Dogstar Rising (20 page)

‘And you’re not thinking of sharing this information with Lieutenant Sharqi?’

‘He has informants everywhere, so I don’t doubt he will find out sooner or later. Probably later than sooner though, wouldn’t you think?’

‘And you don’t think it was political?’

‘A Christian woman married to a prominent intellectual and all-round controversial figure? Very possible. You can say what you like in this country, most people have heard it before, but this is not Europe where they are free to burn holy books and crucifixes as they please. Start insulting the Quran and you are touching people in a very private place.’

‘So his wife deserves to be shot?’

‘I didn’t say that. Consider the possibility that she had a lover.’ Okasha’s thick fingers dug into the upholstery as they swerved yet again. The interior of the car was olive green, probably passed on from the army who were never short of funds or equipment thanks to the Americans.

‘You’re not saying the husband carried this out? Then what, a jilted lover?’

‘The criminal mind is a twisted thing, Makana. You ought to know that.’

‘What about the weapon?’

‘Ah, now that is interesting. We have shell casings. Nine millimetre.’ Okasha looked thoughtful for a moment. ‘Sharqi’s men didn’t get all of them. It seems one of them fell into the pocket of a uniformed officer.’

Makana tried lighting a cigarette just as they went over a deep rut. It snapped in two, leaving the filter between his lips and the rest in his fingers. Tight-lipped, the driver said nothing. He clung to the wheel like a jockey with a runaway camel beneath him.

‘Now, listen to me. Sharqi will come to you and ask you to help him.’

Makana tossed the filter out of the window and lit the raggedy end of the cigarette. Flakes of burning tobacco launched themselves into the air.

‘Why would he need my help?’

‘He’s being groomed by Colonel Serrag of State Security Investigations. They are forming a new elite unit. High profile, playing to the crowd. Slow down before you kill us!’ Okasha snapped, brushing embers from his trousers as they were tossed ungainly up and down by yet another bump. The driver remained silent but he did manage to slow to a semi-normal pace. ‘Whatever he tells you, be careful. I can’t help you against someone like Sharqi, and he only cares about getting ahead, up where the air is sweet. So, whatever he promises you, don’t trust him.’

‘What if I give you something Sharqi would kill to know?’

‘Something like what?’ Okasha frowned.

‘The dead boy back there was older than most of the others. About fourteen. And he had a hole cut in his leg by a sharp object.’

‘He cut himself shaving.’

Makana ignored Okasha’s attempt at humour. ‘I think that wound was made by a sliver of window glass that he picked up when I fell over him.’

‘Which means . . . ?’

‘Which means I think he’s the one who shot Meera.’

Chapter Eighteen

When they arrived back at the
awama
, miraculously in one piece, a car Makana had never seen before was parked under the big eucalyptus tree.

‘You have visitors,’ Okasha observed. ‘Bear in mind what I said. Remember who your friends are.’

Makana watched the police car do a U-turn and race back the way it had come.

He made his way down through the vegetable patch to find Mohammed Damazeen waiting impatiently. Mo wore western-style jeans, tan slip-on shoes with little leather tassels instead of laces, and a Midnight Blue raw-silk shirt with a Chinese collar. It made him look like a waiter in a nightclub, or a conjuror about to shake white doves from his sleeves. The car and driver were his. Damazeen, it seemed, had his own ways and means and enough money to sponsor the lifestyle he was accustomed to these days. The only question Makana cared about was what he was doing here, strolling around the deck as if he was planning to buy the
awama
on a whim. Makana rested against the front of the big wooden desk that constituted his office and observed warily as Damazeen cast a rueful eye over the cardboard boxes full of folders and old newspaper clippings – his archives, as it were. A large stain shaped like a frog in the middle of the floor marked the place where water came in through the roof when it rained.

