by Parker Bilal
‘Where are we going?’
‘It’s not far.’ Makana wondered what he would do if Kara was not home and the key was not in its place. He decided there was nothing to do but wait and see.
It took them half an hour to walk from the ferry to the grey, crumbling entrance. An old woman was fighting with an umbrella, and as they waited impatiently for her to emerge, Makana was aware that every moment spent in the street increased the risk of them being spotted. When she realised it wasn’t raining the woman laughed at herself and went on her way. Makana hustled Nizari inside.
There was no need of a key because the door stood open. Makana motioned for Nizari to stay behind him. The flat was empty and there was no sign of Kara. When he’d left last night he had locked the door and placed the key under the tarpaulin in the hall. Perhaps the boyfriend had come back for his things, although Makana couldn’t see that anything had been moved. The bench covered in paint and brushes looked unchanged from the last time he had looked at it. The most likely explanation was that Kara had come and gone, forgetting to lock the door in her haste. No doubt this was normal for her. Makana felt a certain respect, perhaps even a touch of envy, for her bohemian lifestyle, although it would never have suited him.
‘What is this place?’ Nizari stared sullenly at the pile of dirty dishes in the sink where a cockroach was scuttling out of sight.
‘It’s just somewhere to rest for a few hours. I need to make arrangements.’ Even as he spoke, Makana tried to decide how much of a risk staying here entailed. ‘I need you to wait here for me.’
‘Where are you going?’ Nizari seemed jumpy.
‘I have to make some calls. You’ll be safe here. Close the door. The woman who lives here might return, but she’s a friend. Oh, and there’s an artist.’ Makana jerked his head in the direction of the easel. ‘He might come to pick up his things.’
‘How long will you be?’ Nizari looked stricken, the panic returning.
‘Half an hour, maybe a little longer.’ Makana saw the fear in the other man’s eyes and for a moment considered taking him along, but it was far too risky and he felt no obligation to try and make Nizari feel more comfortable. At this point, he didn’t feel much sympathy for the Iraqi. If he was going to sweat out every minute of being alone here, then so be it. Leaving him on his own was certainly safer than taking him along. Apart from anything, he would slow Makana down. To take him along seemed an unnecessary risk.
It was only when he stepped out into the hall that he realised he had no choice. Coming up the stairs you wouldn’t notice. It was only now, as he stood in the doorway, that he realised that Kara Deniz would not be coming back any time soon. She already was back.
The body had been slid into the space between the large frames and the wall. The tarpaulin almost covered the gap, but someone had been careless. The worn tip of a boot could just be seen in the corner. Makana pulled the canvas aside and heard a sharp intake of breath from behind him.
‘Who is that?’
‘We have to go.’ Makana let the canvas drop back into place.
‘Is that the woman who lives here. Is she dead?’
The man’s face was frozen in fear. He was backing away. Makana grabbed his shoulder.
‘Wait,’ he said, holding up a hand for silence. He could hear voices. Somebody was coming up the stairs. He held a finger to his lips and then pointed upwards towards the roof. Nizari’s eyes were wide with what he had seen. He was about to panic, backing into the apartment. Makana grabbed his arm, pulled the flat door shut as quietly as he could and then propelled him up the stairs. Nizari stumbled and went down on one knee with a whimper. Makana hauled him to his feet and pushed him up ahead of him – they had no time for niceties. It wasn’t easy. The Iraq was heavy and awkward. They hurried up two flights of stairs as quietly as they could before Makana motioned Nizari to stop. He listened. There was murmuring from below. Two men speaking in low voices. Makana wasn’t sure of the language, but it didn’t sound like Turkish. They were already inside the apartment and seemed to be searching it.
‘Move!’
Nizari climbed with the slow, clumsy pace of an elderly dog. He wheezed and groaned up three more flights before they reached the top. A door creaked open onto a flat roof. Makana ushered Nizari through then ducked back to listen. The voices were growing more urgent. Perhaps they had heard something. Outside a light rain had started to fall. Makana circled the parapet looking for a way down. There was a long drop to the next roof.
