The Burning Gates (12 page)

‘And that’s how you’re building your own empire.’

‘You see the beauty of it?’ Ayad Zafrani grinned for a moment and then became serious. ‘So why the interest in this Iraqi?’

‘A client wants to make him a business proposition.’

‘And someone told you I could put you in touch with him?’

‘Can you?’

‘You know how it is.’ Zafrani splayed his fingers wide. ‘If it’s not of benefit to me I can do nothing.’

‘I suppose you would be entitled to some kind of cut. I’d have to check with my client.’

‘That sounds fair enough.’

Makana waited. ‘So?’

‘So I’ll think it over.’ Zafrani rolled a ring of cigar smoke next to his right ear. ‘I heard you were asking about Na’il.’

‘I might have been.’

‘Don’t tell me he’s the one who brought you to the club?’

‘In a way, yes.’

‘Watch out for that one. He’s a pest. He bribes my doormen to let him in. Peddles his pills to my clients. One of these days he’s going to get what’s coming to him.’ Zafrani hauled his bulk to his feet. The interview was clearly over. ‘I’ll get the boys to drive you home.’

As Makana turned towards the door the gravelly voice caught him in his tracks.

‘What about that girl, eh? What did you think of her? The one at the club. Sorry I had to break off your little meeting. She’s one of your compatriots. Very popular girl.’ Zafrani was watching Makana the way a cat might watch a sparrow for any sign of weakness. ‘Feel free to go back and finish what you started. Any time,’ he smiled. ‘We all have our needs.’

Some time later, the car slipping through the silent streets like a dark knife through water, Makana’s thoughts returned to the present.

‘Where would I find Zayed Zafrani nowadays?’

‘Try the Mustafa Mahmoud mosque in Mohandiseen,’ grunted Didi, or perhaps it was Bobo.

Chapter Ten

The sun was bright on the upper deck the next morning and Makana sat with his feet up on the railing and his eyes closed. He’d tossed and turned for hours before finally giving up and sitting in his chair watching the world come to life. There was nothing more peaceful than the early hours of the morning when the city seemed uninhabited save for the birds and the wind rustling through the dry leaves of the trees along the riverbank. With his eyes closed he could almost imagine himself in Kasabian’s immaculate garden.

‘Morning,
ya bash muhandis
.’ Aziza was her usual industrious self, rushing about tidying up the place, tucking notebooks and sheets of paper into neat piles, emptying overflowing ashtrays, picking up cups. Although still in her teens, she carried herself with the slow, careful movements of a somewhat older woman, avoiding the expenditure of energy, knowing that it was going to be a long day. She wore a light-blue gellabiya decorated with flowers. The hem that swept around her bare feet was grubby with mud from the riverbank. At home she never wore shoes, summer or winter. Without them she was light, even graceful, but if he ever bumped into her and Umm Ali on the street or in the market, Aziza would be wearing the ugliest plastic sandals that she bore as clumsily as if they had been horseshoes.

A glass of red tea stood steaming on the floor beside him, so Makana reached out to lift the glass. As he sipped, the hot sweet liquid seemed to drip life back into his veins. He was still in a strange state of mind. The heart-stopping moment when he first caught sight of Bilquis was still vivid in his memory. Perhaps he had never really fully accepted either of their deaths. Even though it was years ago, there was something about that episode that clung like a nightmare from which he one day hoped to wake.

Finishing his tea, Makana got to his feet and thought about the day ahead. He went downstairs, washed and dressed, and then called Fathi at the airport, followed by his real estate friend. Neither of them had come up with any information about Kadhim al-Samari. It seemed he had not come into the country by the normal channels, or somebody was covering his tracks. He watched a fisherman rowing his net patiently in a circle and called Sami.

‘About our Iraqi friend. Is there any chance he might have contacts with anyone in the army here?’

‘It’s possible. I can make some calls.’

‘Thanks. And I don’t have to tell you to be discreet.’

‘When am I ever not?’ Sami laughed as he rang off.

Sindbad was parked under the big eucalyptus tree when Makana walked up the path to the main road. The big man was swatting away a group of curious schoolboys who were buzzing like flies around the Thunderbird.

