Oasis of Night (33 page)

“Yeah, I know.” I thought about my meeting with MacBride that day in the desert. I told Sam what MacBride had asked me.

“What did you tell him?”

“I haven't said anything yet. Sure, I'm as patriotic as the next guy but”—I lowered my voice—“espionage?”

“What Kevin MacBride asked you to do is not, strictly speaking, espionage. It is, rather, information gathering.”

I gave him a look. “Come on, Sam. A rose by any other name…?”

“Would smell as—yes, all right, Jack.” He huffed out a breath. “Sometimes I wonder if you deliberately set out to annoy me, or if such behavior is merely an inescapable fact of your personality.” His hand slid down my arm. “If I did not love you as much as I do, I would probably kill you.” He sat back and closed his eyes. “Maybe I will kill you anyway.” He rested his head on the bench and sighed.

We finished our steam, and then headed to the showers together. It was really hard to stand under the hot water in the communal shower and not touch him, but I knew better. Sam was taking an incredible chance, and so was I; if the wrong people found out about us, Sam would lose his commission, and I'd be going back to Newfoundland in a cardboard box. Sure, there were guys like me in Egypt, but they were careful about it. Nowadays, more than ever, you didn't know who to trust. “What will you do with the rest of your day, Jack?”

“I dunno. I guess I should probably get ready to go home.” I forced myself to smile. “I came here because you were missing. You're not missing anymore.” It was like a knife in my chest. I ducked my head under the stream of water and rinsed my hair.

He gazed at me soberly. “And you have your cafe.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I got my Heartache.” Thanks to Frankie. I owed him a lot, and he was dead, killed by Jonah Octavian or one of his henchmen. Christ, what a sorry mess that whole thing was. I'd jumped out of one frying pan and into a second one, even hotter and greasier than the first. I turned off the water and we stepped out, carefully not looking at each other as we toweled off and dressed. “I guess… yeah.” The unspoken words sat in my throat like a lump of ice, and I wanted to throw my arms around him, beg him to come back with me. I knew it would be futile.

Sam finished buttoning his shirt and slid the knot of his tie into place. “Can I give you a ride to the station?”

“Yeah, sure. Thanks.” Sam had work to do on a forgery case, and I still needed to give a statement about Jonah Octavian's death. As soon as we arrived, he handed me over to Samir. “Sergeant, if you could take Mr. Stoyles' statement? It concerns the death of Jonah Octavian. Mr. Octavian, as I'm sure you remember, was….” Something infinitely painful, something disappointed, flickered on Sam's face for an instant, and then was gone. “Mr. Octavian was a Nazi collaborator.”

Samir leaped to his feet, taut as a bowstring. “Your command, Captain Halim.”

“If Mr. Stoyles has any additional information that we do not, kindly take note of it.”

“As you wish, Captain Halim. If I can serve in any other way—”

“That will be all, sergeant.”

I followed Samir down the hall to a small room with a desk and a couple chairs. There were minimal furnishings and no windows; the ceiling light buzzed annoyingly, like a fly trapped in a window screen. Samir gestured that I should sit down. “You want to tell me exactly what the problem is?” I wasn't really asking; I knew I'd been a five-star jerk where Samir was concerned, but as far as that went, he owned at least some of the blame. He'd as much as said he had no expectations—that we were keeping each other company, nothing more. “You seem pretty sore.” I tapped out a cigarette and lit it.

Samir glared at me. “No smoking is permitted in this room.”

“Samir—Ibrahim—it's me, Jack. What's going on? You're acting like I killed your mother.”

His mouth tightened. “My family is none of your concern. Now, then. Your statement regarding the death of the war criminal Jonah Octavian. You may begin when ready.”

“Still holding on to the guy who killed Pasha Nubar?”

“That is not your affair.”

“That's the word I was looking for.” I waited, but he didn't take the bait. “We never made any promises, you and me.”

A flicker of hurt passed across his features. “Just as you say.” He kept his gaze on the desk.

“Ibrahim….”

“Captain Halim asked that I question you. Please permit me to do so.”

