by Parker Bilal
‘No one gets in or out without permission.’ The boy holding the AK-47 had the wild eyes of someone who was terrified of anything that moved.
‘Who do I need to speak to?’
‘Bring him over here!’
The soldier nodded over the top of Makana’s car to one of the SSI officers Makana had seen in the lounge. The clumsy-looking fellow with dopey eyes was picking his nose as Makana came over.
‘Inspector Okasha told me to look out for you. He thought you might turn up.’
‘What’s your name?’
‘Marwan.’ He hitched up his trousers, which seemed to keep falling down.
‘How bad is it?’
‘Eleven dead so far and they’re still pulling them out of the rubble,’ said Marwan, stepping neatly out of the way as a coachload of tourists lumbered its way out of the car park, on their way to the airport. Pale, frightened faces looked out over the country around them with newly discovered horror. A day ago they had been paddling around in the pool, shovelling food into their faces; now they were scared.
‘What are you doing back here? I thought Okasha told you . . .’
‘Is he here?’
The SSI man nodded over his shoulder, taking in Makana’s clothes, ripped and stained with blood, a little too late. ‘What happened to you anyway?’
Makana went straight past him. A little too fast. Two armed men standing at the entrance to the hotel lifted their weapons in a state of panic.
‘It’s okay, it’s okay.’ Marwan waved to them to lower their weapons. ‘He’s with us.’
He chased Makana through the hotel lobby and out into the courtyard on the other side. There were field stretchers laid out and paramedics in orange jackets were moving the victims around. Most appeared dead, some were wounded. Someone was screaming somewhere off to the left. A doctor in a white coat waved them to one side as he came running through. Makana recognised one of Vronsky’s muscle men lying on a stretcher. He was howling in Russian. His left leg appeared to be nothing more than a blood-soaked sheet.
‘I thought I warned you not to come back here.’
Okasha was just inside the fence. The remains of Vronsky’s villa were still smoking. The sickly smell of burning flesh hung in the air. The inspector was angry. Not necessarily at Makana, but he was the closest person to hand.
‘Did you know about this?’
‘How would I know?’
‘I’m warning you,’ Okasha jabbed a finger at Makana, ‘if I find out . . .’
‘You’re not asking the right question.’
‘Oh, no? Well, what question should I be asking?’
‘You should be asking how it is that Bulatt can get across the border with such ease.’
‘Well, I’m sure you have a theory. Why don’t you enlighten us?’
Marwan was trying to keep them apart when a voice behind Makana asked: ‘What is going on here? Who is this man?’
Okasha straightened his uniform. ‘This is Makana, sir.’
He needed no introduction to know that this was Colonel Serrag. He was in full uniform, sunlight bouncing off the brass buttons. He was wearing dark glasses, which he removed now to reveal heavy-lidded eyes that surveyed the state Makana was in and found him wanting.
‘Somehow, after all I have heard, I expected something a little more impressive.’
‘Makana was just leaving,’ Okasha said. Serrag ignored him.
‘What are you doing here?’ he asked Makana.
‘I came last night to talk to Vronsky.’
‘I see. And did you learn anything of interest from him?’
‘He was scared.’
‘Yes, and with good reason. You know who did this?’
Makana glanced at Okasha, wondering if this was a joke. ‘I heard it was a man named Daud Bulatt.’
Serrag leaned forward to tap Makana in the chest with the arm of his sunglasses. ‘A dead man named Daud Bulatt. It’s as good as done.’ A helicopter stuttered low over their heads, circling round, and Serrag turned towards it, flapping a backhanded wave over his shoulder as if shooing away a pesky fly. ‘Get him out of here.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Okasha nodded to Marwan, who seized Makana by the arm to steer him away, but he broke free. Serrag’s bodyguard stepped forward to block his way.
‘Why don’t you tell us what happened to Liz Markham?’ Makana called.
Serrag didn’t even pause. Glancing briefly in Makana’s direction he slipped the sunglasses back on and turned away.
‘Ask him, go on,’ Makana urged Okasha, struggling as Marwan pulled him back. ‘Why don’t you ask him what he knows?’
