HE FOUND THE KEY THAT HE WAS LOOKING FOR, AND with it his inevitable promotion and the birth of the Chernaya Gryaz network, by waking up too early one morning. He had been drinking – he was out with Stéphanie at the casino the night before – and he woke up alone, with a splitting headache, and couldn’t go back to sleep. He went down for a coffee. The air was cool. An hour later it will be unbearable.
He found himself wandering outside the hotel, coffee in hand, to the quiet alleyway in the back – the same one he was lying in now, in fact. The hotel’s trash was out there: rotting food, crates and boxes, broken lamps, soiled towels, broken glassware and empty bottles, used cleaning products, empty toothpaste tubes – Vasily had never considered just how much waste a hotel produced every day.
He gazed at it, nursing his hangover, the coffee bitter when he sipped. Then he saw them, a sight he must have seen before, perhaps a hundred times, but never registered – the Zabbaleen.
First one donkey-driven cart and then another appeared in the mouth of the alleyway. The men driving them were bare-headed, dressed in trousers and shirts, and as they reached the mounds of trash they jumped off and began hauling everything onto their carts. Vasily watched them without thinking much of it at first, admiring the efficiency with which they moved, how quickly the trash rose upon the carts and vanished from the ground. The men, having finished, got back on the carts. The donkeys moved, and soon they would disappear back out of the alleyway and to wherever it was that garbage men went.
Vasily thought of all the garbage left out every day all over Cairo. Outside hotels and houses and offices, outside embassies – yes, that’s where he saw them before, similar men collected all the rubbish outside the Soviet Embassy in Dokki—
Gears moved slowly in Vasily’s brain. But they moved all the same.
‘Wait!’ he shouted. He dropped the coffee as he ran after the carts. The men turned their heads to watch, no doubt bemused by the sight of this European chasing them, perhaps uneasy, perhaps indifferent – ‘Wait!’
The donkeys slowed, then stopped.
‘Where do you take it?’ Vasily said in Arabic.
‘Sir? Is there a problem?’
‘No problem,’ Vasily said. ‘I just…’
‘Imbaba,’ the older man driving the cart said. ‘We take it to Imbaba, the trash.’
‘You collect all over the city?’ Vasily said.
‘All over the city, yes, of course,’ the man said.
‘So what… what do you do with it?’ Vasily said.
The man shrugged.
‘You want to see?’ he said.
‘I… Yes,’ Vasily said. ‘I do.’
‘Then you must come to Imbaba,’ the man said.
*
Vasily would have laughed now, but there was hardly a breath left in him. It must have been a comical sight that early morning, the Zabbaleen cart and perched awkwardly upon it, the hung-over figure of one Vasily Sokolov, KGB. The men of the Zabbaleen seemed indifferent. The older man’s name was Hani. The younger one, who was his son, was called Youssef. As they drove down the road, ignoring the cars as they moved at their own pace, Vasily became conscious of the emergence of other Zabbaleen vehicles, a whole procession forming as they approached the boundaries of Imbaba.
It was a poor neighbourhood, the sort of place he had never visited before, nor would he have but for that morning’s spark of inspiration or madness. Here the alleyways were narrow and covered in dry mud. Washing hung from concrete balconies. Stalls on the street sold bread, newspapers, cigarettes, beans and spices. Men on motorbikes passed women carrying their shopping. A camel sat asleep under the awning of a bicycle shop where wheels hung on the wall. The cart, moving slowly, made its way deeper and deeper into the maze, and Vasily was carried aloft with it.
They came then to streets where garbage piled high. It was everywhere. Stacked against walls, sitting on pallets, strewn on the floor. Pigs ran rooting through the garbage. They passed a small church and then another. They came to an open field surrounded by crumbling buildings and open warehouses. Hani drove to a spot where men and women waited. The donkeys stopped. Vasily climbed down.
‘Well,’ Hani said, ‘this is it.’
Vasily stared. There was industry here, order in the seeming chaos. The men came with the carts and the boys offloaded the rubbish. The women set out to sort the trash. All food waste went into one area where the pigs feasted on it. Metal went one way. Plastics another. Linen, cloth and weave went into yet another pile. Glass went somewhere else again. But even as he watched the mountains of garbage grew and were added onto, and he thought it would never be reduced to nought, for Cairo produced it quicker than the Zabbaleen could ever hope to clear it.
