Vertigo Read online

  He walked slowly towards the bar and stopped to peer at Muhi, making a show of turning away whenever Muhi looked up, and mumbling into his phone words to the effect that he wouldn’t accept a deal for less than fifty million; that his shares were going up; that the bank was imploring him to open an account …

  Muhi donned his spectacles, looked at him, then glanced down at his watch, making it clear he didn’t have all night to spend listening to his phone call. At last Hisham raised his hand in apology, shut his phone and strolled across to the table.

  ‘Muhi basha, I’m so sorry. If one didn’t do everything oneself then nothing would get done.’

  Muhi arose with all the agility of a fattened goose and extended his hand to Hisham, who first shook it then embraced him in a display of simulated affection.

  ‘It’s been too long.’

  ‘Hisham bey,’ replied Muhi, ‘good to see you at last.’

  ‘Busy times, Muhi.’

  ‘I’m always hearing about you.’

  ‘Just to have a little of your magic, Muhi. You’re a phenomenon.’

  Having exchanged these meaningless pleasantries the two men sat down and Mr Morgan came over to offer them a comprehensive array of earthly delights. Had this been an age of slave girls and serving wenches he would have summoned a Circassian handmaiden to amuse them. The bodyguards took their places at the bar while at the piano Hossam stroked out a soothing melody that he could have played in his sleep.

  The movement inside the bar caught the attention of Ahmed out on the balcony, who began peering through his zoom lens at the table laden with all that wealth: their clothes, their phones, their watches, their lips working. He imagined the conversation between the two:

  ‘See that young artist standing out on the balcony?’

  ‘That’s no artist, just some wedding snapper.’

  ‘Look, though. The way he’s holding the camera speaks of an unsullied genius …’

  ‘I can’t understand why you’re so taken with him. He’s just a desperately attractive Amr Diab lookalike …’

  ‘OK, I bet you that if that kid had some money he’d be world-class.’

  ‘You’re on.’

  ‘We’ll each give him a billion dollars and we’ll see how he does.’

  ‘But what if he wastes his opportunity?’

  ‘Come on, Hisham bey, what’s a billion dollars after all?’

  It was his favourite pastime, immersing himself in daydreams where his cares and problems could be forgotten: marrying the hottest women in Hollywood, taking on his enemies in arguments and leaving them speechless before a crowd of onlookers, driving the most beautiful cars in the world, finding a million pounds on the pavement, challenging the world heavyweight champion to a boxing match and beating him, owning a hotel called the InterContinental Abu Kamal, summering on the Riviera (wherever that was), and so on.

  Adjusting the camera’s position and selecting a slow shutter speed to allow him to dispense with the flash, Ahmed began to take close-ups of their luxurious phones and watches, of their gestures and expressions, their outward affection concealing an inner uncertainty and vigilance.

  ‘How’s business, ya basha?’

  ‘You’ll hear something good soon. And you? What news of your case?’

  The question seemed to make Hisham uncomfortable.

  ‘God willing, it’ll be fine. That girl’s a plant and I know exactly who’s putting her up to this. Anyway, the whole thing’s a storm in a teacup. You know the papers: we get a worse press than the film stars. Someone sneezes in Cairo and they say “Bless you” in Aswan.’

  Muhi smiled mockingly. ‘No, no, I was talking about the liquor charge …’

  Hisham lit a cigar. ‘That’s fabricated too. I mean, who doesn’t drink? And anyway, it’s a matter of personal freedom. There are a lot of envious people about, Muhi bey, and they can’t find anything better to do than eye our drinks?’

  ‘God give you strength,’ said Muhi, then, glancing at his watch, ‘Forgive me for not staying longer but I’ve got a meeting tomorrow morning and I should get to bed early.’

  ‘Whatever you say.’

  ‘So what was it you wanted to see me about?’

  ‘Me see you? Muhi bey, I came here because you invited me!’

  ‘You must be joking.’

