The Burning Gates

by Parker Bilal

  ‘There’s an old guy who sleeps under here,’ grinned Okasha. ‘The body missed him by about this much. He woke up with a shock.’

  ‘Did he see anything?’ Makana asked.

  Okasha shook his head. ‘I talked to him myself. Nothing he says makes sense.’

  Doctora Siham cleared her throat.

  ‘Sorry, Doctora, please continue.’

  ‘It’s too early to say for sure, but there’s something odd about the injuries.’

  ‘What do you mean by odd?’ Makana asked.

  ‘Well, if you look at the lower back and ribs, particularly the sides, you can see haematomas.’ She indicated the yellow and purple weals. ‘In this case, death would have been instantan­eous, or as good as. In a fatal traffic accident the trauma occurs at or immediately before or after the moment of death. There isn’t time for bruising to occur. The heart is no longer pumping the blood. The blood tends to pool according to gravity, but that takes a different form.’

  A boy carrying coffee cups on a tray was let through the barrier and made his way over. Okasha’s face lifted.

  ‘Ah, finally.’ He turned and began spooning sugar into a glass. The others declined. The boy looked at the corpse with open curiosity. Makana declined the offer of coffee. Doctora Siham tapped her foot.

  ‘When you’re ready.’

  ‘Sorry, Doctora,’ Okasha apologised and paid the boy for his coffee. The boy held his hand out for the money without taking his eyes off the body.

  ‘Off you go, boy.’ Doctora Siham shooed him away. ‘As I was saying, his superficial wounds appear consistent with the kind of trauma associated with what we see here; high-velocity vehicle collision with static objects. There is shearing, abrasion, broken legs and arms, but then there are other signs. Bruising, even cuts that show signs of healing.’

  ‘Meaning what?’ Okasha frowned as he sipped his coffee.

  Doctora Siham gave him a curious look. ‘Meaning that some of this damage was inflicted before the accident. Perhaps several days before.’ She glanced at Makana to see if he was following.Okasha sipped his coffee and brushed a hand over his moustache. ‘Let me see if I understand this . . .’

  ‘He was tortured before he was killed,’ said Makana.

  ‘You should keep this one close,’ said Doctora Siham. ‘He could save you a lot of time.’

  ‘Tortured?’ Okasha glanced at Makana, who looked back at the body. It would be true to say he felt a certain degree of complicity, guilt even. He had witnessed Na’il being beaten. Could he have saved him? It seemed unlikely, but still. It was a bad feeling, this helplessness, and the sense that he should have tried harder. It was possible that Na’il had been a key witness. He was the only person to have been on the scene when Kasabian was murdered or shortly afterwards. He would have been invalu­able if it came to putting any kind of legal case together. Makana’s thoughts turned back to Dalia Habashi. Had she known Na’il was dead? Had she just guessed it? Makana would never know for sure.

  Doctora Siham was speaking. ‘The picture is distorted by the high-impact trauma produced by the fall.’ She shook her head. ‘But there’s no doubt in my mind.’

  ‘You’re saying he was tortured and then pushed off the overpass?’ Okasha was incredulous. ‘On his motorcycle?’

  ‘It’s a novel twist.’ The pathologist shrugged. ‘Usually it’s a long fall from a high building. This is a more imaginative vari­ation on the theme. Don’t tell me this is the first time you’ve heard of it, Inspector.’ The doctor pulled the sheet up and gestured for them to load it into the ambulance. Then she peeled off her rubber gloves and reached into her coat for a cigarette. Makana lit hers and one of his own. She crossed her arms and looked down at her shoes.

  ‘I’ll be able to tell you more when I get him into the lab, but right now I’m inclined to believe that somebody beat him over a period of hours, perhaps days, and then, when death occurred, decided to hide the evidence by making it look like he rode over the edge of the road on his motorcycle. Not bad, but obviously not too smart either.’

  ‘So he was beaten. Any idea what with?’

  Doctora Siham tugged at her ear. ‘I can’t say, but it looks like a long instrument. A metal bar, but fairly thin. Perhaps an iron rod. I’ll be able to tell you more when I can do a more thorough investigation. All that I’m telling you now are simply my preliminary thoughts on the subject.’

