by Parker Bilal
It was a modern building, but the staircase was hot and stuffy. Coming out into the open felt like a release. Makana drew in a lungful of cool night air. In the early hours, when the traffic had slowed to a trickle and a breeze swept the city clean, the air felt clearer. Despite his feelings for Jehan, he felt uncomfortable in her world. Something told him he would never shake off his sense of guilt. He had spent too long alone, perhaps, to ever feel really at ease in a relationship. Sharing his life with another person, no matter how clever, beautiful or caring, was not something he was sure he was capable of any more.
A solitary taxi cab trundled by, its driver half asleep. He could barely sit upright behind the wheel, let alone register a man standing by the side of the road, yet he managed to pull over without hitting anything. As Makana stepped off the kerb, a set of powerful headlights came on, dazzling him. He turned to see a dark SUV gliding towards him, and recognised it as the Range Rover that had been parked under the eucalyptus tree by his awama the previous morning. The rear door opened as it drew level with him and Marcus Winslow beckoned him inside. They took off before the door was fully closed. There were two men in the front who said nothing.
‘You were waiting for me?’
‘I’m afraid that the situation has changed.’
Winslow looked as though he’d had even less sleep than Makana, which was impressive considering the amount of alcohol he had put away the previous evening.
‘A couple of hours ago we intercepted a message out of Istanbul, sent to Tel Aviv. It confirms our fears that the Israelis are involved.’
‘They know Nizari is in Istanbul?’
‘They’re looking for him.’ Passing streetlights painted Winslow’s face with pulses of orange. ‘We also picked up the word Hammurabi, their codename for Abu Hilal.’
‘Isn’t this going to complicate matters?’
‘Not necessarily. It means you have to be quick. In and out. Find Nizari and get him to the extraction point. There’s no need to panic just yet.’
Makana watched the city floating by, smooth and silent as silk. It was almost deserted at this hour. Through the windows of the car the dark, empty streets, the metal shutters on windows and shopfronts made it look derelict. A pang of nostalgia ran through him, for a life he feared might be coming to an end. He’d always had mixed feelings about Cairo: it wasn’t a place you could love unconditionally in his view. Still, it had become home, and this wasn’t the last memory of it that he wanted to take with him.
‘There’s a flight to Istanbul leaving in just over an hour.’ In the gloom of the interior Winslow held his watch up to catch the strobe of a streetlight. ‘I thought we would have more time, to lay the groundwork, to prepare you. That’s not the case, so you’re going to have to rely on your instincts. We’ve put together a suitcase for you with some clothes. We had to guess your size but hopefully some of them will fit. Your cover story is that you are in Istanbul to buy used agricultural machinery for resale in Egypt.’
‘I know nothing about agricultural machinery.’
‘Well, it’s not as if you’re going to sit an exam. There are some brochures in the bag just in case, and a file with invoices and addresses of suppliers. It all checks out, but you might like to spend a moment familiarising yourself with some of the terminology – grain threshers and so forth. There are a couple of guidebooks and maps in there for good measure. A room has been reserved for you at the Pera Palas hotel. It’s one we’ve used before. If you need to change money, do it in small amounts. Try not to draw attention to yourself, but I don’t have to tell you that, do I?’
‘How do I explain the British passport?’
‘You lived for a time in London. Your wife was from there. She passed away. Now you live in Cairo. Stick as close to the truth as possible, but spare the details.’
The airport was already looming into sight. They were coming off El-Orouba Street. In the distance a wide stretch of open ground was bathed in the orange glow of sodium lighting. The Range Rover slowed and pulled in to the side of the road. Makana glanced back to where a small blue Fiat had been tailing them. It too was drawing to a halt.
