The God of Chaos Read online

  Contents

  Cover

  About the Author

  Acclaim for:

  Also by Tom Bradby

  The God of Chaos

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  Chapter Fifty-Seven

  Chapter Fifty-Eight

  Chapter Fifty-Nine

  Chapter Sixty

  Chapter Sixty-One

  Chapter Sixty-Two

  Chapter Sixty-Three

  Chapter Sixty-Four

  Chapter Sixty-Five

  Chapter Sixty-Six

  Chapter Sixty-Seven

  Chapter Sixty-Eight

  Chapter Sixty-Nine

  About the Author

  Tom Bradby is Political Editor of ITV News. He began his reporting career with the company as Ireland Correspondent almost fifteen years ago, during which time he covered the unfolding peace process and wrote his first novel, Shadow Dancer. As Asia Correspondent, based in Hong Kong, he was shot and seriously wounded whilst covering a riot in Jakarta. After a spell as Royal Correspondent, he went on to become UK Editor before taking up his current post in the summer of 2005.

  Tom Bradby is the acclaimed author of five novels. The Master of Rain was shortlisted for the Crime Writers’ Association Steel Dagger for Best Thriller of the Year 2002. The White Russian was shortlisted for the Crime Writers’ Association Ellis Peters Award for the Best Historical Crime Novel of 2003. The God of Chaos was shortlisted for the Crime Writers’ Association Ellis Peter Award for the Best Historical Crime Novel of 2005.

  www.booksattransworld.co.uk

  Acclaim for:

  The White Russian

  ‘Sad, atmospheric and richly entertaining, The White Russian is the kind of historical fiction that may send you back to the real history books to learn more’

  Washington Post

  ‘Unfailingly evocative . . . reminiscent of Gorky Park’

  The Times

  ‘A tumbling pace, emotionally torn and credible characters . . . and twists and dubious allegiances enough to leave readers wondering until the closing pages . . . A chilling crime yarn and a cautionary tale about the sometimes painful exigencies of love, The White Russian is a literary cocktail with a decided kick’

  amazon.com

  The Master of Rain

  ‘Tom Bradby’s expert evocation of the hothouse atmosphere of Twenties Shanghai makes an exotic backdrop to a cracking murder mystery . . . An immensely atmospheric, gripping detective story with just the right mixture of exoticism, violence and romance. Bradby has used his years as a foreign correspondent to imagine splendidly the opulence, corruption, debauchery, violence and mutual racism of a city that fused some of the worst of Asian and European values’

  The Times

  ‘Beneath the surface of this clever book, a thrilling yarn of murder and mayhem, we find a wise, richly layered and utterly convincing portrait of what was the most evil and fatally fascinating of all the modern world’s cities. No one has managed to bring Shanghai so alive, in all its ghastly splendour’

  Simon Winchester

  ‘A brilliant evocation of one of the world’s most fascinating cities, which uses the classic thriller genre to draw the reader into this hypnotising milieu. Bradby creates colourful three dimensional scenes which are real and meaningful . . . The Master of Rain also works as a wonderful travelogue. It will make you yearn to go in search of the old Shanghai’

  South China Morning Post

  The Sleep of the Dead

  ‘The second novel by ITN’s talented young Asia correspondent lives up to the promise of its remarkable predecessor, Shadow Dancer . . . Bradby has the talent of a reporter but the heart of a storyteller. And his new novel proves it triumphantly. Once again he draws on his experiences as a reporter in Northern Ireland, but this time adds the ingredients of an Agatha Christie thriller with a distinctly contemporary twist: Cracker meets Miss Marple by way of Silent Witness . . . Elegant, spooky, and a compulsive page-turner, The Sleep of the Dead confirms Bradby’s considerable promise as a thriller writer’

  Geoffrey Wansell, Daily Mail

  ‘A real race-against-the-clock thriller and complex psychological drama’

  Irish Independent

  ‘This second thriller from Bradby confirms him as very much in the know when it comes to matters military . . . Intriguing and emotive, this is a slow-builder that proves to be worth the wait’

  The A List in the Mirror

  Shadow Dancer

  ‘Remarkable first novel . . . Bradby handles the tension with skill to produce a gripping tale that is at the same time a compelling argument against allowing the culture of killing to take over any cause, however just’

  Peter Millar, Times Metro

  ‘An exceptional first novel. On the surface yet another thriller about the murky world of the intelligence war in Northern Ireland, it is also a compelling, incestuous story of love and torn loyalty in a community and family ravaged by hate and betrayal. There are no cardboard cut-outs here. Tom Bradby succeeds in creating real characters. Far too many novels on this subject take refuge in cliché and caricature – Bradby refuses to. Detail is piled on detail until you find yourself immersed in the Republican ghetto of West Belfast . . . The book’s accuracy makes it stand out from almost any other that I have read on the subject. The language, the tension, the funerals, the fear – all are portrayed vividly and correctly’

