Dogstar Rising (35 page)

‘A broken . . . Look,’ Bassam tried to rise from the floor, but Sindbad shoved him back down.

‘The only way you are going to walk off this boat in one piece is if you help me find those men.’

Bassam licked his lips. His eyes darted round until it came to him. ‘I can call them. I still have the number.’ He fumbled in his pockets to produce a scrap torn from a cigarette packet with a number scrawled on it. Trembling, he held it out. Makana made no effort to take it.

‘You’re going to call them right now. Tell them you want more money. The police are asking more questions and you’re scared.’

‘They’re not going to believe that.’

‘You have to make them believe it. Tell them you need to meet them tonight, quickly, in one hour. You’ll come to them. Just ask them where, is that clear?’

Bassam’s eyes darted between the scrap of paper and Makana and Sindbad. He had the mournful look of a puppy. After a time he swore and went over to lift the telephone on the desk. He dialled the number and spoke for a while before replacing the receiver.

‘Okay, it’s done.’

‘Where are you supposed to go?’ asked Makana, relieving Bassam of the paper with the number on it.

‘A place in Imbaba called Al Madina. Can I go now? Only I—’

‘You’ll go when he says so,’ Sindbad cut him off. ‘You caused a man to be crucified. We ought to do the same to you.’

Bassam’s eyes widened. ‘I swear by Allah I never knew—’

‘Call Aziza up,’ Makana said. ‘You’re going to give this money to her and then you are going to say goodbye to your sister and lead us to this place. After that we’ll drop you off at the station and you can take the bus back to wherever you came from.’

‘Of course.’ Bassam struggled to his feet. ‘I will do exactly what you say.’

The money was handed to a rather astonished Aziza, who said nothing, simply took herself off quietly. They left Bassam to say his goodbyes and pack his things. As they waited in the Datsun Sindbad felt the need to speak his mind.

‘Pardon me,
ya basha
, but I swear you let that dog off too easily.’

‘Possibly, but if he manages to lead us to the ones who did this it will be worth it.’

The two of them watched as three black SUVs raced towards them out of the darkness, sirens wailing and blue lights flashing. They skidded to a halt around them. Sindbad raised his hands in surrender, the way they do in cowboy films.

Chapter Thirty-Three

‘Get rid of the cigarette and get in. Leave the gorilla behind,’ said Lieutenant Sharqi.

Makana did as he was told. The car smelled new. Leather and plastic with a weirdly artificial blend of aromas designed to make you think of pine forests in some distant wonderland, but instead put you in mind of a laboratory somewhere underground where they had never seen a tree. Doors clattered shut all around him and they moved off in a smooth convoy, travelling fast. Flashing lights and sirens cleared the way. They raced down to the riverside, shouldering aside an old Russian Volga gushing black smoke like a runaway volcano. The driver was an old man, who ducked his head as they went by. His wife sat rigidly upright, staring ahead of her. Sharqi turned around in the front seat and held up a sleep mask of the type they give you on aeroplanes.

‘Put this on.’

‘Is this really necessary?’

Sharqi didn’t even dignify the question with an answer. He waited until Makana had placed the mask over his eyes before turning around again. With his eyes covered Makana felt the car accelerate. He felt as though he was flying through darkness, towards what he couldn’t say, but away from finding the people who had crucified Sami. Bassam would be long gone by the time he got back, which left him with a telephone number and not much else.

With the sirens off they drove for another ten minutes before slowing and coming to a halt. He reckoned they hadn’t crossed the river, which meant they were on the outskirts of Dokki somewhere, where exactly he couldn’t say. State Security had plenty of clandestine outposts in and around the city. Apartment buildings with no markings or signs to say what they were. Neighbours might see cars coming and going but they would know better than to ask. No one would really know what went on inside. That was part of the problem. Once things had become that secret the line between what was legally sanctioned by the state and what was not dissolved into abstraction. This was the grey zone, a blind spot into which a person could disappear as completely as they might on the dark side of the moon.

