The thrub of its Pratt & Whitney-powered rotor blades echoed dully across the sands like the thudding of distant drums. All of its eight seats were occupied, one by the pilot, five by hard-faced men cradling Heckler & Koch submachine-guns in their laps, and two – the rearmost seats – by Girgis’s twin henchmen in their grey Armani suits and red and white El-Ahly FC football shirts. The pair of them were gazing intently at the football fanzine one of them was holding in his lap, utterly engrossed. Throwing a half-glance over his shoulder to make sure they weren’t listening, the pilot nudged the man beside him. ‘No one’s ever found out their names,’ he whispered. ‘Seven years they’ve been with Girgis and no one’s ever found out their names. Even he doesn’t know, apparently.’ The man said nothing, just gave a slight shake of the head, indicating that this was not the time or place to talk about such things. ‘They killed one of his pimps,’ continued the pilot, ignoring the warning, warming to his subject.
