by Parker Bilal
‘Me?’ She laughed. ‘No. I grew up far, far away in a land of make believe.’ She gave him a stern look. ‘You are asking questions as if this was an interrogation.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Don’t apologise. What progress have you made?’
‘Very little, I’m afraid. Karima seems to have led a simple life. Nobody has a bad word to say about her. Assuming it was not a random attack the only person with a possible motive has been living abroad for years. Why would he decide to kill his daughter now?’
‘There’s something you should know,’ Zahra said quietly. ‘Musab is no longer abroad. He’s here in Egypt.’
‘You know this for a fact?’
Zahra nodded her head, looking down. ‘I suppose I should have told you before, but I wasn’t sure I could trust you.’
‘Karima told you?’
‘She called me. She was very scared. She barely remembered who he was.’
‘What did he want from her?’
‘Money, and a place to hide. He was on the run.’ Zahra puffed nervously at her cigarette. ‘He turned up out of the blue with some wild story about being brought back by force and escaping.’
‘That makes no sense,’ said Makana. ‘Did you tell this to the police?’
‘The police?’ Zahra snorted and regarded him coolly from under her eyelashes. ‘And get myself into a thousand different kinds of trouble?’
They fell silent as the boy set down the coffee on a small round table in the front of the shop, intended to put potential buyers at their ease. The boy tapped his empty tray like a drum as he walked away. Zahra leaned forward.
‘Nobody is going to believe me when I tell them a man who is living in political exile in Europe turned up in the middle of the night to set fire to his daughter’s home with her in it.’ Zahra was still for a moment. ‘It seems so unfair. Why her? She never hurt anyone in the world.’ Her voice cracked and she buried her head in her hands. Makana sat in silence until she had finished crying. He waited as she dried her eyes.
‘Perhaps we should leave this to another time.’
‘No.’ She sniffed loudly and blew her nose on a tissue she produced from her bag. ‘There is no time. If you intend to catch him, you have to be quick.’
‘If what you are saying is true then we need to tell the police. They have the resources to find him.’
‘Don’t you see?’ Zahra stared at him. ‘How could someone like that, a man who is declared an enemy of the state, who lives abroad for years, involved in Allah knows what kind of activity, suddenly turn up in this country?’ She shook her head. ‘They know. They must do.’
‘You mean State Security?’
‘That’s why it is hopeless. The police are calling it suicide. Nothing will happen. You are wasting your time.’
She had a point. There was no denying the fact that if it was true, if Musab had returned to the country, and for the moment he only had her word for it, then it had to be with the co-operation of the State Security and Investigations Service of the Ministry of the Interior. The question was why? Why would Musab come back to a country where he was still an undesirable? Why would they want him back? He recalled the two men he had seen in the market. They had the look of State Security written all over them. Were they watching him already? Shrugging off the temptation to sink into paranoia, Makana addressed Zahra.
‘You said Musab had escaped. He needed help. He was on the run. Did Karima mention where he might be going?’
‘No.’ Zahra studied the tip of her cigarette as she flicked ash into the beaten copper bowl that served as an ashtray and then looked up at him. ‘How did you wind up doing this kind of work?’
The abrupt shift surprised him. ‘I was in the police. One thing led to another.’
‘You must have done other things,’ she laughed. ‘You were a child once, somebody’s son.’
And a husband and a father. Makana wasn’t used to talking about himself. It wasn’t something he felt comfortable with and he wasn’t good at hiding the fact. Also, they seemed to be veering away from the matter in hand.
‘You’re not going to find the answers you’re looking for here,’ she said, studying the coffee grounds in her cup.
‘What makes you say that?’
Zahra went on as if she hadn’t heard the question. She spoke in a vague tone, as if thinking to herself out loud. ‘These cases get all twisted up in time.’
‘Are you talking about something in the family’s past?’ Makana wasn’t sure he was following her. He shook another Cleopatra out of the pack.
‘There are things you can’t repair, no matter how hard you try.’ She looked up. ‘Why do I have the feeling you are driven by guilt?’
‘Guilt?’ asked Makana, lowering the unlit cigarette.
‘I’m sorry.’ She waved it aside. ‘Sometimes I speak out of turn.’ She reached for her coffee. ‘Anyway, I thought we were talking about you?’
‘There’s not much to talk about,’ he said, but then, for some inexplicable reason, he found himself talking. It felt as though a knot that was tied up inside him was becoming unravelled.
‘A long time ago I made a mistake. It cost the lives of the two people who were dearest to me in the world.’
‘I understand,’ she said. ‘You wish you could go back and change things, put them back how they were before.’
‘Yes.’
She fixed him with a firm look. ‘But you can’t. The past can’t be undone. It took me a long time to learn that no matter how hard we try there are things we cannot put right.’
Meeting her gaze had the disturbing effect of distracting his thoughts to such a degree that he seemed to have trouble following the conversation.
‘Is that what this is all about?’ he asked finally. ‘Something that cannot be undone?’
Zahra held his gaze for a moment and then she shrugged and reached for her headscarf which she began tying in place. ‘Isn’t it always like that? Trying to put right the past?’
