The Burning Gates (30 page)

‘Don’t expect me to answer that.’ Makana sensed deep resentment in him. In a way he felt sorry for Qasim and anyone else whom Zafrani might be building a grudge against.

‘The point is that now we have the Americans looking for this Samurai snake. Any day now a ton of rockets is going to come falling on our heads when they decide to get rid of him.’

‘I thought you were partners.’

‘That’s what I’m trying to tell you. I can’t move against him. My business with Qasim would be over. Those two are old army buddies. No, this has to come from somewhere else.’

‘I’m not sure I follow. What exactly are you asking me?’

‘I’m not asking you anything. I’m saying, if you want to help this girl, she’s yours. All you have to do is get this man off my back.’

‘How do you expect me to do that?’

‘Turn him over to the Americans. Collect the reward. Let them take care of it. I don’t care about the details, I just don’t want it anywhere near me. I don’t want the club involved.’

‘And then you’ll let her go?’

‘All her debts will be cancelled.’

‘What are you going to do with him?’ Makana nodded at Na’il.

‘Like I said,’ Zafrani swung the club, ‘I’m going to send a message.’ He nodded and his men came forward to lead Makana away. ‘Keep me informed.’

Makana turned to walk away. Behind him he heard a scream and the thud of the club. He began walking towards where he thought the exit was. Didi and Bobo fell in behind him. As he walked up towards the light, Makana felt his heart judder back into life again. He didn’t look back.

Chapter Twenty-seven

It had all started with Na’il. Makana could see that now. He must have gone behind Kasabian’s back to Kane and told him that he was working with Samari. There was no other way that Kane could have found out. Na’il. Trying to help the woman he loved, or trying to make a profit out of other people’s business? Always playing both sides to his own advantage. Only somehow it had gone wrong. Kasabian was dead and now, well, Makana didn’t think it looked good for Na’il himself.

The ride back into town proved just as hair-raising as the journey out, with heart-stopping moments roughly every sixty seconds. The driver raced into narrow spaces, braked and jerked the wheel at the last minute. Either he was a very good driver or an idiot who lived a charmed life, Makana couldn’t decide. Sindbad was leaning up against the Thunderbird when they arrived at the awama. Didi and Bobo sized him up through the car window as if he were a potential opponent.

‘Who are your new friends?’ Sindbad was using the roof of the car as a table to eat his snack. A sandwich the size of his forearm.

‘Ayad Zafrani’s men,’ explained Makana.

They stood back as the SUV lurched out into the afternoon traffic and sped away. Makana looked at his watch.

‘We’d better go,’ he said.

The Khan al-Khalili was the familiar mix of the quaint and the gaudy. Some of the shops were no larger than wardrobes. Shelves crammed with artefacts of every shape and form. Semi-precious stones alongside painted wood. The eyes of innumerable gods gazed out in astonishment at the people who wandered by in droves, like pilgrims flocking to an ancient site of worship. Kids followed tourists as doggedly as puppies looking for a home. They waved painted papyrus sheets desperately in the hope that they might wear down their resolve. Some succeeded, others were swatted away like flies. In the cafés the visitors tried to look like old hands as they suckled waterpipes or sipped sweet mint tea.

Between the two sides there was a mutual recognition that neither would ever really understand the other. To the tourists the locals represented a way of life they were happy to view from a distance, so long as it was temporary and they had a seat secured on a plane out of here in the not too distant future. The local vendors on the other hand were content to smile and play the jester if it encouraged sales. Beyond that, and the universal sexual appeal of the occasional beauty, the Europeans, Americans, Japanese and all the rest of them might just as well have landed from another planet. It wasn’t just the way they dressed or talked, it was the mere idea of having enough time and money to travel the globe at leisure to see how other people lived. To them it was a crazy idea. Why bother to travel when you already lived in the greatest country in the world?

