The Golden Scales (18 page)

Watching him now, sitting at a card table in the casino of the Semiramis Hotel, Makana saw that Guido Clemenza certainly did not look like a happy man. He was losing. The croupier raked in the chips and prepared the shoe for another round. It was an odd crowd in the casino, mostly foreigners, guests at the hotel, outsiders. Makana imagined it was like that most nights. A few Westerners, and a lot of Arabs, Malays, Chinese. They stood chatting at the bar, or wandered around to see what was happening at the other tables. Getting in had not been easy for him. The door was guarded by a jackal of a man with the flat, emotionless gaze of a seasoned criminal. He was wearing a tuxedo so shiny with wear that it might have been painted with varnish. It made Makana feel a little better about his own clothes. He was wearing his best suit, which had clearly seen better days.

‘No access for Egyptian nationals,’ the man said, holding up a hand to bar his entrance.

‘I’m not here to gamble,’ said Makana, reaching into his jacket pocket to flash one of Okasha’s visiting cards, of which he had assembled a small collection over the years. An involuntary twitch crossed the doorman’s face at the sight of the police insignia. He stepped aside, tilting his head for Makana to pass.

There was something distinctly sleazy about the casino, despite the care that had gone into setting it up. Everything, from the fake pillars and plastic vines round the entrance arch, to the waiters circulating with trays of drinks and the croupiers spinning the roulette wheel or dealing out the cards on the green baize-covered tables, felt off-key. Underneath the façade of sophistication was a hard, ugly edge, and Makana felt an unusual sense of moral repugnance asserting itself inside him. Still, the name of the game was separating fools from their money. Anyone foolish enough to come in here deserved everything they got, or rather lost. It was all a charade, the fancy waiters and the obsequious manners, all infused with deceit. Over on one table a pair of loud Iraqi men and their respective women were throwing money down in a doomed bid to outdo one another. Their luck was about to end. A tall croupier wearing white gloves tapped his younger colleague on the shoulder and quietly relieved him. The Iraqis didn’t pay much attention, oblivious to the fact that they were about to start losing.

Clemenza, perhaps sensing that his own chances were diminishing, decided to take a break. He got up from the table and went over to the bar where he ordered himself a drink. He was dressed in an expensive linen suit with a pink shirt and a wide blue silk tie. He perfectly fitted the role of a rather vulgar Italian playboy. As he raised his glass he caught sight of Makana in the mirror behind the bar. He even managed to raise a smile as he turned towards him, though there was about as much warmth in it as in the ice cubes in his glass.

‘Not the kind of place I would have expected to find you.’

‘No.’ Makana glanced about him. ‘Nor me.’

Clemenza chuckled to himself as he sipped his drink. ‘Always it is
teatro
with you people. Why does everyone in this country play a game of masks?’

‘I thought you were here out of love?’

The Italian snorted. ‘I would leave tomorrow if I could.’

‘What’s stopping you?’

Clemenza’s chilly eyes were tinged with red. ‘What do you want from me this time?’

‘I’m just curious. With hobbies like this, Hanafi must be paying you a good salary.’

‘It’s none of your business, but yes, he pays me well enough,’ said Clemenza, turning to lean wearily against the bar. ‘And besides, the idea is that you win.’

‘From what I hear, you haven’t been doing a lot of that lately.’

‘Everyone goes through rough patches,’ he said, casting an eye over Makana’s worn suit. ‘But then I expect a man like you knows all about that.’

‘With your current run of luck you probably could do with a little bonus.’ Makana gestured round the room. ‘To fund your gambling habit.’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘How much commission would you make on a transfer deal for Adil?’

‘That old nonsense! Anyone in this room will tell you he is not good enough for that.’

‘For a man who could arrange the outcome of matches before they even took place, a transfer deal for someone like Adil Romario shouldn’t present too much of a problem.’

Clemenza’s nostrils flared. ‘I was cleared of all charges.’

