Jon Grimwood - Effendi

“In that case . . . Request for bail dismissed. All that remains,” said St. Cloud, “is for the court to set a date for trial. Since it seems the case will, after all, be tried in Iskandryia.” He smiled sweetly at the Senator. “And since the defendant has refused counsel I would suggest to the other judges that we begin first thing tomorrow . . .”

“Too soon,” said Raf. “Make it Saturday . . . Iskandryian airspace will need to be opened to fly in Jean René, the photographer who took the shots already seen by the Grand Jury.”

“Saturday it is.”

“No.” This time it was Zara who objected. “That doesn’t give my father time to find a character witness.”

“For a murder charge?” St. Cloud scanned his handwritten notes. There was nothing about a character witness in there.

“One only,” Zara said. “We’re also in the process of trying to organize travel arrangements.”

“You have until Sunday,” St. Cloud said firmly. “After that, the trial takes place, whether you have your witness or not.” He glanced at Raf and frowned. “And that decision is taken in my capacity as senior judge.”

“Hani al-Mansur . . .” The child answered her mobile at the first ring, voice extra polite. “Can I ask who’s calling . . . ?”

Her Nokia was one of only a dozen let into El Iskandryia on special licence from the governor, who turned out to be the person on the other end of the call. She had to ask who it was because these cell phones were analogue, very stupid ones without the option of vision.

For some reason, Ashraf had been most insistent about the analogue bit.

Their conversation was short. “Yes,” said Hani, “Ifritah’s fine. She’s here with me and I’m really pleased to see her.”

She listened to Uncle Ashraf’s next question and sucked her teeth, but not that crossly. “Yes . . . I’ve had supper and I’m ready for bed. No, you don’t need to collect me in the morning. Donna’s going to the market. I’ll walk in with her . . .”

At the next question, Hani groaned theatrically. “Yes,” she said. “You are fussing. That’s your job.” She listened to Uncle Ashraf’s good-nights, added her own and went back to the keyboard of the bibliotheka ’s only working Web connection.

“I’m back,” she announced quietly.

“About time,” said Avatar.

He owed Raf a life. Hani hadn’t needed to remind him of that but she did anyway . . . Then apologized. Only to decide that she didn’t need to apologize because it was true. After that, she asked him some weird questions about whether Zara now wanted to marry Raf.

The rest of it Avatar didn’t understand and Hani had given up trying to explain. He got the bit about him forwarding on the spider fax to Zara. Things imploded at the point when Hani added the spider fax to an angel and a wounded man and came up with the fact that hell was cold, purgatory was water-bound and he knew heaven better as the SS Jannah .

It was only the fact that Hani swore she’d been told this by the General that made Avatar believe any of it was true. So now, at Hani’s insistence, he was looking for the ninth level of hell, otherwise known as Cocytus .

Needless to say, it wasn’t on any of the numerous wall maps dotted around the corridors and stairways of the SS Jannah . . .

The rucksack slung on Avatar’s shoulder was heavy and awkward. What was worse, it clanked every time he brushed against a wall, which was often. Those were its bad points. On the plus side, it contained rope, pepper spray and several cans of Coke.

“Guard.” Hani’s voice in his earbead was matter-of-fact, unhurried.

“Yeah, seen him.” Avatar stepped backward into a recess, out of the guard’s line of sight and out of his line of fire as well. There were two men, one in a suit, the other dressed in bell bottoms and white top, a black silk folded neatly around his muscular neck. Avatar knew this was a guard, not a crewman, by the gun he carried.

Dminus4 was off-limits to civilians; guests in the parlance of the SS Jannah . The official reason was that Dminus4 housed the vaults of Hong Kong Suisse, the liner’s official bank. Welcome Aboard, the induction film for the SS Jannah, described the vault as made from weapons-grade steel with a single time-coded, iris-specific door and reassuringly thick walls. From what Hani had said, it was a perfectly ordinary floor-to-ceiling blockhouse with a boringly ordinary lock.

But then why not? Everything except gambling chips for the casino was included in the overall and frighteningly extortionate price; the only real valuables brought on board by guests, their papers and jewellery, were kept secure in individual safes that came with each cabin. The heistproof vault was a sop to tradition, only there by repute.

“Clear now.”

“Yeah.”

Avatar stepped out of his hiding place and checked both ways along the corridor. He was in plain sight of at least three CCTV cameras but those didn’t worry him, everywhere on board was in sight of cameras. Nothing obvious, mind you. At least not on the guest levels. No little robot lenses to twist their heads as one walked from room to room. Most of the guest-level cameras used little pin lenses embedded into the walls and linked to some gizmo running visual-recognition software.

Quite how Hani had spliced herself in to them Avatar had no idea. Something to do with a handshake, according to the kid. And it was a clean connection, although there was a tiny time lag between them, defined not by the miles between SS Jannah and El Iskandryia but by how long it took to bounce data packets off a comsat slung somewhere over Sao Tomé.

“How long we got left?”

“About thirty minutes,” said Hani.

“There wasn’t another battery?”

“Dead.” The kid’s voice was resigned. So resigned that Avatar had trouble working out if Hani was seriously chilled or just having trouble getting her head round how bad things actually were.

When Hani had first called Avatar, she asked if he wanted her to fix a voice connection to Zara, so he could check what Hani said. He’d thought about it for all of a second and rejected the idea. He believed what she’d told him about how bad things were looking for his old man.

“There should be a door at the end of this corridor . . .”

“Locked,” said Avatar.

“How do you know?”

“I’m guessing.”

“Try it anyway.”

Sighing, Avatar crab-walked swiftly towards the heavy door, his back to the wall and the revolver he’d stolen from the Khedive’s cabin held upright, combat style.

Avatar was doing his very best not to rush things but there was an ache behind his eyes and a hollow in his gut where his stomach should be. Since he regularly went a week on two kebabs and three lines of sulphate, the hollowness had to be fear rather than hunger. Not a good feeling.

The door wasn’t just locked. Someone had welded it shut with a splatter gun. Cold drops of solder beading the edge of its frame like metal tears.

“They’re coming back!” Hani’s warning came seconds ahead of footsteps echoing along a corridor.

“Come on,” Hani said. “Hide . . .”

Avatar shook his head, then realized the kid wouldn’t pick up his gesture on her monitor. She’d be too busy watching the guards. “Which way are they headed?”

“Towards the lifts,” said Hani, her voice tight.

“Good.” Avatar meant the comment for himself, but the kid picked it up anyway from one of the wall mics or something equally scary. Avatar’s relationship with machines was confined to his mixing decks, and he liked those dumb and pliable.