The Golden Scales (13 page)

‘Salim Farag. Come in, come in. So, you work for Hanafi, eh?’

His manner was breezy and over-familiar. He stood so close there was nowhere for Makana to move. The furniture in this office was crammed together and strewn with all manner of items. Farag reared back abruptly, his thick eyebrows clamping together like a vice.

‘You’re not a lawyer are you?’ When Makana shook his head, the jelly-like face relaxed again. ‘No, you don’t look like a lawyer. I’m generally an excellent judge of people. Please, sit. Tell me what I can do for you.’

Makana looked around. Farag lifted a heap of paper from a chair and then lost his grip and the whole pile toppled over on to the already overloaded sofa by the wall.

‘It’s about Adil Romario.’

‘Why didn’t you say so?’ Farag chuckled heartily. ‘What kind of trouble has my friend got himself into this time?’

‘I was hoping you might be able to tell me,’ said Makana.

The man’s hand froze in mid-air, halfway towards the cigar that lay smouldering in an empty film can which stood in for an ashtray on his desk.

‘Not a lawyer, eh?’ His tone changed as he retrieved the cheap cigar, scrutinising Makana through quick, nervous puffs of smoke. ‘So, you’re one of Hanafi’s dogs come to scare me off?’

‘You sound as if you were expecting him to send someone.’

‘Don’t play games with me.’ Farag leaned forward and pointed a finger at him. ‘Let me tell you, I don’t scare easily.’

‘I’m not playing games, so why don’t you cut out the melodrama?’

‘Who exactly are you?’ Farag’s sagging lower lip quivered like a dog’s.

‘I told you, I’m working for Hanafi.’

‘Anyone can claim to be working for Hanafi.’

‘All you have to do is pick up that phone and call him.’

Farag stared at the phone as if it was a venomous snake coiled to strike. He made no attempt to touch it. Makana looked around him. It was hard to believe anything creative came out of this place, much less any films.

‘I’m curious, what exactly is going on between you and Adil?’

‘I don’t see how that’s any of your business, but it’s no mystery. We’re business partners.’

‘Why would someone like Adil Romario go into partnership with you?’

If he took offence, Farag didn’t show it. Maybe he was used to such remarks.

‘Adil wants to get out of the game. Every player has to eventually. He’s twenty-eight. In a couple of years his knees will start to go. Adil has been playing since he was a kid. And besides, there’s no money in football, not real money.’

‘His face is plastered everywhere. He must be doing all right.’

‘All of that is peanuts.’ Farag gave a nonchalant wave of a hefty hand bearing a fake Rolex whose gold effect was tarnished. ‘The real money is in movies.’

Makana looked around him for something he might have overlooked. The gloomy, cluttered room, the worn furniture, the dusty piles of paper . . . Whatever Farag’s game was, it didn’t look as though finding money, real or otherwise, was exactly one of his strong points.

‘Try to see it from my point of view. Hanafi is concerned. I need to give him something.’

This reminder caused Farag to reconsider. He swallowed with difficulty, took the cigar from his mouth and examined it.

‘This isn’t like growing okra and sticking it in bags,
enta fahim
?’

‘I understand, but I need to know if you have any idea where Adil might be right now.’

‘Look, I’m not his mother. Adil is a grown boy. He can take care of himself.’

Makana tried another tack. He nodded up at the grubby posters on the walls, none of which looked a day under thirty years old.

‘You really think Adil could make it?’

‘Sure.’ Farag grinned, cheering up. ‘Why not? He’s a good-looking man, and there are girls out there who would do anything for a film star, you understand?’

‘I get the picture. So, tell me, were you actually working on something, or is this just more cigar smoke?’

‘Oh, yes, indeed.’ Farag sat up, as if he had hooked a live one. ‘We have a script. We even shot a few scenes. Want to see?’ Perhaps he thought Hanafi might invest in his hopeless project. He began rummaging about until he came up with a remote control. A screen to Makana’s right hummed into life. There was a whirring sound and a series of clicks. Unsteady lines chased each other vertically until they eventually settled into something like an image. Makana could make out two girls who appeared to be fondling one another on a bed. There was a muttered curse, followed by the whirr of the tape fast forwarding. Then more clicks and clunks.