‘You really do live like an old-time sultan,’ mused Damazeen, smiling his crocodile grin, showing enough teeth to make you keep your distance. ‘The sultan of a crumbling empire, whose glory days are behind him, perhaps. Still, you have style, I’ve always said that.’

Makana tried to think of an occasion when he might have said such a thing and failed.

‘I’ve had a long day. What’s this about?’

‘Yes, of course, straight to business. I understand, you are a busy man.’ Sarcasm came naturally to a man whose career, in Makana’s view, was rather cynically built on his skill at promoting himself rather than his artistic abilities. Early on he had discovered a talent for paying compliments and asking favours – another reason most serious painters seemed to hold him in contempt. Soon he was flitting from one biennale to the next, picking up interest from galleries in Europe and wealthy buyers in the Gulf along the way. The West was looking for icons, emblems of their own benevolence. Damazeen was only too happy to oblige. He turned himself into a one-man Africa, flying here and there, shamelessly promoting himself wherever his feet touched the ground. Perhaps his greatest artwork was himself. Most of the people who bought his paintings had no idea that the same elegant man with whom they rubbed shoulders at champagne receptions was picking up fat commissions on military supply contracts in his spare time. Lorries, jeeps, armoured personnel carriers, and eventually arms. The government was fighting a hopeless war in south Sudan at a cost of some three million dollars a day. Plenty of scope for a resourceful man.

‘I need your help. That is what you do, isn’t it, help people?’

‘Why would you need my help? I thought you had plenty of contacts in this town.’

‘It’s true I have substantial business interests in this country, but this matter is of a slightly more delicate nature.’

‘Which is why you came to me?’

With a flourish Damazeen produced a packet of Dunhills, the gold lighter flashing as he lit a cigarette. Makana inhaled the rich smell of expensive imported tobacco. Reaching for his Cleopatras was almost an expression of pride, or humility. He couldn’t decide which.

‘We were friends once.’

‘Were we? I seem to remember you turning your back on your friends in order to go home and make a profit out of war.’

‘I mean before that.’ The smile hadn’t wavered. ‘When I was at the Faculty of Fine Arts at Khartoum University, I used to see a lot of Muna. This was before she was your wife, naturally.’

Makana watched him move out onto the open deck at the back and blow smoke at the stars.

‘Did you know she considered dropping biology and switching to studying arts? No? We had long talks on the subject. We were very close for a time.’

‘That doesn’t change what I said, you and I were never friends.’

‘That’s because you looked down on me. You don’t understand art. It doesn’t fit into your world where everything has to make sense. Well, that’s the point. Sometimes two and two don’t add up to four. They don’t add up at all.’

‘If you came here to give me a lesson in art, you’re wasting your time.’

‘I came here to ask for your help, for old times’ sake.’

‘And I told you, the old times didn’t do you any favours. It’s over and done with, so why don’t you get off my boat?’

Damazeen was leaning on the railing. He studied Makana for a moment. ‘What if I was to tell you this was your chance to get back at Mek Nimr.’

‘What do you know about Mek Nimr?’

‘Quite a lot as it happens.’ Damazeen smiled. He knew he had Makana’s attention now. ‘We were partners at one time, in a business venture. You probably still think of him as an upstart. A man who was once your adjutant, a plodding sergeant in heavy boots. Well, you would be surprised. There is more to him than meets the eye. Did you know he attended Khartoum University? No? He never graduated, of course, he was suspended for political activities. But he was an activist for the Brotherhood. Before that he spent two years studying veterinary science. A farmer, can you imagine?’ Damazeen’s laughter spilled happily across the water. ‘He hails from a remote village in Kordofan, where his father was the sheikh at the local mosque. In another age he would have been educated abroad and brought up to enter the diplomatic service. Perhaps that is why he developed such resentment for those who were more fortunate than him in life.’

‘I’m having trouble seeing how any of this is relevant.’

