The Golden Scales

by Parker Bilal

  Soraya still hadn’t touched her lime juice. She stretched out her hand to touch the glass and a bracelet bearing her name winked on her wrist.

  ‘I don’t believe this is just about Adil,’ she went on. ‘My feeling is that someone may be trying to destroy the company.’

  ‘How easy would it be?’

  ‘To take us over?’ She frowned. ‘Right now we are in a vulnerable position. The financial climate of the last few years has been difficult. The Gulf War hit the economy hard. We have made mistakes, overstretched our resources. The stadium is an expensive, prestigious project, and this is the wrong time for it. Once Hanafi Heavens is completed our situation will greatly improve. It will be the first of many such projects. It will draw in a lot of investors, national and international.’

  ‘What does Gaber say?’

  ‘Oh, Gaber.’ She made a throwaway gesture with her hand. ‘Gaber never, ever admits that anything is wrong. He is very loyal to my father.’

  ‘They go back a long way.’

  ‘Yes, they do.’

  A breeze picked up and fluttered her hair around her face like a veil. It made her look more alluring than ever. There followed a lengthy silence. In the distance the cacophony of the traffic was interrupted by the grinding two-tone siren of an ambulance and then, as if in response, the triple-tone horn of a taxi struggling through the gridlock.

  ‘Adil is my father’s weakness. It’s where his judgement goes awry. He sees his younger self in him, in his recklessness. The older he gets, the more he indulges Adil.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘Well, Gaber and I have a hard time persuading him not to entertain Adil’s business ideas.’

  ‘Is he the one who thought up the new stadium?’

  ‘I’m afraid that was my father’s idea to begin with. Something he has wanted to do for years. And it could be done, just not on the current scale. But Adil played upon my father’s vanity, pushing him to make it into the dream of a lifetime. He has no head for business. Adil’s strength is his charisma, his ability to draw people in, to persuade them to go along with him. He thinks that’s all that matters, getting people to go along with him.’

  ‘Is that why you paid Mimi Maliki to disappear?’

  Her attractive almond-shaped eyes hardened instantly. ‘You spoke to her, of course.’ Soraya’s chest heaved. ‘She is not the right kind of girl for him.’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Makana smiled. ‘I thought they might make a handsome couple. And besides, isn’t Adil old enough to make decisions like that for himself?’

  ‘You have to understand.’ She tried another smile, and almost succeeded. ‘All kinds of women throw themselves at Adil, but at heart he is quite a simple soul.’

  ‘You look out for him, then.’

  ‘All the time.’ Soraya seemed to relax visibly. ‘I’ve known him since I was a child.’

  ‘It must have been a difficult time for you. I mean, after the accident?’

  ‘Yes. My mother and elder brother died. Out of that little family my father and I survived. It created a special bond between us.’

  Makana wondered how far that special bond went. It was true there was something tough and independent about Soraya, which he could see would appeal to a man like Hanafi.

  ‘It was a long time ago. I suppose you don’t remember much about it.’

  ‘Very little. I was only small at the time.’ She bent her head to sip her lime juice.

  ‘How young exactly?’

  ‘About three and a half, almost four.’

  ‘How much do you actually know about your father’s past?’

  ‘I hear the rumours, of course. He came from a very disadvantaged background. It wasn’t easy getting to where he is today, and so he made a few enemies along the way. But rumours have a habit of growing deeper and darker with time. People like a good story.’

  ‘Of course they do,’ said Makana. ‘Does the name Daud Bulatt mean anything to you?’

  Soraya shook her head blankly, then she smiled. ‘My father has always shielded me from the worst of it. I remember very little. I don’t really recall my mother at all. If she were standing right where you are now, I wouldn’t know her. He never talks about her. When I was a teenager I would go to him in tears after hearing some of the things I heard in school. The other girls would talk. They would repeat things they had heard their parents say. You know how kids are?’

  ‘Sure.’ Makana nodded.