‘Climb over,’ he ordered.
Nizari laughed. ‘You’re crazy!’
‘Those men are not going to hesitate. They killed the girl and they will kill us both.’
‘You don’t know that.’
‘Suit yourself. I’m not staying here to find out.’ Makana straddled the low wall.
‘I can’t do that! I’m not a monkey.’
‘All you have to do is hang down and drop,’ said Makana, preparing to swing himself over.
‘You can’t leave me here!’
‘You don’t give me much choice. I’m not waiting for those Israelis to catch up with us. They’ll kill me as soon as they’re finished with you.’
‘They’re Israelis?’ Nizari’s face would, under other circumstances, have been almost comic.
‘I could hear them on the stairs.’ Which was true, although he’d been unable to tell if they were speaking Hebrew. It did the trick in any case.
‘Okay, just give me a moment.’ Nizari approached the parapet and leaned over. He gasped and drew back. ‘I can’t.’
‘We’re wasting time.’
Nizari finally summoned the courage. He swung one leg up onto the wall. ‘Now what?’
‘Swing the other leg over and let yourself down as far as you can go.’
‘I can’t!’ he protested.
‘Yes, you can. Give me your hand.’
Makana lowered the whimpering scientist until he was far enough down to drop onto the next roof without hurting himself. He jumped down after him and together they ran across the roof and clambered over to the next building with greater ease. Here a door led into the building. Makana managed to force the lock and peered inside a gloomy stairwell. It would have to do. He looked back. Still no sign of the two men. Perhaps they had been lucky.
Chapter Thirty
The stairs led down into a noisy street. They were in an area that Makana did not immediately recognise: narrow, busy streets that were crowded with cars, people and scooters that beeped as they squeezed past them. They moved deeper, glancing back to make sure they were not being followed, avoiding the temptation to descend further into the city. That would lead them towards wider streets, avenues and boulevards that would bring them back to the centre of town. What they needed now was obscurity: somewhere to hide. They found it, eventually, in a large, unremarkable basement filled with smoke. Men played chess and cards, sipped tea and slapped down dominoes and cards. They were all ages, middle-aged men with paunches buttressing their chequered shirts, younger types in tracksuits, the sides of their heads shaved bare. They all looked like regulars. Still, nobody paid much attention to Makana and Nizari when they entered. They found a table by the wall. Makana caught the eye of a waiter and pointed at the tea on the next table and waggled two fingers.
Nizari was unhappy.
‘What are we doing here?’
‘We’re drinking tea like everyone else. Can you play chess?’
‘Chess?’
‘It’s better that we just look like we’re passing the time. We want to avoid attention, so try to sit quietly.’
Makana spotted a telephone in an alcove in the rear, next to the door that led to the washrooms. He wandered over and took note of the number, retrieving a chess set from a shelf beside the bar on his way back. He sat down and started setting out the pieces.
‘This is crazy,’ Nizari whispered. ‘That woman was dead.’
‘Consider yourself lucky not to be back there with her.’
‘You’re supposed to be helping me, protecting me!’
‘No,’ Makana corrected him. ‘I was asked to get you out of the country, and that’s what I’m trying to do. But if you make it hard for me I’m ready to leave you behind. Is that clear?’
Nizari stared at Makana with a look that could only have been described as disgust. Makana was beyond caring about hurting his feelings.
‘You asked for me, and here I am, but don’t push me.’
‘I need a cigarette,’ said Nizari.
Makana produced his packet of Samsun, which Ayman turned up his nose at. ‘I can’t smoke those things, can’t you get some Marlboros?’
Makana wasn’t inclined to run errands, but he had noticed a place across the street that sold telephone cards and cigarettes. It would give him a chance to take a look around without dragging the other man with him.
‘Stay here,’ he said. ‘And I mean it, don’t move from this table.’
