Free The Labyrinth of Osiris by Paul Sussman Page B

land more information with a rather more distinct feeling of guilt that Sarah and the baby seemed to be more in other people’s thoughts than his own. His child hadn’t even been born yet and already he felt like the crappest father in the world.
    About halfway down its length, just before it passes the entrance to the compound of St James, Armenian Orthodox Patriarchate Road runs through a tunnel. In the wall above that tunnel there is an arched window, its panes barred and grimy and criss-crossed with filigrees of withered creeper. It was from this vantage point that His Eminence Archbishop Armen Petrossian watched as Ben-Roi entered the Armenian Tavern. He was still watching twenty minutes later when the detective emerged and set off down the street towards the David Police Station.
    Stroking his beard, the archbishop kept the tall, bear-like figure in his sight, tracking him as he strode down the street and rounded a bend into the top end of Omar Ibn al-Khattab Square. Only when he was completely lost to view did the archbishop turn from the window and make his way down to the compound’s main gate. He nodded to the men in flat-caps sitting inside the concierge’s office, and motioned one of them to join him. They moved a few metres along the vaulted passage leading into the compound, stopping beside a green baize notice board, out of earshot of both the office and the five Israeli policemen standing guard outside the gate. The archbishop looked around, then, leaning forward, whispered in the man’s ear. The man nodded, patted his leather jacket and strode through the gateway out on to the street.
    ‘God protect us,’ murmured the archbishop, raising his hand and kissing the amethyst ring on his finger. ‘And God forgive me.’
    T HE E ASTERN D ESERT , E GYPT
    The village of Bir Hashfa was seven kilometres west of the farm, back towards the Nile Valley, clustered around the intersection of two dirt tracks: one running east–west from the mountains to the river, the other, broader, north–south, parallel to the Nile, linking Highways 29 and 212. As they approached, Khalifa checked his mobile and asked Sariya to pull over.
    ‘I’ve got a signal,’ he said. ‘I need to give Zenab a call. Won’t be a moment.’
    He climbed out and crunched across the gravel, stopping ten metres away beside a rusted oil drum. He dialled, then, as he waited for his wife to answer, bent down, picked up a couple of Coke cans that were lying on the ground and placed them on top of the drum. Inside the car, Sariya smiled. The action typified his boss. He was a man who liked to bring order to things, keep them tidy, even in the middle of a desert. That’s why he was such a good detective. The best. Still the best, even after everything that had happened.
    Reaching for the pack of mints sitting on the dashboard, Sariya popped one in his mouth and sat back, watching Khalifa talk. He’d lost weight these last months. Khalifa, not Sariya, who’d actually put on a few kilos since his mother-in-law had come to live with them and taken over the cooking duties. Slim at the best of times, Khalifa now looked positively gaunt, his cheekbones even more prominent than they used to be, the cheeks themselves deeply sunken. His eyes, it struck Sariya, had also lost some of their old brightness; the bags beneath them had become heavier and darker. Although he would never have said as much, he worried about him. He thought the world of his boss.
    In front of him Khalifa was pacing to and fro, patting the air with his hand as if to say: ‘Calm down, it’s OK.’ Sariya crunched the mint and popped another one in his mouth, and then another. He was on to his fourth when Khalifa finally finished the call and came back to the car.
    ‘Everything OK?’ he asked.
    Khalifa didn’t answer, just climbed in and lit a cigarette from the pack he’d found on the drive down from the farm. Sariya knew better than to push the matter – if his boss wanted to