by Parker Bilal
Makana set his half-eaten sandwich on the desk, his appetite having suddenly vanished. He reached for his cigarettes, giving Ubay a warning look.
‘How did he strike you?’ Sami asked. ‘I mean, what did your gut tell you?’
‘That I probably wouldn’t be able to tell a genuine British intelligence officer from a fake.’
‘There’s something else, isn’t there?’
Makana glanced at him. Sami shrugged. ‘Someone comes knocking at your door asking you to travel out of this country on a fake passport to retrieve some scientist who specialises in nerve agents, and you’re tempted? This is not the cautious soul we all know and love.’
Makana blew smoke into the air, ignoring Ubay’s theatrical efforts to waft it away.
‘Nizari claims to know something about my daughter.’ Neither of the others said anything. ‘He thinks she might be alive.’
‘How would he know something like that?’ Sami asked.
‘I have no idea. He spent some time in Khartoum. Claims to have known my old CID chief.’
‘The one who was killed?’
Makana nodded. ‘Executed and dumped in a rubbish tip.’
‘You always suspected that it was some kind of revenge by someone inside the security forces, right?’
‘He was an old man, a symbol of how the country used to be. He was killed to set an example.’
‘Okay, I’m confused. How would this Iraqi chemist or whatever he is know anything about your daughter?’ Ubay asked. ‘I mean, he had no connection to you in the past, did he?’
Makana had been wondering the same thing. The only way Ayman Nizari could know anything about Nasra was if he had been in touch with somebody connected to Makana’s past – someone like his old chief. But it was difficult to imagine that Haroun would not have tried to contact Makana if he’d heard even the slightest rumour about his daughter being alive. So if Haroun hadn’t known, then Nizari must have heard the story from someone else. Makana didn’t like where his thoughts were leading him. Ubay leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table to tap the screen. He had another question.
‘Whoever he is, you think this English guy is in touch with our Egyptian friends?’
It was a good question and one that Makana had already considered. He would have assumed that naturally British intelligence would have to inform their Egyptian counterparts about any operation they were undertaking in the country. That would seem logical. Then again, there was something about Marcus Winslow that struck him as anything but conventional.
‘You need a safety net,’ said Sami, returning to his snack. ‘I mean, someone somewhere who knows what you are up to. Just in case, I mean.’
‘I don’t have one.’
Sami stopped eating. ‘You’re not seriously considering doing this, are you?’
‘I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t.’
Sami got to his feet and took Makana by the arm. ‘Let’s take a walk. You need to clear your head.’ He waved across the room to Rania as he pointed Makana towards the door. Ubay handed him a large envelope.
‘For what it’s worth, this is what I found on Nizari.’
Makana thanked him and then followed Sami down the gloomy staircase to the street. The big, decaying art deco building stood on the corner of Bab al-Luq Square. Sunlight and the noise of traffic hit them as they stepped outside. Sami led the way down a muddy alleyway where a sewer had burst. The interior of the Horreya café was its usual sleepy self. Most of the white marble tables were deserted. Sami waggled two fingers at the man behind the bar as he led Makana to a corner and sat down with a sigh.
‘You’re old enough to be able to think this through for yourself, but I can see you’re confused.’
‘I’m not confused,’ said Makana, looking around. The clientele was the usual mixed bag: taxi drivers at one table, a university lecturer at the next. ‘I just want to be sure what I’m getting into.’
‘Well, I’m here as your friend, telling you that you are making a mistake. How long have you lived in this country, fifteen years?’
‘What is your point?’
‘My point is that you’ve made a life for yourself here. Why risk throwing all of that away?’
‘Who says I’m risking it?’
‘If you go to Istanbul.’ Sami paused as the waiter, a boy of about thirteen, set two bottles of Stella beer on the table, along with a couple of grimy glasses. Lowering his voice, Sami continued, ‘You know that if you go, there is a chance you will not be allowed back into this country. You’re a foreigner, you’ve had problems with the authorities. You have a history.’
