The Golden Scales (37 page)

‘Then what is the problem?’ asked Makana.

‘You’d need to have guts to take on Hanafi. He has a lot of enemies, and a lot of friends. Anyone who tried a hostile takeover of his business would be sticking their head in the lion’s jaws.’

‘So tell us about this Russian, Vronsky.’

‘What about him?’ The accountant’s eyes began to wander nervously again.

‘Has he been buying up Hanafi’s debt at the bank?’

‘Well, yes, but only in the last few months. Maybe six at the most.’

‘Is there someone else?’ frowned Makana.

‘Oh, yes.’ Debbous rubbed his hands together as if washing them.

‘Who?’

‘Well, I’m not sure who’s behind it. It’s a bank I’d never heard of before: Green Nakhala Reserve Fund.’

‘And you don’t know anything about them?’

Debbous shook his head. ‘They seem to have unlimited funds. There is a suspicion that it is one of those Arab princes who has decided to put his millions at the service of Allah.’

‘How much of Hanafi’s empire is in their hands?’

‘I couldn’t tell you, not without making a few calls, but a good thirty per cent, I would say. The banks aren’t keen for people to know their business. But you know what this country is like. Everyone wants a chance to talk.’

Makana was silent for a long time. So Vronsky had a rival. Another bank with Arab connections. Who was behind it, he wondered, and was Adil involved with them? The accountant was still talking.

‘Between them, Vronsky and the Arabs own over fifty per cent. If they combined their resources they could take over tomorrow.’

As he turned towards the front door, Sami tried to reassure the nervous accountant.

‘It’s all right, you’ve done well.’

‘I thought there was some talk of further compensation,’ Debbous whined. ‘I mean, I could get into a lot of trouble . . .’

Makana left Sami to negotiate and wandered back down the hall, his mind turning over the possibilities. The flat was a private museum full of ugly, useless objects from a bygone age. In the days of the pashas he himself would have been a Nubian servant who came and went at the beck and call of people like Debbous. Perhaps that was what the little accountant dreamed of: his own glorious reign. Everyone wanted to be king, it seemed. That was why everybody loved Hanafi, wasn’t it? They dreamed of having the life he had. And what of Adil Romario . . . who did he dream of becoming?

Makana was bothered by a thought that had been nagging at the back of his mind for some time. There were too many coincidences linking Adil’s story to his own. He needed to find out where the Green Nakhala Reserve Fund was based, but he had an idea he already knew. The course of Adil’s life appeared to have changed after his trip to Khartoum for the DreemTeem exhibition match. What had happened there exactly? Who had he met?

Finally, Sami finished counting notes into the accountant’s hand and the two men took their leave. As they stepped out of the apartment they were met by a hail of abuse from the strident neighbour. The building reverberated to the sound of her raised voice as Makana and Sami descended the staircase.

Chapter Thirty-five

The door to Faraga Film Productions stood open. Even as he stepped inside, Makana could see that the place had been emptied. A tall man wearing a striped
gellabia
and a sullen look on his face was walking out of what used to be Farag’s office, cradling a television set in his arms. Makana recognised him as the
bawab
who usually stood listlessly on guard in the front hallway downstairs.

‘What happened here?’

‘Oh, they left.’ The man blinked, replying with an unconcerned air that seemed to imply there was nothing odd about him walking out holding a television set that clearly wasn’t his.

‘Left how?’

‘Some people came to pick up the films and stuff.’

‘Not everything.’

The man looked down as if he had just noticed what was in his own arms. ‘They said I could hold on to this. It’s just as well because they never paid me for the last month.’

‘Who exactly were these men?’

‘How should I know?’ He made to move by and Makana blocked his way.

‘What did they say?’

Irritation crossed the man’s face. He was annoyed at having his getaway delayed.

‘What’s it to you anyway?’

Makana flashed him Okasha’s card, fast enough for him to see the police insignia and not much else. The man groaned.

‘I’ve done nothing wrong. They told me I could keep it.’ He hefted the set in his arms. ‘It’s for the children.’

