The Golden Scales (25 page)

‘And just what is your connection to him?’

‘What do you think?’ The Italian smirked. ‘He throws great parties. The most beautiful women you can imagine, and they are willing to do anything.’

‘I don’t doubt you for a minute. And Adil introduced you to him. Why is that?’

‘Business. Adil was looking for business opportunities. A footballer has to think ahead.’

‘Forgive me, but you make a highly unlikely pair of business partners. You yourself made it plain there is no love lost between the two of you.’

Clemenza was looking round desperately for someone to change his tyre. ‘Why is there never one of those clowns around when you need one?’ Finally, as if summoned by his words, a uniformed security guard holding a teapot appeared on the far side of the compound. The team manager waved and shouted. The man disappeared around a corner, still clutching his precious teapot.

‘This country will never achieve anything. Its greatness is behind it.’ Clemenza gestured in the direction of the pyramids, far away in the distance, on the other side of the river.

While he was talking Makana kept silent. It had just come to him that he was looking at this the wrong way round.

‘There’s another over here,’ he said, pointing at a second flat tyre on the far side of the car. ‘Must have been kids or something.’ Clemenza gave a cry of disbelief as he rushed round and began swearing loudly and profusely in Italian. He turned suddenly on Makana and pushed him against the car. There was a lot more muscle to his bulk than might have been expected. Clemenza hadn’t gone completely to seed. ‘You will pay for this! I don’t care what Hanafi says.’

Makana held his gaze evenly. ‘It wasn’t Adil who introduced you to Vronsky, was it? It was the other way round.’

Clemenza’s grip on his jacket loosened. Makana waited for him to step back.

‘Why did you do that? You couldn’t stand Adil, thought him a jumped-up prima donna, but you took him to see your friend Vronsky? What for?’

‘You can’t let personal feelings get in the way of business.’ Clemenza brushed down his sleeves and straightened his shirt. He was sweating now. Damp patches had appeared under his armpits despite the cool weather.

‘What did Vronsky want from him?’

‘Take my advice,’ Clemenza lifted his bag off the back of the car. He took one long look at Makana before turning away. ‘You really don’t want to get involved in this.’

Makana watched him walk away. What would a Russian businessman want with a football player and a second-rate film maker?

Chapter Twenty-two

There was something Makana had been putting off, something that he had been avoiding in his mind but which he now felt he had to face. From the stadium he took a taxi to Dokki. It dropped him outside the ash-grey building in the narrow side street crowded with cars that looked as though they had been fashioned out of mud. He climbed the stairs to the second floor and leaned on the buzzer, not sure what to expect. A whirling chirp sounded from within, but for a long time there was no indication that anyone was home. Just as he was about to turn away he heard something approaching – a soft shuffling sound. A bolt was pulled back and a lock turned. The door cracked open and a puffy round ball bearing a faint resemblance to a rotten melon appeared. It was streaked with purple and yellow. A large bandage covered the right temple. The eyes were familiar, ringed with black, like a panda, only this time it wasn’t kohl that had run. They widened as she saw who it was. She fell back, letting the door swing open.

‘What do you want?’ Her voice trembled. She pressed a hand to her throat as if expecting Makana to throttle her. Speaking clearly caused her pain. Her left arm was in a sling and several fingers appeared to be bandaged and in splints.

Makana stared at her. ‘Farag did this?’

She was having trouble breathing. Staggering back, chest heaving, she slumped down on to a narrow chair that gave an ominous crack but managed to bear her considerable weight. She gasped for breath, refusing to look up at him.

‘What did you come for this time?’

Whatever Makana might have been about to say was cut off by an exclamation from further down the hall.

‘Ya Allah
!
Ya
Allah!
What is this?’

A man in his fifties appeared, dressed in a pair of pyjama trousers and a vest. He brought a strong reek of hair oil with him. The husband.

‘What do you want?’

‘Aziz,’ the woman pleaded, her voice no more than a strained sigh. She reared back as his hand lifted.