‘You were suspended, which is why you went abroad, which is how you ended up here.’

Setting down his glass, Clemenza snapped his fingers impatiently at the bartender for another. When it came, he lifted the glass and took a long, deep draught, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

‘Just where did Hanafi find you? Ask yourself why he went to all that trouble when he could pick up a phone and have any of the top men in the country at his service. Why did he pick you?’

‘Maybe because he knew I couldn’t be bought off.’

Clemenza chuckled, shaking his head as he raised his glass again. Across the room the tall croupier turned away from the card table, handing it back to the younger man who had been managing it before him. The Iraqis were rather more subdued now, having lost most of their chips. They gathered up their things and moved off towards the roulette table, looking sombre. Clemenza caught the eye of the older croupier, who removed his white gloves and ran the tip of his index finger over his moustache, watching Makana, his face impassive. Whispering a word of advice to his relief, he approached them.

‘Is everything all right, sir?’ he asked Clemenza, his eyes not straying from Makana.

‘It’s fine, but I’m afraid my friend here is feeling unwell. He is about to leave.’

The tall man straightened up, taking a deep slow breath. ‘I understand.’ He nodded, raising a hand. Two men in shiny tuxedos appeared.

‘This is really not necessary,’ protested Makana. ‘I can find my own way out.’

‘It’s a big hotel. You might get lost.’ The tall croupier smiled coldly.

Clemenza leaned closer. ‘Don’t come poking your nose in again. Is that clear?’

‘I think Hanafi might have something to say about that.’

‘I don’t care what Hanafi says,’ hissed Clemenza. ‘He’s finished anyway.’

The Italian turned his back as the two men took hold of Makana’s arms and steered him out of the casino. People glanced in his direction but nobody said anything. The doorman studiously examined the guestbook as they went by.

Makana was bundled along a long hallway.

‘I think the front exit is that way,’ he said, as they passed the main staircase leading down to the hotel lobby. At the end of the wide curve of the mezzanine floor they turned into a narrower corridor. The two bouncers shouldered their way through a heavy fire door and descended a set of emergency stairs. Three flights down they came to another door which they kicked open, and suddenly they were outside. Makana was flung headlong against a wall. He put out his hands to protect himself and grazed the skin of his palms. The big men caught hold of him and jerked him back. The seams on his jacket gave as he was propelled forwards again to tumble head over heels and skid along the road. It all seemed to happen very slowly, but there was nothing he could do to prevent it. He was on the ground, trying to plan his next move, when he heard the door bang behind them as they went back inside.

Getting to his feet slowly, Makana dusted himself down and assessed the damage. Some of Hanafi’s money would have to be invested in new clothes, he decided. The jacket had come apart down the back seam and his trousers were ripped. He touched a hand gently to one knee. It hurt to stand up straight. As he did so Makana became aware that he was being watched.

The alleyway ran downhill at both ends, arching upwards towards the middle. To Makana’s left where the alley met the street there were lights from some kind of loading bay at the back of the hotel. Opposite this stood a row of parked cars. Makana stared for a long time before he made out the figure standing there. It might have been anyone: a homeless person looking for somewhere to sleep; a late-night reveller looking for a spot to relieve himself. But Makana knew it was neither of these. The figure stood motionless against the wall. Makana took a step backwards, out of the band of light coming from the windows high above. As he did so there was a cracking sound from the wall by his head and he felt brick and plaster shower down on him. It took him a second to realise that he had been shot at. The man had a gun with a silencer. When he looked again he saw that the shadow had moved. Makana felt a moment of panic. Where was he?

Ducking his head, he crouched down and began to run, hobble rather, in the opposite direction, down towards the exit on the river side. The pain in his knee made him grit his teeth. He was almost there when another man appeared, silhouetted against the light from the hotel’s entry at the other end of the alley. Makana had no choice. To stop now would be to present himself as a sitting target. Instead, he threw himself forward, crashing into the man, sending both of them tumbling to the ground.

