by Parker Bilal
‘You call this an investigation? I’d be better off with a reader of coffee grounds.’
The fourth match finally consented to erupt into grudging flame. Gratefully, Makana drew deeply on the smoke. Okasha was waiting.
‘Why do I always get the feeling you’re not telling me everything?’
‘They may be policemen. The couple I told you about, from Giza.’
‘I don’t want to hear about this. You want to help me find out who killed that boy, then fine, but don’t give me your paranoid stories about police officers being involved.’
‘I didn’t think you’d like it.’
‘I don’t like it and here’s why: I deal in facts. Hard evidence. Remember that? You’re losing your grip. You can’t go round accusing people on the basis of the mumblings of a dying man,’ Okasha spluttered. ‘Cartoon characters, indeed!’
He was already heading for the door. ‘I’ll get some people in here to take a look around properly, for the good judge’s sake, but my feeling is we’re wasting our time. There’s nothing to find here. What’s your next move?’
‘Finding the girl,’ said Makana. ‘She can’t have gone far and she’s the only one who might be able to tell us what happened.’
‘Let me know when you’ve got something solid. I don’t want to get the judge’s hopes up for nothing.’
Makana remained where he was for a moment. He was turning over the matchbook in his hand. The word Sothis and a badly printed star adorned the cover. He slipped it into his pocket.
Chapter Twenty-nine
The sun was a cold grey glare, the sky overcast and dull. A loudspeaker floated by out of sight along the road above the embankment, its amplified screech announcing something in electronic garble that might just possibly have been Chinese. Whatever they were advertising, a political candidate or a new type of washing powder, it remained a mystery that eventually lost itself in the hum of the city. A motor launch puttered by, the occupants gazing up at Makana through their sunglasses with the wide-eyed curiosity of visitors to an exotic zoo.
News of another suicide bombing in Baghdad filled the papers. They had become a reliable fixture, recurring every few days, as regular as clockwork. The details varied but the outcome was the same. The photographs all blurred into one. Number of casualties. Time and location. Bleak images of charred vehicles and pools of blood. The stunned faces of the victims. The fury of others. This seemed to have been a particularly good year for suicide bombers. Musab al-Zarqawi was everyone’s favourite terrorist. He posed with weapons like a modern-day Al Capone, aping it up for the cameras. If he didn’t exist you’d have to invent him.
Each explosion triggered further speculation from columnists and assorted observers. Could there not have been a way to remove the mad tyrant without sparking this firestorm? In the face of violence such questions sounded redundant, as though going over the same old ground. Nobody believed the invasion had anything to do with helping the Iraqi people rather than seizing the country’s assets. History was repeating itself. The Western powers were busy redrawing the map of the region, just as they had done a hundred years ago. A new report had been published by the Americans announcing they had a new strategy for victory. Tell that to tomorrow’s victims.
Makana tossed the papers aside. Life was depressing enough without the horror stories. The only thing he knew for certain was that he wouldn’t find any answers in there. He took his second cup of coffee out onto the open deck and lit his first cigarette of the day. That made him feel marginally better. The air seemed fractionally warmer out here. On the table was the laptop he had taken from Ihab’s flat. Alongside it the matchbook. He studied the symbol of Sothis on the cover. It made him reach for his phone. Sami was not answering, which could have meant that he was lying drunk somewhere, or that he had fallen under a bus. Makana finished his coffee and made a couple of other phone calls. Firstly to Sindbad, to make sure he was clear that he was to spend the day retracing Fadihah’s tracks.
‘Just go wherever you went yesterday. We need to try and find her before they do.’ Then he tried Sahar Hafiz in the hope she might have had some luck in tracking down Fadihah, but she had nothing to report. Finally, he called the forensics lab to find out if any progress had been made on matching the body parts found at the palace, only to be told that Doctora Siham had not arrived yet. It seemed a little early to call her private number, so he decided to wait. All in all it was a fruitless start to the day. Things could only get better, he thought, as he wandered up the path to the road. But then again, maybe not.
