The Burning Gates

by Parker Bilal

  Makana ignored the offer. ‘What is it you think he knows?’

  ‘He’s been hanging around my club, selling his drugs, asking questions.’ Zafrani cocked an eye. ‘A little like you.’

  ‘I told you what I was doing. Kasabian asked me to find someone for him, an Iraqi.’

  ‘Yes, yes. An Iraqi colonel. Everyone wants to find this Samari, and they all come to me.’

  ‘He was seen at your club.’

  ‘Did you ever ask yourself how, in this wonderful city of ours, someone like that, a foreigner, would find his way to my club?’ Zafrani reached down and grabbed a handful of Na’il’s hair and jerked his head up. ‘He doesn’t look too good, does he?’ Na’il was barely conscious. He opened one good eye and stared at Makana. Zafrani let his head drop, and rubbed his hand on his trousers. Na’il groaned and spluttered blood through broken teeth.

  ‘You see how hard it is to get cooperation these days?’ Zafrani changed his grip and brought the club down hard on Na’il’s shoulder. There was a snap of breaking bone and a wild scream that echoed through the empty rooms around them.

  ‘You want me to ask. All right, who brought Samari to your club?’

  ‘Who do you think? Go ahead, take a wild guess.’ Zafrani produced a cigar from his pocket and stuck it in his mouth.

  ‘Your partner?’ asked Makana. ‘Qasim Abdel Qasim?’

  ‘You see.’ A broad grin broke across Zafrani’s face. ‘You do know more than you let on. One of Qasim’s early victories was as a broker in a big arms deal in the 1980s when we were supplying weapons to Iraq. He’s known Samari since then.’

  ‘And when Samari found himself in trouble he called on his old friend to give him shelter.’

  ‘One good turn deserves another.’ Zafrani leaned down to address Na’il again. ‘Do you know what happens when I break both your knees? You’ll never walk like a man again. You will be crawling the streets begging for scraps for the rest of your life. Is that what you want?’ Na’il moaned and cried some more.

  ‘So you’re all working together,’ said Makana.

  ‘What?’ Zafrani was breathing heavily.

  ‘You’re working together. I don’t see why one small-time drug peddlar should be a threat to that. You’re all much bigger than him.’

  ‘That’s what I’m trying to explain to you.’ Zafrani took a moment. He loomed over Makana in the dark. ‘It’s about co­­­operation. We all have to protect our interests. Now, if there is a breach of that trust in either of our separate houses, we are obliged to clean it up. Understand?’

  ‘You’re saying Na’il has broken some kind of bond between you.’

  ‘Your American friend. Remember him? Somebody talked to him, and by doing so he put our partner in danger.’

  ‘That’s what this is about?’

  ‘That and other things.’

  ‘Like what? He’s a small-time hustler who makes money selling drugs to high-class party people.’

  ‘Exactly my point. Now where would a small-time rat like this get his hands on all those drugs? I supply the drugs. I know where they come from.’ Zafrani surveyed his handiwork and sighed. ‘I really didn’t expect this much resistance from such a little shit.’ Tucking the cigar carefully into his shirt pocket, he turned and began swinging the club, again and again, slamming it into Na’il’s already battered body. Makana glanced over at Bobo and Didi. Even they seemed to be wincing.

  ‘That’s enough,’ Makana said quietly.

  ‘What?’ Zafrani turned on him. He was breathing heavily. Sweat was pouring down his high forehead in glistening beads. He put a hand to his ear. ‘What did you say?’

  ‘There’s no point in killing him. It’s not going to change the facts.’

  ‘Facts? Really? Now that I find interesting.’ Zafrani snapped his fingers and Bobo, or was it Didi, hurried forward with a small towel. ‘Now why would you want me to stop? Is it because you’re afraid of what he might tell me?’

  ‘Why would I be afraid of that?’

  ‘Okay, let me ask you something.’ Zafrani took the towel and passed the bloodstained golf club over in return. Bobo took it gingerly, holding it at arm’s length, not sure what to do. Something nasty slipped off the end of the club onto the floor. ‘He’s not telling me what I want to know. Now what does that tell you?’

