Читаем Pandemic полностью

Pandemic

Eleish's stomach rumbled. Thankful that Ramadan had ended, he reached into the desk drawer and pulled out his lunch at 10:40 in the morning. Samira had made him a pita bread sandwich stuffed with the cold lamb kebabs from last night's dinner. His favorite. Devouring the sandwich, he mulled the facts over in his mind trying to come up with a logical link between a publishing magnate, a Special Forces soldier, and a mosque known as a hotbed for Islamic extremism.

A raspy voice interrupted his thoughts. "Sergeant, I have something for you to see."

Eleish looked up from his lunch to see Constable Qasim Ramsi standing in front of his desk. Short and sweaty with beady eyes and an oily smile, the junior detective looked perpetually guilty, which coincidentally he was. Eleish knew Ramsi to be a corrupt officer who spent much of his time extorting money from the dealers, pickpockets, pimps, and prostitutes of Cairo.

"I'm busy, Constable," Eleish said, searching his desk for a napkin to wipe the pita sauce off his hands and face.

"You will want to see these," Ramsi said, and Eleish knew immediately that he wouldn't.

Ramsi pulled out the manila envelope from under his arm. He reached two stubby fingers inside and withdrew a series of black-and-white blowups. He dropped the first one on Eleish's desk.

Eleish finally located the lunch bag under the chair. Inside, he found the napkin his wife always thoughtfully packed for him. Only after his hands were clean did he reach for the photo. It was a snapshot of a murder victim lying on the street in his underwear. His head and face were covered in so much blood that his features were unrecognizable. Huge bruises mottled the upper chest and legs.

"Congratulations, Qasim, you have a murder victim," Eleish said. "It will be even more impressive if you find the murderer."

Ramsi smiled wider. "Not just any victim, Sergeant." He tossed another enlarged photograph onto Eleish's desk. It fluttered in the air, flipping upside down.

Annoyed, Eleish reached down and flipped it over.

It was a close-up of the victim's face after some of the blood had been wiped away. The victim's eyes were swollen shut. His lower lip was filleted down the middle. The nose deviated to the right. An open red sore replaced most of his right cheek. And his right ear was missing. In spite of the mutilation, Eleish recognized Bishr Gamal's face.

"Looks like you'll be needing a new informer," Ramsi grunted.

Eleish suppressed the surge of anger. He stared at the photo for a few moments, composing himself. "Where?"

"In an alley not far from Khan al-Khalili," Ramsi said.

"How did he die?"

Ramsi put a meaty finger on the picture. "Badly."

"This is not an autopsy report," Eleish said through gritted teeth. "Was he shot, knifed, or just beaten to death?"

"Beaten."

"Who?"

"Did you notice the missing ear?" Ramsi asked, patronizingly.

The gesture was the signature of one of Cairo's most notorious gangs, the Muhannad Al Din. Their name meant "sword of the faith," but Eleish had yet to meet a spiritual member of the gang. They were lowlife who trafficked in people, drugs, and firearms. They traded with anyone willing to pay, from Islamic extremists to European drug smugglers. And the price for double-crossing them always involved the loss of an ear before death.

"They didn't kill him quickly, though," Ramsi said. "Some of his bruises had ripened. And see the sore on his cheek. His face was burned with something."

"Tortured?" Eleish said.

Ramsi nodded.

"Why would the Muhannad Al Din torture Bishr?"

"A thousand reasons." Ramsi shrugged. "He was a street rat, Sergeant. Either he stole from them. Or short-changed a prostitute." He snickered. "Or maybe he snitched on them to you, and they wanted to find out what he told you."

Eleish took a slow breath, suppressing the urge to punch his slimy colleague. He swallowed his rage and spoke in an even tone. "Look, Ramsi, I knew Gamal. It will be easier for me. Why don't I take care of this?"

Ramsi shrugged. He dropped the rest of the photos on Eleish's desk. "It's all yours, Sergeant. He was going to the very bottom of my pile, anyway."

After Ramsi left, Eleish sat at his desk and stared at the photos of Gamal's disfigured face. Ramsi was right. Cairo was a violent city. There were a thousand reasons why the Muhannad Al Din might have killed Gamal. Still, Eleish sensed that his murder had something to do with his presence at the Al-Futuh Mosque. The realization stirred the pangs of guilt. It also tangibly reinforced the risks of tracking Hazzir Kabaal.

Eleish moved the black-and-whites out of the way and reached for Abdul Sabri's file. He flipped open the cover, on which there was a half-page black-and-white photo of Sabri. His delicate features stared tranquilly back at the camera.

"You work for Kabaal now, don't you, Major?" Eleish asked the picture softly under his breath and then reached for another cigarette.