‘What do you do with it all?’ he said.
Hani smiled, the smile of a man taking pride in his work. ‘Everything can be reused,’ he said. ‘Remade. The plastic we grind to dust and resell to the factories. The scrap metal to the factories again or to construction. The food, the pigs eat it all, and our wealth is in our pigs. The glass—’
‘You’re not Muslim?’ Vasily said, surprised.
‘We’re Copts,’ Hani said.
That certainly explained the profusion of churches.
‘How does it all work?’ Vasily said.
Hani studied him.
‘Why do you want to know all this?’ he said. ‘Why do you care?’
‘Maybe I want to buy something,’ Vasily said.
‘Yes? What?’
‘I am not sure yet,’ Vasily said.
Hani nodded. ‘Would you care for tea?’ he said.
Vasily wasn’t exactly sure he wanted to eat or drink anything in this place. But he said yes, of course. He followed Hani to an area outside one of the warehouses, where coals burned.
‘Soraya, go to the baker, bring bread,’ Hani said. A young woman turned and regarded Vasily with interest. Her dark eyes seemed to study him intensely.
‘My daughter, Soraya,’ Hani said. He gave Soraya a handful of coins. ‘Go.’
‘Very pretty,’ Vasily said.
Hani ignored the remark. But Vasily found that he could not so easily put away the girl’s image from his mind. He had been captivated with a single glance.
Steady, Vasily, old man, he told himself. Then laughed at his own folly.
Hani boiled the water himself. He added sage to the water, waited, then poured out two glasses which he placed on a copper tray. He placed the tray on a stool between them.
‘Itfaddal,’ he said.
Vasily took the tea. He sipped, nodded.
‘Very good,’ he said.
‘You are Russian?’
‘Yes,’ Vasily said.
Hani nodded.
‘You are a strange man,’ he said, ‘to follow us here. Where did you learn Arabic?’
‘In Moscow,’ Vasily said.
‘Why would a Russian man need Arabic?’ Hani said.
Vasily shrugged. ‘To work in Egypt?’ he said.
Hani inched his head. He almost smiled. Vasily was aware others were watching them, but keeping their distance.
‘How does it work again?’ Vasily said. ‘You really collect trash from all over the city?’
‘From everywhere.’
‘Dokki? Zamalek? Heliopolis?’
‘Everywhere. We pay…’ Hani sighed. ‘We must pay the Wahiya to collect. They were here first, so they got the licence. But the trash is ours. It is how we make our livelihood. Without us, there would be no Cairo.’
‘What do you do with the paper?’ Vasily said.
‘Paper? We sell it. It gets turned into toilet paper or pulp, for the newspapers or books…’ Hani shrugged. ‘Why?’
It was then that it all came together for Vasily. A thought. An experiment. The girl, Soraya, came back with bread. Vasily accepted it from her. She smiled, as at a joke only she could see. She really was very pretty, he thought.
‘Shukran,’ he said.
‘You’re welcome,’ Soraya said in English.
‘You speak English?’ he said, surprised.
‘A little.’
‘She goes to school,’ Hani said. ‘Sometimes.’
‘Sometimes,’ Soraya said.
‘Go,’ Hani said.
‘Yes, Father,’ Soraya said. But she kept smiling at Vasily as she went back to her sorting, joining the others. He could see the women talking amongst themselves as they glanced his way.
‘So,’ Hani said.
‘I am interested in paper,’ Vasily said. He had reached a decision. He would try it, he thought. His heart beat faster. It felt strange sitting there, between these people.
‘We have plenty of paper,’ Hani said.
‘I am only interested in specific papers,’ Vasily said. ‘From specific places.’
‘I see.’
‘Can it be done?’
‘Anything can be done, Mr Sokolov. But there are many families, each covering a different area. We do not always cooperate.’
‘I believe I can smooth things over,’ Vasily said. He took out his wallet. Felt eyes watching. Took out a handful of notes. ‘Consider this an advance.’
Hani nodded. ‘Very well,’ he said. He pocketed the money.
Vasily bit into the bread. He took a sip of tea. He said, ‘I will give you a list to begin with.’