‘Everything carries a risk.’ Makana considered whether it was wise, drinking beer in the middle of the day, then decided the question was superfluous and poured himself half a glass.
‘I know what this is about,’ said Sami. ‘You’ve never given up the idea that your daughter was alive. All these years, at the back of your mind there was the possibility that she survived. But you looked into it. You called people. You made inquiries and nothing came up.’
‘If there is the slightest chance that this man Nizari knows something, I have to go.’
‘And what if it’s a trap?’ Sami asked.
Makana had considered the idea. ‘I’m not that important.’
‘There’s something about this whole story that doesn’t feel right.’
‘I won’t argue with that,’ said Makana. ‘The point is I won’t find out by staying here.’
‘Even if you’re walking into a trap?’
Makana sighed and took a sip of his beer. He liked this place. Maybe he should spend more time sitting here and less time worrying about the world.
‘What about Jehan?’
Makana raised his eyebrows. ‘What about her?’
‘Well, have you told her?’
‘Not yet.’ Makana drew a circle in the moisture that had drained off the bottle onto the table. He didn’t need to be told that Jehan would not take it well.
‘Do our friends in State Security know about all this?’
‘I don’t know.’
Sami rolled his eyes. ‘Well, do you think that maybe it’s an idea that you try to find out? If the British are up to something behind their backs, they won’t be happy. That might leave you holding the baby. And believe me, you don’t want that.’
Makana knew that Sami was right. He had enough experience to know how tough the Egyptians could make it for anyone, particularly a foreigner, who appeared to be working against the state.
‘You do realise that this would mean you working for the same imperialist forces who are right now occupying Iraq and Afghanistan? That’s going to make you a very unpopular man in some quarters.’
‘I’ll have to take that chance.’ Makana got to his feet. ‘I should be going.’
‘Let me give you the number of a friend of mine. Kursad is a journalist. He can help you if you need something.’ Sami shook his head. ‘I don’t know why I bother talking. No matter what advice I give you, you are still going to do whatever you want. At least, listen to what Jehan has to say.’
By the time Makana had reached the street his mobile was ringing. It was Marcus Winslow.
‘I’m assuming that by now your curiosity will have overcome your reluctance …’
Chapter Three
Jehan Siham was where Makana expected to find her, where she always was: in the basement of the Department of Pathology at the University of Cairo. Her assistant, a young man named Hassan, greeted Makana with a nod.
‘She’s busy, but you can go through.’
As assistant director, Jehan pretty much ran things the way she wanted to. She was virtually running the entire department. The only thing that prevented her becoming full director was an old-fashioned board which demanded a more senior male figure. Her office adjoined the dissecting room where she spent most of her time, either teaching or working on cases the state sent her way. Makana pushed open the swing doors to find h
er in the process of removing the brain from a corpulent male body laid out on one of the steel dissecting tables. Her eyes flickered up, and over the mask he saw the query in her gaze.
‘You shouldn’t be in here,’ she said. ‘But when has that ever stopped you?’
She finished what she was doing and summoned Hassan to tidy up. Makana waited in her office while she washed up. The window that gave onto the dissecting room was partially blocked by shelves crammed with glass specimen jars containing various forms of life, some human and some, Makana guessed, not. There was a side to Jehan that he didn’t feel he would ever understand.
‘Why is it that we spend so much of our time in the company of the dead?’ he asked as she came in.
‘In my case it is in the cause of science,’ she said, giving him a wary look as she sat down behind her desk. ‘In your case, I’m not so sure.’
‘I have to go away for a few days.’
‘Away … ?’
‘Out of the country.’
‘I see.’ Jehan picked up a brass letter opener whose handle was shaped like Anubis, the jackal god said to guard the Underworld. ‘I thought you didn’t have the papers to travel?’
‘It’s being arranged.’
‘That sounds suspiciously easy,’ she said slowly. ‘Should I be worried?’