‘You’ve gone too far, Makana.’ Okasha shook his head. ‘Take him away.’
As he was dragged off, Makana watched over his shoulder as the grey helicopter touched down. The doors slid open and the Minister of the Interior stepped out, surrounded by security men in suits. Colonel Serrag walked over to him and saluted before holding out his hand. All around them flashbulbs went off and cameramen jostled for a clear shot. Serrag led the minister and his entourage off on an inspection of the ruins, with Okasha in tow. Then Makana watched as Serrag ushered the inspector forwards and Okasha stepped up to shake hands with the minister.
‘Looks like he’s destined for great things,’ muttered Makana as he was led in the opposite direction.
‘Don’t be too hard on him.’ Marwan shrugged. ‘He’s doing his best.’
The big, bumbling man hitched up his trousers and saw Makana safely back to his car. He then did what he was good at, yelling at people to clear the way and pull back the barricades. An air of terrified panic hung in the wake of last night’s carnage. The soldiers were jittery, which was never a good thing in armed men.
Once back on the road, Makana felt relieved to be away from the organised chaos of it all. He felt sick to the stomach at what he had just seen. Liz Markham’s killers would never be brought to justice. Everyone was happy doing their thing, even Okasha was too busy shaking hands with the minister to look for Bulatt. Exhausted and in pain, Makana felt dazed and angry. He had been driving for about ten minutes when he suddenly realised that in his haste he had missed something. Easing his foot off the accelerator, he pulled off the road on to the dusty hard shoulder. A heavy lorry whipped by like a house on wheels, the horn screeching. The car rocked, buffeted by the slipstream. But Makana barely noticed. He sat there for a time before putting the car in gear again and swinging round to drive back the way he had just come.
As he neared the turn-off Makana spotted the track leading down towards the sea and the little hamlet of muddy houses. The car slid off the tarmac, and bumped and bounced its way down the uneven, broken ground, springs squeaking and metal rattling. A cloud of dust rose up around him. Either the road was worse than he remembered or in his haste he was driving too quickly. When he reached the little semicircle of houses by the water the flat bay was deserted. Everyone was probably up by the road watching the commotion at The Big Blue. Makana left the car and walked past the restaurant’s terrace and around the building. He went over to the heap of fishing tackle and nets and rummaged around until he pulled out a cracked oar. Behind him the one-eyed dog loped around the corner and began pawing at the sand around the boat.
Makana went over to the storehouse adjacent to the house. It was made of the same adobe material as the main building. He slid the oar in between the corrugated iron sheets that passed for doors and put his weight on it. The metal was so rusted that it took him little effort. The doors swung open to reveal a large SUV half-covered by a tarpaulin. Tossing aside the oar, Makana went inside and pulled this off to reveal Adil Romario’s silver Cherokee Jeep in all its glory.
‘Hey, what do you think you are doing?’
Makana ignored the other man. The car wasn’t locked.
‘Where is he?’
‘What are you talking about?’
But already the man’s haunted eyes had given him away. When he had first seen him Makana h
ad taken him for an older man, but now he was sure that he was much younger, probably only in his thirties. The dog was still scratching away at the sand. Makana went across to the overturned boat. He started pulling nets and buoys off, tossing them aside. The dog was circling feverishly, looking for a way in, digging its snout under the side of the boat.
‘Get away from there!’ yelled the man, his expression turning from one of dull stupefaction to anger and disbelief. Swearing, he leaned down to pick up a stone. When he straightened up again, Makana placed a hand on his shoulder.
‘Let him dig,’ he said quietly.
The man looked up and the fight seemed to go out of him. The stone dropped from his fingers and he slumped down on his knees. By now they had something of an audience. A few faces had tentatively appeared in doorways. Some children had gathered at the corner of the terrace, clinging to one another and yawning, wondering, no doubt, what was up.
It didn’t take the dog long to unearth something. The hand sticking out of the sand was a man’s. It was rigid and some kind of nocturnal creature had managed to find its way into the shallow grave. The fingers showed signs of having been gnawed away. Bones protruded from the tips. Makana picked up a stone and threw it to scare the dog away.