Just then her friend returned, full of noise and energy. Makana had the feeling the whole meeting had been stage-managed with meticulous timing.
‘What will you do next?’ Zahra asked as they said their goodbyes.
‘The family are originally from Siwa. Did you think he would head there?’
‘Who knows what goes through the mind of a man like that?’ Then, putting a hand out, she rested it lightly on his arm and they stood that way for a moment, neither of them moving. ‘You must be careful,’ she said. ‘The past is not something to be tampered with easily.’
Makana felt the imprint of her touch on him all the way home.
Chapter Nine
It was around five when Makana arrived back at the awama, his mind in a state of unfamiliar turmoil, to find the telephone ringing. It was Sami Barakat.
‘When do you think you might decide to join the rest of us in the twenty-first century and get yourself a mobile telephone?’
‘I told you, I’m thinking about it.’
‘By the time you get around to it the world will have moved on. I’ve been trying to reach you all afternoon.’ He sounded as though he was calling from the bottom of a well. The screech of brakes and a voice over a tannoy told Makana he had to be in one of the city’s Metro stations.
‘Look, a contact inside the Interior Ministry called me.’ There was a long break and Makana thought he had lost the signal. It returned with the soft tooting of car horns announcing that Sami had emerged onto the street. ‘It seems there is suddenly a lot of interest in your friend Musab Khayr.’
‘What kind of interest?’
‘The war on terror. As President Bush put it, either you are with us or against us.’ Sami paused. Makana could hear him breathing. ‘I’m not sure how wise it is to be having a conversation like this on a mobile.’
‘I warned you about those things.’
‘Too late now, I suppose. The point is this. The CIA are running a program whereby they are
picking up possible suspects and shipping them to secret locations for interrogation.’
Makana picked up the telephone and trailed the long cable behind him as he stepped out onto the rear deck and stared across the river.
‘You’re saying he’s in this country.’
‘I hadn’t actually come to that bit,’ said Sami slowly. ‘But yes, it appears Musab was picked up four months ago and somehow he ended up here. How did you know he was here?’
‘He visited his daughter. Can they do that?’
‘Legally, this has no basis whatsoever, but this is war, Makana, there are no rules.’
‘So what is the purpose of this exercise?’
‘It means the gloves are off. It means torture in the name of freedom and democracy. We do the torture and they get the results without getting their hands dirty.’
‘What do they want from Musab?’
‘That I don’t know. But you said he had been involved with jihadist movements. Clearly they suspect him of some kind of terrorist-type activity.’
‘Have you been able to confirm this?’
‘Beyond my source at the ministry? No. Though there is a lot of traffic on the internet. Human Rights Watch and some of the other organisations are reporting that Musab was kidnapped and smuggled out of the country. Although he is actually in Egypt, he won’t appear on any records. Legally he has vanished without trace.’
‘Why did your friend at the ministry tell you all this?’
‘He’s scared, and with good reason. He thinks that eventually, when all this comes to light, someone is going to pay for breaking the law. The Americans will wash their hands of the whole business, but of course our noble leaders are happy to do their bidding no matter what the cost. Human rights groups are already lining up to make cases on this issue.’
Makana thought for a time. He lit a cigarette and looked out at the river, smoking in silence. Someone was having a party in one of the clubs on the Zamalek side. In the thickening dusk neon strips blinked as they struggled to come awake. The music was like a piercing electronic shriek. A tortured cry of pain from an obsolete piece of industrial machinery. The air juddered with the sound of amplifiers grinding out yet another crooner moaning about lost love. The instruments changed, but the sentiments remained the same.
‘Are you still there?’ Sami asked.
‘Even if what you say is true,’ Makana said, ‘how does that explain him being able to visit his daughter?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Sami. ‘Look, as you said, I’m not sure about the wisdom of discussing this on an open line. Maybe I can come over and show you some stories.’
‘Fine. I’m going out for an hour or so, but just wait for me.’
Night had fallen as Makana caught a taxi up on the main road which swung round and delivered him to the rather elegant old building by Heliopolis station where Ragab had his offices. Makana and Sindbad had followed Ragab to and from the place numerous times the previous week. Now it felt strange to be walking through the door. On the ninth floor a broad window revealed the city laid out below as a dark, glittering map. Ragab was expecting him. He came round the large desk to shake his hand. ‘I have informed my staff that you are working for me on a private matter, beyond that they know nothing. I would like to keep it that way.’
Makana nodded his agreement and Ragab indicated a plush leather chair for Makana to take as he went back to his own place behind the desk. The comfort made him feel like a lamb being pampered and fed, all in anticipation of the slaughter that was to come.
‘It seems that Musab may be back in the country.’
‘What?’ Ragab looked stunned. ‘But that’s impossible. You know this for certain?’
‘Somebody who talked to Karima before the fire said she had seen her father.’
Ragab slumped back in his big chair. ‘Well, I must say, that would explain a lot.’
‘Tell me a little more about Musab. You said he had become a devout Muslim in prison, that he had joined a certain jihadist group, and that it was his involvement with this group which led to his seeking asylum abroad.’
