Dark Water

by Parker Bilal

  Makana wondered if Winslow had put all of this together himself, or whether his inquiries had put him in touch with Sudanese intelligence. His thoughts led him back to one person in particular, Mek Nimr, the man who had once been his assistant, his colleague and in a way his rival, although it was not until the end came that Makana realised just how much the other man despised him. Everything was turned on its head after the regime change in 1989. In the purge that followed, many found themselves out of favour, and some, like Mek Nimr, were rewarded with new positions of power. The old CID was transformed into an intelligence department, more concerned with rooting out political dissidents than with criminals. Makana’s old chief was offered long-overdue retirement and then stepped down, to live out his old age in peace, or so he believed.

  ‘You left the country, went into exile, but he stayed behind.’

  ‘He was an old man by then,’ said Makana. ‘In the end they got him too.’

  ‘How so?’ Winslow frowned.

  ‘He was taken from his home. His body was found on a piece of wasteland on the outskirts of the city.’

  ‘He was murdered? Did they ever find the killers?’

  Makana shook his head. ‘It was an execution. Someone was settling an old debt.’ A large leafy branch floated by below, swept along swiftly by the current. It all seemed so long ago. Why would he never be free of the past?

  ‘We’re allies now,’ said Winslow, choosing his words carefully. ‘In the war on terror we need all the help we can get, and Sudan is keen to play ball, as the Americans say, at least on the official level. They want sanctions lifted. They want to be taken off the list of states sponsoring terrorism.’

  ‘So, you’re saying this man Nizari somehow heard of me through Haroun?’

  ‘Something like that. Nizari is looking for somebody to trust, and yours is the first name that came to mind. Your old chief must have spoken highly of you.’

  Makana swirled the dregs around in the bottom of his cup, wondering if there was anything written there that he ought to know. The connection to his old chief made it feel like this was a message from beyond the grave. In the beginning they had stayed in touch. Haroun would send word to Makana in Cairo from time to time, inquiring about his well-being, passing on news about mutual friends. Then, suddenly, he was gone. Makana knew of only one man who had reason to hurt their old chief: Mek Nimr. Makana glanced over at the Englishman.

  ‘This is what you do?’

  ‘This is what I do,’ said Winslow. ‘I sort out difficult problems.’ The Englishman pushed his hands into his pockets. ‘I know it sounds like an unusual situation. I would be suspicious myself. There are times when we need the help of a civilian, someone who is outside normal channels, someone like you. This is one of them.’

  Makana thought about Ayman Nizari. He wasn’t all that keen to help a man trained in the creation of deadly chemical weapons, but if it was a means of preventing others from putting his skills to work, then he knew it made sense.

  ‘You’re the only person he will hand himself over to. We can’t do this without you.’

  Nizari seemed an unlikely companion for his old chief to have had, but that didn’t necessarily rule out the possibility of the Iraqi having heard enough about Makana to know he was trustworthy. It was an odd situation, and one that Makana wasn’t entirely comfortable with.

  ‘You’re forgetting that I don’t actually have a passport. I’m in a kind of official grey area. I can’t travel.’

  ‘That can be arranged,’ said Winslow.

  A glint of sunlight on metal drew Makana’s gaze to a thick black plume of diesel exhaust cutting across the bridge. The city was working itself once more into its daily frenzy. He reached for his Cleopatras again.

  ‘I need to think about this. What you are asking … well, the whole thing sounds a little out of my league.’

  ‘I understand if you have reservations about working with us. We’re not exactly popular in the region right now. I get that. Really, I do. I’ve been coming to this part of the world for a long time, and the invasion of Iraq went against everything I’ve learned. There are a lot of people who feel that way. We’re not all bad.’

  ‘I’m sure you’re right,’ said Makana. He still wasn’t sure if he trusted Winslow.

  ‘This is not the first time you’ve cooperated with the British security services.’ Winslow went over to his briefcase and pulled out a folder. ‘Seven years ago a Special Branch officer named Janet Hayden filed a report on a missing persons case. She praised you highly.’

  Makana remembered Hayden, and the missing English girl, Alice Markham.