  Makana regarded the slumped mass. A spasm went through Na’il’s body, causing his left foot to twitch. He was still alive. Whether that was a good or a bad thing Makana couldn’t decide.

  ‘It means that he’s more scared of someone else.’

  ‘Exactly.’ Zafrani dabbed at his face and rubbed his neck. ‘Now don’t you find that interesting? I find it more than interesting. I find it very worrying.’

  Na’il was coughing and spluttering. Blood dripped from his battered face to the floor. His jaw hung slackly. He probably couldn’t have talked even if he’d wanted to. Zafrani took back the club and poked him with the end of it for good measure. ‘This is a small fish. Someone else is feeding off him.’

  ‘Killing him is not going to solve anything.’

  ‘It’ll send a message.’

  ‘Try using the post office. Assuming you’re trying to reach someone in the land of the living.’

  ‘I have a reputation to protect. A man loses his reputation and he is finished. Dogs turn on the weakest in the pack and tear him to pieces, even their own siblings.’

  ‘There’s something else to consider. The police are looking for him. They like him for Kasabian’s murder.’

  ‘This one?’ Zafrani snorted. ‘He couldn’t kill a kitten.’

  ‘Maybe, but the police are still after him.’

  ‘I don’t see how that solves my problem.’

  ‘Dump him. Kasabian had a lot of friends in high places. The police are not going to give in until they pin his murder on someone. They’ll find out who Na’il was working for. You have enough ears inside the police to find out what he tells them.’

  Zafrani was silent for a moment. ‘Not bad,’ he said. Handing the club back to Bobo, Zafrani took a moment to light his cigar with a fancy gold lighter, squinting out of the corner of his eye at Makana. ‘Not bad. I like it. But what’s in all of this for you?’

  ‘I have my own interests to protect. I’m supposed to be helping the police catch Kasabian’s killer. The sooner this case is wrapped up the better for everyone.’ Makana counted on Zafrani not knowing that the police were looking for Na’il as a witness, not as their prime suspect. At some stage he might discover the truth but Makana would cross that bridge when he came to it.

  Zafrani puffed rings of grey smoke into the air. ‘You must learn not to take these things personally.’

  Sound advice coming from a man who had just beaten someone half to death on suspicion of sullying his reputation. Makana lit another cigarette. The basement felt damp and reeked of blood and death. He didn’t like being here, didn’t like feeling he was an accessory to Zafrani’s crimes. The golf club swung lightly between them. Makana wondered what it would take for Zafrani to turn on him.

  ‘My brother tells me you are interested in the girl at the club. The dark one.’

  ‘Leave her out of this.’

  Zafrani smiled awkwardly. ‘It’s complicated, all of this high-class stuff. I mean, in the old days I just did what I wanted to do. Now, I have partners here, partners there. It’s not easy.’

  ‘It’s the price for moving up in the world.’

  ‘I don’t even like this one they call the Samurai. Apparently he’s got plenty of money and he’s eager to invest. But these Iraqis.’ Zafrani was wagging his head in dismay. ‘He comes to the club, likes to gamble, to spend time with the girls. He likes your friend, by the way. While he’s up there in heaven his bodyguards are drinking whisky, the expensive stuff, and throwing money at the roulette wheel like cowboys.’

  ‘Isn’t that the idea?’

  ‘Sure, but because they are friends of the house they think they don’t h
ave to pay their debts. I explain this to Qasim and the others, but they look down on me like I’m an idiot. Without me they would have nothing. All of this.’ He gestured expansively. ‘I did this. They just put the money in. They’re hypocrites, the lot of them. They like to have fun at the club, but the next day they’re in parliament vowing to defend Islamic values and all the rest of it. What happened to this country, that we’re in the hands of a bunch of two-faced cowards?’

  ‘Don’t expect me to answer that.’ Makana sensed deep resentment in him. In a way he felt sorry for Qasim and anyone else whom Zafrani might be building a grudge against.

  ‘The point is that now we have the Americans looking for this Samurai snake. Any day now a ton of rockets is going to come falling on our heads when they decide to get rid of him.’

  ‘I thought you were partners.’

