Abbas took a rapid test from behind the counter and checked Ziad on the threshold of the bookshop, but when the result was negative, the old man ushered him on.
There was no smile, at least not to start with. They found Deni in a small seating area near the back of the bookshop. He was in one of four lounge armchairs that were arranged around a low coffee table laden with books and magazines. The bookshop was Deni’s favourite place to do business. The high shelves packed with Islamic poetry and religious texts prevented prying eyes seeing anything that happened this far back, and the store had little custom, meaning undercover cops or FBI would be noticed.
There was a moment’s hesitation as a startled Deni took in what Abbas had brought back with him. Then came the smile. It rose more quickly than the Chechen, who stumbled a little as he got to his feet. His lips curled in the most forced, false expression of joy Ziad had ever seen.
‘Marhaba,’ Deni said, as he stepped round the chairs and pulled Ziad into a tight bear hug. ‘I had lost hope, brother. It’s so good to see you.’
Ziad’s smile never wavered. Not even when he saw Rasul, Deni’s twenty-eight-year-old son, emerge from the stockroom. The vicious and vindictive true heir to the Salamov fortune, Ziad had little doubt Rasul had been part of the plot to get rid of him. Essi’s brother curled his face into a snarl when he caught sight of Ziad in Deni’s embrace, but his expression quickly changed to one of fraudulent happiness as he drew near.
‘Brother,’ Rasul said. ‘I can’t believe our good fortune. Masha’Allah. Mabrouk.’
Ziad stepped back from Deni and shook Rasul’s hand. His smile held, even when he caught father and son shooting each other sideways glances. Images of both men with bullets in their temples or knives in their hearts floated up from Ziad’s vengeful subconscious, but he did not react to them. He would not indulge in the immediate gratification of a violent fantasy. These men would be taken apart piece by piece.
‘Sit, sit,’ Deni suggested. ‘Tell us what happened.’
The four men settled into the armchairs arranged around the table.
‘Can I get you a tea or coffee?’ Deni asked. ‘A cake?’
Unlike his son, Deni’s American accent was tinged with more than a hint of his Chechen heritage. Rasul could have passed for a Caucasian-American in both sound and appearance. He and his father both stood a couple of inches taller than six feet, carried very little excess weight and had the pinched faces of mountain folk from the Eastern Caucasus. Unlike his son, whose dark hair was unblemished, Deni’s was flecked with grey. Rasul dressed like a member of a nineties grunge band – skinny jeans and distressed T-shirts – while Deni wore a light suit.
‘I’m OK,’ Ziad replied. ‘Thank you,’ he added, taking great care to give no hint of the anger he felt towards these men.
‘What happened to you, brother?’ Rasul asked. ‘We searched for any trace, but you vanished.’
‘The Egyptian police raided the meeting. They killed one of the contacts your father sent me to meet,’ Ziad replied. ‘The other was arrested with me, but he turned and cut a deal with the prosecutor. I was sentenced to seven years.’
Deni tutted and shook his head wistfully.
‘But it has not been seven years,’ Abbas noted.
‘By God’s grace I was able to get early release,’ Ziad said. The true nature of his escape could be learned by anyone who read the relevant edition of the Egyptian national newspapers and recognized his mugshot, but he wasn’t about to share the information with these three. They would hear nothing but good fortune, experience nothing but good humour and consider him nothing but a good friend. ‘And I could not wait to come home.’
‘Do you know how the Egyptians knew about you?’ Rasul asked.
Ziad shook his head. ‘An informant within the contacts’ organization maybe. Or just bad luck. It comes with the territory.’
‘We hope you know it had nothing to do with anyone here,’ Rasul said emphatically.
‘Of course,’ Ziad replied. ‘I would hardly be sitting here if I thought otherwise.’
‘That’s good,’ Rasul said. ‘It’s over now, and we’re glad to have you back safe.’
Lying snake, Ziad thought as he nodded and smiled.
‘Essi said she’d seen you,’ Deni revealed, but even as the words cut him, Ziad kept his smile. ‘I’m sorry, brother. And ashamed that she did not wait. But she could not have known. And she is more American than Chechen now. A full-blown Yankee, like this one,’ he said, tousling Rasul’s hair.
‘I have my old job back,’ Ziad said. ‘I met Harry Martin and he hired me on the spot.’
Deni’s face fell for a moment, before he rallied. ‘Mabrouk. This is a great favour from God. He has blessed us all. Cutter was no good. We kept the business going with him, but he was greedy and unreliable. It will be better to go back to how things were. Working with someone we can trust.’
‘Family,’ Rasul said sagely.
‘Family,’ Ziad agreed, smiling at the snakes who’d betrayed him. They nodded and smiled right back.