by Parker Bilal
‘Open up, Makana!’
Makana glanced at his watch. The ever eager Sharqi had arrived earlier than agreed, which Makana now realised he should have taken into his calculations when making his plans. He considered his options. He was locked in a room with a dead man and he was holding the murder weapon. Leaving by any route other than the door was going to be difficult considering this was the twelfth floor. He went over to the window and considered the long drop. Death no longer held the same appeal it once had, now that he knew Nasra might be alive.
‘What are you playing at Makana? Open the door before we break it down!’
It wouldn’t take long, he knew, for Sharqi to get hold of a pass key or decide to simply forget about the expense and give his men the satisfaction of kicking the door in. Makana wasn’t sure how far he could trust Sharqi, but he guessed that expecting him to forgive the murder of his prime source of information was probably too much to ask. Their agreement was that Sharqi would get Assani and Damazeen, after Makana had a chance to talk to Damazeen in private, maybe offer him some clemency in return for Nasra’s whereabouts. He looked down at the gun in his hand. Escape seemed out of the question.
Out of the corner of his eye a movement made him look left as a man floated up before him through the air. A miracle, or was his mind playing tricks? The windows facing him looked out over the river and were covered by balconies. The window to the left in the dining area was flat. The face on the other side of this window was one he had seen before. Not exactly pretty, nor what you might expect of an angel or performer of miracles. The last time he had seen this particular face had been in the alleyway behind Yunis’ house of birds. Before that it had been riding a motorcycle with a television set strapped behind him. Slightly overweight, his flabby features blurred by grey stubble, the man came to a halt when he was level with the room. Makana went over and opened the window.
‘There isn’t much time,’ the man said calmly. He held out a hand. Tucking the gun into the small of his back, Makana climbed out. The platform started to rise.
‘Sorry about last time,’ said the man apologetically, as he pulled the window closed.
‘Never mind,’ said Makana, peering down at the ground and thinking it looked a long way.
‘They use these things for cleaning the glass.’
The electric winch whined as it lifted them slowly. High above a metal arm jutted off the roof over which the cables ran. A rubber wheel on either side squeaked along against the side of the building as they rose. Without warning it came to an abrupt stop and for a few moments they hung there, suspended in the air. The man sniffed and fiddled with the buttons on the control panel. Neither of them said anything. Then there was a click and the maintenance platform began to rise again. A couple of floors up the man pulled another lever and they began to move sideways. There was a good deal of swaying as the platform changed direction. In a few moments, however, they had reached the corner of the building. The man pulled a lever back for them to descend and they soon came to a halt outside another window. The man lifted the safety bar and gestured for Makana to step inside. Then he disappeared upwards again towards the roof. Makana pushed through the billowing net curtains into the room to find the slim figure of Zayed Zafrani waiting for him.
‘So, Mr Makana, we meet again,’ he said, holding out his hand.
‘So it appears.’
‘I believe you have something for me?’
‘If you mean diamonds, I am afraid that Assani took them with him.’
‘Ah,’ Zafrani took the loss of two million dollars with a philosophical shrug. ‘That is unfortunate. This means that they are in the hands of Mr Sharqi and his boss, Colonel Serrag.’
‘It looks that way.’
‘Well, that can’t be helped.’ Zafrani gestured towards the room. ‘Please, make yourself comfortable. I suggest we wait an hour or so for the excitement to settle down before attempting to leave the hotel. Can I offer you tea?’
‘Tea would be nice.’
‘And Mr Damazeen?’
‘I’m afraid he won’t be joining us.’
Zayed nodded as if he expected this. ‘Mr Damazeen was playing a dangerous game. What I don’t understand is that you were prepared to take such a risk. What was there in it for you?’
‘I was trying to get my life back.’
‘Ah,’ Zayed Zafrani frowned and then smiled as if this was the kind of answer he expected.
Makana felt sick. He felt as though a cold door had been shut in his face and Nasra had once more been condemned to the grave.