‘I’m not sure.’
‘Okay, now I am worried.’
‘It’s difficult to explain.’
‘Try.’
‘It’s something from my past, something I thought I had put behind me.’
‘Why don’t you sit down.’ Jehan gestured at the chair. ‘You’re making me nervous.’
Makana paused, resting his hands on the back of the chair. ‘Somebody claims to have news about my daughter.’
Jehan sat back in her chair. ‘What kind of news?’
‘He claims she is alive.’
‘That’s amazing.’ Jehan’s eyes lit up for a moment. She pressed the point of the letter opener into the desktop. ‘Do you believe him?’
‘I don’t know what to believe.’ Makana resumed his pacing. She didn’t try to stop him this time. ‘If she’s alive, after all this time …’ He shook his head in disbelief.
‘Who is this man?’
‘I don’t know him. He’s on the run, in Istanbul. He wants me to come and get him.’
‘That’s crazy,’ said Jehan. ‘You’re not going to do it, are you?’
‘What choice do I have?’
‘But it might be a trap. Your old enemies. The people who forced you to flee.’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ said Makana, coming to a halt. His mind was now clear. ‘None of that matters.’
‘Doesn’t it strike you as a little strange, that a man you’ve never heard of should turn up out of the blue with news of Nasra?’
‘It all sounds a little strange,’ agreed Makana. He had come to a halt again, leaning over the chair. Jehan got to her feet and came round to stand beside him. She rested a hand on his shoulder.
‘You have no choice,’ she said. ‘You have to find out if there is any truth to it.’ She was silent for a moment. ‘Look, I’m not a psychiatrist, I just cut dead people up, but I can tell you that you need to resolve this. You need to come to terms with your past. You have to move on.’ She leaned forward. ‘If you don’t do this thing now, you will spend the rest of your life wondering what might have been.’
Marcus Winslow was waiting for Makana at Maxim’s river restaurant. He was clearly known to all the staff who fussed around the table. A bottle of Jordanian arak stood on the table in front of him, along with bowls of snacks and an ice bucket. He stood up as Makana approached, the now familiar smile already in place, ushering him into a chair and shooing the waiters away.
‘I used to come here as a student, years ago, when I was learning Arabic. We would sit here like sultans gazing at the Nile. I loved it.’ He turned to stare out of the window. ‘I thought I would spend my life here, get married, lose myself in the whole strange wonder of it all. And now look at me.’ Winslow threw his hands up and grinned. He looked younger, his face lit by the memory of his youthful dreams. Makana was wary. He suspected that all of this was for show: the kind Englishman who loves and respects this country. Generous, too. Staff bowed and smiled as they went by. Winslow lowered his voice and his tone became more sober.
‘We can’t stay here too long,’ he said, as he poured a hefty measure of the clear liquor into Makana’s glass. He gave the slightest nod over his shoulder. At a table over by the window two unlikely-looking patrons sat doing a bad job of pretending to look out of the window. ‘The local watchdogs. I don’t think they are here for me, but we don’t want them snooping around.’
Makana glanced casually round the room. The men were unmistakably Egyptian security. Hard to say which service, but they were clearly taking an interest. He turned back to the Englishman.
‘Does this mean that you are not here in an official capacity?’
‘Well …’ Winslow rocked his head from side to side. ‘That’s a moot question. Generally, it’s a good idea not to get more people involved than is necessary. That’s pure pragmatism. The fewer people who catch wind of this, the less risk there is of a leak.’ Winslow set the bottle down and added a couple of lumps of ice to his glass. ‘We’re in an unusual situation, and I don’t mind telling you that there are quite a few people on my side of the table who are adamantly opposed to the idea of bringing in – no offence – a complete stranger. We don’t like to think we need to rely on outsiders.