  ‘We appreciate all your efforts, Doctora,’ Okasha said stiffly. It was a reminder of the authority the pathologist exerted. She had a reputation for tearing strips off bigger men than Okasha.

  Now she dropped her cigarette to the ground and walked towards her car. ‘I’ll let you know as soon as I have more.’

  ‘A formidable woman,’ Okasha said, with an admiring shake of the head. ‘Of course you know what they say, that if she had a husband she wouldn’t be as devoted to her work.’

  ‘Maybe you should be thankful,’ said Makana.

  ‘Oh, believe me, I am.’ As the ambulance pulled away, Okasha turned his attention to Makana. ‘So, what do you think? Why would anyone torture and kill our friend?’

  ‘You mean our best witness?’

  ‘Possibly.’ Okasha shrugged. ‘We don’t know what he might have seen or not seen.’

  ‘Na’il was mixed up in a lot of things.’

  ‘And this woman at the hotel, what is her connection?’

  ‘They were involved.’

  ‘Involved as in they were sleeping together?’

  ‘Dalia Habashi was in trouble financially. Na’il was trying to help her, in his own way.’

  ‘There are times I almost think I understand you,’ Okasha eyed Makana suspiciously. ‘We’ve known each other a long time. I’d like to think you would tell me if you knew anything about this.’

  ‘Believe me, there’s nothing I’d like more than to finish this before the brigadier gets a chance to lock me up again.’

  Okasha’s eyes were heavy and swollen. ‘The brigadier wants me out. That’s how he works. He wants those loyal to him close by. He probably already has somebody lined up for my job.’

  ‘I’ve always told you, if you want to get ahead you need to make friends in politics.’

  ‘Well, I would if I could stomach them. Nowadays it’s all about having your photograph taken with a minister, or an actress, or some other damn fool.’

  ‘It’s about a lot more than that and you know it.’

  Okasha motioned to the wrecked motorcycle. ‘Tell me what this is about.’

  ‘Na’il was blackmailing Kasabian. He knew Kasabian was selling antiquities on the black market. Some Egyptian pieces, which nobody seems to care too much about, but also Iraqi, which has become a hot issue since the Americans moved in. Na’il threatened to expose him and wanted money to keep quiet. Money he was planning to give to Dalia Habashi.’

  ‘Where would Kasabian get hold of Iraqi antiquities?’

  ‘From an Iraqi officer named Kadhim al-Samari. The man I was hired to find.’

  ‘What you’re saying makes no sense. He hired you to find someone he was already dealing with?’

  ‘That’s where it gets complicated.’

  ‘Get to the point, Makana. We don’t have a lot of time here, and bear in mind you’ve just accused the brigadier’s favourite nephew of blackmail.’

  ‘Na’il was an enterprising man. He had another deal going for him. When he found out why Kasabian had hired me he went straight to Kasabian’s client.’

  ‘The American? Charles Barkley?’

  ‘Exactly, only it turns out his name is not Barkley, it’s Zachary Kane.’

  ‘You’re making me dizzy. I need more coffee.’ Okasha tossed the dregs from his cup to the ground and cast around frantically for the boy, who was nowhere to be seen. The crowd on the barriers had started to disperse. Now that the body was gone there didn’t seem to be much of interest.

  ‘Na’il told Kane that Kasabian was trying to deceive him. Kane is not someone to
take being crossed lightly. He must have been furious. I think he took Na’il along with him when he went to confront Kasabian. Here was Na’il’s chance to prove he was not to be messed with, only things got out of hand. Kane hung Kasabian up and started cutting strips off him. That was too much for Na’il, so he fled, probably thinking he might be next.’

  ‘What you’re saying suggests that this man Barkley, or Kane, is the one who did this.’ Okasha indicated the mangled remains of the motorcycle.

  ‘No, that’s not exactly what I’m saying.’

  Okasha swore under his breath. ‘You’d better tell me everything or I swear I will throw you to the brigadier and his dogs.’