‘We don’t want to announce our connection, so you will be arriving in a regular car.’ Winslow removed his glasses and wiped a hand over his face. ‘You won’t be alone. People will be with you all the time. You won’t see them, hopefully, but they’ll be there. If anything out of the ordinary happens, you let us know – if you are contacted, or if something goes wrong. I need to know immediately. I can’t stress that enough. These things can play out very quickly.’ Winslow sat back. ‘Any questions?’
‘What happens if I don’t find him?’
‘You’ll find him and you’ll bring him back. I have complete faith in you.’ Winslow smiled, the harsh glare of the lights giving his features a strained, almost macabre edge. ‘Don’t look so worried, you’ll be back here in three days.’
‘If everything goes smoothly, you mean.’
‘Look on the bright side. This could earn you not only a substantial fee, but also the gratitude of Her Majesty’s government.’
‘Who could ask for more?’
The air outside was cool, and Makana found the smell of dust strangely reassuring after the interior of the car. To the east the sky was beginning to lighten. The Range Rover pulled smoothly away, its dark windows hiding its passengers. The blue car puttered slowly up to him. Makana got into the front seat beside the driver, who didn’t speak. They drove on in silence, passing the ticket barrier and up the ramp to the Departures Hall. The driver got out and opened the boot, took out a slightly battered and rather cheap suitcase and handed it to Makana. Then he got into his car and drove away.
Chapter Five
At that hour the Departures Hall was a garish grey zone through which travellers stumbled in a haze of suppressed panic and weary resignation. People struggled to push trolleys piled high with monstrous volumes of luggage. Lines of passengers waited their turn at the counters, some patiently, others less so. Makana circled the hall in a random fashion, changing direction as if unsure where to go, hoping this erratic behaviour would reveal anyone who might be following him. Nobody struck him as taking an obvious interest, and so he moved on.
At the security check he handed over his new British passport to the woman in the booth, half expecting it to be met with a laugh. The woman glanced from document to face and back again as if trying to work out which one did not fit. Finally, she summoned her superior, a short, ugly man in an even uglier suit. He leaned over her to examine the document briefly before, with barely a glance at Makana, turning and walking away.
‘Is there a problem?’ Makana asked.
‘Wait,’ said the woman curtly, shooing him away with a flick of her fingers. He stepped aside to let the next people through – a couple with a small, bawling child. Over the heads of the other waiting passengers he watched the ugly man disappear into a room on the far side of the hall. It would be a shame, Makana thought, if the whole scheme were to fall at the first hurdle. Having said that, he knew the risk he was running. ‘Are you sure you’ve thought this through?’ Jehan had asked him. It was a little late to be thinking about that now. If the passport was rejected he would be lucky to avoid winding up in prison, at the very least. He had the feeling that Marcus Winslow would vanish into the woodwork the moment things turned awkward with Egyptian security, leaving him alone to face the consequences.
A glance at his watch told him that time was running out. If the delay lasted much longer he would miss his plane and that would be the end of it. Asking for more information would provoke them. All he could do was be patient, and wait.
He had just about resigned himself to his fate when a barrel-bellied man in a uniform stepped out of the room and yelled his name.
‘Through there.’ Makana was ushered into a corridor that led deeper into the building. ‘Keep going,’ said the voice behind him. Still trailing his suitcase, he walked on until he reached an open
door on his left.
‘Put your bag on the table, open it up and stand back.’
It was a small, bare room, furnished with only a table against the wall. Doing as he was told, Makana stepped away from the bag. The scruffy officer rummaged through the contents, although with no great conviction. It was possible they were just planning to delay him long enough for his flight to depart. Looking for an explanation was often pointless; sometimes someone simply took a dislike to you and made it their day’s decision to make life awkward for you. Makana folded his arms and waited. It took less time than he had expected. A door on the other side of the room opened and another person stepped into the room.
‘Lieutenant Sharqi.’
‘Major.’ Sharqi tapped the eagle on one of his epaulettes.
‘Forgive me,’ said Makana. ‘You’ve moved up in the world.’
Sharqi snapped his fingers and the immigration officer disappeared from the room without a word.