  ‘I was my father’s youngest daughter. His golden princess, he used to call me. And, like a princess, I lived a charmed life, kept out of harm’s way, protected. I was spoiled rotten as a child, given anything I asked for. I was brought up by my elder half-sisters. The age difference between us made me think of them as aunts. The house was always full of people and I felt safe there, that was all that mattered to me.’

  She leaned back and took a deep breath. ‘I’m glad we’ve had this chance to get to know one another a little better.’

  ‘I am grateful to you for being so candid.’

  ‘I think I understand now why my father hired you. You’re a complete unknown. There is no danger of your having any connection to his past.’

  There followed another prolonged silence. Makana turned his head to watch people go by. Some glanced in their direction, being casual about it; others were less discreet. He felt like a visiting dignitary. It was a strange feeling, and although disconcerting, not altogether disagreeable. A little girl, about thirteen or so, went by with her father.

  ‘What are you thinking about?’

  Makana had been lost in his thoughts. He looked over at Soraya Hanafi.

  ‘I’m sorry, I was thinking about something else. A woman was murdered the other day. An Englishwoman.’

  ‘How terrible.’ Soraya stared at him. She seemed about to say something more, but hesitated. Finally, she got it out. ‘Gaber told me about your family.’

  ‘It was a long time ago.’

  ‘Seven years is not that long. You lost your wife and daughter. I can imagine how that must feel. I’m sorry.’

  Makana toyed with his cigarettes. There was only one left in the packet. It seemed the moment to light it anyway.

  ‘They say when someone close to you dies, they stay with you in your heart. It’s true at first, but it doesn’t last. Like everything else, they start to fade, and then you realise you are really alone.’

  ‘Yes,’ she agreed. ‘That’s how it is.’

  They were silent for a time. The breeze changed direction and the soft wind ruffled her hair around her face again. For a time Makana thought about the strange path that had led him to this place, but that diverted him down a line of thought that was almost unbearable. Instead he turned his mind to the woman sitting in front of him. There was something about her that he couldn’t quite put his finger on. But even that thought led him nowhere. So he smiled at her and she smiled back and for a while he tried to think about absolutely nothing. They sat there in silence, watching the people who went by, some of whom greeted her before moving on, no doubt wondering who that strange man Soraya Hanafi was sitting with could possibly be.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  When he walked into the dusty junk shop Makana saw no sign of the old man. He stopped just inside the doorway and cocked his head to one side, listening to the sounds of the centuries echoing in the obsolete objects around him. The door stood open; the rickety chair with the mended leg stood forlornly outside like an abandoned sentry post. As he ventured deeper into the interior, edging his way forward, he became aware of a growing curiosity to see this place without the old man standing over him. Ahead of him was the little doorway, illuminated in the gloom by the light beyond. He had almost reached it when the wizened figure appeared out of nowhere, moving with sprightly ease to block his path.

  ‘I thought it was rats I heard moving about,’ he said, challenging Makana with a look.

  ‘I can’t imagine they would dare.’

  They sto
od in the gloom, face to face. The airy space below opened up like the deck of a well-equipped ship while they, secluded in the crow’s nest, whispered like mutineers. A crescent of light found the edge of the old man’s cracked spectacles.

  ‘I wanted to ask you a question,’ said Makana.

  ‘A question?’

  Smoke flared from his nostrils, turning blue where it picked up a fissure of light. He made no move to invite his visitor to descend into the basement. This intrigued Makana. Where was the former hospitality, the offer of coffee and a chat? He recalled the brusque dismissal of the woman and her son the first time he had spoken to the old man.

  ‘Have you told anyone about me?’

  ‘About you?’ The old man tilted back his head.

  ‘About someone coming round here asking questions about the old days?’

  ‘What makes you think I would do a thing like that? What would make you say a thing like that?’ In the dim light he resembled an old and wrinkled tortoise. Beyond that he was a mystery.

  ‘Is there anyone you can think of, from those days, anyone who might still hold a grudge against Hanafi?’

  ‘I can think of hundreds . . . thousands.’ A shudder seemed to run through the man’s frail body.