  ‘You’re the only person Nizari will accept.’

  ‘I’m sure you could find a way around that.’

  ‘You’re right, I probably could. But we don’t have much time.’ Winslow produced an envelope which he handed to Makana. ‘Why don’t you think it over? This contains stills printed from the footage I showed you earlier. Naturally, Her Majesty’s government will pay you for your time, and obviously you will be unable to reveal any of this to anyone.’ Winslow made as if to leave. He stopped and turned back. He was wearing the same enigmatic smile Makana had grown familiar with in a short time.

  ‘Oh, and one other thing that might interest you. Ayman Nizari says he has information about your daughter.’ Winslow narrowed his eyes. ‘He claims she is alive.’

  Chapter Two

  A water taxi ferried Makana across to Zamalek, where he walked to a quiet, secluded corner on a tree-lined street. Everywhere you looked there were images of football players and a bizarre logo, a football-kicking crocodile wearing a pharaonic crown. The city was still recovering from the euphoria of not only hosting the Africa Nations Cup, but also winning it. The tattered images that flapped on walls and advertising hoardings had already taken on the sad, faded appearance of past glory.

  All of this Makana took in but barely registered. He felt numb. Winslow had no further information about Nizari’s claim, which probably explained why he had not mentioned it earlier in the conversation – not until he thought he was not going to get Makana to cooperate. It sounded too far-fetched; Makana would have been suspicious if the Englishman had brought up the claim earlier.

  Some years after he had arrived in Cairo, Makana had begun to hear rumours that his daughter Nasra might have survived the car accident. His wife Muna had been driving when she lost control of the car and it went over the side of the bridge they were trying to escape over. Both of them were lost. Makana had been thrown clear. He was given a choice that night, to run or to die. He had lost count of the nights when he had woken up wishing he had chosen to die.

  He rapped twice on the roof of the old black and white Datsun as he went round to climb into the passenger seat. Springs squeaked in protest as Sindbad struggled awake.

  ‘Sabah al-foul, ya basha,’ the big man mumbled as he rubbed his round face vigorously with a fleshy hand.

  ‘Good morning, Sindbad.’

  Makana shifted his feet to accommodate some of the cardboard boxes and containers that were evidence of the other man’s idea of passing the time. There were few activities more important to Sindbad than eating. Spending the night in his car on a stakeout was a perfect excuse to indulge himself.

  ‘My wife put me on a diet.’ The big man’s eyebrows drooped in a mournful expression. ‘She says people die of eating too much.’

  ‘She may have a point,’ Makana ventured, only too aware that commenting on anything said by Sindbad’s wife was playing with fire.

  ‘At home she only lets me eat salad. I’m not even allowed cheese. Imagine? Whoever heard of cheese being bad for you?’

  Sindbad shook his head at the injustice of the world. Makana tried to steer him gently back to more pressing matters.

  ‘How have things been here?’

  ‘No movement.’ Sindbad dug his hand into a bag of roasted nuts that rested on the zebra-striped furry dashboard cover before picking up his notepad.
He held out a page of what looked like hieroglyphics scrawled by a drunken scribe. Makana handed it back and asked him to translate. Munir Abaza had not emerged since ten o’clock the previous night. The rest of the squiggles were apparently just that.

  ‘He’ll be out in a minute.’ Sindbad nodded at the sleek black Mercedes parked in front of the building. ‘They’re getting his car ready.’

  A doorman wearing a brown gellabiya was coating the car liberally with soapsuds. Makana looked at his watch. It was after nine. Unusual for a dedicated man like Abaza to be late for work. Even as this thought went through his head he saw a figure appear in the entrance to the building. Munir Abaza was in the same suit Makana had seen him wearing the previous evening, although he appeared to have changed his shirt and put on a different tie. He moved with the confidence of a man who owns the world, or enough of it not to worry too much. The door of the Datsun creaked in protest as Makana struggled to push it open.

  ‘Perhaps it’s time to have a word.’

  Munir Abaza was already barking orders at the doorman who was rushing around with a rag trying to dry off the car. His irritation turned to resignation when he looked round and saw Makana approaching.

