The Burning Gates

by Parker Bilal

  Makana turned his back while Kasabian’s former assistant bent to the combination lock. A few moments later there was a click, and the heavy door swung open to reveal a series of drawers. Using a key that hung on a chain around his neck, Jules unlocked one of these and opened it to slide out a tray that he carried over to a high table in the middle of the room.

  ‘These are truly precious items,’ he said in a low whisper. ‘Of all the things Aram owned, these had a special place in his heart.’

  The tray was covered in soft black felt and laid out on it in rows were a number of small flat objects. Makana saw broken tablets of stone bearing carvings. Most of them were incomplete, but he could make out what looked like a camel on one and a palm tree on another. Jules drew his attention to a small fragment, no more than six centimetres in length and about half that in width. On it was depicted a slender woman with a hand raised. The detail of the fingers was remarkable.

  ‘Ishtar,’ breathed Jules. ‘The Babylonian goddess of love and war.’

  ‘Exactly how much are these worth?’

  ‘Oh, they’re priceless. I mean, they date back more than six thousand years.’

  Makana took a closer look at a figure of a bull with a human head as Jules went on.

  ‘The Babylonian world was obsessed with darkness. The Underworld played a far more important role than in Ancient Egypt, for example. In the Babylonian universe only the gods inhabited heaven. Mere mortals were condemned to a house of darkness, to eat dust and live in silence.’

  ‘Sounds familiar,’ muttered Makana.

  ‘One Sumerian fragment claims that a man with a righteous soul will live for ever.’

  ‘Then we can all live in hope.’ Makana pointed at the tray. ‘Where did Kasabian get these, and don’t tell me some round­about story about unconventional ways.’

  Jules took a deep breath. ‘Kasabian was selling these pieces on behalf of Kadhim al-Samari.’

  Makana looked up. ‘Are you saying that Kasabian was already in touch with Samari when he hired me to find him?’

  ‘Yes,’ Jules murmured, nodding his head.

  Makana lit a cigarette. ‘He already knew him.’

  ‘He would be contacted from time to time. Aram had no way of contacting Samari directly himself. Samari is very paranoid. He changes telephones every few days.’

  ‘That’s why you think Samari couldn’t have killed him.’

  ‘It hardly seems likely, does it? I mean, Aram was working for him.’

  Suddenly, the whole picture appeared to have changed. It was unlikely that Samari would kill Kasabian if they were partners, unless there had been a falling out.

  ‘And they were on good terms – I mean, Samari was happy with what Kasabian was doing for him?’

  ‘Absolutely. He had no complaints. Aram was discreet and efficient. He sold the pieces quietly and with little fuss. Kadhim al-Samari got his money, and that was all he wanted.’

  That left Na’il dead centre, except that he had been blackmailing Kasabian. It would make no sense for him to kill him either. Makana paced across the Persian carpet.

  ‘Okay, so let’s go back to where I came into the picture. Why did he hire me?’

  ‘It all went wrong when the American appeared.’

  ‘Charles Barkley.’

  Jules sat down in a high-backed chair close to the wall. ‘When Barkley turned up, Aram got very nervous. He couldn’t sit still. He waited for three days for Samari to call him. I don’t think he slept for those three days.’

  ‘What happened then?’ Makana had found a tortoiseshell bowl containing coloured beads. He tipped them onto the windowsill and used the shell as an ashtray.

  ‘When Samari finally called, Aram told him that an American buyer had appeared, that he was interested in a certain German Expressionist painting.’

  ‘The Franz Marc.’

  ‘Exactly. Barkley came with a reference from a decent dealer in New York, Norton Granger, whom Aram knew by reputation of course.’

  ‘But Samari didn’t trust Barkley.’

  ‘Barkley had mentioned Samari by name. He couldn’t understand where he could have got that information. He smelt a rat. Aram was willing to take the chance. He trusted Barkley and there was a lot of money at stake.’

  ‘Does Samari have these paintings?’

  ‘As I understand it, he has some of them. But none of them had been put on the market. How could Barkley have heard of them? How could he connect them to Samari?’

  ‘Kasabian had to get rid of Barkley, but he had to do it quietly.’

  ‘Exactly. So he came up with the idea of hiring someone to find Samari, knowing that he would fail.’ Jules shrugged apologetically.