‘That is correct.’
‘You also described Musab as a delinquent, someone who was always looking for the easy way out. So which is it? The devoted fanatic, hell-bent on bringing down this regime, or the small-time criminal?’
‘Musab is the type of fellow who doesn’t really have much in the way of a conscience. As a young man he was involved in criminal activities. He associated with people who encouraged him that it was possible to get what you want in this world without too much hard work. He followed that line until it landed him in prison. I’m not even certain his conversion to Islam was sincere. He saw it as giving him a chance, and maybe I am reading too much into it, but I think he saw himself as a bit of a hero, a martyr even.’
‘Was he actually involved in activities against the government?’
‘Oh, yes. Nagat came to me shortly after he was released. She was worried about his behaviour. He made no attempt to find work, but spent all his time at the mosque or attending secret meetings about which she knew nothing. She was afraid. Remember, this was nineteen eighty-nine, at the height of the troubles in this country with militants. The police could knock down the door in the middle of the night and shoot everyone, justifying it with the claim that armed radicals were hiding there.’
Makana remembered the time in question as being a difficult one. When he first arrived in this country, two years later, he had found himself in the curious position of being suspected of harbouring sympathies for the radicals. The irony being that he had fled to this country to escape precisely the same thing: militant Islamism.
‘Can you be more specific about what he was actually doing?’
Ragab spoke with the confident air of a man who was comfortable with his position. He regarded Makana with an amused, somewhat condescending look. He cast around the room as if looking for something that wasn’t there. ‘The usual. Circulating leaflets, recruiting new members, attending meetings, that kind of thing. Then he went away, as I told you.’
‘You said you weren’t sure where he went exactly.’
‘No. But I believe it must have been some kind of training camp, with the idea of returning here to fight against the government.’
‘But you must have believed he was innocent of being involved in that assassination plot?’
Ragab lifted his chin. ‘Musab is a country boy at heart and in that sense rather naive. I believe someone took advantage of his credulity. He was asked to hold certain documents for safe keeping. I argued that he was unaware of their content and that his life was in danger.’ The lawyer allowed himself a smile of satisfaction. ‘It took some doing, but in the end I managed to convince him that it was best for everybody, that this way he had a chance to start a new life.’ Ragab folded his hands together on top of the desk. ‘In the beginning he made only the slightest effort to stay in touch, but eventually even that died away.’
‘And you’ve had no contact with him since?’
‘No.’ Ragab frowned. ‘I don’t understand how he could be back in the country. It makes no sense.’
‘How much do you know of Musab’s activities after he left here?’
‘Nothing really. He was thousands of kilometres away. I have no idea of his new life. What will you do next?’
‘If Musab is looking for somewhere quiet to lay low then it would make sense to get out of Cairo. I think I might go to Siwa and talk to some of his old contacts.’
‘But why not take this to the police? Surely if someone like that is on the run State Security will be involved?’
‘If I am right about this, I don’t think they will even admit he is in the country.’
‘Very well, do it your way. Go to Siwa, take your time, do whatever you have to do. I want to know who killed Karima and why. And Makana, let me know how you are progressing.’
Makana promised he would do his best.
Sami wa
s busy installing himself at the desk on the top deck when Makana arrived back at the awama. He had unplugged the telephone and connected the slim portable computer he had brought to the wall socket.
‘What am I looking at?’ Makana asked, leaning over his shoulder.
‘These are reports I came across online, all of them talking about the same thing. Extraordinary Rendition. That’s what they call it when the state kidnaps people in broad daylight and spirits them away, no one knows where. There are logs of unregistered flights being given clearance through third countries, such as Spain.’
‘What is the purpose of all this?’
‘Some of them are being held at secret locations, so-called Black Sites. No one knows exactly where. Effectively they just vanish off the map.’
Makana stared at the list of names being scrolled down the page.
‘Who are these people?’
‘Suspects. Usually Arabs, Muslims. People they think might have some connection to a terrorist organisation, which nowadays includes just about anyone with a funny name. It also means they have no concrete evidence, certainly nothing that could be held up in court.’
‘So these people are kidnapped and tortured in the hope they will confess all?’
‘Exactly. I don’t think we have fully grasped the degree of paranoia that followed the 9/11 attacks. What they are doing is creating a whole series of laws that deprive normal citizens of their basic human rights, and no one is protesting.’
‘You’re wasted here,’ Makana said. ‘You ought to be lecturing the Americans.’
‘It would take a decade and by then,’ Sami shrugged, ‘who knows where we’ll be?’
‘So why is Musab in this group?’
‘Well, it could all be coincidence. Something as simple as sharing the name of someone who is or was involved in terrorist activity. Or he could have donated money to a particular charity that has links to a terror cell. It could be any number of things.’
‘So these people haven’t necessarily done anything wrong?’
‘Most of them haven’t done anything. The net is being thrown wide with little regard for the law or consequences. Effectively, what this is saying is if you are a Muslim you have to prove your innocence. There is an assumption of guilt.’