‘Crabs,’ said the man, his voice pained. ‘They come up at night. I tried using the nets to keep them out, but they dig under them.’
‘Dunya was your wife?’
‘She was all I had,’ he said. ‘All she talked about was him . . . about life up in the hotel. How glamorous it all was. But most of all she talked about him.’
‘About Adil Romario?’
‘How handsome he was, how smart.’ He stared dumbly at his feet.
Makana looked down. The sand stuck to what remained of Adil Romario’s face, making him look like a mummy dug up from an ancient tomb.
‘He came here, after she was dead.’ The man looked up, his eyes glistening. ‘He said he was sorry, said he wanted to make amends. I think he really meant it.’
‘How did Dunya die?’
Tears washed tracks through the grime that covered his face. ‘It was the shame, you understand? The shame of being one of us, rather than one of them, up there in their fancy palaces. She despised me. She despised herself.’
‘How did she die?’ Makana repeated gently.
‘There were enough people around here who told me I should kill her myself. It’s all right for them, but for us . . .’ The wind whipped the cotton clothes against his lean, worn body. ‘But I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I said, “You can’t make a woman stay with you for love. If she dreams of being up there with those fine people then she will never be happy here.”’ He gestured around him before glancing at Makana. ‘Was I wrong to say that?’
Makana said nothing. He looked out at the water. He thought how calm and beautiful it looked and he recalled his ordeal of the previous night.
‘She walked into the sea one night and that was it. They fished her up in one of the nets.’
The tone of the man’s voice changed. ‘Then he came here, pretending to be concerned about her, trying to make things better . . . when he knew he was the reason she had died. “What a tragic accident,” he said. He tried to give me money, as if that would make things better. What kind of a world is it where people think they can just buy whatever they want?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Makana. ‘Not much of one, I suppose.’
‘We sat together, over there.’ He raised a hand in the direction of the terrace. ‘He told me he knew what it was like to love, that he was in love with another woman, an actress or something, which was why he had never touched Dunya. It mattered to him that I believed him. That’s when I hit him.’ He nodded at the broken oar lying on the ground. ‘I didn’t mean to kill him.’
Makana suddenly felt weary. It was as if Adil had finally emerged from the secrecy that had been obscuring him, to be revealed as a simple man, trying to make amends – and paying for it with his life.
‘I don’t regret it,’ said the fisherman. ‘It won’t bring her back, but I don’t regret it.’
They walked back over to the restaurant and Makana righted a chair and table and sat down while the man disappeared inside to prepare coffee. Lighting a cigarette, Makana called the eldest of the watching boys over. He handed him some money and told him to run over to the resort and call the biggest policeman he could find. ‘Tell him to come straight away and don’t leave without him. You’ll get the same amount when you come back here.’ The boy disappeared in a puff of dust, his bare soles flying behind him as he ran along the beach as if his life depended on it.
Makana sat and smoked a cigarette, listening to the wind thrashing angrily through the sharp, dry fronds overhead and watching the sea patiently striking the beach, pounding as steadily as it had done for millions of years. It would be a while before the boy got back, but the coffee was taking longer than he’d expected. After a while Makana realised something was wrong. He got up and went inside the house. The kitchen was empty. No coffee pot was on the stove. He moved from room to room until he found him. The body swayed back and forth gently in the wind. The man had fashioned a simple noose from a length of nylon fishing cord and hanged himself from a wooden beam at the back of the house. The palm fronds above his head thrashed in a frenzy.
Chapter Forty-three
It was after midnight by the time Makana got back to Cairo. Gaber’s office was in darkness save for the low halo cast by a desk lamp. Makana paused in the doorway for a moment, watching him. The neat waves of white hair were bowed over the paper he was writing on. A wraith of smoke curled languorously from the ashtray at his elbow. He seemed to sense Makana’s presence rather than hear him for he looked up suddenly, the expression of vulnerability on his face immediately remoulding itself into the familiar, impassive mask.
