padded dressing from his temple, he saw that the wound wasn’t completely dry. The dressing would stay.

  The bathtub was old and with feet in the form of a predator’s paws. The shower had been built subsequently in a corner. Winter turned on the squeaky tap. The water spluttered along the pipes. He found a large bar of soap and carefully washed around his head wound. The cold water revived his spirits.

  Back in the bedroom he listened to his voicemail messages. Dirk, the head of IT, confirming that he’d checked the firewall but not found anything. A friend wanting to go out for dinner. Känzig demanding a ‘progress report – immediately!’ Nothing from Ben. And Schütz this afternoon from Riyadh, asking him to call back because he’d heard ‘interesting’ information at Al-Bader’s funeral. Winter phoned Schütz. As the connection was made Winter wondered where Schütz was at this moment. Egypt must be an hour or two behind Riyadh.

  ‘Hello, Winter,’ Schütz said. ‘Thanks for calling back. Are you still in Cairo?’

  ‘Schütz. Yes, I’m still in Cairo.’ Feeling his plaster, he decided against mentioning the attack. ‘How are things in Riyadh?’

  ‘Hot. I’m in one of these luxury hotels. Everything made of gold. A sheer waste. We really have to open a branch out here.’

  ‘So you’ve got some interesting news?’

  ‘Yes, we had a buffet reception in the family’s villa. The brother invited all the guests. An astonishing number of Americans and Europeans were there, especially from the Nordic countries. I spoke to a Norwegian from Bergen who manages a fund specialising in infrastructure investments. Starting sums of ten million. And after the fourth vodka the Viking told me that Al-Bader was in the process of making massive investments into global infrastructure projects. Hence the conference in Norway.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Well, when I got my sixty-second audience with the brother, he told me that the investment process was in the interests of the entire consortium and that it had to continue at the same speed, in spite of Al-Bader’s death.’

  ‘Yes, and?’

  ‘The most interesting thing was that the brother mistook me for a Norwegian to begin with. Must have been my blond hair and blue eyes. When I told him I was from Switzerland he immediately dismissed me with a wave of the hand as if I were no more than a nuisance.’

  Schütz laughed scornfully. ‘And, being the idiot I am, I always thought we were Al-Bader’s main bank. He probably just kept his petty cash with us. Imagine that! It seems that oil sticks to oil. If that thing about the consortium is true then the investment sums are enormous. You could put a murder on expenses. You can’t make an omelette without breaking eggs.’

  ‘Are you saying that Al-Bader used a Norwegian fund to invest in infrastructure like Egyptian nuclear power stations and that he was killed for these investment programmes?’

  ‘No, I wouldn’t put it as bluntly as that. All I’m saying is that Norway wasn’t just about Al-Bader, but a whole group of investors from the Middle East. A consortium. And Al-Bader was merely one of them. If you make a rough estimate you easily arrive at several billion dollars. An amount that can move markets.’

  ‘Do you know if the conference in Bergen is still running? If so we’d have all of them in the same place.’

  ‘Yes, the conference goes on to the end of the week. I’ll email you the Viking’s business card. That should serve as an entry ticket.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Winter ended the call and thought: Norway’s cooler than Egypt.

  With much on his mind, Winter left the room, walked down the stone steps and through an open wooden door entered an inner courtyard. Shielded from the noise of the street by the house, the courtyard was a cool
oasis full of flowering plants. In the middle was a rectangular, tiled pond with a water fountain. A covered arcade led around the courtyard. It was already quite dark but the last rays of the sun lit up the roof.

  Fatima was sitting with a laptop at a round, cast-iron table in a corner.

  ‘What a wonderful courtyard!’ Winter said.

  ‘Yes, I love it here. I can concentrate on work much better than in the office.’ She bashfully made a sweeping gesture. ‘This is my mother’s family’s house. But at the moment my parents spend most of their time in London. I live here with my grandmother. She looks after all the plants.’ She closed her laptop. ‘Are you hungry? Yes, you must be starving after such a deep sleep.’

  Winter nodded gratefully.

  Fatima got up, went inside, and within a few minutes came back out with a tray full of Egyptian snacks from the kitchen. They ate straight out of the richly decorated dishes. After a while they started talking about the parallels between the helicopter crash in the Höllentobel and the explosion of Kaddour’s Mercedes. Was it coincidence? Was there a connection? Fatima was desperate to know who was behind Kaddour’s death. ‘Al-Bader is the only obvious connection.’

  ‘I’m not sure. Maybe it doesn’t have anything to do with Al-Bader or Kaddour as individuals, but with the planned nuclear power station.’

  ‘Nobody was aware that Al-Bader was going to invest.’

  ‘Nobody?’

  ‘You never know. But there are several other interested investors besides Al-Bader. The fundamentalists can’t murder every single one of them.’

  ‘No, but they can send a clear message to other potential investors and poison the atmosphere.’

  ‘In the worst-case scenario the Orafin project will be slightly delayed. At any rate we are going to continue our conversation with Al-Bader’s family.’

  Winter rubbed his throbbing temple. ‘The money trail isn’t easy to follow. But if we knew who might profit from the murders then at least we’d have a concrete motive. The difficulty is that in such cases those issuing the orders rarely get their hands dirty themselves.’