  ‘That’s what I’m trying to tell you. I can’t move against him. My business with Qasim would be over. Those two are old army buddies. No, this has to come from somewhere else.’

  ‘I’m not sure I follow. What exactly are you asking me?’

  ‘I’m not asking you anything. I’m saying, if you want to help this girl, she’s yours. All you have to do is get this man off my back.’

  ‘How do you expect me to do that?’

  ‘Turn him over to the Americans. Collect the reward. Let them take care of it. I don’t care about the details, I just don’t want it anywhere near me. I don’t want the club involved.’

  ‘And then you’ll let her go?’

  ‘All her debts will be cancelled.’

  ‘What are you going to do with him?’ Makana nodded at Na’il.

  ‘Like I said,’ Zafrani swung the club, ‘I’m going to send a message.’ He nodded and his men came forward to lead Makana away. ‘Keep me informed.’

  Makana turned to walk away. Behind him he heard a scream and the thud of the club. He began walking towards where he thought the exit was. Didi and Bobo fell in behind him. As he walked up towards the light, Makana felt his heart judder back into life again. He didn’t look back.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  It had all started with Na’il. Makana could see that now. He must have gone behind Kasabian’s back to Kane and told him that he was working with Samari. There was no other way that Kane could have found out. Na’il. Trying to help the woman he loved, or trying to make a profit out of other people’s business? Always playing both sides to his own advantage. Only somehow it had gone wrong. Kasabian was dead and now, well, Makana didn’t think it looked good for Na’il himself.

  The ride back into town proved just as hair-raising as the journey out, with heart-stopping moments roughly every sixty seconds. The driver raced into narrow spaces, braked and jerked the wheel at the last minute. Either he was a very good driver or an idiot who lived a charmed life, Makana couldn’t decide. Sindbad was leaning up against the Thunderbird when they arrived at the awama. Didi and Bobo sized him up through the car window as if he were a potential opponent.

  ‘Who are your new friends?’ Sindbad was using the roof of the car as a table to eat his snack. A sandwich the size of his forearm.

  ‘Ayad Zafrani’s men,’ explained Makana.

  They stood back as the SUV lurched out into the afternoon traffic and sped away. Makana looked at his watch.

  ‘We’d better go,’ he said.

  The Khan al-Khalili was the familiar mix of the quaint and the gaudy. Some of the shops were no larger than wardrobes. Shelves crammed with artefacts of every shape and form. Semi-precious stones alongside painted wood. The eyes of innumerable gods gazed out in astonishment at the people who wandered by in droves, like pilgrims flocking to an ancient site of worship. Kids followed tourists as doggedly as puppies looking for a home. They waved painted papyrus sheets desperately in the hope that they might wear down their resolve. Some succeeded, others were swatted away like flies. In the cafés the visitors tried to look like old hands as they suckled waterpipes or sipped sweet mint tea.

  Between the two sides there was a mutual recognition that neither would ever really understand the other. To the tourists the locals represented a way of life they were happy to view from a distance, so long as it was temporary and they had a seat secured on a plane out of here in the not too distant future. The local vendors on the other hand were content to smile and play the jester if it encouraged sales. Beyond that, and the universal sexual appeal of the occasional beauty, the Europeans, Americans, Japanese and all the rest of them might just as well have landed from another planet. It wasn’t just the way they dressed or talked, it was the mere idea of having enough time and money to travel the globe at leisure to see how other people lived. To them it was a crazy idea. Why bother to travel when you already lived in the greatest country in the world?

  Fishawi’s was an icon of the bazaar. Though not much more than a shortcut, an alleyway with sagging divans and run-down furniture, it had a touch of the old Arabian Nights about it and drew the tourists in like hungry flies, eager to soak up something of the ‘genuine’ atmosphere they had come so far to savour. That is if they happened to believe that Old Cairo was occupied by backpackers and middle-aged travellers in cargo pants, every one of them born with a camera and a knapsack strapped to their bodies.

  Zachary Kane was dressed likewise, still in character as Charles Barkley, art dealer, or so it would seem. He was seated alone at a table halfway down. The waiter was setting out coffee for him. He looked up as Makana approached.