‘Ah, there you are. Come in, please. What a terrible business.’
His eyes swiftly took in the state of Makana. The torn and bloodstained clothes, the scratches on his face.
‘You appear to have been in the thick of the battle.’ Gaber cleared his throat awkwardly.
Makana settled himself down in a big, comfortable leather chair and it felt softer than a feather bed. He resisted the temptation to close his eyes and instead reached for the sandalwood box on the desk without asking. Gaber was there with the heavy gold-plated lighter shaped like a sphinx. Despite the luxury of the upholstery, it was difficult for Makana to sit comfortably. Every inch of his body ached with pain. He sucked in the soothing, rich, foreign tobacco.
‘Have you told him yet?’
‘As you can imagine, he took it badly. The doctor is coming to give him a sedative. I told him I would call him when you got here.’ As Gaber reached for the phone, Makana raised a finger.
‘You might want to wait a moment.’
‘I’m sorry?’ A faint, watery smile crossed Gaber’s face.
‘You need to consider Hanafi’s reaction when he discovers what you were up to.’
In the long silence that followed Gaber aged visibly. He let the receiver fall.
‘I met Daud Bulatt last night.’
Gaber sat back and folded his fingers together.
‘You were there from the start. The ever loyal Gaber, cleaning up the mess. It was your job to make Hanafi respectable. You did it, you worked hard for all those years – and what did you get in reward? Very little. He still treats you with contempt. He humiliates you in front of people. Why? Because he can, because he always could, because he knows you will take it and never complain.’
Gaber stretched out a tapering hand for his own cigarette. He puffed at it for a moment or two before returning it to the ashtray. Reaching into a drawer, he produced a chequebook.
‘You’ve obviously been through a lot. I am sure that Mr Hanafi would want you to be rewarded in full for your services.’
‘That’s it? I take the money and disappear?’
Gaber put down the pen he had lif
ted from the blotter.
‘What is it you want from me?’
‘Nothing. Just answers, that’s all. I’m a curious man, and you’re right, it’s been a long night, so perhaps you will do me the favour of telling me the truth.’
‘What do you want to know?’ Gaber folded his fingers together again on the desk.
‘When we first met, I asked you where you had got my name from. You were very vague, saying something about an old acquaintance. But you never said who exactly.’
‘What are you driving at?’
‘It was Bulatt, wasn’t it? Daud Bulatt gave you my name.’
Gaber reached for another Dunhill from the box, the light bouncing off the mother-of-pearl inlay on the lid. Makana did the same. This time he lit it himself but it tasted just as good, despite the sharp pain that scored itself down his shoulders and back at the movement.
‘You knew him from back in the old days, when he was with Hanafi.’
For a time Gaber sat in silence. A shadow had settled over his face and refused to budge. He lowered his head as if pondering a weighty dilemma. When he looked up it was as if the mask he wore had aged ten years.
‘I devoted the best years of my life to serving Hanafi loyally,’ he said, studying the glowing tip of his cigarette. ‘When I first met him I was a young lawyer from a good family, and Hanafi, well . . . he was a bultagi, a simple thug from the wrong side of the tracks, but he knew more about the world than I ever would, or so it seemed to me. I was young and impressionable. He made his money through extortion. He was everything I had studied law to fight. I had led the pampered life of a middle-class child, spoiled by his parents. I was not as smart as they thought I was. I learned that at university. I knew I would never get the best jobs. But Hanafi gave me an opportunity.’ Gaber sat back and looked at the ceiling. ‘He had everything I lacked . . . power, charisma. He was afraid of nothing and no one. Not even death.’
‘So you turned your skills to defending a criminal.’
Gaber dismissed this with a tut of impatience. ‘He needed me. We were going to change the world, together. He needed someone to turn him into an honest businessman. He wanted to get out of the rackets. He took me under his wing, led me into the darkest corners of society, and I felt safe, protected.’ Defiance glinted in Gaber’s eyes. ‘I built this empire, not him. He has no business sense. He knows how to scare people, how to intimidate them, but he doesn’t understand markets. He doesn’t understand politicians.’