  ‘I’m getting there,’ said Makana as he lit another cigarette. ‘Kane is after Samari. He doesn’t care about Na’il. He tortured Kasabian to get him to talk. The only problem was that Kasabian couldn’t tell him what he wanted to know, because he had no idea where Samari was – nobody did then or now.’ Makana fell silent. They were loading the remains of the motorcycle onto a lorry to take back to the police compound. ‘If you’re serious about catching Kasabian’s killer then we have to move quickly.’

  ‘Nothing would give me more satisfaction than closing the case without the brigadier’s help.’ Okasha shook his head gravely. ‘Now that his nephew has been killed there’ll be no stopping him.’

  ‘Do you think you’re up to arresting an American?’

  ‘You mean this man Kane?’ An unhappy look came over Okasha’s face.

  ‘Can you do it?’

  ‘We’d have to have a pretty solid case against him. A thousand kinds of trouble are going to come down on our heads if we arrest an American.’

  ‘Come on, you’ll be a national hero. The man who arrested an American mercenary for killing an Egyptian. They’ll put a statue of you in Tahrir Square.’

  ‘We’ll need evidence. The murder weapon.’

  It was a possibility. Kane might be that confident of his pos­­ition to hold onto the knife he used. It was slim but it might be enough.

  ‘Or a confession.’ A light appeared in Okasha’s eyes as he began to glimpse a way forward. Signed confessions were something of a police speciality, after all. Anyone could be made to confess to anything. All it took was time.

  ‘We’ll need to move quickly.’

  Okasha reached for his radio. ‘Is he still at the Marriott?’

  ‘No, but I know where he is.’

  ‘So let’s go and get him.’

  ‘We can’t just walk in there. Kane is not alone. He’s got five others with him. At least four of them are trained mercenaries and most probably armed.’

  ‘We can bring in the CSF, no problem.’

  Chapter Thirty

  As with everything, it was easier in theory than in practice. There was a lot of standing around with Okasha barking orders into the car radio with one hand while making frantic phone calls with the other. It was made more complicated by the fact that Okasha was trying to avoid involving the brigadier or any of his cohorts.

  ‘We’ll meet the other units along the way. We haven’t much time. Brigadier Effendi’s informers will be tripping over themselves to let him know what’s happening.’ Okasha waved Makana into the back of his car. They swept off down towards the Pyramids Road. Even with sirens wailing and lights flashing the going was slow. The heavy mid-morning traffic could only respond sluggishly and they seemed to crawl at times. The longer it took, the more time Makana had to think of what the consequences might be if they didn’t get hold of Kane.

  The Five Seesons Hotel proved to be an unsightly building, a cracked lump of concrete that once upon a time must have been painted a mint-green colour. A white stripe ran around the outside edge like piping on a cake. Time, intense sunlight and traffic fumes had faded it to a dusty off-white. Rain streaks ran like tear tracks down the pockmarked façade where dull patches of plaster had fallen off here and there. A dusty light-box sign ran down one corner of the building, each painted letter worn partially away.

  It stood directly on the Pyramids Road, a dual carriageway swamped with traffic running into and out of town at high speed. The noise and vibrations alone would have put paid to any ideas of rest and tranquillity. They approached from the wrong side and had to go half a mile down before effecting an illegal U-turn and coming back up. Makana managed to persuade Okasha to switch off the sirens. By now everyone in Cairo must know they were on their way.

  The procession of police cars, CSF vans and a prison lorry much like the one Makana had been locked in few hours ago all swept into the hotel forecourt. The interior had an abandoned quality to it, as if the place were about to be condemned. A few visitors sat huddled together looking bored as they waited for something to happen. The sight of some thirty-odd police officers charging in off the street in riot gear certainly created a stir. Some clutched one another in panic while one red-faced man cheered like a supporter at a football match. Behind the desk an unhappy woman in her twenties, wearing thick lipstick that glistened the colour of pomegranate juice, took a step back as they approached.

  ‘There’s a group of Americans staying here,’ Okasha snapped.

  ‘Take your pick,’ she said, clicking a stapler nervously.

  ‘A man named Charles Barkley, or Zachary Kane?’

  ‘We don’t have anyone by that name.’ She was watching the men in riot gear moving around the lobby. ‘What’s this all about? We don’t have terrorists staying here.’