‘There is a matter we still haven’t settled yet,’ Makana said, bringing himself back to the present. ‘The details of the Eastern Star story are going to have to come out after all this.’
Zayed Zafrani tilted his head to one side. ‘Perhaps there is a way in which they could emphasize the role played by Sheikh Waheed?’
‘Would you be satisfied with that?’
‘It would be a sacrifice,’ said Zayed Zafrani, ‘but it would be something.’
By the time he got back to the awama it was after sunset. His mind was in turmoil, preoccupied with all that had happened, and with what had not. Distracted, he did not register the fact that as he came down the path Umm Ali’s little shack was silent and dark. It was only as he came aboard that he realised something was amiss. As he reached the foot of the stairs a voice spoke out of the shadows behind him:
‘A man could get tired of waiting for you.’
Makana had half-turned before the blow hit him.
Chapter Forty-One
Makana came to as the smell of kerosene hit him. It made him feel nauseous. It was everywhere, all around him, on his clothes, on his skin. He was drowning in the stuff. When he tried to open his eyes he felt them sting. Where was he? It felt like a bad dream. Fuzzy spiders crawled around inside his head. He knew this place, but somehow he didn’t. A moment later he realised he was at home, on the upper deck, in his favourite chair. A sinking feeling told him this was not a dream. He managed to lift his head. There was a ringing pain over his right ear. Someone had hit him. He remembered now. His clothes were wet. He shook his head to clear it and looked around him. When he tried to move he discovered that his hands were tied to the arms of the wicker chair. There was kerosene sloshing about. He turned his head as a large, yellow plastic jerrycan appeared, dousing everything in sight. A face loomed into view.
‘Just in time,’ said Yousef, setting down the jerrycan.
‘What are you doing?’ Makana didn’t recognise his own voice.
Yousef clicked his tongue. ‘You disappoint me, you know. We could have been such a good team. Do you ever ask yourself what the point is, of what you are doing?’
‘What I am doing?’ Makana followed his eyes across the deck to the bed pushed against the wall. Rania lay there, her hands and feet tied, a gag covering her mouth. Her eyes were wide with fear. ‘All of this just to protect Sheikh Waheed?’
‘Waheed? Waheed is a fool,’ Yousef said. ‘I don’t care about him. You see, that’s the problem. You’re always trying to look beneath the surface. Waheed is a clown. What do I care? No, this is about me. That’s the way it should always be, right? It could have been about you, too. But then . . .’
‘You killed Meera.’
‘Rocky killed Meera. It was necessary. If you don’t understand why then you are stupider than I thought. People have a right to protect their investments, don’t you think?’ Yousef squatted in front of Makana.
‘You and Rocky?’
‘I came across him in my time in the Military Police. I was ordered to arrest him for beating a conscript half to death. I realised that someone like that could be very useful, if directed in the right way. Rocky was an animal. I made sure he got off the charges and he was very grateful. Of course in time he got out of hand. People like that always do. No control.’ Yousef bounced to his feet again and carried on splashing kerosene about. ‘To tell the truth, it’s a relief he’s
gone. Rocky was a liability. And how do you get rid of someone like that?’
‘Meera found out what you were up to, moving money through the Blue Ibis accounts. Nobody noticed because the books were in such a mess, not even Faragalla.’
‘Faragalla’s an idiot. I mean, why take on a woman like that? Women who think they know something, they’re the worst. Like this one.’ He went over and stroked Rania’s thigh. She squealed and tried to turn away, which only seemed to increase Yousef’s enjoyment. ‘Women should know their place. In the kitchen . . . or in the bedroom.’ He caressed her again, taking his time now. ‘Think of how far that would go to solving the world’s problems.’
‘Let her go, Yousef. She’s no threat to you.’
‘There, you see, that’s where you’re wrong.’ Yousef came back over. ‘She is very much a threat, maybe even more than you. She has the facts. I thought we were finished with all that when Hikmet went out of that window, but no. She had to come along and find his other computer. Who would have that?’ Yousef kicked an object lying on the floor. ‘Well that’s all taken care of now. By the time we’ve finished here it won’t be any use to anyone.’