  ‘How about Daud Bulatt?’

  ‘I heard that he was killed in his pursuit of jihad. You’re hunting ghosts.’ The bony face creased with amusement. ‘Anyway he would be insane to come back. He declared war on the state.’

  ‘But is it possible?’

  ‘That he didn’t die?’ The old man stared into the darkness. ‘Who knows?’ he said finally, his voice hoarse. ‘It’s in the hands of our Lord.’

  ‘Would you tell me if you knew?’ Makana called as the shopkeeper turned away and out of sight. But there was no response from him.

  Walking back out through Sharia al-Muski, past the stalls, the spice merchants who sold everything from rough black peppercorns and bright strands of saffron to sacks stuffed with starfish, Makana wondered about the change in the old man. Perhaps he was busy, in the middle of some tricky piece of forgery. No, it wasn’t that. He was worried about something. Makana walked on, deep in thought. The ground was littered with discarded leaves and scraps thrown to the scrawny hordes of cats which skittered about underfoot in search of a feast.

  When he arrived back in the busy thoroughfare where he had left the car Makana found Okasha leaning against the side of the Mercedes. Sunlight gleamed off his expensive sunglasses and the inspector was wearing a rather pleased expression, his square jaw jutting out at the sky. Nearby a police driver sat behind the wheel of a battered blue sedan, picking his teeth with a matchstick.

  ‘If I didn’t know any better, I would think you had informants all over this city.’

  ‘Wahyat Allah, you are the most suspicious-minded person I have ever met.’

  Okasha opened the rear door of the police car and motioned for him to enter. Makana climbed in while the inspector went round to the other side.

  ‘What’s this all about?’

  ‘I care about you, Makana. Don’t you know that? When I say I’m the only friend you’ve got in this town, I’m not joking.’

  The upholstery was shot and Makana felt the hard metal frame digging into his back. The car was hot and uncomfortable and smelled of raw onions and vomit, the stale odours of men in fear. Okasha sat back and folded his arms, taking a moment before speaking.

  ‘I had a phone call. Guess who from? That’s right, your friend and mine, Colonel Serrag. And while I was wondering what I had done to deserve such an honour, he told me what he wanted.’ He paused, taking his time, easing his bulk in the seat, adjusting the tight belt around his waist. ‘You know what they want to do? They want to send you back.’ He nodded solemnly. ‘That’s right, my friend, home. Now why would they want to do that? More importantly, what would your old friend Mek Nimr say when you landed back there in handcuffs?’

  ‘Why would they want to do that?’

  ‘Who knows? I’m just a humble inspector. It is not my place to question the motives of my superiors. A gesture of goodwill, they say, to help repair relations with our brethren to the south.’

  Makana was silent. Someone had been eating tasali. The floor was littered with the husks of roasted melon seeds that had been spat there.

  ‘You know what I think he might do?’ Okasha went on. ‘I think he might just drive you out to a quiet spot in that godforsaken khalla you call a country, and put a bullet through your empty head, because that is what you deserve. It would be quick and simple and it would leave nothing to worry about. No loose ends.’

  ‘Why would Colonel Serrag take an interest in me?’

  ‘It’s not so strange. You’re an interesting case, Makana, as I have pointed out many times. You are . . . what do you call it? An enigma. That’s it, a puzzle. You hang in the balance. We don’t really want you here, but at the same time we don’t like regimes that try to kill our President.’ Okasha grimaced, referring to the assassination attempt by a group of Sudanese militants on President Mubarak in Addis Ababa three years earlier. ‘You know what that makes you? No? Well, I’ll tell you. It makes you a hostage.’

  ‘Are you going to tell me what I am supposed to have done, or do I have to guess?’

  ‘I’m going to tell you what you are not going to do again, okay?’ Okasha lifted a warning finger. Then he threw out his hand and slapped the driver in the front seat on the back of the head. ‘Go and smoke a cigarette, Mustafa.’

  ‘I don’t smoke.’