He walked a block either way and decided there was nothing unusual or threatening, no familiar faces and nobody paying too much attention to him. At the shop he bought a packet of Marlboros and another international telephone card.
When he came back into the café he noticed a table of men by the door looking him over. Nodding a greeting, he returned to the table, where the tea had arrived. Nizari seized the cigarettes and tore off the cellophane wrapping. Makana took out the mobile phone Nadir Sulayman had given him and texted Boris asking him to call and giving him the number of the telephone in the café.
‘I need you to sit here while I make a phone call.’
‘Where?’
Makana nodded in the direction of the telephone on the wall. ‘I’ll be right here. Just smoke your cigarette and try to relax. Order something to eat.’
‘I just want to go home.’
Wherever home was. Makana had the sense that Nizari was unravelling. If he didn’t get him out soon, there was a chance there wouldn’t be much to salvage. And when he got through to him, Marcus Winslow was of the same opinion.
‘You’ll have to sit tight,’ the Englishman said. ‘Things are proving a little more complicated than I had anticipated.’
‘So what do you want me to do?’
‘Improvise. Find a place that’s safe and stay there until I can organise something. This thing with Marty Shaw has kicked up a lot of dust. People are asking questions.’
‘Is there a problem?’
‘Nothing you need to worry about,’ said Winslow curtly.
Somehow, this came as no surprise. Makana had been wondering what kind of an excuse Winslow would come up with. Right now, he was playing for time. He needed to keep the Englishman preoccupied. He surveyed the room, the doorway, people coming and going. ‘There’s another problem.’ Makana told him about Kara Deniz.
‘You think our friends from Tel Aviv killed her?’
‘I’m pretty sure of it.’
‘Tell me again who she was.’
‘She was a journalist.’ The image of Kara’s lifeless body resurfaced in his mind. Everything had gone so quickly, there had hardly been time to process what had happened. It made him angry that someone, somewhere, had decided she was a liability that needed to be removed. ‘She had a history of political activism. She didn’t deserve to die.’ As a eulogy, it didn’t amount to much. ‘She was a loose end.’
‘What does that mean?’ Winslow sounded exasperated.
‘It means that I think she’s the reason Nadir Sulayman was killed. She was an informant for the Israelis.’
‘You think that’s why they killed her?’
‘She investigated the ambulance crash and then buried the story. I think she’s been helping to cover up any sign of their operation. They may be more closely involved than we thought.’ Makana’s gaze was drawn to the table by the door. The group of young men there appeared to be dominated by an older man with a clipped pencil moustache and a receding hairline. ‘Unfortunately, they’re not the only ones.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘I met an old friend, someone I really didn’t expect to run into. Mek Nimr.’
‘I was afraid of that.’
‘He tells me you are working together.’
Winslow gave a tut of impatience. ‘He means in broad terms. The British government. They are useful allies. You know all this. The war on terror makes for strange bedfellows.’
‘Why is he here, Winslow? Just tell me that. What is Mek Nimr doing here?’
‘I wish I knew.’ Winslow was silent for a moment. ‘Look, this doesn’t change anything. I’ll make some calls. Can you ring me back?’
‘Things are a little chaotic right now. I’m not sure I can promise that.’
‘Did you get our man?’
Across the room Makana could see Nizari smoking one cigarette after the next.
‘I’m working on it.’
‘You’re working on it?’ Winslow echoed in disbelief. ‘We’re out of time and you’ve outstayed your welcome in Istanbul.’
‘Believe me, I’m more than ready to leave,’ said Makana.
‘Just find Nizari and I’ll get you out of there.’
‘I need to know,’ Makana said. ‘If we lose contact and I somehow make it to Sofia, will you be there for me?’
‘Listen to me, Makana. Don’t try anything by yourself. Do as I tell you. Find somewhere safe and wait for me to get you out. Look’ – Winslow sounded like a man struggling to keep his head above water – ‘I’m sorry things have turned out this way. It happens. The main thing is to keep your objective in sight.’
