by Parker Bilal
‘Kane?’
‘Zachary Kane, the founder of Green Jackal Security. He appears to be something of a strange bird.’
Makana sat back down again. ‘Tell me about him.’
‘Well, Green Jackal was started up about three years ago. Right after the attacks on New York and the Pentagon. Somebody spotted an opportunity. It’s a small outfit. They had about thirty operatives in Afghanistan when they began, most of them ex-marines and Special Forces.’
‘How did you find all this out?’
‘Oh, there’s no end to stories about him. Kane loves publicity.’
‘What were they doing in Afghanistan?’
‘They began providing protection for US and Afghani officials, and then graduated to running a detention centre in Helmand. They got the jobs nobody else wanted.’
‘Tell me about Kane.’
‘Well, like I said, there are lots of stories about him. It’s not clear what his military history is. Some versions say he was in the Green Berets, that’s the American Special Forces, but it’s a claim that has been disputed. I can’t find confirmation either way. In any case, he got himself involved with a television film crew in some hotel in Kabul. He told them he was in charge of a mission to capture Osama Bin Laden. They paid him a huge amount of money for permission to go along.’
‘He made it up?’
‘American military sources deny he was ever part of such a mission and said it was certainly not their policy to turn a manhunt for the most wanted terrorist in the world into a television show.’
‘So he made a lot of money out of it.’
‘Not just money. Kane became a celebrity. He appeared on television talk shows. For a time he was a hero, something like a modern-day John Wayne.’
‘They never found Bin Laden?’
‘No.’ Ubay laughed in great hiccups, like a cartoon character. ‘They drove around for a time, but never found anything.’
‘What happened to Kane?’
‘The army couldn’t discipline him because he wasn’t a soldier. They couldn’t fire him because of some technical problem about who actually employed him. But they didn’t like him. They didn’t approve of his methods.’ Ubay brought up another document. ‘This is a Human Rights Watch report on the treatment of prisoners. There’s a whole section devoted to Kane’s outfit. They were torturing people.’
‘I thought they all did that.’
‘Sure, but they don’t get caught. Kane was out in Helmand province, executing people in public squares. He was acting like some kind of warrior king, calling tribal leaders to vow their allegiance.’
‘That must have damaged his image.’
‘Not at all. When the case came up you had celebrities on Fox News defending his actions, saying he was giving the Taliban a taste of their own medicine and there should be more like him.’
‘He was never charged then?’
‘No. Mercenaries, or contractors to give them their proper title, fall into a grey area as far as the law is concerned. You can’t charge them as civilians and they can’t be disciplined as military officers.’
‘In other words they are free to do as they like.’
‘Pretty much.’
‘So what did they do with him?’
‘They moved him out of the way, transferred the whole outfit.’
‘To another part of the world?’
‘To Iraq. Kane’s unit was given a new task, providing support for forces around Falluja.’
‘And since then?’
‘Nothing. It seems he learned his lesson. Kane vanished from the front pages. He was in enough trouble. He was sued for breaching all kinds of contracts, owed money to publishers and movie producers. It seems he just dropped out of sight. Just got tired of it all, I suppose.’
‘Do you have a picture of him?’
‘Here you go.’ Ubay pointed at the computer. Makana leaned forward to look at the grainy image. ‘That’s Zachary Kane.’
Although somehow he had been expecting it, Makana still felt a jolt of recognition as he stared at the face of the man he knew as Charles Barkley.
Chapter Twenty-two
The early evening traffic was in full swing as Makana threaded his way across the underpass between the maze of fast-moving cars. It meant taking your life into your hands, but there was no other way. When he reached the relative sanctuary at the middle, the fading light illuminated a battlefield of potholes, twisted iron railings and broken kerbstones. The rush of a bus going by whipped at him with a blast of hot, combustible air as the driver mercilessly triggered a three-tone party horn designed to provoke cardiac failure in all but the most sturdy-hearted.