The Hesira Institute was a modern building with a spectacular view. Modest beside the rather more glamorous Méridien Hotel that rose up next door, but equally remarkable, in a way that made you wonder where the financial backing came from. The obligatory fountain formed the centrepiece of a circular driveway, this time adorned by a rather grand statue of a pharaonic figure holding a staff and gourd. Modern artwork always made you wonder why anyone bothered. This one at least served a purpose by representing the institute’s namesake in red granite. Behind Hesira, ancient god of medical matters, stood the entrance to the building. Glass doors slid smoothly aside at his approach. Inside, the lobby was cool and wide, adorned with white marble pillars so bright that it made his eyes hurt. The floor too was white. Another, smaller fountain was lost somewhere out there in the expanse of marble. On either side, seating areas were furnished with discreet, elongated low sofas arranged around one another like compact little mazes. The air was infused with soft music coming from nowhere obvious, while on one wall a large television screen played out rolling repeats of world disasters like a hit parade that never ends. Furious crowds bearing the shrouded dead on their shoulders chanted of the greatness of God, as if imploring Allah to make sense of their tragedy. A warning, perhaps, to never leave this sanctuary of well-being.
The reception desk was circular. Makana was beginning to detect an architectural theme. Circles within squares. Perhaps it was meant to draw some obscure geometric link with the pyramids clearly visible through the windows, dominating the skyline like two dirty brown teeth sticking out of the sand.
‘Do you have an appointment, sir?’
‘Not exactly.’
It wasn’t the kind of answer the woman behind the desk was expecting. She wore the frown of a sceptic to whom wrong answers were not an option. In Makana she saw anarchy, chaos, horses running wild in the street. Behind her, a managerial type in a beige shirt and a poorly knotted tie pricked up his ears. He looked Makana over with an expression of concern. Makana had assumed that asking for Reverend Corbis, or his sister, would at least get him through the door. At this rate he wasn’t even going to get that far. Perhaps he should have waited, as promised, for Jehan to come with him. She at least knew Ihsan Qaddus.
‘Do you or do you not have an appointment, sir?’
‘I know she’s very busy. Perhaps she has forgotten.’ Makana’s smile barely grazed the receptionist’s armour, let alone left a dent in it. Her glance at the managerial type seemed to trigger some male impulse to take control. He stepped in.
‘You say you have an appointment with Doctor Corbis?’ The way he put it, it sounded as plausible as a dinner date with Kheops himself.
‘There she is.’ The receptionist waved, her desk suddenly a life raft lost at sea. Across the lobby a small, compact figure wearing a white lab coat stood waiting for a lift. Makana decided to wait no longer. By the time they called security he would at least have made contact.
‘Doctor Corbis, Liz?’
In the bright light of that brilliant white stone she appeared pale and vulnerable. On previous occasions he had always seen her in the afternoons and evenings at the church. Now she seemed more out of place. The sunlight made her squint, and despite the air conditioning bright beads of perspiration dotted her upper lip.
‘I thought I would take you up on your invitation.’
‘Yes, of course.’ For a second she seemed to have forgotten
who he was or what he was talking about. ‘I’m sorry, my mind was elsewhere.’
‘It is I who should apologise. I just happened to be in the area and I thought . . .’
‘It’s quite all right, you know. No apologies necessary.’ She smiled and for a moment seemed almost glad to see him.
‘This is quite an operation,’ said Makana, looking around. ‘I didn’t realise.’
‘Oh, yes, it is, isn’t it?’ They stood for a moment side by side, staring at the lobby and the fountain, then she said, ‘Look, I have a bit of time. Why don’t I show you around now?’
‘If it’s not too much trouble?’
‘No trouble at all.’ A glance back at the reception desk told him they had decided to leave him alone and go back to their routine as if nothing had happened, which was fine by him.