Talking to Winslow was like trying to read smoke signals. Makana still had no idea how far he could trust him. His instincts told him the only person he could rely on right now was himself. He rang off and made another call to Cairo, this time to Munir Abaza. The lawyer was surprised to hear from him. Even more so when he explained where he was calling from.
‘I may be in a bit of trouble.’
‘What kind of trouble?’
‘The kind that requires a lawyer with a lot of influence.’
‘How serious is it?’
‘Two murder charges, possibly three.’
‘You don’t need a lawyer,’ laughed Abaza. ‘You need a genie in a bottle.’
‘How hard would it be to get me extradited?’
‘To begin with, you’re not an Egyptian citizen. I suppose you qualify as a permanent resident, and of course a brother from our closest neighbour. I take it you’re not in custody yet?’
‘Not yet, but I have a feeling it’s just a matter of time.’
‘I must say, when you ask for the return of a favour you don’t hold back.’
‘I’m not there yet, this is just a precaution.’
‘I’m not making any promises, but I can make some calls.’
‘I suppose I can’t ask for more than that.’
‘No,’ said Munir Abaza, ‘I suppose you can’t.’
Makana watched as one of the men from the table by the door went over to ask Nizari for a light. It wasn’t a good sign. Someone was taking an interest in them. They might have to start moving sooner than planned. He hung up and was halfway across the room when the phone behind him rang. He turned in time to see the waiter make to pick it up. Makana intercepted him and smiled as he took the receiver from him.
‘Who is this?’ Boris snapped. There was music in the background. Not music exactly, more like some kind of underwater whale sounds. ‘Why are you contacting me like this?’
‘Our plans have changed,’ explained Makana. ‘We need to move quickly.’
‘How quickly?’
‘Tonight.’
‘That’s impossible.’
‘They got to Kara.’
‘Got to her how?’
‘She’s dead.’
‘Okay,’ said Boris. There was a long silence. ‘We can do this, but I need a few hours to set it up.’ Makana heard Boris speaking to someone in the room behind him.
The whale sounds cut out. ‘I don’t like the way this is going. Who would kill Kara?’
‘I have an idea,’ said Makana. ‘But if I’m right, these are not people you want to mess with.’
‘That’s for me to decide,’ said Boris. ‘She was a friend. I’m losing a lot of friends these days.’
‘These are professionals, Boris.’
‘And what do you think I am, a fucking amateur?’ Boris fell silent for a moment. ‘The car will be at the place we agreed. No names. Midnight.’
Makana ended the call and rejoined Nizari, who jumped as he sat down.
‘What’s happening? You can’t just leave me alone like that!’
Makana held up a hand to silence him. ‘It’s being arranged for tonight.’ Reaching for the cigarettes and lighter on the table, he lit one for himself. He was reminded of the fact that there were a lot of unanswered questions he would have liked to have put to Nizari. For now they would have to wait, but he realised that he didn’t trust the other man, not for a second. He nodded across the room:
‘Who’s your friend?’
‘He just wanted a light.’ Nizari was dismissive. His hands shook as he tried to light a cigarette for himself.
‘Maybe you should eat something,’ said Makana. ‘We might not get another chance.’
Nizari took quick puffs, the way a man underwater might suck air from a straw.
‘What about my money? Why do I get the feeling you’re not telling me everything?’
‘I might ask the same thing,’ replied Makana. He looked up as a figure stepped up to their table. It was the man with the receding hairline and the thin moustache pencilled in over his upper lip. He pulled up a chair without asking. He wore a tweed jacket with worn cuffs and a polo-neck sweater covered in what appeared to be cat’s hairs. Over his shoulder Makana could see the other men around the table by the door. Every set of eyes was on them, as were most others in the place. Their visitor seemed to command a lot of attention. He began in Turkish, but since he must have heard the two of them talking Makana assumed this was for show. He was getting the feeling they had stepped onto somebody’s home turf. This was their place of business, their office.
‘Tourists?’ asked the man, switching into English.