Learning that Charles Barkley the art collector was actually Zachary Kane the mercenary felt like a light going on in Makana’s head. It filled out the landscape with new shapes and forms. The complexity of what lay ahead of him was growing clear. Kane had come to Cairo with his associates, other soldiers of fortune, to seek out Kadhim al-Samari. They had flown in from Amman, carrying a false credit card and at least one fake identity. Kane had registered as Charles Barkley and contacted Kasabian. He had persuaded Kasabian that he was after a priceless painting. Was that what he was really after, or was it Samari he wanted? Why not both? There was always the possibility that this was some kind of American hit squad, here in some kind of semi-official capacity.
At the Ramses Hilton, Makana asked for Dalia Habashi and they called up. He spoke to her briefly. She told him to come straight up to room 719. She was standing in the doorway waiting for him, looking the worse for wear, when he stepped out of the lift. Her clothes were crumpled as if she had been sleeping in them and her hair was a mess. A glass dangled in one hand. A half-empty bottle of vodka stood on the table next to a television set that showed American soldiers patrolling in some desolate corner of Iraq.
‘What took you so long?’
‘I came as fast as I could.’
Her eyes were red from crying and drink. ‘You don’t seem to take this very seriously. My life is in danger.’ She crossed unsteadily to the table and poured more vodka over a handful of melting ice cubes. Then she sank down onto the bed with a sigh. ‘I don’t know. I was doing really well, and then, boom! I just couldn’t deal with it any more. I couldn’t stay at home for a moment longer. I booked myself on a plane and got myself this room and everything is packed. Then suddenly it hit me that I’d never see him again.’
‘You don’t know that for sure.’
‘A woman can tell,’ she insisted. Her eyeliner had run in monochrome streaks down the side of her face.
‘I think you’re doing the right thing,’ he said. ‘You should get out.’
‘I feel like I’m running away.’ She took a gulp of her drink.
‘And still no word from Na’il?’
She shook her head wordlessly, then lay down on her side and clutched the bottle to her. ‘He’s dead. I can feel it. And that means I have no one to protect me.’
‘Protect you from whom?’
‘Who do you think?’ She mumbled something to herself that he couldn’t catch. ‘Once they’ve had a taste, they just keep coming back. I should never have gone to him. Why does it always have to be about money?’
Makana realised she was talking about Qasim.
‘Is that why Na’il was trying to blackmail Kasabian? To get the money to pay off Qasim?’
‘The police came to ask me questions. They think he killed Kasabian. That makes no sense. He was getting money from him and he was going to get more. Why would he kill him?’
‘He was seen fleeing Kasabian’s house on the night of the murder. It’s possible he saw something.’ Makana sat down on a chair facing the bed. ‘Are you sure he didn’t tell you anything?’
‘Why would I lie? Look at me, I’ve got nothing left to lose.’ She rested the vodka on the bedside table to light a cigarette, ignoring the sign on the table that asked guests not to smoke.
Makana lit a Cleopatra.
One more wouldn’t matter. He got up to open the window, which moved twenty centimetres and then stopped. The building was sealed like a glass box for the air-conditioning. The sounds of traffic and horns far below filtered through the gap.
‘The last time we talked you said Na’il was mixed up with the Zafrani brothers. Was that Ayad Zafrani?’
‘I don’t know. How would I know something like that?’ She scowled at him, her eyes out of focus. ‘You don’t listen to half of what I say,’ she grumbled, and reached for her vodka.
‘Did Na’il ever mention an American named Charles Barkley, or Zachary Kane?’
‘He mentioned a lot of names. He was always bragging about how many important people he knew and how they were all going to be his ticket to the stars. He was a dreamer.’ Her glass was empty. She reached for the bottle again and slipped to the floor. Makana tried to help her up. She giggled and wrapped an arm around his neck.
‘Why don’t you stay here tonight and keep me safe.’
‘I don’t think that’s a good idea.’
‘Why not?’ She pulled him down and kissed him.