Damazeen smiled. ‘You have to remember, the days of national salvation are over. This is the new age of pragmatism. You wouldn’t recognise the country. Things have changed. The new oil money has made everyone rich. When I went back I soon found myself swept into the highest circles, among the military men and politicians who are running the country. The Chinese and Malaysians are busy exploiting the petrol and it flows through the hands of these men. They are greedy and they know it will not last for ever.’

‘So you’re making a lot of money,
mabrouk,
now you can leave.’

‘She was a very special woman, Muna. You must miss her a lot, up here in your splendid exile.’ Damazeen’s face was half in shadow, but Makana could tell he was smiling. He was enjoying this. ‘When she first started seeing you we used to tease her. A police officer? What on earth could you have in common? She felt sorry for you. A man whose dedication to his work was all he had to believe in. She thought she could save you from yourself.’

When he went to pick her up at the university he used to change into civilian clothes, but she used to insist that he was handsome in his uniform, that he made the country proud. He never understood what that meant until she said it. He could barely remember her face, all he could recall was her, the way she was.

‘Why have you come here?’

‘I told you, I need your help.’

‘You have a funny way of asking. Right now I’m more inclined to throw you into the water.’

‘We are fighting a war in the south that we cannot win. The soldiers are disillusioned. They don’t know the bush. They just want to go home. To distract people’s minds from the fact the government is calling it a jihad, a holy war. The young men who die in it are martyrs. The president visits the homes of the fallen and calls for a celebration, telling distraught parents their son is now married to
houris
in heaven. Nobody believes that nonsense any more, except a small group of fanatics, like Mek Nimr.’

Makana recalled the hapless figure of his NCO. Underneath the meek exterior lay a shrewd and very dangerous man, as Makana was to find out at his own cost. He made sure that when Makana’s course collided with that of the regime’s new order, his career would be over. Makana was lucky to get away with his life but in the process he lost Muna and his daughter Nasra.

‘Mek Nimr will never be satisfied until you are dead,’ Damazeen went on. ‘He let you get away that night on the bridge, but it is as if he carries you inside him and can never be rid of you.’

Three years ago Makana had run into a dangerous man named Daud Bulatt, who Mek Nimr had sent to kill him. In the end it hadn’t worked out that way, but it was proof that he had not forgotten about Makana. Damazeen was talking again.

‘A large consignment of arms is about to exchange hands. The buyer is a middleman from central Africa. A smart, ruthless and very dangerous man by the name of Assani. The deal is being facilitated by Mek Nimr. He thinks the arms are going to Palestinian freedom fighters. Actually they are being re-routed to the SPLA in south Sudan.’

‘You’re going to double-cross Mek Nimr?’

‘He doesn’t like me. Once he has set his mind against you it is only a matter of time. Better to strike first. The scandal will destroy him. The pious man calling for sacrifice, making money out of the blood of martyrs? He will be finished.’

‘You’d better be sure of what you are doing.’

‘I am, but I need someone along that I can trust. Not just anyone. Someone who understands my motives, someone who has a stake.’

‘I don’t get it. What’s my stake in this?’

‘I said I would give you your life back.’ The gold lighter stuttered as Damazeen again bowed his head to the flame and exhaled slowly. ‘I know you are not interested in my money.’

‘Then what?’

‘Nasra.’

‘My daughter?’ Makana’s heart slowed to a halt. ‘She’s dead.’

‘No.’ Damazeen’s voice had dropped to a whisper. ‘That night on the bridge, when you were trying to escape, the car crashed through the railings and fell into the water.’

Makana saw it as if it had happened yesterday. The car careering across the bridge, away from the army lorry. The jolt as it hit the side and he was thrown clear. Reaching out to try and pull Muna clear, and watching as the car tipped and slowly fell away into the water below.

‘Somehow a pocket of air was trapped inside,’ Damazeen went on. ‘The car landed upside down on a sandbank. The water isn’t too deep there and it didn’t take long for them to drag the car out. Nasra was unconscious, but alive.’