‘Why are you doing all this? For a group of army officers who are making themselves rich. You think they care about you?’
‘You see that’s where you’re wrong.’ Yousef had a distant look in his eye. ‘These people, Waheed, Serhan, all the other big fish up there, they know they would be nothing without me. Nothing. I make them and I can bring them down any time I want.’
‘They could find someone to replace you in an instant.’
‘No, you’re wrong. It’s about commitment. Just like in the military. You have to be prepared to make sacrifices. That’s what people respect. This country is made by people like me. No one can claim to love Egypt more than I do. These kids don’t understand. Can you imagine what would happen if we handed the place over to them?’
Yousef stood off to one side, looking out, his face in the shadows, lit only in part by the white glow from the buildings across the river.
‘The little men. Where do you think all those politicians and businessmen would be without us? Even the president. They all depend on people like me to make things happen.’
‘They use you because you are expendable,’ said Makana, suddenly weary of this raving lunatic. ‘Even the Zafrani brothers. They were already onto you. How much longer did you think it would last?’
Yousef snorted his derision. ‘I can’t expect someone like you to understand. Like I said, you and I could have made a great team. Maalish, you’ll have to excuse me now, I have work to do.’
With that he picked up the jerrycan and disappeared down the stairs. The awama was as dry as a tinderbox. It wouldn’t take much to set it alight. But Yousef obviously wasn’t taking any chances. Makana wrestled with his bindings but Yousef had done a good job. He thought about smashing the chair, but although it was old he had the feeling it would still take a lot of punishment before it gave way. He looked over at Rania, who was watching him with a look of terror in her eyes. Her hands were tied behind her back, but perhaps she could untie his knots.
‘Try to sit up,’ he said. Then he managed to lift himself and shuffle forwards. His feet were untied. He made it in about ten moves, sliding the chair across the deck, trying to make as little noise as possible. By now Rania had managed to turn over on the bed. She twisted until she had her back to him and was almost sitting up, her shoulder against the bedstead. It didn’t look like much, but at least she could move her fingers.
It didn’t take long to discover that it wasn’t going to work. The knots were too tight and Rania couldn’t get a proper grip. She tried and tried and then with a cry of frustration she fell back. In her eyes he read resignation; the realisation that death was inevitable. Makana could hear Yousef down below, moving around the lower deck, splashing fuel over everything.
Then a glint of light caught his eye and looking towards the gangway he saw a figure crouched there in the half shadow. Aziza. The little girl looked around the room carefully and then stepped boldly up and came slowly towards him. In her hand was a nasty-looking curved knife that Umm Ali and her able children used for slicing the stems off artichokes, freeing aubergines from the earth. A general all-purpose tool. It had a rough wooden hilt wrapped tightly with grubby cloth and a blade that was sharpened on a stone. Aziza, despite her young age, handled it like a professional but it still seemed to take ages for her to slice through the ropes holding Makana’s left wrist. When it was done he took the knife from her and cut his other hand free, then he released Rania.
‘Wait here,’ he said. ‘Don’t forget the computer.’ He took the knife and slipped off his shoes, then went down the metal steps as quietly as possible. At the bottom he waved them both down and pointed towards the gangway. He waited until they were ashore. He still had the knife, but there was nothing to indicate where Yousef was. Then he heard a sound that stopped his heart in mid-beat – the faint rasp of a lighter. It came from the stern of the boat. He leaned around the side and saw the figure standing close to the railings at the far end. Yousef’s face was briefly illuminated by the glow from one of his cigarettes. A few puffs and then he would casually toss it aside as he stepped ashore to watch the whole thing burn. There wasn’t time to think and no way of separating Yousef from the glowing end of his cigarette. So Makana charged, gaining speed with every step. Yousef had time to look up, his face registering surprise as the curved knife buried itself in his shoulder and Makana thudded into him. There was a whoosh and Makana recalled that his clothes were doused in kerosene. He felt the heat flare up around his face, enveloping him in blue flame, but by then his momentum had propelled both of them over the railing and into the water.
