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Authors: Laurence O’Bryan
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took the earphones off.
‘Hi, can you help us? I’m supposed to meet a friend of mine here for a party. He’s an American, a guy called Max Kaiser. He’s a big guy, with bushy black hair, a young-looking professor. He lives on Jabotinsky, but for the life of me I can’t remember which number. If you can tell me where he lives, I’ll give you this.’ I pushed the two notes forward. ‘I don’t want to miss my chance with that one.’ I nodded towards Isabel.
The boy, he seemed more Arab than Jewish, looked at me as if I was certifiable. He had patches of beard on his face and a collection of beaded necklaces hanging from his neck.
‘Can’t help,’ he said. ‘Don’t know who you’re talking about.’ He turned away, making it clear that even if he did know something, he wasn’t going to tell me anything useful.
‘How many delivery guys does this place have?’
He glanced at me, then looked away, putting his phone to his ear as if he’d suddenly remembered he had an urgent phone call to make.
I went into the shop, asked the guy behind the counter how many delivery people they had. He looked at me as if he had no idea what language I was even speaking in. He pointed up at the plastic sign above his head. Another bigger guy was looking at us steadily, as if getting ready to pull a baseball bat out at the first sign of trouble. Though, considering what country we were in, he probably had a legally held UZI under the counter.
‘Which pizza you want?’ the first man said. He sounded as if he’d been smoking for a hundred years.
Isabel leaned over the counter. The man was staring at her.
‘Have you got a guy called David doing deliveries?’ she said.
They looked at each other, clearly trying to work out why a woman like Isabel would be trying to find a particular pizza delivery guy. You could almost see their brains grinding through the possibilities.
‘We have no David here, sorry.’ He shook his head.
‘How many delivery guys do you have?’
‘Two. There is the second one. And he’s not a David.’ He pointed.
I turned. A second delivery motorbike had pulled up outside. The guy on it was huge. The bike looked tiny under him. I went out, walked up to him.
‘Your boss said you would help us.’ I pointed back inside. The guy behind the counter waved at us. The delivery guy looked from him to me.
‘We’re looking for an American called Max. He’s got bushy hair. We’re supposed to be going to his place tonight, but I lost his number. I know he lives somewhere on Jabotinsky.’
I leaned towards him. ‘Your boss said I can give you this.’ I had the two notes in my hand. I pushed them forward.
He looked at them, then back up at me. ‘Yeah, I know your American friend, but you’re too late. His apartment’s burnt out. He ain’t been there in weeks. You can’t miss the place if you walk up Jabotinsky. But you won’t want to go there tonight. He won’t be entertaining anyone.’ He took the notes from my outstretched hand and went past me into the pizza shop.
Isabel was still talking to the man behind the counter. If Kaiser’s apartment had been on fire, there’d be a good chance that would be visible from the street. We had to go back to Jabotinsky.
But a part of me didn’t want to.
I didn’t want to see what had happened to his apartment. His death had been a distant thing up until this point.
Now I couldn’t escape thinking about what had happened to him. That made a queasy feeling rise up inside me.
I was imagining what it must have been like. The flames burning him. I couldn’t imagine a worse torture. Soon, I wouldn’t need to imagine it.
15
The screen on Mark Headsell’s laptop was glowing blue. He’d dimed the lights in the suite on the fifteenth floor of the Cairo Marriot on El Gezira Street as soon as he’d entered it.
The hotel was a difficult landmark to miss if you were aiming to bring down a symbol of Western decadence, but as it had hardly been
‘Hi, can you help us? I’m supposed to meet a friend of mine here for a party. He’s an American, a guy called Max Kaiser. He’s a big guy, with bushy black hair, a young-looking professor. He lives on Jabotinsky, but for the life of me I can’t remember which number. If you can tell me where he lives, I’ll give you this.’ I pushed the two notes forward. ‘I don’t want to miss my chance with that one.’ I nodded towards Isabel.
The boy, he seemed more Arab than Jewish, looked at me as if I was certifiable. He had patches of beard on his face and a collection of beaded necklaces hanging from his neck.
‘Can’t help,’ he said. ‘Don’t know who you’re talking about.’ He turned away, making it clear that even if he did know something, he wasn’t going to tell me anything useful.
‘How many delivery guys does this place have?’
He glanced at me, then looked away, putting his phone to his ear as if he’d suddenly remembered he had an urgent phone call to make.
I went into the shop, asked the guy behind the counter how many delivery people they had. He looked at me as if he had no idea what language I was even speaking in. He pointed up at the plastic sign above his head. Another bigger guy was looking at us steadily, as if getting ready to pull a baseball bat out at the first sign of trouble. Though, considering what country we were in, he probably had a legally held UZI under the counter.
‘Which pizza you want?’ the first man said. He sounded as if he’d been smoking for a hundred years.
Isabel leaned over the counter. The man was staring at her.
‘Have you got a guy called David doing deliveries?’ she said.
They looked at each other, clearly trying to work out why a woman like Isabel would be trying to find a particular pizza delivery guy. You could almost see their brains grinding through the possibilities.
‘We have no David here, sorry.’ He shook his head.
‘How many delivery guys do you have?’
‘Two. There is the second one. And he’s not a David.’ He pointed.
I turned. A second delivery motorbike had pulled up outside. The guy on it was huge. The bike looked tiny under him. I went out, walked up to him.
‘Your boss said you would help us.’ I pointed back inside. The guy behind the counter waved at us. The delivery guy looked from him to me.
‘We’re looking for an American called Max. He’s got bushy hair. We’re supposed to be going to his place tonight, but I lost his number. I know he lives somewhere on Jabotinsky.’
I leaned towards him. ‘Your boss said I can give you this.’ I had the two notes in my hand. I pushed them forward.
He looked at them, then back up at me. ‘Yeah, I know your American friend, but you’re too late. His apartment’s burnt out. He ain’t been there in weeks. You can’t miss the place if you walk up Jabotinsky. But you won’t want to go there tonight. He won’t be entertaining anyone.’ He took the notes from my outstretched hand and went past me into the pizza shop.
Isabel was still talking to the man behind the counter. If Kaiser’s apartment had been on fire, there’d be a good chance that would be visible from the street. We had to go back to Jabotinsky.
But a part of me didn’t want to.
I didn’t want to see what had happened to his apartment. His death had been a distant thing up until this point.
Now I couldn’t escape thinking about what had happened to him. That made a queasy feeling rise up inside me.
I was imagining what it must have been like. The flames burning him. I couldn’t imagine a worse torture. Soon, I wouldn’t need to imagine it.
15
The screen on Mark Headsell’s laptop was glowing blue. He’d dimed the lights in the suite on the fifteenth floor of the Cairo Marriot on El Gezira Street as soon as he’d entered it.
The hotel was a difficult landmark to miss if you were aiming to bring down a symbol of Western decadence, but as it had hardly been
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