  ‘Ah, perfect timing,’ he smiled, gesturing at the chair opposite him. ‘Will you have something? I just ordered one of those water-pipes.’ Makana asked the waiter to bring him coffee with little sugar. ‘What a great language. Just the sound of it.’

  ‘I called your hotel only to learn that you are no longer staying at the Marriott.’

  Kane gave a theatrical sigh. ‘What can I say? I’m afraid I was so disturbed by the tragic death of our mutual friend. Your words of warning hit home and I decided to change my location without delay. I’m sure you understand. After all, that is what you and your inspector friend were saying the other day, was it not? To take precautions? To be careful.’

  The waiter appeared to set up the shisha. He unwrapped the pipe and set glowing coals onto the bowl before handing it to Kane.

  ‘As I understand it you left so fast you forgot to pay your bill. The manager is a very worried man.’

  ‘A misunderstanding. The money should have been wired from our New York office. It really wouldn’t surprise me if there was a delay. Frankly, I am astonished at the way things are run in this country.’

  ‘These are hard times,’ said Makana, wondering how long Kane would keep this up.

  ‘I consider myself a prudent man, Mr Makana, and since I have no idea how long this trip is going to be drawn out, I felt it made sense to move somewhere a little more modest.’ Kane blew clouds of perfumed smoke into the air. ‘This country seems to feel it is open season on tourists. Costs are prohibitive, even by New York standards.’

  Makana watched him carefully.

  ‘Perhaps it would help if we dropped the games.’

  ‘As you wish. Have you made progress?’

  ‘I believe so, but perhaps not in the way you had hoped.’

  Kane cocked his head to one side. There was a slight hardening in his eyes. He set down the long pipe stem on the table.

  ‘Perhaps you’d care to tell me what you mean.’

  ‘I’ll get to that, but there are a couple of things that we need to straighten out first.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘This may not mean much to a worldly man like yourself, but I have certain standards. I don’t like being deceived. In other words, I like to know who I’m working for.’

  ‘That sounds perfectly reasonable.’

  ‘That’s how I feel.’ Makana took a moment to glance casually up and down the narrow lane. He spotted two of them. The blond one, Hagen, and the Latino, Santos. They were seated at a ta
ble in the back, trying to look like tourists. They even had a guidebook they were pretending to study. Out of the way, but close enough to arrive in a hurry if needed. ‘So, in this case, as I say, we seem to have a problem.’

  Kane folded his arms. ‘What exactly is it you think you know, Mr Makana?’

  ‘Well, first of all I know that your name is not Charles Barkley. It’s Zachary Kane. I know that you didn’t come to Cairo alone.’ Makana nodded in the general direction of the two other Americans. ‘And I have a fairly good idea that you’re not an art dealer.’

  Kane sat back and smiled. ‘I hope this isn’t some elaborate strategy to try and raise the value of your services?’

  ‘It’s not about the money.’

  The waiter paused as he went by to deposit the coffee. Kane waited until he was out of earshot. He held up his hands.

  ‘Look, we seem to have some kind of misunderstanding here. I can see how you might feel a little ticked off that I haven’t been entirely honest with you, but there’s a reason.’

  ‘Well, I’m happy to hear it.’

  ‘There’s always a reason.’ Kane’s smile faded. He leaned forward and spoke urgently. ‘Okay, cards-on-the-table time. You’ve obviously done your homework, so I’ll level with you. But I must warn you that what I have to tell you is confidential. You cannot breathe a word of this to anyone. Is that understood?’ Kane paused to make sure Makana was following him. ‘We’re on a special mission, to extract Samari and take him back.’

  ‘Back to Iraq?’ Makana raised his eyebrows.

  ‘I know how it looks and I apologise for having deceived you. It’s a grey area. He’s wanted for human rights abuses. But officially, the US cannot operate in this country without the government’s permission. Egypt is an ally. That’s why they hire us for this kind of job. We’re cheaper, partly because we rely on local operatives like yourself.’ Kane allowed himself a smile.

  ‘Quite a story.’

  ‘It’s a delicate business. We’re flying low, under the radar so to speak.’

  ‘So the Egyptian government doesn’t know what you are doing?’