  Sean O’Callaghan, Daily Telegraph

  ‘This is the best book on the northern conflict since Harry’s Game . . . Shadow Dancer is an excellent read on any level. It scores heavily both as a thriller and an accurate, unblinking look at what is happening right now just a few miles up the road’

  Irish Independent

  Also by Tom Bradby

  SHADOW DANCER

  THE SLEEP OF THE DEAD

  THE MASTER OF RAIN

  THE WHITE RUSSIAN
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  and published by Corgi Books

  This ebook is sold subject to the conditin that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form (including any digital form) other than this in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  Epub ISBN: 9781446421840

  Version 1.0

  www.randomhouse.co.uk

  THE GOD OF CHAOS

  A CORGI BOOK: 0552151459

  9780552151450

  Originally published in Great Britain by Bantam Press,

  a division of Transworld Publishers

  PRINTING HISTORY

  Bantam Press edition published 2005

  Corgi edition published 2006

  1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2

  Copyright © Tom Bradby 2005

  The right of Tom Bradby to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All the characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Corgi Books are published by Transworld Publishers,

  61–63 Uxbridge Road, London W5 5SA,

  a division of The Random House Group Ltd,

  in Australia by Random House Australia (Pty) Ltd,

  20 Alfred Street, Milsons Point, Sydney, NSW 2061, Australia,

  in New Zealand by Random House New Zealand Ltd,

  18 Poland Road, Glenfield, Auckland 10, New Zealand

  and in South Africa by Random House (Pty) Ltd,

  Isle of Houghton, Corner of Boundary Road & Carse O’Gowrie, Houghton 2198, South Africa.

  To Claudia, Jack, Louisa and Sam.

  And Mum and Dad.

  Acknowledgements

  Thanks to: my inspirational and exceptional wife, Claudia, who has always been my partner in the production of these novels; my mother, Sally, who has provided invaluable research and great ideas at every stage; my agent, Mark Lucas, who is simply a genius; and, last but not least, my editor here at Transworld, Bill Scott-Kerr, the nicest man you could ever hope to meet and a brilliant publisher to boot.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Cairo, June 1942

  The khamseen had blown all night, rattling doors, slipping through keyholes and whistling down corridors, before burying its cargo deep in the skin. The Egyptians said the suffocatingly hot desert wind commemorated the period of fifty days during which Cain had carried the body of his brother Abel. It certainly felt like a punishment.

  Quinn rubbed tired eyes, tugged at his shirt collar and tried to shift the grit from round his neck. He had not slept but, then, he had not expected to. This day had approached with grim inevitability.

  ‘Sir?’ Madden said.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Are you awake?’

  ‘Very funny.’

  ‘Then what do you think?’

  Quinn closed his eyes. Sure, they knew what he was really thinking. It was a day upon which any distraction was welcome, but none would hold his attention for more than a few moments.

  What did he make of the issue at hand? What other conclusion was there? The document in front of him was stamped, ‘MOST SECRET. Cairo, Evacuation Plans’, and was an admission of failure that Allied chiefs dared not make but could not avoid much longer.

  He glanced at the maps on the wall. The first depicted in pink the British Empire in Africa and the Middle East as it had been at the start of the war, stretching from Libya to Palestine. The second showed how fast it was shrinking. The waves of defensive line upon defensive line, drawn and redrawn in grease pencil, were moving closer to Cairo. The Desert Fox was no more than a day’s drive away.

  ‘Where’s Rommel this morning?’ Quinn asked. He no longer attended briefings. The British top brass had made it clear he wasn’t welcome.

  ‘It’s still confused, but we appear to be massing here . . .’ Madden placed his finger between the sea and the Qattara Depression. ‘Just by the railway halt at El Alamein. They reckon it won’t give him much room for manoeuvre.’

  Quinn thought of the battle-weary troops he’d seen pouring in from the north at dawn. ‘So this is the last stand? If Rommel breaks through to Alexandria, the way to Cairo is open?’

  ‘I suppose so. You know what they’re saying – that the Nazis can read our every move.’

  As a rule, Quinn ignored gossip: if it was to be believed, the city was awash with Rommel’s spies.

  He listened to the sound of a train rattling into the station below and glanced out of the window. One of the city’s scavenging kites hovered high in the hard blue sky. He wondered if Mae was up yet, imagined her dressing in front of the chipped gold mirror in the corner of their bedroom. She’d want to look her best today.

  ‘That’s what the unit commanders are saying in the field,’ Madden said soberly.

  ‘Hmm.’ Quinn took out a packet of Cape to Cairo cigarettes, lit one and threw the thin carton across the table. Madden helped himself and passed it on to Kate Mowbray. They smoked in silence. Quinn tapped the edge of a report Madden had typed on their previous case. He needed to sign it off this morning. ‘What happened last night?’ he asked. He’d driven them through the previous investigation until they were all hollow-eyed with tiredness.