‘Be quiet, woman! You!’ He jabbed a finger at Makana. ‘What is going on here? Somebody explain to me. Is this the one? Is it?’

‘Look,’ Makana began, ‘I’m sorry about what happened . . .’

‘What?’ The man’s narrow brows arched like bows, pointing up towards the oily patina of thinning hair combed close to his skull. ‘Sorry?’ he thundered like an actor on stage, frowning and gesturing. ‘You stay away from my wife.’ He jabbed Makana in the chest with a hard finger. Makana stepped back until he found himself pressed against a sharp metal protrusion in the door frame.

‘Aziz!’ his wife cried.

‘You and your boss have done enough damage. You tell Farag. We will have nothing more to do with your dirty business.’ He gestured at his wife, who sat crying quietly to herself. ‘See what you have done?’ Suddenly he was beside himself, wretched and helpless. ‘We have done nothing . . . nothing, do you hear?’ The emotion was too much for him to bear. His head slumped and a sob escaped from him. ‘Just leave us alone,’ he whispered. ‘Go away and leave us alone. We’ve done nothing to you.’

‘Look, I’m sorry about what happened.’

‘Sorry?’ the man sneered. ‘I told Farag I will not have strange men visiting my wife at home and look what he did to her. Look!’

‘Did you call the police?’

‘The police? Do I need more trouble? She has lost her job. Look at her. You need to go. Now.’ He pushed the door firmly shut in Makana’s face. The hallway was dark. He stood for a moment. Fifteen minutes later he was leaning on the door buzzer of Faraga Film Productions, and kept leaning until there was a response from within.

‘All right, I’m coming!’ called a voice. Lumbering footsteps approached. ‘Where’s the fire?’

As the door began to swing inwards Makana threw his weight forward. The door struck Farag full in the face, causing him to let out a howl. He weaved about blindly, hands clutched to his nose, thumping into the wall behind him. Makana stepped inside and shut the door carefully, pushing the bolt across to make sure they would not be disturbed. Farag’s eyes widened with confusion over the mask of his hands, blood spilling through his fingers as he saw Makana lift the chair that stood by the reception desk and smash it against the wall. Forgetting his bleeding nose for a moment, Farag let out a high-pitched cry of terror and sank down as the chair splintered above him. A picture frame containing verses from the Quran exploded, raining shards of glass and holy words over him. Farag squealed and began to crawl on his hands and knees towards the door to his office.

He wasn’t moving very quickly and Makana had time to check there was no one else in the apartment before following him, pausing to separate a stout leg from the remains of the chair. A trail of blood smeared the floor tiles in Farag’s wake as he crawled into his room, weakly pushing the door to behind him. Makana kicked it aside. At the far end of the cramped office, Farag was half out of sight behind the desk, trying to pull open the bottom drawer. He had his hand inside when Makana came round and brought down the chair leg on his wrist. There was a snapping sound and Farag, still on his knees, let out another howl, clutching his hand to his chest as he rolled away.

Opening the drawer to see what he had been reaching for, Makana discovered a
9
mm Beretta with a cross-hatched grip. He lifted it out, slipping off the safety catch and pushing back the slide to check there was a round in the chamber. Then he moved closer, bending down over the fallen man and pushing the barrel into his fat and somewhat sweaty neck.

‘Is this real, or just one of your film props?’

Makana didn’t really need or expect an answer. Farag was breathing heavily, his eyes clamped tightly shut.

‘Was it really necessary to hurt that woman? What were you afraid she might tell me?’

‘What are you going to do?’ he whimpered. ‘Shoot me? You’re mad, you’ll never get away with it. I’m not just anybody, you know.’

‘I wouldn’t be too sure about that, but for the moment I need your assistance so I’m not going to kill you right away.’

‘What do you want to know?’ Farag stared up sullenly, pressing his good hand hopelessly to his nose, trying to sit upright. Makana put the gun barrel to his ear and shoved his head flat against the wall.

‘Tell me about Vronsky?’