‘Ah, yes, here we are.’

This time the image was of a room in a brightly lit house. Sunlight flashed in the distance off something shiny. The camera panned rather inexpertly around the room.

‘Is that Adil’s house?’

‘No, it belongs to Vronsky . . . one of my production partners. Ah, here it is.’

Makana turned his attention back to the screen as a door opened and Adil Romario entered. He was tall and slim and dressed in a crisp white shirt and jeans. He wasn’t striking, but probably good-looking enough to be considered handsome. But as far as his thespian skills were concerned, he left a lot to be desired. Removing his sunglasses, he moved around the room in an awkward, self-conscious fashion. He seemed to be going through the motions like a man in a trance. He appeared to be looking for something – opening drawers, etcetera. There was a sound behind him and he spun around, eyes wide in theatrical alarm. The bad acting was distorted by the shaky image, as if filmed by someone with a bad case of delirium tremens. Makana had a feeling he knew who the cameraman was and a brief sweep past a mirror confirmed that it was indeed Farag himself. The woman who had just appeared in shot was slight and young and quite beautiful. She was holding a pistol like it might bite her.

‘What are you doing here?’ she demanded, rather uncertainly.

‘I’ve come for what is owed to me.’ Adil Romario delivered his lines with all the energy of a tired man ordering a sandwich in a snack bar. He moved into a lengthy monologue, most of which he got straight. It wasn’t much of a monologue to begin with, but it was delivered in the wooden staccato of a man who has difficulty reading from a sheet of paper.

‘Who’s the girl?’ Makana asked.

‘Mimi Maliki. She’s new. Hasn’t really made it yet. She will, though. Look at that face!’

Farag was enthralled by his own work, staring at the screen with rapt attention, the slack mouth hanging open, cigar forgotten.

Makana found himself drawn in by this fleeting glimpse of his quarry. He scoured every movement, every gesture, in Romario’s underwhelming performance, in search of some clue as to what was going on inside his head. He saw an angry young man determined to turn himself into a god of the screen. Having no natural talent might not be much of a hindrance to someone who was already a big star. Adil Romario had his face impressed on the hearts of his adoring public already, which made Makana wonder why he wanted to go to all this trouble? He clearly didn’t enjoy acting. So why do it? Was it just the money? And why here of all places?

‘How do I get in touch with this Mimi?’

‘Oh, I’m sorry. I can’t help you there. A professional matter.’

‘I could make it worth your while.’ Makana reached for the envelope.

‘It’s not a matter of money. It’s simply the principle of it.’

Farag didn’t strike Makana as someone to whom principles meant a great deal. His attention was drawn back to the screen as a voice shouted ‘Cut’. The tape ran on a little further as the camera continued to roll, apparently forgotten. It panned around the room dizzily, obviously dangling in the hand of the director, affording a fleeting glimpse of the sea in the distance. As it vanished, Makana caught a brief glimpse of another woman. She was standing back in a doorway as if trying not to intrude. It wasn’t clear if she was part of the set-up. She was dressed in a dark skirt and white blouse that resembled a maid’s uniform. Then the screen went dark.

‘Not bad, eh? You see what I mean?’

‘I’m not really an expert.’ Makana got to his feet and handed one of his cards across the desk. ‘I’d like you to call me if you hear from Adil.’

Farag grinned, revealing teeth stained the colour of corn. ‘Anything for Mr Hanafi,’ he said thickly.

‘Oh, and do you think I could borrow that tape for a few days?’

‘Please, be my guest.’ Farag rattled it out of the machine. ‘I have plenty of copies.’

Makana glanced at the receptionist as they went by. She looked away quickly.