Fishawi’s was an icon of the bazaar. Though not much more than a shortcut, an alleyway with sagging divans and run-down furniture, it had a touch of the old Arabian Nights about it and drew the tourists in like hungry flies, eager to soak up something of the ‘genuine’ atmosphere they had come so far to savour. That is if they happened to believe that Old Cairo was occupied by backpackers and middle-aged travellers in cargo pants, every one of them born with a camera and a knapsack strapped to their bodies.

Zachary Kane was dressed likewise, still in character as Charles Barkley, art dealer, or so it would seem. He was seated alone at a table halfway down. The waiter was setting out coffee for him. He looked up as Makana approached.

‘Ah, perfect timing,’ he smiled, gesturing at the chair opposite him. ‘Will you have something? I just ordered one of those water-pipes.’ Makana asked the waiter to bring him coffee with little sugar. ‘What a great language. Just the sound of it.’

‘I called your hotel only to learn that you are no longer staying at the Marriott.’

Kane gave a theatrical sigh. ‘What can I say? I’m afraid I was so disturbed by the tragic death of our mutual friend. Your words of warning hit home and I decided to change my location without delay. I’m sure you understand. After all, that is what you and your inspector friend were saying the other day, was it not? To take precautions? To be careful.’

The waiter appeared to set up the shisha. He unwrapped the pipe and set glowing coals onto the bowl before handing it to Kane.

‘As I understand it you left so fast you forgot to pay your bill. The manager is a very worried man.’

‘A misunderstanding. The money should have been wired from our New York office. It really wouldn’t surprise me if there was a delay. Frankly, I am astonished at the way things are run in this country.’

‘These are hard times,’ said Makana, wondering how long Kane would keep this up.

‘I consider myself a prudent man, Mr Makana, and since I have no idea how long this trip is going to be drawn out, I felt it made sense to move somewhere a little more modest.’ Kane blew clouds of perfumed smoke into the air. ‘This country seems to feel it is open season on tourists. Costs are prohibitive, even by New York standards.’

Makana watched him carefully.

‘Perhaps it would help if we dropped the games.’

‘As you wish. Have you made progress?’

‘I believe so, but perhaps not in the way you had hoped.’

Kane cocked his head to one side. There was a slight hardening in his eyes. He set down the long pipe stem on the table.

‘Perhaps you’d care to tell me what you mean.’

‘I’ll get to that, but there are a couple of things that we need to straighten out first.’

‘I see.’

‘This may not mean much to a worldly man like yourself, but I have certain standards. I don’t like being deceived. In other words, I like to know who I’m working for.’

‘That sounds perfectly reasonable.’

‘That’s how I feel.’ Makana took a moment to glance casually up and down the narrow lane. He spotted two of them. The blond one, Hagen, and the Latino, Santos. They were seated at a table in the back, trying to look like tourists. They even had a guidebook they were pretending to study. Out of the way, but close enough to arrive in a hurry if needed. ‘So, in this case, as I say, we seem to have a problem.’

Kane folded his arms. ‘What exactly is it you think you know, Mr Makana?’

‘Well, first of all I know that your name is not Charles Barkley. It’s Zachary Kane. I know that you didn’t come to Cairo alone.’ Makana nodded in the general direction of the two other Americans. ‘And I have a fairly good idea that you’re not an art dealer.’

Kane sat back and smiled. ‘I hope this isn’t some elaborate strategy to try and raise the value of your services?’

‘It’s not about the money.’

The waiter paused as he went by to deposit the coffee. Kane waited until he was out of earshot. He held up his hands.

‘Look, we seem to have some kind of misunderstanding here. I can see how you might feel a little ticked off that I haven’t been entirely honest with you, but there’s a reason.’

‘Well, I’m happy to hear it.’

‘There’s always a reason.’ Kane’s smile faded. He leaned forward and spoke urgently. ‘Okay, cards-on-the-table time. You’ve obviously done your homework, so I’ll level with you. But I must warn you that what I have to tell you is confidential. You cannot breathe a word of this to anyone. Is that understood?’ Kane paused to make sure Makana was following him. ‘We’re on a special mission, to extract Samari and take him back.’