  The doors to the internal lift descending from the rotating restaurant were nearby. Anyone wanting to leave had first to pass by the bar, the still eye of the storm, before descending directly from the fortieth floor to the lobby. Sitting next to the window, at the only occupied table in the restaurant, Muhi and Hisham’s mutual bewilderment was hovering over them, palpable as question-marked balloons, when the doors to the lift opened and disgorged three muscle-bound men dressed in black suits and ties, their faces expressionless. Standing by the lift, one of the men pulled out a cigarette which a second lit for him. The third man leaned against the window, staring out at the Nile.

  A bodyguard sitting at the bar went over to the men, followed by Mr Morgan, intending to give the arrivals a gentle hint that their presence wasn’t welcome just at that moment. As the bodyguard was talking, his left ear suddenly seemed to explode, taking a piece of his skull with it as a memento, and he dropped to the floor like a steam iron.

  After that, events unfolded very quickly.

  The thing that had parted the bodyguard’s ear from his head, it transpired, was no less than a bullet fired from a silenced pistol by the man who had been gazing dreamily at the Nile view a second earlier. At the very same moment the other two men pulled out their pistols and discharged them into the chest of Mr Morgan, who was thrown violently backwards, landing neck first on top of a barstool, probably killed by the impact of his landing rather than the bullets. This proved enough to provoke a delayed response from the other bodyguard seated at the bar, who drew his pistol and fired two rounds, the first striking the lift doors and the second lodging in the right-hand side of the assailant by the window, before two bullets caught up with him – one striking him in the chest, the other in the throat – fired by the other two men who had split up, heading off in separate directions in what seemed to be a professional and well-rehearsed manner.

  One of them made for the bar while the others headed to the table that Hisham Fathi had flipped over before drawing his silver Colt and firing at the nearest attacker – their leader, it appeared – and tearing a strip from his shoulder. On its way, his bullet passed another that went on to hit him directly above his mouth causing him to sink to his knees and topple forwards onto his face, his features comprehensively rearranged. A second bullet went wide, straight through the window, whizzing through the air next to Ahmed Kamal who had his finger pressed firmly on his camera’s burst button, a function that ensured it would continue to take rapid shots until the button was released. He only used this on special occasions and this was one of those moments when every second counts.

  Since the first bodyguard had fallen Ahmed’s nerves had locked his finger on this button, and he hadn’t yet released it, recording the last frame of Hisham Fathi’s life. Then the bullet whistled past him and he heard a ringing followed by a temporary deafness that broke his focus on the viewfinder. Gripped by a terror that his presence might be detected, he snatched up the camera bag and pressed himself against the wall just as the third attacker put two bullet’s in the barman’s back, dropping him as he made a dash for the bathroom.

  The gunman turned towards Hossam, who stood frozen to the spot behind the piano, looked into Hossam’s eyes for an instant that felt like an hour, then raised the muzzle of his gun. Hossam swivelled his gaze towards the balcony, his eyes seeking out Ahmed, who warily edged out from behind the wall and peeked round. Their eyes locked for a split second. Hossam closed his eyes and took a bullet in the left side of his face that passed straight through his skull, shattering the glass wall of a fish tank behind him. The tank exploded with a whooshing sound and a tidal wave of water burst out over Hossam’s pro
strate body.

  Ahmed felt like an artillery round had crashed into his heart and he slumped cross-legged on the ground, his back pressed to the wall, conscious only of a tingling in his face and an unfamiliar chill stealing through his limbs.

  Of the bar’s original occupants the only ones still alive were Tariq, the employee responsible for bookings, who, moments later, was lying by the external lift, felled by one of the gunmen; a waiter trapped in the kitchen and Muhi Zanoun. The attacker who seconds earlier had brought down Hisham Fathi, his yellow suit a butcher’s apron, now approached Muhi and silently levelled his pistol. He waited for the sound of a bullet being fired in the kitchen into the body of the imprisoned waiter before discharging three carefully aimed rounds into Muhi’s knee that dropped his target, screaming and clutching at the wound. Despite working in the arms trade he had never carried anything with which to defend himself.