‘Vronsky? He arrived here with money in his pocket. Don’t ask me where he got it, because I have no idea. Where do any of those Russians get their money?’ He sniffed, guarding his broken wrist against him like a wounded animal. ‘They all come looking for a quiet place in the sun. Vronsky came here. Don’t ask me why, I suppose it’s safer than Spain, or somewhere in Europe where they still have policemen who do their job. So he settled for this place.’

‘Then what?’

‘What do I know? He builds himself a palace and prepares to die of old age.’

‘What does he want from Adil Romario?’

‘Nothing.’ Farag tried to smile, his face a grotesque mask, nicotine-yellow teeth stained with blood. ‘Vronsky likes to have fun. Parties, that kind of thing.’

‘I heard about the parties, and the girls.’

‘There’s no harm in it,’ Farag snivelled. ‘It’s just a bit of fun, that’s all.’ Makana realised he was trying to smile and gave him a kick.

‘What was that for?’

‘You looked like you were enjoying yourself too much.’ Makana flicked the gun under his nose. ‘What was your part in all this?’

‘I filmed them, discreetly. It was all just for fun.’

‘What kind of people attended these parties?’

‘Ministers, aides, officials, people who could get things done. Businessmen. Vronsky wanted to invest his money.’

‘Saad Hanafi?’

Farag shook his head. ‘No, but his lieutenant was there.’

‘Gaber?’

‘Slim, white hair, looks down his nose at you.’

Makana couldn’t resist bringing the chair leg down hard again on the man’s knee. There was another howl of pain.

‘You’re insane,’ Farag whimpered. ‘I’ll never walk again.’

‘You should have tried acting instead of directing,’ said Makana. ‘You might have been more successful. Now get up.’

‘What?’ Farag licked blood from his lips, real horror in his eyes.

‘You heard me. We’re going for a drive.’

‘Please tell me,’ the man whined hysterically, ‘are you going to kill me?’

‘If I had wanted to do that, you’d be dead already.’

Farag didn’t look reassured.

‘Where are we going?’

‘To see your friend Vronsky.’

‘No, no . . . wait,’ Farag implored. ‘Please don’t make me do this. You don’t know what kind of person he is. I mean, he’ll kill me, I swear.’

‘Where’s your car parked?’

Chapter Twenty-three

It took a while for Farag to hobble down the stairs and out into the street. He exaggerated his difficulties somewhat, which caused Makana to jab him in the ribs with the gun a couple of times. They got some odd looks on the street, but the car was parked in a narrow alley out of the way, an old beige Mercedes
200
that had seen better days. In the boot Makana found a length of electrical cable, among the rest of the junk that was in there. He pushed Farag into the passenger seat and tied his hands to the door handle.

‘What’s wrong with him?’ asked a man in rags who had emerged from behind a heap of discarded office furniture to stand watching. He looked like he’d been shipwrecked a century ago.

‘I’m taking him to the hospital,’ Makana explained.

‘Is that why you have to tie him up?’ The man’s trousers were in shreds and he only wore one shoe.

‘He’s not right in the head. He might hurt himself some more.’

‘This whole city is full of crazy people,’ said the man, shaking his head.

On Farag’s directions they drove out south-east of the city in the direction of the sea. He remained silent for the most part, staring at the empty landscape they were driving through. A few times he asked if he could smoke but Makana ignored him.

The traffic eased up as the narrow streets gave way to open highways. They stopped to fill up the tank. Farag said he needed the toilet, so Makana untied him and led him round the back of the petrol station and told him to get on with it. There was no fight left in Farag, who was convinced that he was about to die. He was shaking so much he pissed on his shoes. They were back on the road in less than five minutes. Makana relented and gave him a cigarette.

The Mercedes was sluggish but powerful and had no difficulty passing the slow trucks and tourist buses lumbering towards the coast. It took them just over an hour to reach the Red Sea and from there the road wound south along the shoreline for another three hundred kilometres. It took them just over four hours altogether.