‘Who told you?’

‘The ones who came. They said Mr Farag was moving his office to another place and that everything was arranged with the owner of the building, so there’s nothing wrong with that.’

‘Who were these men?’

‘How should I know?’ The
bawab
stared at the wall. ‘They sounded foreign. And they work fast. If I hadn’t come back from my breakfast early, I might have missed them.’

‘Did they say where? I mean, where they were taking Farag’s things?’

He edged towards the door again. ‘Oh, no, and frankly, I don’t make it my job to interfere in other people’s business. Could you pull the door closed on your way out?’ He gestured to indicate that he didn’t have a free hand, and then he was gone. Makana listened to his slippers slapping their way down the stairs.

If a plague of ravenous termites had fallen upon it Farag’s office could not have been stripped more efficiently. Nothing was left. Table, desk, chairs, the stacks of papers, the dusty computers and decrepit printer and fax machine, even the telephone, were all gone. It wasn’t a bad room once the clutter had been removed. Makana went over to the window and peered down at the street below where a woman in black with a tray of guavas on her head stood on one foot while she chewed the strap of her slipper. Then she dropped it to the floor, stepped into it and shuffled on her way.

Makana tried to imagine Farag on an extended holiday by the sea, splashing about in the pool with Vronsky’s stable of beauties, but somehow the image did not convince. Would he have been foolish enough to keep all of his incriminating tapes here in his office? Knowing Farag, it was quite possible. Whatever they thought he had, they wanted to make quite sure nothing was left behind. Makana was surprised they hadn’t stripped the walls. Now it was gone, furniture and all, spirited away by the Russian bodybuilders. It didn’t bode well for Farag.

On his way out Makana paused by an open doorway that led into a tiny room under the stairs where the doorman and his family lived. The
bawab
was thumping the top of the television set with one hand while frowning at the kaleidoscope of colour that fluttered before him but refused to settle into a picture. Behind him a flock of grubby urchins screamed and hit one another while a small, round woman, who looked no older than eighteen, reclined on a large bed, her head against the wall and her eyes closed in exhaustion.

‘What about Farag’s secretary, has she been around?’

‘It’s not my job to keep an eye on them,’ the
bawab
answered, unable to spare Makana even a single glance. ‘They come and go as they please.’

The old man’s junk shop was closed. Makana was standing there peering through the window, trying to see past the layers of dust and the heaps of useless objects, when a small boy went by carrying a large alabaster cat clutched to his chest. It towered over his head.

‘If you’re looking for Old Yunis, he’s drinking tea in the Coppersmiths’ Street.’

A couple of minutes later Makana stepped into a café in Sharia al-Nahaseen to find the old man playing chess with a giant who loomed over both table and opponent as if they were toys. He was staring at the pieces on the board with fixed intensity while the old man glanced about him, looking for distraction. He seemed relieved when he looked up to see Makana.

‘Ah, there you are.’ He smiled as if he had been expecting a visitor.

‘I was told I might find you here.’

Excusing himself, Yunis got to his feet and gestured towards another table across the room. The hunched man didn’t even look up, his attention still completely absorbed by the challenge posed on the board in front of him.

Makana sat down and tea arrived almost immediately. He plucked a sprig of mint from the glass on the table and dropped it into the amber liquid.

‘I owe you an apology,’ said Yunis.

‘Don’t worry about it.’

‘No, I insist.’ The old man bowed his head for a moment before looking up. ‘Shortly after you came to see me the first time, I was approached by a man on behalf of someone I knew a long time ago. They wanted documents made up – identity cards, passports. I didn’t want to do it. I didn’t want to get involved. These people are very dangerous. I told them I couldn’t help them. I said it wasn’t safe. I told them people were asking questions.’ He tilted his head to one side. ‘I told them about you.’

‘This someone . . . was Daud Bulatt?’

Yunis gave the briefest of nods. ‘Make no mistake, he and his associates are very desperate men.’

‘I know,’ said Makana. He lit a cigarette. ‘I found out.’