‘Back to Iraq?’ Makana raised his eyebrows.

‘I know how it looks and I apologise for having deceived you. It’s a grey area. He’s wanted for human rights abuses. But officially, the US cannot operate in this country without the government’s permission. Egypt is an ally. That’s why they hire us for this kind of job. We’re cheaper, partly because we rely on local operatives like yourself.’ Kane allowed himself a smile.

‘Quite a story.’

‘It’s a delicate business. We’re flying low, under the radar so to speak.’

‘So the Egyptian government doesn’t know what you are doing?’

Kane shook his head. ‘We can’t just come storming in. People here are touchy. There’s a lot of opposition to the war. You’ve seen the demonstrations on the streets. The Egyptians aren’t too happy about the US presence in Iraq. We have to tread carefully.’

‘So what happens to him once you get him back there?’ Makana sipped his coffee.

‘Well, the usual things. I mean, he’ll be processed and tried.’ Kane gave Makana a stern look. ‘He’s not a nice man.’

‘It’s a fine story, but it doesn’t explain why you killed Kasabian.’

Kane said nothing for a moment. He reached for the shisha and sucked on it, blowing clouds into the air for a time.

‘What makes you think I killed him?’ He had a crooked grin on his face. ‘I mean, don’t you need evidence before you start throwing accusations of murder around?’

‘There is one witness, a man named Na’il. Maybe you remember him? He rides a yellow motorcycle.’

‘If you say so.’

‘Well, you’d remember him because he’s the one who came to you and told you that Kasabian was taking you for a ride. He worked for Kasabian, which is how he found out about what was going on. He was probably a little annoyed that he hadn’t been given the job of finding Samari. Who knows? Maybe he thought he could make more on the side selling that information to you.’

‘Why would he do something like that?’

Makana held his hands out wide. ‘Rich Americans come to town and everyone expects to get paid.’

Kane nodded. ‘Never underestimate people’s capacity for greed.’

‘Kasabian tried to cheat you, and I have a feeling, Mr Kane, that you’re not the kind of man who likes being cheated.’

Kane returned the pipe stem to the table slowly.

‘I don’t know how it works in this damn country, but you were hired to provide information. Where I come from, if a man takes an advance for a job he’s obliged to see it through. It’s an unwritten contract, if you like. You can’t just turn around and start asking questions. You were hired to find Samari.’

‘Mr Kasabian hired me. I don’t know what happens in your world when the person who hired you is brutally murdered, but over here we tend to take that kind of thing personally. Loyalty to our masters. It goes back a long way.’

Kane laughed. ‘You’re not kidding are you? That’s why you’re stuck in this dump making chump change finding lost souls.’ He weighed the long padded stem of the waterpipe in his hands. ‘Do you really think anyone cares about who killed Kasabian? Look around you. This is a city of eighteen million people. Most of them don’t have running water or toilets that flush. You think they give a damn about the death of some fancy art dealer? I don’t think so.’

‘The police are very keen to find out who murdered Kasabian. I’m sure they would be most interested to know that it was a private contractor hired by the US government.’

‘You’re persistent, I’ll give you that.’

‘There’s too much at stake for me,’ said Makana. ‘You can leave when this is over, but someone around here is going to have to pick up the pieces. I don’t want that person to be me.’

‘I understand, believe me, I do.’ Kane kept his eyes on Makana. ‘But I have to tell you, you’re making a classic mistake.’

‘What mistake is that?’

‘You’re not seeing the big picture.’ Kane fell silent as a group of tourists wandered by, led by a high-voiced woman holding up a red umbrella and speaking what might have been German. ‘How do you think Samari has survived so long in this country? He has protection.’

‘Samari had no reason to kill Aram Kasabian. They were partners. The art world is not an easy place to understand. Samari needed someone who could sell the stolen pieces he had. He needed Kasabian.’