  ‘You’re not going to tell me this is a coincidence.’

  ‘No,’ said Makana. ‘I’m not.’

  ‘I thought not.’ An expression of disgust crossed Abaza’s face as he looked Makana up and down. ‘Somehow I expected more from a man like you.’

  Makana shrugged. ‘We all have to eat.’

  ‘Yes, but we should try and do it with dignity, don’t you think?’ Abaza folded his arms. ‘So, which one of my partners hired you?’

  ‘Both of them, actually.’

  Munir Abaza swore under his breath. He ran one third of a successful legal practice, one of the biggest and most prestigious in the country. The firm’s clients were construction magnates, multinational franchises, millionaire landowners, politicians, high-ranking military officers with business interests. In short, people with money and influence: the ruling class that ran the country. Abaza himself was rich and counted himself a personal friend of the president’s eldest son, which was about as close as you could get to absolute power.

  ‘They are greedy,’ Abaza concluded.

  ‘They seem to have doubts about your loyalty.’

  ‘They think they can manage without me.’

  ‘If it’s any consolation, they wouldn’t choose this path if they had anything more substantial.’

  ‘Still, it’s underhand. Not the kind of thing I would have expected from you.’

  ‘What can I tell you? Business has been slow.’

  Abaza rested his leather briefcase on a dry section of the roof of the Mercedes. It was a nice briefcase. Like everything about Abaza, it announced him as a man of wealth and taste. Reaching into his pocket, he produced a fresh packet of Dunhills and broke the cellophane wrapping with his thumbnail. He offered the pack and Makana took one. The two men leaned against the car smoking.

  ‘So, what are you going to do?’ Abaza asked eventually.

  ‘They asked me to find your weak spot. I’ve done that.’

  ‘They know about the girl?’

  ‘Not yet, but I have to tell them,’ Makana said. ‘If I don’t, they’ll hire someone else who will find the same thing I did.’

  Abaza blew smoke into the air. ‘We are being considered for a huge contracting deal by the military. Once you get a contract with them you are set for life, but the faintest whiff of moral scandal will scare them off. They’ve been waiting for an opportunity to cut me out. Why have you come to me?’

  With anyone else, Abaza would have asked him what his price was, but the two men had had dealings before, and he knew that wasn’t going to work.

  ‘They never mentioned the woman. I was told it was strictly business,’ said Makana. ‘I don’t like it when clients lie to me.’

  ‘For a man who is short of work, you are certainly picky.’

  ‘Like you said, we should at least try to retain our dignity.’

  Munir Abaza smiled. Makana didn’t owe the lawyer any favours, although Abaza had passed work Makana’s way in the past. The first time was about a year ago. A family whose son had gone missing. Makana had found the boy, but too late to save his life. He had felt bad about asking the parents to pay, but Abaza had stepped in and paid Makana what was owed, with a generous bonus on top, out of compassion. Makana didn’t feel a great deal of sympathy for lawyers in general, and certainly not for Abaza. On the other hand he felt less for the people who had hired him. Everything was relative.

  ‘I was careless, I was hasty, but that’s what love is all about, right?’ Abaza dropped the half-smoked cigarette into the dust. ‘I appreciate the warning.’

  As Makana stepped back to allow Abaza to get into his car, a voice from above made both men turn to look up. The woman who was hanging over the balcony looked like a figure from a fairy tale. She was clad in a bed sheet, which slipped disarmingly off one shoulder as she blew Abaza a kiss. There was a cheer from a passing vendor carrying a mountain of brightly coloured plastic water jugs hanging from a pole.

  Abaza climbed in behind the wheel. He preferred to drive himself, it seemed. The window slid down smoothly and silently. ‘I am in your debt. I never forget a favour.’

  ‘I can wait until sunset,’ said Makana. ‘But no longer than that.’

  ‘It’s okay,’ Abaza smiled. ‘That’ll give me time to set a countermove in motion. They want blood. I’m going to give it to them.’

  As the car sped away, Makana wondered if he’d just made an error of judgement.