The cars came to a halt inside a driveway and the door opened. A hand reached inside to take Makana’s elbow. Someone guided him up a flight of stairs and through a series of locked doors. He heard buzzers and bells. The hum of a lift. The sleep mask was removed as the doors slid open and he found himself facing a windowless corridor. A hand propelled him to the right and a man in a light-blue shirt blocked his path and indicated for him to raise his hands.

At the far end another corridor branched left, through a heavily reinforced security door. Sharqi rang a bell and they waited for a guard to emerge from a side door with a key on a chain. They went through an opening in the wall and stepped into the adjacent building. It was a labyrinth constructed in plain sight. From the outside it was two adjacent apartment buildings. Here were rows of windows with bars across them, presumably to stop anyone jumping out. People came and went, all of them in plain clothes. No uniforms or insignia but faces that you might pass on the street and not think twice about except for the way their eyes followed you. He looked at the faces and tried to imagine them as schoolchildren. When had they discovered they possessed a natural affinity for deception? Inevitably Mek Nimr sprang to mind. Who better to epitomise that combination of envy, hatred, and the desire to inflict pain? Was he being fair, or was he taking liberties with the facts? Since the moment when Damazeen had told him his daughter was alive, Makana had felt something come undone inside him. Where would it lead, this unravelling thread?

The hallway was lined with rooms now converted into offices, interrogation cells, archives full of personal information about the lives of countless men and women, most of whom were blissfully ignorant of the fact they had a file in here. Makana wondered if somewhere in this maze there was a file with his name on it. He saw desks and heavy typewriters, telephones, metal filing cabinets and fax machines. A man came out of a storeroom carrying a tape recorder under one arm. He nodded a greeting to Sharqi as he shut the door behind him and locked it. They arrived at an open-plan area of desks, many of them empty. The few that weren’t were occupied by bored-looking men staring at computer screens. They barely looked up as the little procession filed through.

Lieutenant Sharqi’s office was small and windowless. On the top of a row of grey cabinets rested a blue baseball cap with the letters FBI stitched onto it in yellow. Behind this on the wall was a framed photograph showing a proud Sharqi wearing a T-shirt bearing the same letters. He was flanked by two men, presumably Americans, dressed similarly. They all wore broad smiles.

‘FBI summer training camp,’ said Sharqi as he slipped off his jacket and placed it on a wire hanger that hung from a hook on the wall. ‘One of the best experiences of my life.’

Makana looked for an ashtray and saw none.

‘My brothers all run car franchises, clothes outlets, quality products. My father was appalled when I told him I was staying in the army after doing my military service.’ Sharqi went behind the desk and sat down. ‘I was good at it. I knew that. I joined the paratroops and scored the highest of any trainee in the last ten years. It took me a long time to persuade my father to accept my choice, but now he says he is proud of me.’

‘Patriotism is overrated.’

‘How would you know? You’re a stateless person. You go back home and they will bury you in a dark hole.’

‘I take it there is a point to this touching story of yours?’

Sharqi inclined his head in the direction of the picture of him and the FBI boys. ‘When you go to America, you see how things work. The way they think. They love their country, just like we love Egypt. But it’s more than that. They believe in the
idea
of America.’

‘What idea is that?’

‘The idea of freedom and equality, that all men are born equal.’

‘And you’re worried that it might catch on in this country?’

Sharqi rocked back in his chair. ‘You think you’re clever, don’t you? I know your type. You don’t believe in anything.’

‘And you do?’

‘The point is,’ Sharqi said slowly, as if speaking to an idiot, ‘that this country is not ready for democracy yet. If elections were held tomorrow who do you think would win?’ As he spoke he reached down to unlock a drawer in his desk and produced a clear plastic bag. A strong one, probably standard issue in the FBI, here it was probably reused. It contained an automatic pistol. He set it down on the table between them.