  ‘Go on,’ said Makana. He didn’t take offence. It was too late for that now. Kasabian had paid for his error with his life.

  ‘The idea was to throw the American off the scent. Convince him somehow that Samari wasn’t in the country. It wasn’t hard, there is no trace of him. Officially, he never entered Egypt. He has friends in the military who took care of all that.’

  Makana paced some more. He lit another cigarette from the butt of the first.

  ‘I talked to Barkley. I asked him how he had come across the information that the painting was in this country, that Samari had it.’

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘He said a lot of things about rumours, but nothing about exactly where they came from.’

  ‘It happens all the time in this business.’

  ‘Even if Barkley had heard the paintings were here in Cairo, how could he have connected them to Samari?’

  ‘I told Aram it was a bad plan. A real investigator might actually find something, but he . . . well, he didn’t think you’d get very far.’

  ‘And now he’s dead.’ Despite knowing that Kasabian had set him up, the image of the torn and bloody body suspended from the roof beam remained vivid in his mind. Whatever Kasabian had done, he hadn’t deserved to die like that.

  ‘It doesn’t make sense.’ Jules hung his head. ‘I mean, why torture him like that? What did he want from him?’ He looked up, his eyes widening. ‘The combination to the safe! You don’t think they’ll come after me?’

  Makana had no answer to that. Somehow he thought whoever was behind this had their eye on a bigger prize. He nodded at the priceless artefacts.

  ‘Hardly seems worth giving up your life for a pile of dusty old bits of stone, does it?’

  ‘Rare objects from the ancient world.’ Jules had a mournful look on his face. ‘This is what fascinated him. Not modern art but the things from our past.’ He looked up. ‘But you’re right, I’d trade it all in just to have him back.’

  Makana left him there, surrounded by the treasures of past glory.

  Chapter Nineteen

  The first thing Makana saw when he opened his eyes was a crow perched on the rail of the deck a few metres away. It was completely motionless, so still that he wondered for a moment if it was real or something that had escaped from his dream. Then the breeze ruffled its feathers. It had grey wings and a jet-black head. It stared unblinkingly, apparently waiting for him to wake up, as if it had been watching over him. Then, in the wink of an eye, it flapped and was gone.

  He had slept badly. It was becoming a habit. There was something about this case that seemed to be digging itself into him, sending him back in time. The torturer who haunted his dreams had now become Samari, a faceless creature who stalked the bleak hallways and yawning prison cells of his mind. It was a relief to open his eyes. He found a basket of fresh eggs placed in his kitchen by the ever faithful Aziza, a sign of the ongoing good feeling between himself and Umm Ali. He boiled a couple of them. A cupboard yielded a shield of dry bread that he dampened under the tap and warmed up over the gas flame. It felt like a civilised start to the day. As he was chewing away he looked up and saw the silhouette of a uniformed policeman appear at the top of the path.

  They had come on Okasha’s instructions to ta
ke him to the morgue. The two officers chatted idly in the front as they drove him at a sedate pace across to Manial Island, talking like old men in a café, discussing the cost of living and Ahly’s chances of winning the league this year.

  The Department of Pathology was located in a remote corner of the Faculty of Medicine at Qasr al-Ainy university. Makana was directed through a series of subterranean corridors following the familiar damp fug of scrubbing bleach and human decay, until he came to a white-tiled dissection room where Doctora Siham and Okasha stood waiting. Kasabian’s body, or what was left of it, lay on a steel table between them. The skin was waxy and bruised. A rough line of stitches like mad calligraphy inscribed the Y-shaped incision running from groin to neck where he had been cut open. The thread was brown and resembled old-fashioned catgut. Doctora Siham looked wide awake and impatient.

  ‘I thought we had dealt with this already.’

  ‘This is for the benefit of Brigadier Yusuf Effendi, who is on his way here as we speak,’ said Okasha. ‘Did the blood and tissue tests come in?’

  ‘Yes, I told you.’

  ‘That’s fine. All you have to do is take us through it all again. He insists on taking command of the case, so I need to show him that we are doing our work.’

  ‘Why is he here?’ Doctora Siham nodded at Makana.

  ‘Because he’s part of this investigation, whether the brigadier likes it or not.’

