by Parker Bilal
‘They’re here.’
The tailor’s shop was an old-fashioned place on a small square set back from the street and tucked under a row of arcades. The name Awad Suleiman & Sons was hand-painted across the glass in flowing gold script both ways, in Arabic and English. The square was dotted with a few palm trees and some grey blocks that must once have been meant for some other kind of vegetation that had either perished or never arrived. Pigeons drifted down and waddled across the paving stones.
The two black BMW SUVs rolled up to the kerb in tandem. The tinted windows hid the occupants but Makana was sure they were the same vehicles he had seen outside Zafrani’s club. There was a moment’s lull. On the far side of the square was a branch of Bank Misr, its doors barred and a guard in a white police uniform lolling in an old chair by a sentry box. Across his knees rested a battered AK47. To the left of this, directly opposite the tailor’s shop, was an old apartment building. It looked as though it had been neglected for years. The windows were covered with brown wooden shutters, many of which were cracked, half-open or closed and missing slats.
From where they were parked Makana had a view of the arches and the door to the tailor’s shop. The car doors opened and three men climbed out of the lead vehicle. They were dressed in grey suits. Probably not the kind made by Awad Suleiman & Sons, but respectable enough. They spread out. Two of them walked back to the second vehicle and took up positions on either side. The third man opened the rear door. None of the guards was holding a weapon, but the way they stood, protecting one side of their jackets, suggested they were armed. The sentry outside the bank pushed back his beret and scratched his head, wondering perhaps if the car’s passenger was a famous singer or actress.
When he appeared, Kadhim al-Samari was dressed in black. He wore a polo-neck shirt that went up to his chin, a black suit and dark glasses. He buttoned his jacket calmly before moving off. He carried himself with the confidence of a man who was comfortable with money and power. He wasn’t a big man: all the bodyguards were taller than him, which made sense if their job was to shield him from attack. As the little procession made its way over the square towards the tailor’s shop, Makana climbed out of the car.
‘Stay here and keep your eyes open.’
‘Hadir, ya basha.’ Sindbad sat up and rubbed his eyes, suddenly anxious. All thoughts of children and food were gone.
As Samari went inside two bodyguards took up positions outside, one close by the door, the other a few metres away in the middle of the square. They each took up an angle to watch; one to the left, the other to the right. The third man remained by the cars. A fourth and fifth man were presumably behind the wheel of the cars. A team of five for one man. Samari didn’t like to take chances. He knew he had enemies. No doubt there were plenty of people who would like to see him dead, as well as others who would be more than happy to collect the reward for turning him in.
Makana walked across the square. From the entrance to the tailor’s shop the bodyguards watched him approach. One of them stepped forward as if to block his way, but the second put a hand out to stop him. He recognised Makana from outside Zafrani’s club.
‘I need to talk to him,’ said Makana.
The guards looked at one another, then one of them stepped forward and gestured for Makana to raise his arms before running his palms over him to search for weapons. Then he stepped aside. Makana pushed open the door and heard a bell ring to announce his entrance. The tailor’s shop smelt of freshly spun cloth. Yards of it lined the shelves on three sides of the interior. Behind the counter a white-haired man with a tape measure around his neck was writing something down in a ledger. To his left a boy of about sixteen, slim and well dressed with his hair oiled and combed, was perched on a ladder replacing a bolt of cloth on a high shelf. Kadhim al-Samari was nowhere to be seen. The tailor looked up at Makana. He assumed that the guards wouldn’t let anyone by who wasn’t welcome. He nodded in the direction of a narrow doorway covered by a curtain. Makana stepped through and found himself in a large fitting room. There were racks of clothes along one side and a full-length mirror on the other in which Kadhim al-Samari stood admiring himself and his new suit, which was still waiting for the finishing touches. He glanced at Makana before going back to his reflection.
‘So, it is perhaps time for me to change my tailor.’
‘Please don’t do it on my account.’
Makana crossed the room to another doorway and a curtain. Beyond, a long dark corridor led to a workshop where he could see a couple of sewing machines. He drew the curtain closed.
