Arabesk (41 page)
Authors: Jon Courtenay Grimwood
“Probably,” said Raf, glancing at his Omega a second ahead of it beeping to remind him that he should be somewhere else.
Pashazade Ashraf Bey was in demand. Three weeks after the shocking murder of Lady Jalila by a renegade
Thiergarten
assassin, he was still a hero for the daring rescue of his niece, Hani al-Mansur, and of the daughter of Hamzah Effendi, a well-known industrialist. Charities begged Raf to be on their committee. There was the rumour of a Japanese miniseries. General Saeed Koenig Pasha called him almost daily. He had until two p.m. to decide if he wanted to be Iskandryia’s new Chief of Detectives.
He didn’t.
The only person not interested was Zara; not interested in Raf and not interested in the polite, handwritten little notes the Khedive had taken to having delivered to Villa Hamzah. As soon as she’d been polygraphed, her statement taken and affidavit signed, she’d stormed back to Glymenapoulo Bay. Not to the Villa Hamzah but to a small summer house in the grounds. And since then she’d met Raf only once. At the office of her father, where she’d stood stiff-backed and formal while Raf politely refused Hamzah Effendi’s offer of a reward for rescuing her and the big bear of a man had tried hard not to be offended.
“Look,” Hani said, spooning down another mouthful of ice cream hand-beaten from fresh milk, egg yoke and Caribbean vanilla pods. “She’s not going to call you. So you call her. It’s not difficult.”
“Maybe… Later…”
Hani sighed and turned her attention back to her pudding. No matter how cold the vanilla ice was when Hani’s bowl left the kitchen at Le Trianon, it still melted before she could take more than a dozen spoonfuls.
Still, they were small elegant spoons and she ate slowly. Her attention taken mainly by tourists who strolled the length of Rue Missala. Some smiled at the small girl sitting at her roped-off pavement table. Others glanced away, having decided the child in the Armani shades was famous and the man beside her was a bodyguard. In their next few steps they invariably decided who they’d just seen.
She’d been variously the child-model Isabella Cloud, a violin prodigy called x’Tra Sweet, known never to leave her compound in Wako and HRH Yasmine, only cousin of the young Khedive.
“Ready to move?” Raf folded his afternoon paper. He’d had the vending machine include downloads of anything personal and there were three snippets about him in the paper, none of them true and all of them highly complimentary.
“Sure.” Hani nodded at her bowl of melting ice cream. “You want some?” She knew full well he’d say no.
Two small coffees had already gone cold in front of Raf, but he didn’t mind and they weren’t really cold. In Isk, in high summer, nothing was unless it came straight out of a freezer like Hani’s endless supply of vanilla ice.
Raf thought Hani insisted on coming with him to Le Trianon every day because of the ice cream but he was wrong. What she liked was the bustle of the brightly dressed crowds, safely kept at bay by a rope that separated her table from the busy street beyond. And when she wasn’t there, she was up in his office, being spoiled by Raf’s assistant who’d suddenly revealed a side no one had ever before seen. It turned out the man grew up with three younger sisters and, bizarrely, had liked them all.
“Okay,” said Raf when his watch complained again. “You need me to take you up to the office?”
She didn’t. Not if her snotty look was anything to go by.
Finding her own way from the table up to his office was child’s play to Hani. For a start, the Third Circle had its own private lift. And, as Hani had pointed out more than once, she didn’t even have to climb the wire.
The girl was fine, Raf knew that. It was only anxiety that made him ask each day and that wasn’t Hani’s problem, it was his… Some day he’d have to stop trying to protect her. Not to mention stop letting her eat nothing but ice cream. But that time wasn’t yet.
“You can get me—”
“…On your mobile. Yes, I know.” Hani sighed. “Look, I’ll call you if I need you. Okay?” She had to have borrowed that line from Zara.
“Make sure you do.” Raf watched as the kid threaded her way between two pavement tables and disappeared into Le Trianon’s air-conditioned darkness. Maybe she knew he was watching her go, maybe not. Either way, she didn’t look back.