  Okasha rolled his eyes heavenward. ‘Well, go and arrest somebody then, and keep your eyes peeled for any bearded assassins.’ Grudgingly, the policeman climbed out of the car and went over to stand by the wall and smoke a cigarette. Okasha turned back to Makana.

  ‘What you are not going to do is bother Alexei Vronsky. He is a guest of the state.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘ “Ah” is right, my friend. You step on his foot and I feel the pain.’

  ‘The two gentlemen in bad suits in the lobby.’ Then Makana remembered the car at the roadside coffee place on the way back. The black Toyota.

  ‘SSI. Their job is to protect our Russian friend.’

  ‘He didn’t strike me as the kind of man who needs a lot of protection.’

  ‘Vronsky’s connections go all the way to the top.’

  Makana leaned back and reached for his cigarettes. ‘Just why is he so important?’

  ‘That doesn’t concern you.’ Okasha held his breath for a moment and then decided to press ahead anyway. ‘He is cooperating with our security forces, if you must know, providing valuable information. Vronsky is ex-Russian Military Intelligence. He was Special Forces. He knows the Afghanis. He fought against the bastards and their jihad.’

  Afghanis was the term for Egyptians who had left to join the holy war in Afghanistan after the Soviet invasion of 1979. When the Soviets retreated and the war was over they were left with nothing to do. Instead they looked for other holy causes to fight. Many of them turned their attention to the people who ruled their own country. They’d returned home battle-hardened and victorious. They made a formidable enemy.

  ‘Where does Serrag come into it?’ pressed Makana.

  ‘Nowadays he runs a special counter-terrorist task force. He answers directly to the Minister of the Interior.’

  ‘He called you?’

  ‘Out of the blue, and it’s not so much a call as a summons. To Lazoughly, the last place on earth I want to go and I am an inspector of police. My hands are shaking. But there he is, all smiles. He starts telling me what wonderful progress I am making. He enquires about the case of the Englishwoman, Markham. Of course, he had heard that we had a visit from Scotland Yard.’

  Makana was about to correct him again, but he didn’t bother.

  ‘That was why he summoned you, to congratulate you?’

  ‘This is SSI, Makana, they don’t call you in to pat you on the back. That was just the preamble.
He tells me that he is always on the lookout for bright officers.’

  ‘He wants you to work for him?’

  Okasha stroked his moustache. ‘Not bad, eh? This dead Englishwoman could be a blessing in disguise. There’s only one fly in the ointment and that’s you, my friend.’

  ‘He wanted you to warn me off Vronsky?’

  ‘Which I have duly done.’

  ‘You’ll go far in this world if you carry on betraying your friends like that.’

  ‘Come on, you’re out of your depth with this Russian. He’s a state asset.’

  ‘Did Serrag remember any more details about the Alice Markham case?’

  Okasha dismissed the question with a curse. ‘SSI doesn’t care about that lord and lady nonsense, especially when the English are so keen on reminding us of the fact.’

  ‘So what is Colonel Serrag interested in?’

  ‘He is interested in Daud Bulatt.’ Okasha heaved a sigh. ‘It turns out you did me a favour by asking me to look into the guy. It brought me to Serrag’s attention. He’s asked me to join his team.’

  ‘So, Bulatt’s alive?’

  ‘Well, let’s put it this way, he’s not just part of the old folklore around here any more.’

  ‘What’s the connection to the Russian?’

  ‘Vronsky apparently tangled with this particular snake back in Chechnya,’ said Okasha.

  Makana sniffed and stared out through the grimy windscreen, the outside world obscured by scratches and smears. He was trying to think, only half listening as Okasha went on.

  ‘Anyway, I wanted to let you know, we have a tip-off. Colonel Serrag’s unit is going to be hitting a possible hide-out tonight. I’m going with them.’

  ‘Where is this?’

  ‘I’m not supposed to tell you, but it’s an old farm about ten kilometres out of town. We have to hit them soon and fast, before they get a chance to organise themselves and disappear. Want to come along, it might be fun?’