‘For man of few habits you make a surprising number of exceptions.’
‘A weakness, I know,’ Samari shrugged. ‘It’s hard to find a good tailor, but I suppose you know all about that. As for the girl, well, perhaps I don’t have to explain that to you.’
Makana reached for his cigarettes. Samari returned to examining his suit in the mirror.
‘I’m serious. You should try improving your wardrobe. The quality of your clients will increase infinitely.’
‘I’m not sure that’s all there is to it.’
‘I’m just saying you should consider it. Clothes make an impression.’
‘Thank you, but I’ll manage.’
‘Mr Suleiman is a maestro. In my view he’s the best tailor in the Middle East. You ought to let him try.’
‘Some other time, maybe.’
‘Then perhaps you’d care to explain what you are doing here.’ Samari’s eyes were small and dark. They fixed unwaveringly on Makana’s reflection.
‘I came to tell you that Kane is on the move.’
‘You came to warn me?’
‘The police are searching for him as we speak. When they catch him he will be charged with murder.’
‘I see, you have been busy.’ Samari watched Makana carefully. ‘And why come to me?’
‘Because Kane will be in a panic now. If he’s going to make a move against you it will be soon.’
‘Interesting. Your concern is touching. Tell me, how did you find me?’ He tugged the cuffs of his new jacket. ‘It was the girl, I suppose. Is she the one you’re really concerned about?’
‘She wants to make a life for herself and her child.’
‘And you think you are the one to provide her with that?’
Makana said nothing. It occurred to him that striking a match in here would be a good way of seeing the whole place go up in smoke, but he did so anyway.
‘You had a family once, didn’t you? You know what it’s like.’
Samari’s face hardened. ‘If you’re going to appeal to my human instinct, you should make sure your research is complete. My wife and three children were killed by an American air raid in 1991. They were in the basement of the house. A two-thousand-pound bunker-buster brought the whole building down. What they call surgical strikes.’ Samari ran his fingers along the unfinished lapel of his jacket. ‘Since then, well, once a man has lost a family he is reluctant to begin again, but I don’t need to tell you that, do I?’ Samari held Makana’s gaze in the mirror. ‘Yes, I know all about you and where you come from and why you are stuck in this city trying to earn a few piastres in your own way.’
‘I don’t think you appreciate how dangerous Kane is.’
‘On the contrary.’ A smile crossed the Iraqi’s face, ‘I’m not sure you appreciate how dangerous I can be.’
‘Take the opportunity, leave Cairo. Things are going to get very uncomfortable here in the next few days.’
‘Why the sudden concern for my well-being? I asked you to bring Kane to me. I offered to reward you handsomely, and now you appear without warning, telling me to leave town.’ Samari turned sideways to study the cut of the jacket. He spoke without lifting his eyes. ‘Why are you really here?’
‘You’re a wealthy man. You have millions. You could buy Bilquis her freedom.’
‘That would suit you.’ Samari snorted. ‘I pay Zafrani for the girl and disappear. What then? Are yo
u planning to take care of her and her bastard son? Somehow you don’t seem the type.’
‘Your time here is up, I think you know that. Kasabian’s murder has stirred up a lot of trouble and it’s not going to end there. When they get hold of Kane the whole story is going to come out, and then even your old friend Qasim is not going to be able to protect you.’
Samari’s eyes glittered as he turned on Makana. ‘What if I cared for the girl? Did you think of that? What if I wanted her for myself?’
‘She’s just a whore to you. That’s all she’ll ever be.’
‘And she’s more to you?’ Samari fell silent for a moment. ‘You didn’t come here for the girl, did you? I see it in your eyes.’ He stepped closer. So close Makana could feel his breath on his face. ‘You don’t approve of me. You think I should be brought to justice perhaps? To pay for my crimes?’ Samari’s voice dropped to a whisper. ‘If I thought for a second you had come to try and claim the reward I would kill you without hesitation.’ He remained like that, motionless. Then he snorted. ‘You don’t have the guts to try and kill me,’ he said, turning back to the mirror.