*
Even now, even dying, he felt a swelling of pride. No one else had thought of this! People looked, but they didn’t see. He did! He came back that day to the Balmoral with his hangover forgotten. He had a new spring in his step. Before he’d left Hani and the Zabbaleen they had an agreement in principle. And a list of targets. The French, West German, British and American embassies were first. The sensitive material would be shredded or destroyed on site, but it was worth a dig all the same. Then the hotels. He wanted every scrap from every room a foreigner stayed in. Then offices. Feebes Bank being just one of them. If his hunch was right, even if he only just got lucky once, it would all be worth it. He could barely sleep that night, in the excitement of it. He wouldn’t tell Kirpichenko, not yet. He’d get results first.
He made some quick calculations. He was due to meet the Irishman, Doyle, the next day. He could divest some IRA cash into this new project. He went to sleep dreaming about secrets, and of Khrushchev pinning a Hero of the Soviet Union medal to his chest.
Morning. Lunch at Lotz’s new horse riding club. Then to Cinema Radio, where he met Doyle in a screening of From Russia With Love. A small satchel full of hard Western cash. He took a cab to the embassy, handed it over, minus the money he’d earmarked for Chernaya Gryaz. Then to meet Henrietta for drinks at the Diplomatic Club. Until recently it was the Mohamed Ali, but Nasser’s revolution changed a lot of things. One thing it didn’t change was the club’s luxury. Vasily felt like a peasant going in there. Henrietta looked right at home. To her it had a mixture of the shabby and genteel. She kissed him on both cheeks and offered him champagne. She was with that old Englishwoman again, Mrs Edna St James. The old lady was quite inebriated by now.
‘Do you remember that darling little man?’ she said. ‘What was his name. Waverley. Little Edgar Waverley. He used to come to the manor when you were small.’
‘He was a spy, Edna,’ Henrietta said patiently. Like she’d said it a thousand times. Vasily was startled. He tried not to show it. He knew Edgar must have known the family, how else did he get hold of that old watch? But of course he never mentioned it to Henrietta.
‘A spy? Really? I never would have thought…’
‘Mrs St James,’ Vasily said politely.
The old woman blinked at him.
‘Who are you supposed to be?’ she said.
‘Vasily Sokolov. We have been introduced.’
‘Several times, Edna,’ Henrietta said.
‘A Russian? Are you a spy, too?’
‘No, I’m in trade – I’ve already explained this,’ Vasily said. The old woman smiled, and he saw something cold and sharp peeking from under the booze. She was toying with him.
‘Not every Russian is a spy, you know, Mrs St James,’ Vasily said, recovering his good humour.
‘Do you play bridge?’ she said.
‘Bridge?’
‘Yes. Do you play it?’
‘I’m afraid I never had the pleasure,’ Vasily said.
‘I will teach you,’ Edna St James said.
‘I would love that,’ Vasily said, ‘but I just realised I have an appointment—’
‘At this hour? Nonsense,’ Edna St James said. ‘Come. Sit. Can you shuffle cards?’
‘Can I shuffle c— Yes?’
‘Good. Then shuffle.’
Vasily stared at Henrietta, who was trying not to laugh.
‘You need four players for bridge,’ she said.
‘You called?’ Daniel Pikorski said, materialising from the bar. He smiled at Mrs St James.
‘Edna,’ he said. ‘Always a pleasure.’
‘Danny boy,’ she said. ‘My white knight to the rescue.’
They played cards—
*
Why was he thinking about the batty old woman? God, he would kill for a cigarette. He was lying on a pile of cigarette stubs, he was sure of it. He wished he could have had one last cigarette. Well, he supposed he had, he just hadn’t known when he smoked it that it would be his last. It had been a fun night, anyway, playing cards at the Diplomatic Club, or would have been if it weren’t for Pikorski cornering him in the bathroom and saying, ‘I need more material, Vas. I need better quality stuff from you or they’ll be asking questions!’
‘I am not having this conversation now, Daniel!’ Vasily had said. Pikorski seemed to want to push it, then changed his mind. They washed their hands in silence.
Damn but he could use a cigarette. He barely slept that night, after the club. He was early to bed and early to rise again, waiting for the Zabbaleen to arrive for the trash. He hitched a ride on the cart again, back through the narrow streets of Imbaba, back to the wasteland of waste that was its secret heart.
Then he saw the girl, Soraya. She turned and looked at him, and smiled; and something inside him fluttered, and he felt suddenly as free as a bird.