‘We used to be better at this sort of thing, I admit that. The fact is that we have a history of intelligence failures when it comes to the Middle East. I don’t need to tell you that. The reason is simple. Old-fashioned prejudice. We never feel we can ever fully trust anyone other than ourselves. Now we put our faith in IT experts who worship at the temple of al-Khwarizmi.’
‘Sorry?’ Makana frowned.
‘They reduce everything to algorithms.’ Winslow sipped the milky liquid from his glass. A waiter placed plates of pickled turnip and olives, hummus and tahini on the table between them.
‘I took the liberty of ordering. I hope you don’t mind. I assume you have no objection to lamb?’
‘None at all.’ Makana raised his glass and used the opportunity to take another glance at the two men sitting in the corner. One of them was using a mobile phone. Someone somewhere was no doubt busy trying to identify the Englishman’s guest.
‘I realise that what we are asking is a little unusual. You have no connection to us, or to Ayman Nizari, but your part in all of this is crucial, believe me.’
‘Tell me about Nizari’s time in Sudan.’
Winslow sipped his drink before answering. ‘You probably know this better than I do, but in the 1990s Khartoum was teeming with every radical organisation you cared to name. All of them passed through. The government had an agenda: they wanted to revitalise Islam in the Middle East, to push it though Africa as a revolutionary force. Mad as hatters, but you have to admire their nerve. They gave Nizari a home.’ Winslow tilted his head back. ‘Ayman Nizari is a very dangerous asset. In the wrong hands he could do a lot of damage. We can’t risk losing him.’
‘And yet he seems willing to come in.’
‘In large part due to his wife’s condition. As far as we can ascertain she needs expensive treatment, and we can offer that.’ Winslow seemed to read the look on Makana’s face. ‘You’re uncomfortable with this.’
‘I’m trying to understand what’s going on.’
‘What specifically are you concerned about?’
‘I’m not really sure. You said Nizari claimed to have information about my daughter.’
‘That’s what he told us. The details are vague.’
‘How would he have come across something like that?’
Winslow held up his hands in a gesture of defeat. ‘I can’t tell you. I assume from one of the people he met during his time in Khartoum, perhaps eve
n your old chief, Haroun.’
Makana shook his head. ‘Haroun would have come to me himself.’
‘Look, I don’t know what to say. Maybe Nizari heard something. Maybe he’s making it up, trying to sweeten the deal. All I know is that we have an opportunity on our hands. Ayman Nizari is a very useful asset.’
‘You mean in terms of catching this Abu Hilal character.’
‘Him or a hundred others like him.’ Winslow placed his hands on the table. ‘The world has moved on, Mr Makana, and maybe that’s partly our fault, but there’s little rhyme or reason these days. New splinter cells break out all the time. The invasion of Iraq left a vacuum in its wake, ideologically and economically. We’ve only just begun to see the fallout from that. Men like Abu Hilal have no specific aim, but when they start talking about the Day of Judgement, or bringing on the apocalypse, there are people crazy enough to listen. My job is to stop them, to prevent the next massive attack before we get the pictures on our screens of bodies being pulled out of the wreckage. Imagine what a nerve agent like that could do in Europe. It takes twelve hours to drive from Istanbul to Vienna. They could be in Berlin or Paris in two days. That’s not a remote threat, that’s real. Will you help us?’
Makana studied the Englishman. ‘I can’t help wondering just how much you’re not telling me.’
‘Well, what can I say?’ Winslow sat back in his chair. ‘That’s the nature of the beast, it’s what we do. We lie, we deceive. It’s not personal. You have to remember there is a purpose here, larger than you or I. To get there, all the pieces have to fall into place.’ He refilled their glasses. ‘Look, Makana, I like you. There’s a certain frankness about you that is refreshing. Most people I work with have learned to talk the talk. They sound as though they know what they are doing, but they lack experience in life, something that you seem to have in spades.’
‘Why would he mention my daughter?’
‘Is that what’s making you uncomfortable?’
‘It makes it personal,’ Makana said. ‘That makes me wary.’