Makana said nothing. He held her at arm’s length until she slumped back with a sigh and pushed her hands through her hair.
‘You’re right. I know. I’m just going to pieces.’ She lay back and closed her eyes. ‘What does any of it matter? Tomorrow I’ll go to the airport and be in another country by noon. I probably won’t be back for a while.’
‘What about the gallery?’
‘It can take care of itself. Besides, it’s not as if people are stampeding through the doors.’
In a few moments he heard her gentle snores. He got to his feet. Night was falling. He saw his reflection in the glass, a shadowy presence against the brightness of the room behind him. The woman on the bed seemed to be shrouded in a halo of light. Below him Cairo surged in constant anxiety, a seething mass of light and movement. An enigma, as ancient as the Sphinx and just as incomprehensible.
His telephone rang as he walked down the ramp from the hotel entrance.
‘I’d been hoping to hear from you,’ said a familiar voice.
‘Mr Barkley.’ Makana drew to a halt. ‘I’m sorry, I’ve been busy.’
‘Not so busy surely to make time for a client?’ A hearty chuckle came down the line.
‘Of course not. Where are you?’
‘I’d rather not say.’ There was a long pause. ‘The situation has changed slightly. I don’t have as much time as I thought I had.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that. These things have a pace of their own.’
‘I understand. I think it’s better we meet in person.’
‘Shall we say the Marriott like last time?’
‘No . . . no, that’s no longer an option. Why don’t we try somewhere different? I think I really need to get out and see a bit of the town. You can’t hide behind high walls all the time.’
‘If you’re sure.’
‘I hear there’s a great café inside the old bazaar, the Fish bar or something.’
‘Fishawi’s.’
‘Yes, that’s the one. Shall we say three o’clock tomorrow afternoon?’
Makana tucked his telephone back into his pocket and stood for a moment in the midst of the whirling turmoil. Cars rushed past him, lights flashing, horns screeching. The city felt as if it were about to implode.
Chapter Twenty-three
Walking past a supermarket Makana’s eye caught the glitter of light on glass. It gave him an idea, and he retraced his steps. When he reached the Carlton Hotel, the man behind the desk was not the person he had met before. This one was half asleep, his face squashed out of shape by his upturned palm. He jerked awake as Makana walked in.
‘What is it?’ He was a large man with a loose, jowly face and red eyes that cried out only to be allowed to close once more. Makana fished in his pocket for a slip of paper and squinted at what was written there.
‘Mr Frank, Room 27?’
‘What about him?’
‘Special delivery.’ Makana held up the supermarket bag containing a bottle of Butler’s gin. ‘He called from his room.’
‘You can leave it here.’ The receptionist licked his lips.
Makana drew back. ‘My life wouldn’t be worth living. He’s American, you know.’
‘You don’t have to remind me. May Allah spare us from them.’
‘I’d be out of a job tomorrow. I can’t afford that.’
The receptionist rubbed his bleary eyes. ‘I don’t think I’ve seen you in the shop before.’
‘I’m standing in for my brother-in-law, he’s having a baby.’
‘Really, the short one, Abdelhadi?’
‘That’s the one.’
‘I didn’t even know he was married.’
‘The world is full of mystery. Shall I go up?’
‘Sure, go ahead. But the lift isn’t working. You’ll have to take the stairs.’
‘Just my luck. What floor is it?’
‘Second floor. No need to complain.’ He put his head down again. Makana started off in the direction of the staircase, stopped and returned to the counter. The receptionist forced his eyes open again.
‘Now what?’
‘I just thought. What if he’s asleep? You know, he sounded like he’d already been through one of these. You know what these Americans are like.’
‘So leave it here. I told you, I’ll make sure he gets it.’
‘On my eyes, I swear, I can’t do that.’
‘What do you want me to do?’ The receptionist got to his feet to hobble a couple of steps, just enough to demonstrate that he was not only bulky and moved with difficulty, but that he also had a club foot. ‘I told you, the lift’s not working. I can’t go up there.’