  His agonised cries were the only sound to be heard.

  The gunman walked up and took Muhi’s face in his hands, whispering briefly and inaudibly into his left ear. Muhi quietened down, his loud wheezing gasps the only sound, listening intently with a look of disbelief until the man had finished speaking, then flopped onto his back, his eyes swivelling upwards. Above him the ceiling faded slowly to black as the sounds around him died away.

  The whole assault had lasted no longer than a minute, muzzle flashes lighting up the ceiling like disco lights and catching the attention of a man sitting on the October Bridge. He turned to his friend. ‘People living their lives to the fullest, my friend …’

  The three killers started gathering their victims’ weapons into a black plastic bag, all save for Hisham’s silver revolver, from which they fired several rounds at random into the walls before returning it to the cold hand of its owner.

  Working quickly, they wiped the guns clean and threw them down beside the hands of the corpses that a short while before had breathed and dreamed.

  One of the men dragged the waiter out of the kitchen and past the bar, dumping him in front of the lift doors, triggering a sensor that ensured they would stay open and block access to the lower floors. Taking Hisham’s phone, they took a last look at the bar before the emergency stairs swallowed them up.

  By any standard Ahmed was out of it: later he would be unable to remember what had happened. All that kept him going was his survival instinct. He had photographed part of the attack but even then had seen nothing save colours turning to red. His mind had frozen.

  He tried standing, supporting himself against the balcony wall beside a globule of blood that was sliding stickily down the window. Hisham Fathi’s hand caught his eye, some remaining electric charge in its nerves twitching out a message in Morse code. The sound of his own rapid breathing filled his ears, a powerful tremor coursed through his left hand and his heart thumped uncontrollably.

  Taking a minute or two to compose himself, he walked to the window, pointed his lens downwards and without looking took a rapid series of shots, before stepping back and examining the camera’s visual display: images of an overturned chair and part of Hisham Fathi’s body. He repeated the process, but widened the angle of the lens, placing the camera against the glass, shooting and stepping back. This time all he saw was chaos, but it was enough to tell him things had quietened down.

  He cautiously opened the balcony door and pulled back the curtain to find his way blocked by the body of Muhi Zanoun’s secretary, Asim el-Sisi, his phone in his hand, three red holes embellishing his suit. Moving carefully inside, Ahmed saw his friend through the legs of the piano. Trembling seized him as he moved towards the body, but when he reached the grisly scene he averted his face. Denied even the relief of tears, he almost tripped as he backed away, trying to catch his breath. He didn’t notice Muhi Zanoun, who had lost a lot of blood and was now unconscious.

  He made his way to the lift before which the body of the guard lay, and was on the point of stepping inside when he stepped back and turned to pan his camera across the bar, holding down the button until the lift doors opened. Mercifully, the lift was empty. Vaulting over the bodyguard, he plunged inside and hit the panel marked LOWER LOBBY. Just before it started moving he noticed a small red box by the door marked ALARM and beneath it the words BREAK GLASS IN EVENT OF FIRE. Using his legs to prevent the doors closing, he shattered the small panel with a blow from his elbow and the intermittent blaring of a siren filled the air as fountains of water jetted from the ceiling.

  The lift swallowed him up and plunged downwards.

  He removed the memory card from his camera and, rolling up his trousers, stuffed it into his right sock. Halfway down to the lobby he pressed the panel marked RESTAURANT and the lift came to a halt at the third floor. He emerged into a Lebanese restaurant and headed for the stairs, not stopping until he had left the hotel, pressing forward into a crowd of curious passers-by.

  The sound of fire engines drew closer, their flashing red lights blinking against the faces of the crowd whose eyes searched for fire, any disaster that might provide grist to the mill of café gossip.