“Car,” said Raf and seconds later the fat man’s Cadillac rolled up to the kerb, white-walled tyres freshly washed. “The precinct,” Raf told his new driver, “and then home.”
“Whatever you say.” Skin like chocolate, eyes hidden behind mirror lenses, black cap balanced at an angle on his dreadlocked skull, Avatar nodded.
Zara’s half-brother had recently got the Cadillac’s shell sandblasted back to bare metal at a fly-by-night bodyshop out at Karmous. Then he’d had the twelve-cylinder super-tuned somewhere different. So now it roared like the devil and every surface burned with sunlight. The boy was arguing for a quad Blaupunkt sound system, flat speakers set into the leather door trim. To date Raf had been holding out, but it wasn’t an argument he was about to win.
“You called my sister yet?” Avatar demanded.
Raf shook his head.
“You plan to call her?”
“We’ve got ten minutes to get to the Precinct,” Raf said firmly and pretended not to notice Avatar’s grin.
It was only when the shining car overshot his turning and kept gunning down Iskander el Akhbar towards Glymenapoulo that he realized the boy intended that Raf should make a meeting all right, just not at the Precinct. And not with the Minister.
Raf could live with that.
Thanks to
Pathology guy Ed Friedlander MD for answering idiot questions on exactly what happens if someone sticks a spike in your heart. Everyone at rec.arts.sf.science for endless tolerance in the face of questions about genetic manipulation, wheelworlds, gravity and the nasty side-effects of vacuum (okay, we’re going back some years here). The now-nameless Islamic academic who provided information on Sufism. I’m sorry my Packard Hell P3 trashed all your details.
New Scientist,
just for existing. Dick Jude, ex head-honcho of Forbidden Planet, New Oxford Street for taking a punt on
neoAddix
and declaring that “Weird Shit” was a perfectly good publishing category. The Upper Street lunchtime crew, including but not limited to Pat Cadigan, Paul McAuley, Kim Newman, China Miéville, m. John Harrison, and (Jay) Russell Schechter. John Jarrold, ace editor, drinker and quoter of Shakespeare. Mic Cheetham, who sold the Ashraf Bey novels to Bantam. And Juliet Ulman, who not only bought the books but sat across the lunch table and sang “Yellow Dog Dingo…” A tip of the hat to Martin (Thraxas) Millar, whose novel
Milk, Sulphate and Alby Starvation
acted as a roadmap to the late 80s. Peter Sherwen, who froze on Bergen bandstand and crashed my bike in Morocco, then decided to ride it back to London because the forks “weren’t that bent.” And finally to my parents. Hindu shrines, Buddhist temples, deserted Far Eastern beaches and yet another bloody chateau… Much of these books I owe to you. (That’s a compliment.)
Copyright
EFFENDI
A Bantam Spectra Book / September 2005
Published by Bantam Dell
A Division of Random House, Inc.
New York, New York
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved
Copyright © 2002 by Jon Courtenay Grimwood
Cover photo copyright © 2005 by Laurence Dutton/Getty Images
Cover illustration by Bob Larkin
Book design by Virginia Norey
Bantam Books, the rooster colophon, Spectra, and the portrayal of a boxed “s” are trademarks of Random House, Inc.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Grimwood, Jon Courtenay.
Effendi: the second arabesk / Jon Courtenay Grimwood.
p. cm.
ISBN 0-553-58744-7
1. Police-Middle East-Fiction. 2. Fathers and daughters-Fiction.
3. Serial murders-Fiction. 4. Industrialists-Fiction.
5. Middle East-Fiction. 1. Title.
PR6107.R56E352005
823'.92-dc22
2005046978
Manufactured in the United States of America
Published simultaneously in Canada
BVG 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
For EMC G
from Singapore to England, via Afghanistan
(a hard act to follow)
I saw three faces on one head. One was an angry red, another between pale and yellow, the last like those who live where the Nile rises…
—Dante,
Inferno,
Canto XXXIV
EFFENDI