‘I can see that.’ Makana tapped his fingers on the counter and waited. The two men looked at one another. There was no point in rushing these things. Finally, he said, ‘Look, why don’t you just give me the pass key? I’ll go up, knock on the door. If he doesn’t answer, I’ll leave it on the table.’
‘I can’t do that.’ The receptionist toyed with his keys.
‘What difference does it make to you? I’ll be back in no time.’
‘What happens if something goes missing from the room?’
‘Look, I’m just like you. I’m just trying to do my job. I want to get this over with as fast as possible and get back to the shop.’
The receptionist looked unconvinced. ‘Seems like a lot of trouble. How much does a bottle like that cost anyway?’
‘I’m just taking care of things, you understand? Abdelhadi wouldn’t be happy if he found I’d lost his customers while he was away, would he?’ Makana thought the matter over a little more. ‘I’ll tell you what, we’ll split the difference.’ He placed a ten-pound note on the counter. It wasn’t much, but it was a concession of sorts. In the blink of an eye the note was replaced by a pass key.
Outside the door of Number 27 Makana listened to the sound of a voice droning on in what he took to be English. He realised that it was the television. Slipping the key into the lock, he turned it quietly and went in.
Cassidy was lying asleep on the bed still wearing his clothes, or most of them. The jacket lay in a heap on the floor, over an upturned chair. The boots had been kicked off in different directions. One stood in the hallway while the other sat on top of the television set, which was tuned to a debate between two American men and a woman who were all getting very excited about Iraq, a country they had probably never heard of until their president decided to invade it. Makana switched the volume up. Behind him, Cassidy stirred, turned over on his side and went on snoring, the almost empty bottle of Jack Daniel’s still gripped in his right hand. The gun was hanging in a shoulder holster off the far bedpost. Lying on the dresser was a bag of plastic ties identical to the one Cassidy had used to secure him to the railing of the awama.
Makana slipped one of the ties around the American’s left wrist and pulled
it tight against the bedpost, stepping back as Cassidy began to stir. Removing the gun from the holster, he lifted the chair upright and sat down to wait. Cassidy came awake slowly, dropping the bottle, then rubbing his face and trying to move before he found one hand was restrained.
‘What’s going on?’
He tugged hard and the bedstead screeched in protest. Eventually he wriggled upwards and looked around him.
‘I brought you some supplies.’ Makana nodded at the bottle of gin on the bedside table.
‘Thoughtful of you,’ mumbled Cassidy. ‘What is it, I’m not paying the right person downstairs?’ He gave the bed a kick.
‘Don’t take it personally.’
‘You’re in my room and you’re holding my gun. How is that not personal?’
Makana waved the Colt in his hand. ‘This is only a gesture. I don’t intend to shoot you.’
‘You need to work on your bedside manner.’ Cassidy tried to sit up again, found he couldn’t and tugged at his bound wrist again.
‘You’ll hurt yourself if you go on like that.’
Cassidy closed his eyes and rubbed his face with his free hand.
‘I’d like to know what I’m doing wrong here.’
‘People are always suspicious of foreigners in this country.’
‘Then they shouldn’t invite so many damn tourists.’ The malevolent look on Cassidy’s face made Makana all the more glad he had taken the precaution of restraining him. ‘How about a cigarette?’
‘I would not object.’ Makana reached into his pocket.
‘No, not those things. There’s a carton in the wardrobe.’
There were three cartons of American cigarettes. As he moved back Makana picked up the jacket off the floor and went through it. In the inside pocket he found a wallet that folded open to reveal an identity card and a gold shield that announced his prisoner as Detective Frank Cassidy, Los Angeles Police Department, Homicide Division. Makana opened a fresh pack of Camels and lighted himself one before throwing the packet across. The taste of the tobacco felt as rare as fine caviar. Not that he’d ever tasted caviar, but he imagined it as similarly exotic.
