an elderly man who arrived here several days ago.'
'What type of difficulty?' the receptionist asked. 'Has he become ill?'
'He appears to have tried to climb one of the pyramids,' Wallander answered. 'If I am right he chose the highest one.'
The receptionist nodded slowly.
'I have heard about it,' he replied. 'It was very unfortunate. The police and the Ministry of Tourism did not approve.'
He retreated behind a door and returned shortly with another man, also older. They spoke rapidly for a short while. Then they turned to Wallander.
'Are you the old man's son?' one of them asked.
Wallander nodded.
'Not only that,' Wallander said, 'I am also a policeman.'
He displayed his identification, which clearly stated the word 'police'. But the two men did not appear to understand.
'You mean, you are not his son, you are police?'
'I am both,' Wallander said. 'Both his son and police.'
They pondered what he had said for a while. A couple of other receptionists who didn't have anything to do for the moment joined the group. The incomprehensible conversation resumed. Wallander noticed that he was drenched in sweat again.
Then they asked him to wait. They pointed to a group of sofas in the lobby. Wallander sat down. A veiled woman walked past. Scheherazade, Wallander thought. She could have helped me. Or Aladdin. I could have used someone in that league. He waited. An hour went by. He got up and started to walk back to the reception desk. But immediately someone pointed to the sofas again. He felt very thirsty. The clock had struck twelve a long time ago.
There were still many people in the lobby. The American women from the bus left with a guide who was apparently going to take them out into the Egyptian night. Wallander closed his eyes. He jumped when someone touched his shoulder. When he opened his eyes the receptionist was there, together with a number of police officers in impressive uniforms. Wallander got up from the sofa. A clock on the wall read half past two. One of the police officers, who appeared to be about his own age and who was also wearing the most stripes on his uniform, saluted him.
'I hear you have been sent here by the Swedish police,' he said.
'No,' Wallander said. 'I am a police officer. But above all I am Mr Wallander's son.'
The policeman who had saluted him immediately exploded into an incomprehensible torrent of words directed at the receptionists. Wallander thought that the best thing he could do would be to sit down again. After about a quarter of an hour the policeman brightened.
'I am Hassaneyh Radwan,' he said. 'I now have a clear picture. It is a delight to meet a Swedish colleague. Come with me.'
They left the hotel. Wallander felt like a criminal surrounded by officers who were all carrying weapons. It was a very warm night. He sat down beside Radwan in the back of a police car that immediately revved into action and turned on its sirens. Just as they were driving away from the hotel grounds, Wallander saw the pyramids. They were illuminated by large spotlights. It happened so fast he could not believe his eyes. But they were actually the pyramids that he had seen depicted so many times. And then he thought with dread about the fact that his father had tried to climb one.
They drove east, the same way he had come from the airport.
'How is my father doing?'
'He is a very determined man,' Radwan answered. 'But his English is unfortunately difficult to understand.'
He doesn't speak any English at all, Wallander thought helplessly.
They drove through the city at high speed. Wallander caught sight of some heavily loaded camels moving with slow dignity. The bag inside Wallander's shirt was rubbing against his skin. Sweat streamed down his face. They crossed the river.
'The Nile?' Wallander asked.
Radwan nodded. He took out a packet of cigarettes but Wallander shook his head.
'Your father smokes,' Radwan remarked.
No, he doesn't, Wallander thought. With increasing trepidation, he now started to question if they were in fact on their way to see his father, who had never smoked in all his life. Could there be more than one old man who had tried to climb the pyramids?
The police car slowed down. Wallander had seen that the name of the street was Sadei Barrani. They were outside a large police station where armed guards stood in small sentry boxes outside the tall doors. Wallander followed Radwan. They came to a room where garish neon tubes glowed in the ceiling. Radwan pointed to a chair. Wallander sat down and wondered how long he now had to wait. Before Radwan left Wallander asked him if it would be possible to buy a soft drink. Radwan called over a young policeman.
'He will help you,' Radwan said and then left.
Wallander, who was extremely unsure of the value of his notes, gave the policeman a small wad of them.
'Coca-Cola,' he said.
The policeman looked wide-eyed at him. But he said nothing, he simply took the money and left.
A little while later he returned with a carton of Coke bottles. Wallander counted fourteen in all. He opened two of them with his penknife and gave the rest to the policeman, who shared them with his colleagues.
It was half past four. Wallander watched a fly that was sitting still on one of the empty bottles. The sound of a radio came from somewhere. Then he realised there was actually something that this police station and the one in Ystad had in common. The same night-time peace. The waiting for something to happen. Or not. The policeman who had sunk down into his newspaper could have been Hansson poring over his horse races.
Radwan came back. He gave Wallander a sign to follow him. They walked down an endless succession of winding corridors, up and down stairs, and at last stopped outside a door where a policeman was standing guard. Radwan nodded and the door opened. Then he signalled for Wallander to step inside.
'I'll be back in half an hour,' he said and left.
Wallander stepped inside. Inside the room, which was illuminated by the ubiquitous neon tubes, were a table and two chairs. His father was sitting on one of them, dressed in a shirt and trousers but barefoot. His hair was sticking up. Wallander suddenly felt pity for him.
'Hello, old man,' he said. 'How are you?'
His father looked at him without the slightest trace of surprise.
'I intend to protest,' he said.
'Protest what?'
'That they prevent people from climbing the pyramids.'
'I think we should wait on that protest,' Wallander said. 'The most important thing right now is for me to get you out of here.'
'I am not paying any fines,' his father replied angrily. 'I want to wait out my punishment instead. Two years, they said. That will go by quickly.'
Wallander quickly considered getting angry, but that could simply egg his father on.
'Egyptian prisons are probably not particularly comfortable,' he said carefully. 'No prisons are. I also doubt they would allow you to paint in your cell.'
His father stared back at him in silence. Apparently he had not considered this possibility.
He nodded and stood up.
'Let's go then,' he said. 'Do you have the money to pay the fine?'
'Sit down,' Wallander said. 'I don't think it's quite that simple. That you can just stand up and leave.'
'Why not? I haven't done anything wrong.'
'According to what I understand, you tried to climb the Cheops pyramid.'
'That was why I came here. Ordinary tourists can stand among the camels and look. I wanted to stand on the top.'
'That's not allowed. It's also very dangerous. And what would happen if everyone started to climb all over the