‘Just when I thought that I’d managed to forget your existence, your name comes up again. How am I to explain that, Makana?’
‘Maybe it doesn’t need explaining.’
‘You don’t believe in coincidence any more than I do,’ said Sharqi. ‘Yet here we are.’
‘I’m curious. How did you manage to get promoted and demoted to airport security at the same time?’
‘I’m not with airport security.’ Sharqi turned the passport over in his hands. ‘I’m still with military intelligence and counterterrorism. They have to run queries by me.’
‘Is there something wrong with the passport?’
‘No, nothing. It’s perfect. But you know how it is. Sometimes it’s just the way you look. A man like you carrying a new British passport.’ Sharqi shrugged as though the conclusion was obvious. ‘Imagine my surprise to find myself looking at a familiar face with a new name …’ He squinted at the page. ‘Mustafa Amin, agricultural services? You’re selling tractors these days?’
‘A man has to make a living.’
‘You disappoint me. After all the years we’ve known each other I would expect you to be a little more honest.’
Makana had first encountered Sharqi some seven years ago, and since then their paths had crossed a number of times. Sharqi was a military man who had started out with the crack Special Forces Unit 777. Over the years, Makana had watched him rise steadily up the ladder of promotion. One thing was for certain: this was no coincidence. If Sharqi was here, it meant he knew something about Makana’s mission.
‘You know that I’m about to miss my flight?’
‘Don’t worry about your flight. It leaves when I say so.’ Sharqi wagged the passport in the air. ‘Do you want to tell me what this is all about?’
‘I have a feeling you already know.’
‘What are you going to do in Istanbul?’ Sharqi picked up the guidebook from Makana’s suitcase and idly flipped through it. ‘You may think this places you out of my reach, but it doesn’t.’
‘If you were going to detain me, you would have done so already.’
‘We don’t have to be enemies. We can help one another.’
‘You mean by me telling you what I know?’
‘Why not?’ Sharqi smiled, revealing a perfect set of even, white teeth. ‘You might need my help one day. There are places in this country that not even the British can touch’
‘I can’t help you, Sharqi, even if I wanted to.’
‘You and I have never really seen eye to eye, have we, Makana?’ Sharqi glanced at his watch. Perhaps there was a limit to the degree of control he could exercise over air traffic, or perhaps he wasn’t that keen on antagonising the British.
‘You’re out of your depth, Sharqi.’ Makana reached for the passport and the other man’s hand drew back. Makana sighed. ‘If you detain me, or make me miss my flight, you will have to answer for that, and we both know the British will not be happy.’
‘I don’t work for the British.’
‘You’re fishing, Sharqi. If I could tell you any more I would have done so by now. You know that.’
‘I could still refuse to let you get on that plane.’ Despite the passing of the years and his rise in rank, Sharqi still resembled a kid on the school volleyball team.
‘We both know you’re not going to do that. You can’t prove this passport wasn’t issued by the British government. Think of your chances of promotion. You have responsibilities now that you’re a married man.’ Makana nodded at the ring on Sharqi’s finger.
Sharqi relented, handing back the passport. ‘Just remember …’ He leaned close. ‘The British have a habit of forgetting who their friends are when they no longer need them. One day you’ll be back here with no one to protect you.’
‘I’ll deal with that when it comes along.’
By the time Makana reached the plane they were ready to close the doors. He struggled to stow his bag and find his seat, aware of the glares he was receiving. When he greeted the ample lady in the seat next to him, he received a practised scowl in return.
It was a long time since Makana had travelled by plane, although things seemed more or less the same as he remembered, a few minor changes aside. His companion gave a cry of horror when he produced his cigarettes and lighter. He put them away quietly.