‘Hey, what do you think you’re doing?’

On his knees, Makana saw that the man underneath him, holding up his hands to protect himself, was none other than Sami Barakat. Makana lowered his fist.

‘What are
you
doing here?’

‘I was waiting for you, then I heard the noise.’ Barakat sat up and dusted himself off. ‘You could have hurt me.’

Makana winced as he put his weight on his injured knee and tried to stand. The journalist gave him a hand.

‘What is going on here?’

‘It’s a long story,’ said Makana, looking back into the darkness of the alleyway. ‘I thought I warned you about following me around?’

Together they shuffled forward into the light from the hotel.

‘I wanted to give you something.’ Barakat reached into his bag and handed Makana an envelope.

‘Couldn’t it wait?’

‘It’s my story. It comes out tomorrow.’

Makana held the sheets of paper up to the light. ‘“Where is Adil Romario?”’ he read.

‘I’m not sure what your role in this is, but I thought I’d give you the chance to respond.’ The younger man nodded at Makana’s lamentable appearance. ‘But I’m beginning to wonder if I understand anything about you at all.’

‘I’m not doing your work for you,’ Makana said, thrusting the pages back at him and turning away. He tried in vain to interest a taxi in picking him up. One slowed, saw the condition of his clothes and accelerated quickly away.

‘I don’t want to hurt anyone,’ said Barakat. ‘Nor, I suspect, do you.’ As Makana carried on down the road, he followed. ‘She’s out of danger, by the way, in case you are interested.’

Makana lowered his hand. ‘Who is out of danger?’

‘Farag’s secretary . . . didn’t you know? She was taken to hospital.’

Makana was still staring at him when a taxi finally pulled up. Sami Barakat held out his story again, and this time Makana took it.

Part 2

Old Enemies

Chapter Sixteen

That night he dreamed the
awama
had sunk, that it had foundered in dark water. All his furniture, his worthless possessions, his books of poetry and travel, his torn clothes, a pair of scuffed shoes, all of it turning slowly over in moonbeams. Eels twisted their way through the rooms, seeking him out, winding their long tails through his mind, dragging him back . . .

They had driven out together, Mek Nimr at the wheel of the dark blue police pick-up. The uniformed men up by the road waved them down with yellow beams from cheap Chinese flashlights, signalling the way through the fields. The body was lying on the ground where a farmer had come across it, half-buried in the soft loamy earth. Particles of dust swirled in the air over the dead man, like moths trapped in the headlights. They turned the body over and saw what had been done to his face. Makana fought the urge to throw up. It took him a while to understand what he was seeing. The lower jaw was shot away, both eyes gouged out. He bore little resemblance to the man Makana had once known. The feet were bare and tied at the ankles with wire that had cut deep into the skin. The soles were puffy and white. Makana pressed the tip of a Biro to them and watched the skin come away in a thick layer. One of the younger officers gave a sound as if he was going to be sick and turned away.

‘We’re going to find out who did this.’

‘Is that wise?’ asked Mek Nimr.

Makana straightened up and turned to face him. ‘It’s our job.’

Mek Nimr stepped closer, lowering his voice so that the other officers could not hear his words. ‘National security affairs are not our business.’

‘Then perhaps they should be.’

‘Maybe you’re not seeing this clearly.’ Mek Nimr shifted from one foot to the other. ‘You know the victim. You shouldn’t be on this case.’

‘Who else is going to do it?’ Makana stared at him until Mek Nimr sighed and turned away, but not before Makana saw the resentment in his eyes.

At first he had suspected that Mek Nimr was a simple informer, that he had been recruited by someone higher up to keep an eye on his fellow policemen. But by that point he was beginning to think otherwise. Mek Nimr was ambitious. Was he planning to sacrifice Makana in order to assure himself of a faster route to the top?