  ‘This is ridiculous.’ Doctora Siham folded her arms. ‘Nobody trusts anybody. That’s why this country is so far behind.’

  ‘Please, spare me the political speeches at this hour.’ Okasha gave her a withering glance.

  No more than five minutes passed before the double doors flew open and Brigadier Effendi strode in. Even at that hour of the morning he cut an imposing figure, large in stature, his uniform immaculate, the brass buttons and gold braid gleaming fit for a parade ground. Okasha straightened up and saluted. The brigadier nodded back.

  ‘Well, what have we got here?’

  ‘Doctora Siham was about to take us through the results of her autopsy.’

  ‘Very good. Proceed.’ The brigadier snapped his fingers, eyes flickering round. ‘Wait.’ He stabbed a finger in Makana’s direction. ‘What is that man doing here?’

  ‘He’s here to assist in the investigation.’

  ‘I don’t need to remind you, Inspector, that civilians have no authority to be here.’

  ‘Sir, I feel that in this case an exception could be beneficial to our investigation.’ Okasha made a spirited attempt to stand up for himself. He cleared his throat. ‘Mr Makana was working for the victim at the time of his death and I believe he might be able to shed some light on matters.’

  ‘It’s against regulations, Inspector. You are aware of that?’

  ‘Yes, sir, but considering the circumstances . . . and the urgency of the case.’

  ‘If you are prepared to take any possible consequences on your own shoulders then I have no objection.’ The brigadier shot him a long look. ‘Any luck finding my nephew?’

  ‘I’m afraid not, sir.’

  Doctora Siham made a noise that might have been a cough, or a splutter of laughter. Heads turned towards her, but nobody had the courage to say anything.

  ‘Perhaps we should get on, or do your regulations include me?’ Doctora Siham asked. ‘I am a civilian, after all.’

  ‘Of course not. Your presence is indispensable.’ The brig­adier’s moustache was pure white and betrayed a touch of vanity, now on display as he tried to turn on his charm, although clearly Doctora Siham was immune. His skin was a deep, jaundiced colour. It might have been the bright fluorescent light, or possibly something wrong with his liver. It gave him a slightly bronzed look, similar to the foetuses and organs that floated in formaldehyde in jars set along the far wall.

  ‘Then, if you gentlemen have no objections perhaps we could proceed.’

  ‘By all means, Doctora.’

  Doctora Siham began to outline her findings. She gestured at the faintly bluish marks that adorned the corpse before them, which made Kasabian resemble a victim of some strange ritual sacrifice.

  ‘I counted over a hundred and seventy cuts to the body, of varying degrees. These range from shallow to two centimetres in depth. It’s hard to imagine how much that would have hurt.’

  ‘Then the purpose of these cuts was to cause pain?’ Makana wished he could smoke, if only to kill the odour of bodily decay and chemicals. He considered giving it a try, just to annoy the old brigadier, but he suspected that Doctora Siham would not have approved. She demanded their full attention.

  ‘Yes. Cause of death was heart failure. None of these subcutaneous incisions in and of themselves was what killed him.’

  ‘Is there a pattern to the way they were inflicted, a sequence?’ Makana wondered what order a torturer might use. Was there some kind of science to be applied in these matters? His own experience of torture had been of a more random and unplanned nature, the tried and tested method of continued beatings and isolation. Looking down at Kasabian, he imagined what he must have felt. The brigadier grunted something, but it wasn’t clear what he wanted to say.

  ‘I could not find any order or pattern,’ said the pathologist, ‘but the consistency of the wounds suggests a certain . . . methodology.’

  ‘A what?’ frowned the brigadier.

  ‘You mean, this wasn’t the first time the torturer had done this?’ asked Makana.

  ‘Exactly.’ Doctora Siham went on with her exposition. ‘The ankles and wrists show contusions consistent with a long period of restraint with a rope. The victim was suspended upside down and remained that way for some hours before death, according to the discoloration caused by the settling of the blood. In my opinion, to do this properly, without risk of killing the victim too soon, requires some measure of experience.’