They were served with a parody of a meal: plastic food on plastic trays thrown at them in rapid succession proved to hold spongy bread rolls covered in cling film and some type of dish that contained meat of no recognisable type along with a heap of soggy rice. Makana decided to steer clear of it. A walk down the length of the plane towards the bathroom gave him a chance to study his fellow passengers. Somewhere among that crowd of faces he suspected were operatives working for Marcus Winslow, possibly with a couple of Egyptian security people thrown in for good measure. Nobody stood out, and he returned to his seat none the wiser, smiling at the large lady, who threw him the same wary look.
Chapter Six
Istanbul Day One
The guidebook Winslow had provided told Makana that Turkey stood on a zone of highly unstable ground: interlocking tectonic plates that left the substrata looking like a jigsaw puzzle. From the air, Istanbul resembled Cairo, if God had picked up the map and crushed it into a ball with his fist. Where Cairo had the Nile running through it like a guideline of clarity, Istanbul was as fractured on the surface as the underlying crust was further down. The Bosporus Strait divided the city into two halves, the Asian and the European, and linked the Black Sea to the north with the Sea of Marmara.
For centuries this spot had marked the centre of the known world. Empires were founded here by the Romans and Byzantines, and stretched far across the globe. The Ottomans succeeded them. When the elegant skyline of the old quarters came into view, the slim minarets and majestic domes were reminders that once this had been the centre of the Caliphate that ruled much of Central Asia as well as the entire Middle East, including Egypt and Sudan. This city had stood since the seventh century BCE. Before the Chinese were ferrying silk through here, there had been jade and precious stones carried by Scythians and Persians. Alexander the Great passed through on his conquest of the East.
None of this was evident from the all too familiar mid-morning traffic chaos on the ride into town. Makana’s first impression was a jumble of hills and tightly packed buildings. Concrete lanes had been driven through to help the flow, and these too were familiar. They drove a little faster here perhaps, and the cars were generally in better condition, but otherwise he felt strangely at home in the grey morning light.
His arrival had gone smoothly. He received no more than a cursory glance from the woman behind the glass screen when he handed over his passport for a tourist visa. That moment stirred Makana with an odd sense of freedom. Unable to travel for so many years, all at once this document, false though it might be, allowed him to move, away from Cairo, from his past. He felt privileged. The thought that there was nothing to prevent him skipping off with both money and passport brought a smil
e to his face. How long would he have before they caught him? The passport would run out before long, and the money too. But people had made their way in the world with less.
‘First time Istanbul?’
Makana became aware that the driver was trying to catch his eye in the mirror as he made conversation, or rather tried to drum up extra work for himself. ‘You want Sultan Ahmet Mosque? Blue Mosque? You Muslim?’ The neck craned to see him. Was he? In principle yes, since the son of a Muslim is automatically a Muslim. Makana was never quite at ease with that question. Most people were not forward enough to ask; they simply assumed, and he was happy to let them draw their own conclusions.
‘For you, I make special price, yes?’
‘I’m not going to have much time for sightseeing.’
When they arrived at the hotel the driver leapt out and ordered someone to come and take the bag, giving Makana a chance to study him. At the airport he had simply picked out the most honest face he could see. Now this man handed him a card.
‘Koçak, at your service.’
Makana tucked the card away and repeated his words about his limited time, noting that the taxi driver continued to smile and nod regardless, which suggested that he might not have fully understood.
Once through the doors of the hotel, Makana found the striated walls and stained-glass cupolas of the magnificent marbled interior somewhat intimidating. He was the canary in a gilded cage, waiting for a cat to show up. The man behind the reception desk was so short he barely topped the high marble counter. What he lacked in stature he made up for in enthusiasm.
‘Welcome, welcome sir, Amin! Merhaba. I am Haluk, at your service.’
It was a little disconcerting, but Makana played along. He filled out the forms, answered the questions about his intentions. No, it was his first time in the city and he had heard many good things about the Pera Palas hotel. Yes, he hoped to acquaint himself with some of the city’s sights and no, he didn’t need a guide.
