‘The name of the boy’s mother?’
‘Amina.’
‘Ebadi?’
‘Yes,’ he replied, staggered at my knowledge.
‘How many other names did she use?’
‘Four.’
‘Tell me the relationship between Al-Aqsa Martyrs’ Brigade and your son’s orphanage.’
‘They funded it.’
‘How was your wife killed?’
‘A Zionist rocket.’ God, the bitterness in his voice.
‘What was the name of Nikolaides’ son who died in Santorini?’
‘What?’ he countered, confused and desperate. ‘We’re back at the Greeks?!’
He had no idea where we were going next, and it gave me strength. I realized every detail of my epic journey counted – I was using every thread; for once I was picking up every stitch. Nothing had been wasted. Nothing.
‘The name of the son?’ I demanded.
He tried to recall, maybe not even sure he had ever been told it. ‘I don’t … I can’t …’ He was panicking. ‘Christopher,’ he said, but he wasn’t sure. ‘No, no—’
‘Christos,’ I said, and gave him a pass.
‘Where were you the day before you came to Bodrum?’
‘Germany.’
I figured it was true – it had to be somewhere close.
‘How long were you there?’
‘Two months.’
‘The name of the street of the mosque you attended?’
‘Wilhelmstrasse.’
‘Which town?’
‘Karlsruhe.’
‘Name the three foreigners you killed in the Hindu Kush.’
‘I don’t … I don’t remember—’
‘First names! What did they call each other?’
‘Jannika—’
I didn’t wait. I couldn’t recall them either. ‘Did you use a Web message board to communicate with your sister?’
‘Yes.’
‘Who was Clownfish?’
‘My nickname.’
‘What illness did your son have when you were in the Hindu Kush?’
He stared at me – how the hell did I know his son had been ill?
‘Influ—’
In desperation, he was trying a lie, testing me, but I looked straight at him and he thought better of it.
‘Meningococcal meningitis.’
‘Too slow. And don’t try that again. What is the name of the largest hotel in Karlsruhe?’
I hadn’t heard of the town, and I needed another fact to make sure we didn’t focus on the wrong place. I felt the fever getting worse.
‘Deutsche König,’ he said.
‘Did you work there?’
‘At the hotel?’
‘In Karlsruhe!’
‘Yes.’
‘Where?’
‘Chyron.’
It meant nothing to me, and I wasn’t even sure I had heard it correctly. ‘Full name.’
‘It’s American, that is its—’
‘Full name!’
The Saracen was sweating, probably trying to imagine the sign at the front of the building, but he blanked. I raised the phone to speak to Ben – as if I were threatening the boy. He got it—
‘Chyron Pharma-Fabrik GmbH.’
‘Name of the mosque you attended as a child.’
I didn’t care – I saw the Saracen relax, just a tiny easing of the muscles around his jaw, and I knew that Karlsruhe and its chemical factory was the hottest of the hot zones.
‘Your address when you were working in El-Mina?’
The Saracen could barely keep up, but he gave a street name and a number. He hadn’t finished before I hit him again – ‘Name three people I can verify it with.’
He gave them, but I didn’t care about El-Mina either, even though I guessed that was where he had synthesized the virus.
‘What job did you have at Chyron?’ I was back where I wanted to be – in the hot zone. I could tell from his face he didn’t share my enthusiasm.
‘Shipping clerk.’
‘Name of supervisor?’
‘Serdar—’
‘What shift?’
‘Graveyard.’
‘What is Chyron’s primary business?’
‘Pharma – drugs.’
‘What sort of drugs?’
‘Vaccines.’
I gambled. Probably the biggest gamble of my life, but a doctor didn’t get a job on the night shift in a drug company’s shipping department for nothing.
‘When did the virus leave Karlsruhe?’
He paused fractionally, and I put the phone to my mouth, ready to pull the pin. He stared at me for a moment longer.
‘Yesterday,’ he said quietly.
I felt granite towers of mystery collapse and a blitz of relief so intense that for a moment I forgot the pain. I knew it now: in the last twenty-four hours a vaccine contaminated with the smallpox virus had left a company in Germany called Chyron Chemicals.