The lift pinged open and they stepped inside to stand facing one another. Liz Corbis stared at the numbers lighting up overhead, hands in the pockets of her white coat. She was smaller than he had previously noticed and wore sensible flat-soled shoes that were elevated to give her added height. She wore no make-up and no jewellery, apart from a slim gold chain around her neck that carried a cross on the end of it.
Each floor was named after a deity. Alongside the elevators on the ground floor images of Hesira, complete with staff and medicine pouch, went marching along the wall. The first floor was dedicated to Osiris, and housed administrative offices along with consultation rooms. The second and third floors, Maat and Thoth, were taken up by guest suites. The corridors were alive with colour and motion. Painted murals depicted images taken from funerary tombs. Winged scarabs, flying ibis and yawning crocodiles fought for space beside gods and goddesses. A red sun floated by on a curved raft. There were owls, jackals and hieroglyphics, all amid an astonishing array of stars and plant life.
One symbol in particular seemed to appear more frequently than others.
‘The scarab beetle symbolises the god Khephri, who pushes the sun across the sky.’
‘Rebirth.’
‘Yes, exactly. The sun dies every night and is reborn at dawn.’
‘Is that why they come here, the patients, I mean, to be reborn?’
‘In a way, I suppose you could say that. People often come here as a last resort. They know they are going to die. Western medicine has nothing to offer them other than painkillers, palliative care.’ She took a deep breath. ‘We give them hope.’
They were standing by a wide window that looked down over the interior compound. It extended behind the main building. A wide terrace and steps led down towards a garden area surrounded by high tamarind bushes. Hidden in there, she explained, were a gym, tennis courts, water-therapy rooms, steam baths, as well as a restaurant, cafeteria, swimming pool and poolside bar. It became clear that the Hesira Institute catered largely to an ageing, if not elderly, clientele. Makana spotted a rare exception in the form of a young girl of no more than eleven, accompanied by an attentive mother and a nursing assistant.
‘Cancer of the liver,’ said Liz Corbis, following his line of sight. ‘Tragic to see in one so young.’
‘Does she stand a chance?’
‘To be honest, a liver transplant is her only hope.’
‘Is that likely to happen?’
Liz Corbis smiled. ‘Do you have children?’
‘A daughter.’ Makana didn’t feel that this was the moment to go into details. In his mind Nasra was still alive, somewhere, and one day he would find her. He had no evidence for this, no real reason to believe it was true. Absurd, perhaps, but what was more absurd, and true, about the human condition than a belief in the impossible?
‘Then you understand that a parent will do anything, make any sacrifice to save their child.’
It sounded as though she was trying to tell him something. He waited for her to continue, but instead she moved on and he was obliged to follow. He was put in mind of Mustafa Alwan’s sickly son. What sacrifice had he been prepared to make for his boy?
‘People naturally want their children to have a good life.’
Liz Corbis nodded her agreement. ‘I like to think that is what we do here, we make possibilities, we allow people to give their offspring a better life than they have. Hope, opportunities, isn’t that what it’s all about?’
‘And all of this is somehow thanks to Doctor Qaddus.’
She smiled. ‘He is something of a miracle worker.’ Praising the institute’s director made her face slightly flushed. ‘He gives people hope, offers them life where before there was only the prospect of a slow and painful death.’
‘Sounds like quite a character.’
‘Oh, he is. Perhaps you’d like to meet him?’
‘I’m sure he’s a very busy man.’ Makana was curious about where Ancient Egyptian medicine and Christian benevolence intersected. ‘How does this connect with the work you and your brother are doing?’
‘Well, it works both ways. That’s the beauty of it. We give people here a chance at a new life in America.’
‘And to the Westerners who come here, what do you offer them?’
‘Mostly we can bring comfort to people who are dying.’ She nodded towards the window. ‘They come here to spend their last days close to the pyramids. A great deal of research is being done into the impact of positive thinking in treating terminal cases of cancer.’
‘And prayer helps that?’
‘You sound sceptical. Spiritual comfort can be a great thing to a person facing death.’