I didn't know what he was playing at, and he didn't seem real eager to tell me, so I figured I'd better leave it alone. Whatever was up Samir's nose was his business, but I couldn't shake the feeling it had something to do with me. I told him everything I knew up to and including Octavian's messy death at the hands of Andros Scala, and he took it all down without looking at me once.

“Did Scala give any indication why he executed Octavian? Did he say anything to you?”

“No. I got the feeling it wasn't up for debate.” It was odd, taken in context, why Scala had killed Octavian instead of Sam. He was Sam's cousin, not Scala's. If anybody was going to kill him—

“Captain Halim is a sworn officer of the law.” Samir's voice startled me. I must have been thinking out loud again. “Whereas Scala is an Allied combatant. For Captain Halim to kill Octavian would have been murder, but Colonel Scala could dispatch him with fewer… complications.”

“But it's wartime. And Sam—Captain Halim—isn't your average police captain. Surely, there are mitigating circumstances.”

Samir sat back in his chair and regarded me with open hostility. “In your country, it is perhaps acceptable to kill a man of one's own family.”

“That's a dirty crack, Samir.”

“Is it?” The Ibrahim I knew was gone; in his place was the cold and judgmental Sergeant Samir, the same Samir who'd pushed me up against the wall the first day we'd met. “One has only to see an American film to know murder is a way of life with you.”

“Samir—”

“I do believe I have everything I need, Mr. Stoyles.” He closed the folder. “Good day.”

And then he simply got up and left. I waited awhile, and when he didn't come back, I figured that was it. I caught a cab back to my hotel and left things where they were.

I didn't figure I'd hear from Sam or Ibrahim Samir the rest of the day, so I changed into something cool and airy, laced up my walking shoes, and set out to explore Cairo. Everywhere you went in this city, it seemed like there was somebody waiting with his hand out—kids, old men, young men—running alongside you, tugging at your sleeve and begging for baksheesh. Frankie had warned me about this, and although I had no intention of supporting the local beggars' guild, I kept a few piasters in small change in my pocket just the same. Sometimes beggars were the people with the information. They operated on the fringes of society, and they saw and heard things the rest of us didn't. Their information wasn't free, but for a price, you could find out just about anything—if you knew how to ask the right questions.

The whole business with Frankie was nagging me. Sam hadn't said a word about it, except to assure me it was Octavian who'd killed him. If he knew why—and I was pretty sure Sam did—he wasn't saying, or maybe that was classified information. The official story was that Missalo was working with Octavian, and that's why Frankie had gone to Newfoundland in the first place. Octavian had been using the island as his base of operations, which made a lot of sense. Newfoundland was of enormous strategic importance in this war. Octavian's construction company gave him a perfect front, but what did Frankie have? He didn't work for anybody in particular, just sort of bummed around, hiring on for a day or a week as a construction laborer with the choice to punch out whenever he liked. There were lots of jobs, and lots of foremen looking to hire guys who knew their way around a site; if you got bored doing one thing, chances were good you could switch off and do something else.

So if Frankie was working for Octavian, like Octavian had said he was, chances were good he knew all about Octavian's racket. But why follow Octavian to Cairo unless Octavian had given Frankie some kind of job to do? Maybe there was a reason why Frankie had arranged my travel, had set me up in a good hotel—had done everything short of flying me across the Atlantic. Guys like Octavian don't do the dirty work themselves; he'd have had one of his goons take Frankie out into the desert and bump him off, make it seem like Sam had done it. The odds were decent that Octavian had no more use for Frankie, and probably Frankie was tired of doing Octavian's grunt work, or maybe Octavian had given him an order and Frankie had refused. I didn't know the whole story, but I could piece some things together out of what I knew.

Octavian had tried to bump me off back home in Newfoundland, using Julie Fayre as go-between. When that failed—when Sam intervened in time to save me—Octavian had bolted, leaving Julie to take the rap. But he wasn't idle while his girlfriend was dancing her last tango at the end of a rope. He'd arranged to kidnap Sam and bring him to Cairo, knowing I'd come looking for him, that I wouldn't let it rest. Hell, Sam had probably agreed to go with him, on account of family feeling and a shared nostalgia for old times… the same kind of nostalgia Frankie and I had.