  ‘Seven arrests. Nothing to interest us.’

  Quinn had left Madden on duty, but he ought to have been there himself. The city was edgy, fractious, tormented by the weather and the relentless nature of Rommel’s advance.

  ‘I walked across to the railway station,’ Madden went on, ‘just after midnight.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Very crowded.’

  ‘Panic?’

  ‘Getting close to it. I saw the last train to Jerusalem pull out.’

  ‘People fighting to get on?’

  ‘Not fighting, but . . .’ he shrugged ‘. . . it was crowded.’ He stretched his long back. He was a tall man, the impression heightened by a gaunt frame and a thick mop of curly ginger hair. The desert sun had burnt his pale, freckled skin.

  Quinn heard laughter in the next room. He stood up and saw, through the window in the partition door, that a woman was talking to one of his assistants, Sergeant Cohen. As she leant back in the chair, her long, dark brown hair cascaded over her shoulders. Cohen was laughing, too.

  Quinn caught sight of Effatt, chief detective of the Cairo Police, who appeared to be sharing the joke. At least it was good to see him smiling. ‘What’d you suppose Effatt’s doing here at this time in the morning?’ he asked. In theory, his friend dealt only with crimes among the local populace, Quinn exclusively with those involving the hundreds of thousands of soldiers circulating through the city. In practice, they often worked together.

  Neither of his companions answered, so Quinn put his half-finished cigarette in the wooden ashtray on the desk and opened the door. The clock between the windows on the far wall showed just before eight. In the richer, more textured light of evening, you could make out the tips of the Pyramids from here, but for the rest of the day they were indistinguishable through the haze. ‘Good mornin’,’ Quinn said.

  Cohen stood alongside Effatt, but the woman remained seated. ‘This is Mrs Amy White.’

  ‘Sure, we’ve met.’ Quinn offered his hand. She took it, her grip firm and palm dry. Cool green eyes scrutinized his. She wore a white silk scarf to shield her face from the dust outside, a brown jacket and cream trousers.

  ‘You know one another?’ Effatt asked.

  ‘Mrs White is a volunteer at the same hospital as my wife.’

  Effatt coughed. ‘She came to my office a few minutes ago. She said she had heard a commotion in the apartment above her own but received no answer when she went up to check upon its cause.’ Effatt spoke English with a faint American accent, the legacy of a year spent at the University of Michigan shortly be
fore the war.

  ‘Not really a matter for us,’ Quinn said.

  ‘Mrs White went up a second time. She found the apartment had been . . . disturbed. She believes the gentleman who occupies it works at GHQ.’

  ‘What’s his name?’

  ‘Captain Rupert Durant,’ Amy said.

  Quinn nodded at the sergeant. ‘Cohen, go get me—’

  ‘Q Branch, sir. I’ve already checked. He works at Movement Control.’

  Quinn frowned. Movement Control was a sensitive department, its staff processing detailed information on the deployment and fighting strength of every unit in the field. He waited for Amy White to continue, but she made no sign of intending to do so. ‘Tell me, ma’am, what did you find inside?’ he asked. He kept his tone formal. He’d met her a couple of times while he was waiting for Mae in the hallway, away from the stench of the wards.

  ‘The apartment looked like a bomb had hit it,’ she said. ‘I didn’t figure Durant as the untidy kind.’

  ‘You knew him?’

  ‘To exchange greetings.’

  ‘How’d you know he worked at GHQ?’

  ‘It was something I heard.’

  ‘You aware of what he did there?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You didn’t know which branch he worked in?’

  ‘No, Major, I did not.’

  ‘When did you last see him?’

  ‘Yesterday. Maybe the day before.’

  ‘What about his sufragi? You—’

  ‘He doesn’t employ one.’

  ‘He ain’t got no servants?’

  Ed Madden and Kate Mowbray were also frowning. For a British officer in Egypt, it was unusual.

  ‘Not that I know of. You’d have to ask him.’

  There was the sudden wail of an air-raid siren from the roof. Commonplace at night, it was rare in the day, but increasing in frequency. Quinn walked to the balcony and pushed open the doors. The siren howled against an empty, peerlessly blue sky. Quinn squinted, trying to make out the black dot of an aircraft, or the rumble of its engines, but he could hear only the bustle of traffic around Bab el Hadid. He watched the kites circling the tall spires of the Turkish mosque in Saladin’s citadel, then looked across to the railway station. A large crowd had gathered: people were sitting on suitcases or searching for pools of shade. Two uniformed military policemen strolled among them, with their distinctive red caps and webbing. A waiter dressed in a white djellaba and bright red fez skipped at their heels, offering a silver tray laden with small glasses of tea.