Chapter Ten

Across the street from Farag’s office was a news stand where a man was serving tea and coffee through a narrow, blackened hole chipped in the wall. He had a telephone that worked, perched on the ledge. The plaster round the aperture was stained black from being continually rubbed by human hands, and from the countless cups of coffee and tea that had been passed through it. Makana dialled his home number and accessed his telephone messages. There was one from Soraya Hanafi asking if they could meet. Another from Okasha, who wanted him to call as soon as he got the message. When Makana finally got through it sounded as though he was inside a speeding squad car.

‘You took your time,’ yelled Okasha above the siren.

‘What’s the problem?’

‘I am going to ask you a favour which you cannot refuse me.’

‘You haven’t told me what it is yet.’

‘It doesn’t matter. You still can’t refuse me . . . this is about your girlfriend from Aswani’s. Two detectives are arriving from Scotland Yard in London.’

‘I don’t understand,’ said Makana. ‘She was in the police?’

‘No, but her father is a lord or something. Now, listen to me – one dead Englishwoman is enough of a headache without adding in politics. Anyway, the point is, you have to be there.’

‘You don’t need me.’

‘Already you have saved my face by telling me about the disappearance of her child. And besides, you speak English better than any of my fool assistants. It’s nothing, just a formality. They will fly in, look down their noses at us for a while, and then write their predictable reports saying our methods are as ancient as the pyramids.’

‘I still don’t see . . .’

‘You don’t have to see, you just have to be there. The point is to make a good impression.’

The area around the Hilton Hotel in Tahrir Square was strangely quiet, considering it was midday and that this ought to have been the high season for tourists. Across the street a single bus pulled up to the National Museum and disgorged a handful of intrepid figures. As he got out of his taxi Makana saw Okasha coming towards him, one finger raised. ‘So, tell me this, if her father is a lord and whatnot, why stay in a cheap hotel and not here? These things don’t happen in the Hilton.’

‘Maybe she wanted to be closer to the Egyptian people.’

‘Look at that.’ Okasha nodded at a pack of small boys rushing up to surround a solitary Westerner who had emerged from the hotel. They were all yapping and waving sheets of papyrus at him. ‘A year ago they would have charged you ten pounds a picture. Nowadays you can get ten for one pound.’ The besieged man tried to flee, first one way and then the other, panic replacing his confidence as he gave up and hastily retreated into the hotel.

The lobby was deserted. A couple of Chinese in padded jackets were smoking and smiling, taking photographs of one another against the backdrop of the river, while a French group were drinking coffee and gesticulating wildly. Other than that the atmosphere was strangely muted, as if everyone was waiting for something to happen. The waiters stood around in listless pairs, having given up trying to look busy.

‘It’s ironic.’ Okasha swept imperiously past the metal detector with a perfunctory salute. ‘It couldn’t be safer in this country right now, but people are still too scared to come.’

‘You can’t really blame them.’

Barely two months had elapsed since the worst terrorist attack on record had taken place in Luxor in Upper Egypt. A group of armed men ran into the Temple of Hatshepsut and massacred sixty-two people, most of them tourists. They gunned them down, eviscerating and decapitating a couple of them for good measure, before running for the hills. Security forces managed to gun down as many people as were killed by the attackers. The radicals were later discovered in a cave nearby. They were seated in a circle after apparently having carried out some kind of suicide ritual. The number of foreign visitors to Egypt had plummeted since then, causing a severe slump in the tourism sector.

‘In a way they made our job easier,’ said Okasha. ‘Everyone hates the Islamists now.’

Take the food from people’s tables and they will turn on you pretty quickly. If the Nile was the lifeblood of the country, the ancient temples which dotted its banks put bread on the table for some eight million of its citizens. The upside was that the Luxor attacks appeared to be a last-ditch attempt by a group which already felt their cause had been marginalised. The previous year the government had offered an amnesty to some of the twenty thousand Islamists being held in prison, in an attempt to alleviate the problem. Too little, too late, some warned. But nobody was planning to let their guard down, least of all Okasha who took the task of hunting down militants as his own personal mission in life.