  ‘Americans,’ Makana explained. ‘They are trained soldiers. There are six of them altogether. Zachary Kane, along with Clearwater, Santos, Hagen, Jansen and an Iraqi named Faisal Abdallah.’

  ‘Does that description make any sense to you?’ Okasha demanded.

  She turned coy, eyes darting from one to the other. ‘We might have a group of men like that.’

  ‘They would have checked in sometime in the last couple of days,’ said Makana.

  The receptionist’s eyes were on the computer screen as she tapped a couple of keys.

  ‘Don’t you normally examine passports when people check in?’

  ‘We have to, those are the regulations.’ Her eyes remained on the screen.

  ‘But sometimes you don’t.’

  ‘If it’s very busy. You know, they’re tourists. They have nothing to hide.’

  ‘You’re saying these men checked in without any documentation?’ Okasha waded in.

  ‘Oh no, we would never do that.’ She smiled again. ‘Usually it is arranged in the first day or so.’

  ‘How did they pay?’

  ‘In cash. American dollars.’ The receptionist held up a handful of newly painted fingernails. The colour matched her lipstick. Makana wondered how much extra Kane had given her to keep her happy. ‘Anyway, they’ve gone. They checked out about an hour ago.’

  ‘An hour ago?’ Okasha thumped a hand down on the counter. ‘Where did they go?’

  ‘Back to where they came from, I suppose.’ The receptionist shrugged. It was nothing to do with her. ‘They paid in full.’

  ‘I’m sure they did.’ Okasha pulled Makana aside. ‘You’d better get out of here, because it won’t take long for the brigadier to get wind of this operation. He’ll be calling any second to tell me he’s on his way. It’s going to be hard enough to explain this without you around. We’re going to search their rooms and then I’m going to leave a car here in case they decide to come back.’

  ‘They may have left town or simply switched hotels.’

  ‘We’ll find them, wherever they are,’ Okasha said, before turn­­­­­ing away.

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Some two hours later found Makana and Sindbad sitting in the Thunderbird. The downtown area was calm and almost deserted. Most people were at home with their families on a Friday afternoon. The shops and businesses were shuttered and padlocked. In the evening it would come to life again as people strolled about beneath the buzzing lights looking for diversion, but for now it was tranquil, al
most unnaturally so. The occasional toot of a horn sounded plaintively in the distance and for a time it was possible to imagine these streets as they might once have been, when the volume of traffic and people still fell within the parameters of what city planners might have had in mind for it. A solitary vendor made his way up the middle of Sharif Basha Street, an enormous net filled with footballs on his back. The brightly coloured globes rose up over his head. They resembled mysterious planets and lent his figure an air of myth: a god of other worlds keeping the universe in motion.

  While Makana studied the street for any signs of movement, Sindbad yawned and grumbled about there being none of his favourite snack bars anywhere near. It wasn’t that he minded sacrificing his day off. To hear him talk it sounded as though he was glad of the opportunity to get away from home and his expanding brood of growing children.

  ‘The little ones are two years old now and I swear by our lord above I have never heard such a noise. They could waken Sayidna Hussein himself from his tomb. If it’s not one it’s the other.’

  Makana had lost track of just how many children Sindbad had. He suspected there were five, but it was possible he might have missed a couple along the way. Sindbad never tired of reminding him that a man’s pride was in his family, as if to underline the fact that Makana had nothing around him in the way of spouse or offspring.

  ‘A man needs children. It’s in his nature.’ Sindbad’s understanding of philosophy was as a means of endorsing his way of life. His voice rang with the wisdom of centuries. Two minutes, or whatever the average time for the act of procreation might be, and suddenly he was an expert on all things human.

  As he listened with half an ear, Makana considered the wisdom of not bringing Okasha in on this. But right now it made more sense for Okasha to be dealing with the brigadier while Makana focused on tracking down Kane and his men. Makana also felt that it would be hard to explain to Okasha what exactly he was trying to do.

  Another twenty minutes went by without change. Sindbad’s head lolled back against the door frame. His mouth hung open and he snored softly to himself. Makana shook him awake.