‘Our bearded brothers. And what would they do? Overnight, they would take us back to the Middle Ages. I don’t need to tell you this because you came here to get away from exactly that in your country. We’re on the same side, you and me.’

‘And which side is that exactly?’

Sharqi tapped the pistol in front of him. ‘Do you know what this is?’

‘The gun that murdered Meera Hilal.’

‘Very good. Now, try to be a bit more specific.’

Makana took a closer look. It was a Marra. A version of the Czech CZ
75
semi-automatic handgun. It was manufactured exclusively at the Military Industry Corporation’s centre at the Al-Shagara Industrial Complex, about an hour’s drive from Makana’s old home in Khartoum. They made all kinds of small arms, based on German or Chinese specifications, using machinery built in Iran. Sharqi leaned towards Makana.

‘You follow me, right? The gun which killed Meera Hilal came from a factory just across the border in your home country. Some would say that’s quite a coincidence.’

‘Some would say it means nothing at all.’

‘They might, it’s true. So let’s look at the facts.’

‘If you looked at the facts you would have to drop the idea that this was some kind of terrorist attack and hand the case over to Okasha. Unless, of course, it suits you to keep it that way.’

Sharqi rocked his chair back until his shoulders were touching the wall. ‘I have a file on you, Makana, which is full of interesting information, and a lot of gaps.’

‘Gaps?’

‘Missing pieces. Like, for example, your past. Nobody really knows what you were up to before you came here. We are told you were a police inspector and that you were forced to flee for your life. It’s a nice story, only we can’t check it. There is no information on exactly what you had to flee from.’ Sharqi locked his fingers together behind his head. ‘Let’s look at the facts we have: two years ago there was an explosion at a resort on the Red Sea. A Russian man named Vronsky and five of his associates were killed. Thirteen people injured, some of them badly. The only person to walk away in one piece was you. I find that interesting, don’t you?’

‘Fascinating.’

‘That bomb was set off by a jihadi terrorist, Daud Bulatt, a veteran of the Afghan war, who has vowed to bring down this government and just happened to be hiding across the border in your home country. Another coincidence? His present whereabouts are unknown, unless you have any ideas? You remember Daud Bulatt, don’t you?’

Makana didn’t bother to answer. In the wake of the explosion in Vronsky’s villa, he had found himself face-to-face with Bulatt. Sharqi wasn’t expecting an answer. All Makana was required to do was sit back and maybe applaud.

‘And now here you are, a hero according to the newspapers, in the midst of a case that has exposed the religious tensions in this country.’

‘Have you considered the possibility that you are looking at this the wrong way round?’

Sharqi stared blankly at Makana, who felt obliged to go on.

‘I mean. Perhaps this attack was designed specifically to try and raise tensions. Some people do benefit from this.’

‘Who benefits?’ A smile appeared on Sharqi’s face. ‘You mean this is all part of a plot. That actually there is no problem between Muslim and Christian in this country?’

‘It’s worth considering.’ Makana lit a cigarette. He no longer cared about ashtrays. ‘It certainly makes more sense than the argument of where the weapon comes from. Would you suspect Americans if a Colt was used? Russians if it was a Klashnikov?’

‘You know very well that I am talking about your friend Damazeen’s gun running.’

‘I know nothing about any such thing.’

‘Which is why you ate dinner with him the other night,’ said Sharqi. From another drawer he produced a heavy ashtray with ‘Quantico, Virginia’ embossed in gold letters along the side. ‘Look,’ he said, leaning forward to rest his elbows on the desk, ‘I’m not trying to make your life difficult. I am saying nothing gets done in this country without the right kind of friends.’

‘Is that what we are – friends?’

‘Someone like you could be very useful to us. And in return, I could be useful to you. Frankly, Okasha’s influence is limited.’

‘And if I refuse?’ Makana tapped ash on the floor.