The river was a great muddy fish that reached up to swallow them whole. He felt Yousef wriggling in his arms, sinewy and strong, like a powerful reptile that he couldn’t contain. A cold current seemed to suck both of them deeper and deeper until finally Makana knew he was going to drown. He was no longer fighting to contain Yousef, but to break free of him. The water was cold, far colder than he had imagined. Beneath the calm surface of the river he knew there were turbulences, stirrings, undercurrents that could whip even a strong swimmer down. Miraculously, Yousef’s grip loosened. One arm disabled, he was flailing about like a man who could not swim. Makana felt the creature release its hold and he began to rise just as Yousef was drawn further into darkness. He kicked and clawed his way towards the surface.
Chapter Forty-Two
Aswani’s was strangely deserted at that hour. They had the place almost to themselves. Okasha arrived late, huffing and puffing, blinking at the odd assortment of strangers gathered around the table wondering who all these people were. In deference to the presence of a lady, Aswani had produced a plastic tablecloth from somewhere. It was red with cartoon drawings of yellow ducks and green puppy dogs. Where he had kept it hidden all these years, Makana could not imagine, let alone why. The cook himself was busy at work behind the counter yelling orders as his assistants ran back and forth to do his bidding.
‘At least they have television now,’ Talal said, nodding at the set up on the wall. Makana followed his gaze. A set had indeed been perched rather precariously on a lopsided shelf high on one of the pillars. It looked as though it might fall at any minute.
‘It won’t last,’ Makana said. Although it wasn’t much of an improvement, he wasn’t sure he was right. Talal made no attempt to reply. He seemed subdued. No doubt still mourning the loss of his love. In time, perhaps, he would see that he had been lucky to get out of Bunny’s clutches in one piece. Makana still hadn’t really said anything to him about Damazeen, but that loss too must clearly have been weighing on the young man’s mind. Before they sat down, Makana took him aside. He reached into his pocket and produced the diamond that Damazeen had been clutching in his hand when he died.
‘I can give you the name of someone reliable who will buy it off you at
a fair price. That should cover a year in Vienna.’
‘Yes, but—’
‘Don’t ask,’ Makana said. ‘Damazeen would want you to have it.’
After that they all sat down. Sami sent his regards. He was holding a pen this morning, Rania reported, and was busy working on their story. It would appear under joint names, and would no doubt create a small tidal wave of scandal, engulfing numerous people including Sheikh Waheed. Okasha was more than happy with the way things had turned out. He had closed the case of the murders in Imbaba, managing to show up the much more high-profile counter-terrorism unit. He seemed to think his chances of promotion were greatly improved, he said, as he gave them the closing details:
‘Eissa, the boy in the café, confessed once he was told Rocky was dead. He was the one who drove the motorcycle. He broke his arm when it crashed.’
‘They had tunnelled through the wall, where they kept their stolen goods,’ Makana explained. ‘That’s how he slipped out when the shooting started. But he was fond of Meera.’
‘And terrified of Rocky,’ Okasha agreed. ‘I had the feeling he was just waiting for someone to ask. He felt bad about what he had done.’
‘How sad,’ said Rania.
‘Ahh!’ sighed Sindbad, the last member of their curious little party, at the sight of Aswani’s assistants making their way across the room with large trays of food. Makana wondered at the wisdom of taking a man like this to a restaurant. He could probably eat the entire contents of the kitchen single-handedly. A silence fell over the table as everyone turned their attention to the business of eating. Plates kept coming. Ful mudames, fried kidneys, grilled sausages and eggs and tomatoes, with kebab and roasted lamb to come.
‘You’re spoiling us,’ Makana said to Aswani who oversaw the operation like a general surveying a battlefield.