Yunis bowed his head. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to put you in danger.’

‘Bulatt is alive. But why has he come back?’

‘That I don’t know,’ said the old man. He reached for a newspaper lying on a nearby table and unfolded it. ‘But you can tell your inspector friend they are not going to catch him as easily as that.’

His finger rested on an account of the raid on the supposed terrorist hide-out. The raid Okasha had invited Makana on. It had been something of a disaster. Sixteen civilians died in the assault. And there was no mention of Daud Bulatt, which meant they had found no trace of him.

‘My friend?’

The old man pushed the dark glasses up on to his forehead and rubbed his strange-coloured eyes. ‘One should always be wary of people who are keen to impress.’

‘You’re saying I shouldn’t trust Okasha?’

Old Yunis leaned back and folded his arms. He looked away at the street for a while. When he turned back his tone seemed to have softened somewhat.

‘Perhaps I am being unfair. I have a feeling you don’t trust many people. You prefer to be on the outside, never on the inside, like me.’

The street was crowded with people bustling along, carrying their wares. Two men rushed by, their backs bent under an impossible weight of sacks, like ants bearing an enormous burden. A slim boy on a bicycle elegantly weaved his way through the crowd, balancing a long wooden tray laden with flat round loaves of bread fresh from the bakery.

‘Did you know that Bulatt was quite a rich man when he went into prison? He gave it all away. Renounced all material possessions. Houses, land, cars. All of it.’

Makana studied the old man. The strip of worn Sellotape fluttered like a moth over the bridge of his spectacles.

‘If a man can change once, he can change again. Maybe he’s tired of being poor.’

‘Aren’t we all?’ Yunis’s hollow cheeks sucked in smoke from a cigarette. ‘There are some men it is dangerous to know, and others it is dangerous not to know.’

‘I seem to be caught between the two kinds.’

Their attention was distracted as the giant crouching over the chessboard let out a cry of triumph. With a sigh, the old man stubbed out his cigarette and got to his feet.

‘Then you must be very careful which way you move.’

Makana watched him get up and move to the other table. Old Yunis surveyed the pieces on the chessboard for all of fifteen seconds before making his move. With a groan his opponent crumpled and slumped back down to hunch over the board again, brow set once more in fierce concentration.

Chapter Thirty-six

The light was already draining quickly from the day as Makana descended from the road. The entrance to the little shack on the embankment below the eucalyptus tree pulsated with bursts of white light and shadow as a television set played in the interior.

‘Is that you,
ya bash-muhandis
?’

‘Yes, it’s me, Umm Ali. All is well?’

‘
Ya sidi
, wait. I have something for you.’

From inside the hut came a good deal of scuffling, a few curses launched at children who placed themselves in the way. Makana stood attentively at a distance until the familiar figure appeared in the doorway. Umm Ali was wearing a long brown gown that was presumably her nightwear, which, although by any standards more than decent, was to Makana’s mind somewhat more diaphanous than he was comfortable with. He imagined he caught a certain mischievous gleam in her eyes as she presented him with a large envelope.

‘It was brought by a policeman on a motorcycle. It must be important,’ she cooed.

‘Thank you very much, and good night, Umm Ali.’

‘Have pleasant dreams,
ya sidi
.’

Makana beat a hasty retreat down the path and stepped aboard the
awama
with a sense of relief. In the kitchen he discovered a disc of bread as hard as a plate, and a small red onion. He ran the bread under the tap and then turned it over the gas flame a few times until it softened enough to resemble something approaching edible. He made coffee, bringing the water to the boil, turning the heat down, spooning in the freshly bought grounds carefully, then turning it up again. As the dark brown mass bubbled away happily in the brass pot he sliced the onion thinly, sprinkled it with powdered red
shatta
chilli and lime juice. He climbed the stairs with this veritable feast, the envelope under his arm, and settled himself in the big wicker chair. He tucked the Beretta, which he now slept with, by his side, next to the cushion. Inside the envelope he discovered a bundle of photocopied sheets, accompanied by another note from Janet Hayden.