‘Have you asked yourself why Kane would go to so much trouble to find you?’ Makana asked. ‘This is not just about some paintings. I don’t even think he’s interested in the money. No, this is personal.’
Samari shrugged. ‘A lot of people have tried to kill me over the years, and as you can see, none of them has managed to succeed. I’ve been avoiding assassins for a long time, and I intend to go on doing so. Anyway, I have invested too much here to just leave. Kane is nothing. A small-time mercenary. I am curious though as to how he found me.’
‘He went to Falluja to find you, but you had already left. He met a man named Faisal Abdallah.’
‘Faisal?’ Kadhim al-Samari frowned. ‘Yes, he used to drive for me. A herdsman’s son and a coward. You think he betrayed me? It doesn’t surprise me. It is natural that a man should take care of himself.’
‘You had contacts here. Qasim Abdel Qasim, an old military comrade who had turned himself into a successful businessman and politician. And Ayad Zafrani, a big-time gangster and club owner.’
‘We all need friends,’ shrugged Samari.
‘Yes, but not many of them seem to stay loyal, do they? How long do you think Qasim and Zafrani will be able to protect you?’
‘You have to trust people.’
‘You trusted Kasabian and now he’s dead.’
‘I believe that was my fault,’ said Samari quietly. ‘I probably alerted Kane to Kasabian’s existence. The Ishtar piece. I knew it was a mistake to sell. Too distinctive, but there was a buyer nosing around, a German. Kasabian assured me we had a unique opportunity. It would never be as valuable as it was then. So we sold it. I had two. One is still in Kasabian’s hands, or was.’
‘The Babylonian goddess of love and war. Yes, it’s still there. I saw it. Kane was already on your trail. That sale told him someone was selling stolen Iraqi antiquities in Cairo.’
‘Stolen?’ snorted Samari. ‘These pieces are part of our heritage. Is it better for them to be crushed by American tanks, or wind up in the pockets of Rumsfeld and Cheney?’
‘Kane told Kasabian he was looking for the Franz Marc painting to put you off your guard. If he had come around asking about antiquities you might have become suspicious.’
‘It’s true. The talk of The Tower of Blue Horses put me at ease. An American buyer might have known of its existence. I asked Kasabian to look into him.’
‘Kasabian tried to hire Na’il, who saw an opportunity he couldn’t resist and decided to go into business for himself.’
‘Kasabian was a poor judge of character. It’s a weakness.’
‘Perhaps. Na’il threatened to expose Kasabian’s dealings in stolen antiquities. That would have brought attention on you. Attention you were keen to avoid.’
Samari had given up fiddling with his jacket.
‘You gave the order to Zafrani to get rid of Na’il, didn’t you?’
‘If you leave these things unchecked they catch up with you one day.’
‘Then you effectively killed another person, too, Dalia Habashi.’
Samari pulled a face. ‘A meddler. A gossip with no head for business.’
‘She took her own life.’
‘Take my advice, you can’t save all of them. Don’t try. You’ll avoid a lot of heartache.’
The tailor stuck his head through the curtain. Noting the smell and spotting the ash and stubbed-out cigarette end on the floor, he gave Makana a dirty look.
‘How is the fit?’ he asked Samari.
‘It could be taken in a little in the shoulders.’
‘Let me have a look.’
While the tailor fussed around moving pins and making adjustments, Samari went on: ‘You’ve made your case, Mr Makana, now you have all the pieces. But you’re making a mistake. The girl is not worth it. Take my word for it, they never are. Forget your noble task and go back to your dull life. If you won’t help me find Kane, my advice is to stay out of my way.’
The tailor finished his work and slipped the jacket off and helped Samari on with his own. He held the curtain for Samari and Makana.
‘I’ll send someone to collect it next week. For now I’ll take the shirts.’
‘As you wish, sir.’ The tailor gave a slight bow. The shirts were already wrapped in brown paper. The apprentice picked them up and followed the Iraqi as he moved towards the door. Outside the two guards straightened up. There was a moment’s hesitation and then a nod to indicate it was safe for him to come out.