How much had Octavian known, and how much had he told? To whom had he told it? I was betting Sam knew more than he was telling, and I was pretty sure MacBride's merry band of saboteurs, or whatever they were, probably had the inside dope as well. It would be pointless to go to either of them, however, and ask for information. Sam would politely stonewall me and MacBride would pretend he didn't know what I was talking about. There was only one person I could ask.

 

 

S
HE
ANSWERED
the doorbell on the first ring and invited me in. The house was pleasantly cool and inviting after the heat of the day, and when she offered me a cold glass of orange juice, I didn't refuse. “I am glad you have come. We have just returned from visiting with family in the country.” Her dark hair was loose around her shoulders, and she wore a pale blue robe that floated around her slender figure. “I have very much wanted to speak with you.”

“I want to talk to you as well.” I didn't hesitate; this was no time for niceties. “Since I came to Cairo, I've been caught up in one mess or another pretty well nonstop. Now, I'm not a policeman or a soldier or part of any commando squad. I run a cafe in Newfoundland. I didn't come here looking for trouble, but it seems like I've been getting plenty of it. I think you know more than you're telling.”

She avoided my gaze by fussing with her clothes. I let her keep on for a few minutes, figuring she'd talk when she was good and ready. “There is much you do not understand.”

“Yeah, you know, people have been saying that to me ever since I came here. You're wrong. I know as much as I need to know. Sam's spying for the Allies, with the blessing of his government, and you—I don't know what to make of you. Ever since day one, you've been playing me for a fool. First you come out with a big sob story to get me on your side. Help me find my husband, you said. Then, when I start digging up some dirt, you get antsy and tell me to back off. I find Sam anyway, which is what he intended, but I'm thinking maybe you might not have wanted him found, that maybe it was better from your point of view if Sam went missing for good, or at least until I was safely out of the picture.”

Her cheeks flushed bright red. She stood, her composure vanished. “You will leave my house at once.”

“Just what kind of game are you playing, Mrs. Halim? You get me out here to some party you're having, and then you throw Ibrahim Samir at me, hoping I'll be satisfied with him, hoping maybe I won't bother Sam anymore.”

She pointed to the door with a shaking hand. “Get out! You get out of here immediately! You do not understand anything! Go back to where you came from and leave me alone.”

She advanced toward me, but I caught hold of her wrist and held her there. “Or what, Tareenah? You'll report me to the police? You'll tell Sam I came over here and put my hands on you? That I made you do things? He'll never believe you.”

She smirked. “My husband loves me. He will believe anything I tell him.”

“You think you're real clever. You thought if Samir and I got nice and cozy, I'd forget all about Sam. Then you could have Sam back again. I wouldn't want him anymore.”

“No, that isn't true!”

“Who killed Pasha Nubar? Huh? Who shot a blow dart through the window? A dart that was maybe meant for me? And what's the real reason you don't want to sleep with Sam? Maybe there's no prohibition in your religion against contraception, but you'd rather leave Sam high and dry—” Her hand slammed into my face and I staggered backward. “What did Octavian promise you?”

Her expression was triumphant. “You will die not knowing, Americani. I will never tell.”

There was a faint rustle at the door. “Yes, you will.” Sam stood there in full uniform, his service automatic pointed at his wife. “Yes, my wife, you will tell. You will tell me everything.”

 

 

I
F
I
BRAHIM
Samir was surprised to see the three of us turn up at headquarters together, he didn't say anything. I figured Sam was angry I'd decided to interrogate his wife in her own house, but he had insisted I come along, “Since you have been involved in this from the beginning.” We went into Sam's office and sat down—Sam behind his desk, Tareenah and I in front of him. For a long time, he didn't say anything, simply sat there gazing at Tareenah calmly, as if she were any other traitor. Then, when some ten minutes had elapsed, he took a folder out of his desk drawer and dropped it in front of her. “Open it.”