  Marcus Winslow did not exist. At least on paper, or rather not exactly paper, but in the digital void that was cyberspace. Ubay was shaking his head, which was never a good sign. If he couldn’t find anything then the chances were that nobody could.

  The search was interrupted when Sami entered the room bearing a bag full of falafel sandwiches. For a time the three of them busied themselves with biting into the golden rissoles, still hot from the fryer. They were seated in a corner of the MIMCO offices – the Masry Info Media Collective. It was still early and the place was half empty. It tended to fill up later in the day and only really came to life late at night. The arrangement of desks and tables tended to change every few months, as did the faces behind the computer consoles. Sami Barakat was one of the founding members of the collective, along with his wife Rania, who was on the far side of the room, now heavily pregnant but showing no signs of letting up on her usual frenetic pace. Ubay, their resident hacker, internet genius and general geek, had spent over an hour trying to help Makana uncover something about his morning visitor. The lanky figure now sat back and rested his enormous feet on the desk as he munched another sandwich.

  ‘My feeling,’ he said between bites, ‘is that he’s been wiped clean. There’s something too regular about the pattern.’

  ‘Can you explain that a little more clearly?’ Makana broke the seal on a new pack of Cleopatras and the fresh smell of tobacco hit his nostrils. It was the best part of the day. After that moment they grew more stale by the second. By midday it felt like you were smoking cardboard, but by then you didn’t care too much.

  ‘You know what Ubay is like,’ said Sami. ‘He lives in the Twilight Zone.’

  ‘I don’t even know what that is,’ said Makana.

  ‘You realise that smoking is a strategy by the industrialised world to exploit and eradicate the populations of less wealthy nations.’

  ‘I know because you tell me almost every time you see me.’ Makana gestured at the computer. ‘Tell me something I don’t know.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Ubay, sitting up and tapping a few keys. ‘I found a few mentions of his participation in conferences here and there, either as an adviser or as a representative of the British Foreign Service. It seems he was attached to embassies in Baghdad, Tehran, Beirut, Tripoli and Damascus, but all in low-key positions. Assistant this and that. Mos
t of that stops around three years ago.’

  ‘When exactly?’ Makana pressed. ‘Can you be more specific?’

  ‘Well’ – Ubay squinted at the screen – ‘I would say around 2003.’

  ‘The time of the invasion of Iraq?’

  ‘Yeah, maybe that fits.’

  ‘Okay, what else?’

  ‘I found another thread where he comes across as a professor, or some kind of Middle East consultant. He studied languages and Modern History at Cambridge University. I can’t find out if he is married or has children, where he lives. He travels a lot, but even then, it’s as if he pops up in places without warning.’ Ubay’s résumé was punctuated by pauses as he stopped to take another bite or reached for the can of Coca-Cola nearby, never taking his eyes off the screen in front of him.

  ‘He’s a spy,’ nodded Sami confidently. ‘What else could he be?’

  ‘Did you find any pictures?’

  Ubay clicked to another page which revealed half a dozen people named Marcus Winslow. None of them resembled the person Makana had met that morning.

  ‘He’s not here,’ said Makana.

  ‘What did I tell you?’ said Sami. ‘He’s erased all images of himself. You know how hard it is to do that?’

  ‘Either that, or he’s not who he says he is,’ said Makana.

  ‘His virtual footprint is almost non-existent,’ continued Ubay. ‘Whoever he is, he’s gone to a lot of trouble to clean it up.’

  ‘His footprint?’

  Ubay explained with the patience of a child telling a parent how the world worked: ‘It’s a trail left behind of what he has done online. His purchases, his interests. Every time you log onto the net you leave a trace.’

  ‘And you can’t find anything?’

  ‘Nothing that matches.’

  ‘There’s nothing to prove that he is or is not what he says he is.’ Sami licked tahini sauce off his fingers where it had escaped from the sandwich. ‘You said he showed you ID.’

  ‘He did,’ said Makana.

  ‘But you know those things can be faked.’ Sami cleared his throat and looked at the ceiling. ‘The only people capable of pulling off something like that are the Israelis.’