In the doorway, Samari paused to address Makana.
‘Don’t try to follow me and don’t, not even for a second, think about trying to claim the reward. Believe me, you won’t get far.’
The square was still quiet. An old man in a grubby gellabiya was wandering through examining the dead plants in the ornamental pots that had been abandoned to their own fate. A former gardener, thought Makana, or perhaps a poet in search of inspiration. Catching sight of a group of pigeons picking their way between the plants, the old man clapped his hands to shoo them away and a small flock of them took to the air.
It was at that moment that the sniper decided to take his shot. If not for the scattering of pigeons he might have killed Samari on the spot. Instead the bullet went wide. The glass shopfront shattered and the young apprentice crumpled to the floor at Makana’s side. Blood spilt out of him over the brown paper package of shirts he had been holding.
‘You!’ Samari turned on Makana just as another shot rammed into the door frame. The Iraqi ducked left. Makana moved in the opposite direction. The bodyguards had produced weapons from underneath their jackets and were spreading out. They were looking upwards, trying to spot where the shooter was. Another shot, silent, like the first one. The rifle had a silencer. Makana felt rather than saw the bullet slamming into the wall beside him, sending a puff of plaster into the air.
One of the guards shouted and fired across the square. A man stepped from behind a pillar and fired back. The guard’s body jolted as three bullets hit him squarely and he crumpled to the ground. Again, the weapon must have been silenced. Outside the bank the sentry scratched his head, more mystified than alarmed, the Kalashnikov still resting on his splayed knees.
With his head down, Makana had almost reached the next pillar along in the arcade when a man stepped out in front of him. Makana’s first reaction was surprise that he recognised him. He had seen the tall skinny man with long, unkempt hair before. It was at the Marriott Hotel the day he had gone there with Okasha to meet Charles Barkley. Unconsciously, he realised that this had to be Eddie Clearwater, but there was barely time to register the fact. Clearwater was levelling a pistol at Makana’s chest. He was trapped with nowhere for him to go. Two loud shots sounded from Makana’s left and Clearwater was thrown back against the wall. He slid to the ground as Makana turned to see Frank Cassidy stepping from a doorway, his Colt Python in h
and. He joined Makana behind the pillar.
‘Thank you,’ said Makana.
‘Don’t mention it.’
The noise from Cassidy’s revolver reverberated through the small square. The sniper had fallen silent. It took Makana a moment to locate Samari, who had ducked down and was partially hidden behind one of the rectangular plant troughs. He was staying put, waiting for his men to do what he paid them for. The second bodyguard was firing now as he advanced across the square in the direction of the man who had shot his partner. He was too far away to be accurate, but that didn’t stop him firing off five or six shots. The old man in the gellabiya went down with a cry.
The police sentry had finally figured out that something was up and now did what came naturally, which meant jumping behind the metal shield alongside the bank door. In his haste he fumbled the Kalashnikov and it clattered to the ground. He managed to retrieve it and scurry behind the protective shield, where he remained out of sight. Makana wondered if he was equipped with a telephone or radio.
Two of Kane’s men were now advancing across the square from either corner. They came at the second bodyguard from different angles. Before he could make up his mind which one to go for they had taken him out. They advanced in tandem, firing carefully placed shots that kept the third bodyguard pinned down behind the cars.
‘They want to take him alive,’ Makana heard Cassidy say next to him. ‘The sniper wasn’t aiming to kill Samari, just to take out his guards.’
It made sense. Of course they wanted him alive.
The driver of the second car leapt out. He let off a burst of automatic fire that caused Kane’s men to pause. Makana recognised them from the café in the bazaar: Hagen and Santos. The nearside window of the first BMW shattered, reminding everyone that the sniper was still in position. Kane’s men drew level with Samari. Makana wondered if Kane was the shooter with the rifle.
‘They don’t need to take out the other two,’ Cassidy said.
It was true. If their objective was Samari, then they almost had him within their grasp. That was when Samari changed the game.