  2

  Towards dawn the next day a black Mercedes pulled up in front of an elegant building in Maadi. The car carried a lone passenger, one of the three men who just a few hours earlier had conjured up a lake of blood at the bar. He got out carrying a sports bag. It was none other than their leader, the one who had felled Hisham Fathi and shot Muhi Zanoun in the knees, after having whispered a threat in his ear encouraging him to flee abroad. He appeared exhausted, scarcely able to bear the weight of the bag on his injured shoulder. Transferring it to his other arm, he signalled to the driver.

  ‘Get here early tomorrow, Khalil. Don’t be late.’

  ‘At your service, sir. What time?’

  ‘Be here by nine.’

  ‘I’ll be outside the building at exactly quarter to nine, sir.’

  Raising his hand in farewell, he unlocked the entrance door to the building and took the lift to the third floor. He scrutinised his face in the lift’s mirror: the sunken eyes and cropped hair, the bronzed skin, wide cheekbones and severe nose. His features were as still as stone, expressionless, a jutting brow shading lustreless eyes. His build was athletic; his fists heavily scarred.

  The lift emitted its arrival tone and the door opened. Trying not to make a sound, he slowly inserted the key in the lock. The apartment was both opulent and elegant. Tiptoeing into the darkness, he put his bag down and was slipping out of his shoes when he heard a voice from the bedroom.

  ‘Tariq?’

  He sighed in irritation.

  ‘Yes, Somaya?’

  Without waiting for a reply, he headed straight for the bedroom where his wife, fair and beautiful in a white satin nightdress with flowing, dark brown hair, was sitting up in bed reading a book on early childhood. Delicately built, she was a little on the plump side these days, her stomach bulging in the fifth month of pregnancy. As he entered she glanced up, then buried her head in the book once more.

  ‘There’s supper on the dining table.’

  He didn’t answer her. He took off his socks and slowly began to undo his shirt, careful not to disturb the dressing around the wound on his shoulder.

  Somaya saw the dressing out of the corner of her eye.

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘An injury at work.’

  Then, feeling guilty for her feigned indifference, she said, ‘Is it serious?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘Training again? But of course, I’m not allowed to know, right?’

  ‘Don’t start …’

  ‘I won’t ask then!’

  ‘Ask without being provocative.’

  ‘Do you know when you last came home early?’

  Tariq gritted his teeth. ‘Somaya, I’m not in the mood for this now.’

  ‘A month ago. All right, then, do you remember the last time you had supper with me? The last time you took me out? The last time you slept with me?’

  ‘I’m not going
to answer you.’

  ‘What difference does it make, it’s not as if you care anyway!’

  ‘For God’s sake, you knew where I worked when you married me.’

  ‘Sure, but I didn’t know I’d be stuck between these four walls on my own, and I didn’t know I’d be sitting around guessing when you’d get home, and I didn’t know I’d be living like a virtually divorced woman! Why did you marry me in the first place?’

  ‘You’ve been sitting up waiting just to tell me all this? I’ve told you a hundred times that the job’s very demanding and you know I can’t discuss it with anyone. The hours are impossible, I know, but what can I do? Resign and sit around helping you sift rice?’

  ‘It wouldn’t be such a bad idea, to be honest. Whatever I’ve got inside me here, son or daughter, won’t know what you look like.’

  ‘Don’t blow it out of proportion,’ said Tariq, making for the bathroom.

  ‘You can’t leave me here talking to myself. Spending the last two days on my own has been bad enough.’

  He gave no reply but closed the bathroom door behind him and, turning on the hot tap, stood staring at himself in the mirror until the steam rose up around his face. In just his undershirt he seemed somehow slenderer.

  Somaya rapped on the door.

  ‘Tariq, I’m going to Mama’s tomorrow. Come and get me when you’ve got some time for me.’

  He lowered his head into the sink and closed his eyes, letting the hot water cascade over him. He was reliving the massacre that he had carried out just hours before. It wasn’t the first time he’d taken a man’s life, seen death enter his gaze or felt the agony rack his victim as the searing projectile tore through bone and sinew, life ebbing away as it lodged inside him. That shudder: the shudder of a slaughtered beast in its final moment. That spasm …