Makana was in no doubt that she was right. What would bring him comfort when the time came, he wondered.
‘So how does this actually work? I’m not sure I understand.’
‘Instead of drugs, here they get a connection to the ancient world, to the idea of immortality which is at the heart of the old civilisation. If we think of this life as but a stage in a cycle, it can be comforting.’
‘Even if not exactly true?’
She gave him a wry look. ‘You pretend to be a cynic, but here you are in pursuit of young people who have nobody else to believe in them. Admit it, you’re as much a believer in miracles as anyone.’
Maybe she had a point, Makana conceded. ‘What happens to them when they die? Do you build them a small pyramid?’
That produced a laugh. Liz Corbis wasn’t much given to laughing. It brought out a girlish impulse in her and she covered her mouth with her hand.
‘Most of them have enough time to get home before the end.’
‘Must be expensive, flying bodies back.’
‘Ashes.’ She pointed to a slim chimney at the far end. ‘The clinic has its own crematorium, or had. At the moment it’s undergoing repairs.’
‘I didn’t know cremation was permitted in this country.’
‘It isn’t, strictly speaking. It can only be used by foreigners.’ She seemed suddenly aware that she was talking too much, or perhaps it was Makana’s proximity that was making her uncomfortable. She stepped back and wheeled towards the lift area, striding away forcefully. ‘Perhaps we should move on? You must see the view from upstairs. It’s quite unique.’
On the top floor they were greeted by an image of a winged scarab facing the lift doors. This was where their miracle patients were recuperating.
‘They need silence and rest,’ Liz Corbis explained as she led the way to the south side of the building. A continuous window stretched all the way along it.
‘This is the panorama. It gets people every time.’ The smile was back, but it had less warmth to it. The view was as idyllic as you could hope for, so long as you kept your eyes on the horizon and ignored the stream of vehicles flowing by on the dual carriageway that ran in front of the building. Beyond, the bleached, dusty landscape was broken by the iconic shapes. The pyramids were too geometrically perfect to be anything nature had intended. It was an odd juxtaposition, the ancient lending the modern transience.
‘Now, tell me again,’ she said, thrusting her hands into her coat pockets, suddenl
y businesslike and eager to get on with her life. ‘How was it we could help you?’
‘Well, I was hoping to have a look at the records for your Homehavens Project.’
‘As I’ve told you, I’m afraid our records are strictly confidential. We can’t give out the personal details of our charges.’
‘I can understand that, and I can’t ask you to do something that would put any of your charges at risk, but I believe this girl may be in some danger. You could help me to find her before anything happens to her.’
Liz Corbis drew a long, slow breath. Her eyes studied Makana for a moment as if to decide whether she could trust him, but there was something more there. Liz Corbis was a woman with few friends. Here she was in the middle of a foreign country with the thankless task of saving lives. Unmarried. No mention of a husband and no sign of a wedding band on her finger. Above all, she wanted to help. That was why she had come here in the first place.
‘I can’t promise anything, but maybe we can simply confirm or deny that this girl was on our programme?’
‘That sounds like something at least.’
‘We should go down and see Preston.’
As they stepped into the lift, Makana pointed to the image next to the lower subterranean level. A large black jackal with long ears and a fierce stare.
‘We haven’t seen this one.’
‘The Anubis Ward.’ Liz Corbis shook her head briskly. ‘God of the underworld. There’s nothing much to see, I’m afraid. The mortuary. Less used than you might think.’
They found Reverend Preston Corbis outside by the pool. Stretched out on a recliner under a straw parasol, he was sipping a long, cool drink that was pink in colour and adorned with a paper umbrella and a straw. In the pool itself a frail woman in her eighties wearing a sunhat was being floated through the water by a muscular attendant. It wasn’t clear what this type of therapy was good for, but the patient seemed to be enjoying herself, emitting faint giggles at regular intervals. Her Egyptian consort gave Makana the knowing look of a fellow conspirator.