  ‘Is there anything else you can tell us, ya Doctora?’ Okasha felt it was time to weigh in, acutely aware of the brigadier’s presence. He shifted from one foot to the other uncomfortably. The brig­adier stood with his hands clasped behind his back and wore the expression of a man who has more important things to do with his time. ‘I want to know why this was done to this man. He was a good, decent, upstanding man and he didn’t deserve this.’

  ‘Why do men do these things?’ asked Doctora Siham, arching her eyebrows. ‘You might be better suited to answering that question than myself. What I can say is that the murder weapon was big. Some of the later wounds are deeper and less straight.’ She ran a gloved hand over some of the longer gashes. ‘So, either the perpetrator was getting tired or running out of patience. Or . . .’

  ‘Or what?’ demanded the brigadier.

  ‘Or he was beginning to enjoy himself.’

  ‘Can you say what type of weapon was used?’ Makana asked. She gestured for him to move closer. He leaned in over her shoulder.

  ‘As you can see, the knife is moved from left to right in some cases and from right to left in others. This would suggest a slashing movement.’ The doctor was thoughtful. ‘Up and down. A smooth, practised action.’ She straightened up and drew interconnected circles in the air with her right index finger. ‘High to low on both sides.’ Her eyes came to rest on Makana. ‘The knife is very sharp on one side and with serrations on the other, which cause tearing.’

  ‘What kind of knife are we talking about?’ Okasha queried.

  ‘Not very common, is the answer. Long blade, wide and with a serrated tip,’ Doctora Siham said. ‘A fancy hunting knife or a military survival knife.’ She stopped speaking as the brigadier cleared his throat. He was clearly moved. It must have been a while since he had attended a post-mortem.

  ‘Inspector Okasha, I cannot stress how important it is that you solve this case as soon as possible. This man was a personal friend, my wife bought paintings from him and now someone has tried to carve him up like so much chopped liver. We have to clear this up and we have to do it now. And that’s an order. Before I am
demoted, heads are going to roll.’

  ‘Of course, sir.’ Okasha even managed a snappy salute.

  ‘We’re looking for a maniac. Someone who is a menace to society. The sooner we have him behind bars the better. I shall be making a press statement this afternoon. Is there anything I can give them, anything at all?’

  ‘We are following a number of leads.’

  ‘That’s it? Well, you’d better have something better than that soon or you’ll be joining your friend here as an investigator.’ The brigadier glanced at Makana. ‘I intend to keep a tight hold on this case.’ He was already heading for the door. ‘Allow nothing to deflect you from your path.’

  When he had gone Okasha gave a sigh of relief, removing his cap and pushing a hand through his hair.

  ‘Now all we need to do is find the killer,’ he said, looking at Makana. ‘And you need to tell me what you know.’

  ‘Na’il was blackmailing Kasabian about his dealing in stolen artefacts.’

  ‘You think that’s a reason to have killed him?’

  ‘Perhaps they argued. But we still need to speak to him.’

  ‘I agree. We’re doing our best, but you know how it is. What about you?’

  Makana had the nagging sense that an essential piece kept slipping out of his grasp. He couldn’t escape the feeling that Charles Barkley was not being entirely frank with him. Why had he really come to Cairo? How had he known about Samari and the painting? The more he thought about it, the more he was convinced that somehow Barkley held the key to all of this.

  ‘Me? I’m going to have another talk with our American friend.’

  Chapter Twenty

  Hamid Bostan, assistant manager at the Marriott Hotel, was a worried man in an impeccable blue suit. The real manager was a bright-faced blond man from Switzerland with an unpronounceable name and a big smile revealing rows of perfectly aligned white teeth. His face filled an enormous framed portrait in the lobby where he welcomed new arrivals as they entered with a cheery gaze. Almost as convincing as the portraits of Mubarak that graced government offices everywhere. Naturally, he was too busy to actually take part in the day-to-day running of the hotel, which was left to Bostan, the thin man in the blue suit. He wore a pencil moustache that somehow matched the fine layer of hair combed across the top of his head. It wasn’t the first time he had had dealings with Makana, which perhaps explained why, the moment he caught sight of him, he spun and walked in the oppos­ite direction. Makana followed him to the reception desk, where Bostan proceeded to studiously ignore him while engaging with a young man on the other side of the counter. The effect was undermined by the receptionist, who kept trying to draw his manager’s attention to the fact that someone was waiting to speak to him.