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Effendi: The Second Arabesk

• ISBN: 9780671773694
• Author: Jon Courtenay Grimwood
• Description:
  The brilliant sequel to the critically acclaimed PASHAZADE Among many other things, Ashraf Bey is a fugitive from the US justice system (definitely); son of the Emir of Tunis (possibly); and chief of detectives in the El Iskandryian police force (apparently). Small wonder that he's a little confused. Raf's ex-fiance Zara still doesn't want to see him, so she says. His nine-year-old niece is busy doing things with computers that are strictly illegal. And when the city suddenly starts to fall apart and Zara's father is accused of mass-murder, Raf begins to learn the true cost of loyalty. As the US, France and Germany try to dominate both the present and future of the Middle East in this alternate 21st century - as they have the past - Ashraf Bey must become both saviour and avenger. It's not an easy trick, but someone has to do it... Excerpted from Effendi by Jon Courtenay Grimwood. Copyright © 2002. Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. Prologue 27th October‘Of course,’ said Ashraf Bey. ‘We could just kill the defendantand be done with it . . .’ He let his suggestion hang in the coldair. And when no one replied, Raf shrugged. ‘Okay,’ he said.‘Maybe not.’It was getting late and autumn rain fell steadily on thedarkened streets outside, while inside, sat around their table,Raf’s visitors continued to chase the same argument in tightcircles. A Grand Jury was in session. If three judges plus asenior detective in a damp, third-storey office could be calledanything so imposing, which seemed doubtful.‘An accident,’ suggested Raf. ‘The steps in this precinct arenotoriously slippery. Or perhaps suicide . . . Shoe laces, anunfortunately overlooked belt . . . ? One of my people wouldhave to be reprimanded obviously.’Raf looked from Graf Ernst von B, the German boy, to a sourfacedpolitician from New Jersey who insisted everyone call herSenator Liz, neither of whom met his eye. There was also anelderly French oil magnate, but he sat so quietly Raf mostly forgothe was there. Which was probably the man’s intention.‘Alternatively,’ said Raf, ‘I could have him taken out to thecourtyard and shot. Or, if you like, we could lose the bodyaltogether and just pretend he never existed. One of the oldGreek cisterns should take care of that.’They didn’t like this idea either; but then the young detectivewith the Armani wrap-rounds and drop-pearl earring hadn’texpected them to . . . He was acting as magister to their judges.And no one as yet, least of all him, seemed very sure what thatactually entailed.‘Justice,’ Senator Liz said loudly, ‘must be seen to be done.’Her voice remained as irritating as when the session beganseveral hours earlier.‘Lord Hewart,’ Raf pulled the quote from memory. ‘One of theworst judges in history. And even he never suggested putting aNorth African trial on American television.’‘That’s not . . .’ Ernst von B’s protest died as Raf flipped upa hand.‘Let’s hear what St Cloud thinks,’ he said and turned to theFrenchman. ‘Do you think justice needs to be televised?’‘Me?’ Astolphe de St Cloud slid a cigar case from his insidepocket. And though the iridescence of its lizard skin wasbeautiful, even by the light of a single hurricane lamp, whatthey all noticed was the enamel clasp: an eagle spreading itswings, while jagged thunderbolts fell from between the bird’ssharp claws.As if anyone there needed reminding that St Cloud wouldhave been Prince Imperial, if only his father had bothered tomarry his mother.‘It depends,’ said St Cloud, ‘on what Your Excellency meansby justice . . .’ Shuffling a handful of prints, he stopped at onewhich showed a young girl with most of her stomach missing.‘If we decide the evidence is convincing enough, then obviouslythe prisoner must stand trial. Like Senator Liz, my only reservationis that, perhaps, El Iskandryia is not quite . . .’Raf caught the wry amusement in the Marquis’ voice andglanced round the room, trying to see it through the eyes ofa man whose own business empire was run from a Moorishpalace overlooking Tunisia’s Cap Bon; and who now foundhimself in a third-floor office, without electricity, on the cornerof Boulevard Champollion and Rue Riyad Pasha, in a tattyfour-square government block built around a huge courtyardin best Nationalist Revival style.At street level the exterior walls to Iskandryia’s Police HQwere faced with cheap sheets of reconstituted marble, whileglass hid the exterior of the two floors above. Black glassobviously. The architect had been on loan from Moscow.It showed.As for the level of comfort on offer . . . A fire burned ina bucket in the centre of the floor, filled with logs from adying carob. Apparently, the tree had been not quite aliveand not yet dead for as long as even Raf’s oldest detectivescould remember.Two men from uniform had hacked it off just above the roots,using fire-axes. Now chunks of its carcass spat and spluttered asthin flames danced across the top of their makeshift brazier.Directly above the brazier, suspended from the centre of theceiling like an inverted red mushroom, hung a state-of-the-artsmoke detector. Like almost everything else in Iskandryia sincethe EMP bomb, it no longer worked.And behind Raf’s head, a window unit that once adjustedelectronically to lighting conditions had been rendered smokefriendly, also with a fire-axe. Through its shattered centre cameflecks of rain and a salt wind that blew in from the EasternHarbour.‘Justice,’ said Raf, ‘is whatever we decide . . .’ Copyright © Jon Courtenay Grimwood, 2001 --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title.

• Pages: 384
• Format: Paperback
• Genre: Science Fiction
• Rating: Not yet rated

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