‘Let’s move before someone decides to start selling tickets.’

‘Sorry,
ya basha
.’

It was surprising that the car drew such interest. He had assumed that even a car as distinctive as this could only hold people’s attention for so long. Elsewhere things might have been different, but here there was something new every couple of minutes – not so much a city, as a gigantic theatre of its own making. Apparently he was wrong.

‘Tell me about last night. Did you follow the man?’

‘Yes indeed, effendi. I followed him just like you said. A taxi took him to the Carlton Hotel. You know it? In the Tewfiqiyya, opposite the old Rivoli cinema.’

Makana knew it. Once upon a time it had been the European quarter, where it was like living in Paris. Nowadays it was a little less glamorous, but it still retained remnants of the old charm, largely buried under layers of concrete, iron and neon.

They were jammed in traffic which let them down off the 6th October Bridge at a pace that Kasabian’s old gatekeeper would have managed to keep up with.

‘We’re not getting anywhere,’ said Makana. ‘I’ll walk from here. You can catch me up later.’

Makana got out of the car and left Sindbad to his own devices. A vendor selling snacks marched smartly alongside him singing out his wares. Roasted melon seeds, peanuts, toasted corn. ‘Hot, sweet and salty, get them before the Americans land on our heads!’

A century ago this area might have been described as cosmopolitan. Gentlemen wearing tarbooshes and European clothes would have strolled along or passed by in carriages. Armenians, Greeks, French, British, Syrians, Circassians, all lived there. Now it had a distinctly
rural, feeling about it. The people of the land had moved into the city and they weren’t interested in the least in becoming cosmopolitan.

The lobby of the Carlton was dark and discreet. Lined in wood, it had a jaded but distinctive flavour to it. The old style had been whittled down by time and necessity to a dull everyday sheen. Behind the reception desk was a small man with a round head across which a few sparse hairs reached out optimistically towards the other side.

‘One of your guests, an American, wears a linen suit. About this high.’

‘Mr Frankie,’ nodded the receptionist, briskly tucking papers away into corners.

‘Mr Frankie. Does he have a last name?’

‘Of course he has a last name,’ the receptionist snorted. ‘What’s it to you?’

‘I’m curious. He might be someone I need to talk to.’

The receptionist ran his eyes over Makana and leaned across the counter, lowering his voice. ‘Don’t be angry. I’m one of you. I checked his papers carefully, believe me.’

By ‘one of you’ the man meant he was an informant. A common enough occurrence in a hotel of this size. In his pocket Makana carried a laminated plastic card, purchased in its day from Barazil at an exorbitant price, that identified him as an agent of the State Security Investigations Sector. He bore little resemblance to the photograph, which was slightly water-damaged, but that didn’t matter. Most of the time people were too nervous to examine it carefully once they recognised the insignia. On this occasion it wasn’t even required.

‘You checked with central headquarters?’

‘I haven’t had time. We’ve been very busy.’

‘You’d better let me have a look.’

‘Of course.’

The receptionist bent down and produced a photocopy of a passport made out in the name of Frank Cassidy.

A Japanese couple approached the desk. They were looking for the Egyptian Museum and refused to take a taxi. They had a map that unfolded like an umbrella. The receptionist shuffled about like a bull in the dark. Eventually, the Japanese took themselves off.

‘Is he in his room?’

The receptionist didn’t even need to glance at the rack of keys behind him. ‘I take it as a duty to know exactly which of my guests are in and which not. You don’t understand the service people like me perform. Mr Frankie went out twenty minutes ago. He will be gone for an hour or so. He likes to drink coffee and read the newspaper in a café not far from here.’

‘I need to see his room.’

‘It’s more than my job’s worth,’ sighed the receptionist. ‘I’m more useful to you people here than in the street, believe me.’

‘I believe you. I’m trying to make this as easy for you as possible. I need ten minutes.’

‘Nothing will be taken? I don’t want to lose customers.’

‘Nothing will be taken. Ring twice and hang up if he comes back.’

The receptionist snatched back the photocopy and set the key down. ‘Ten minutes.’

Room 27 was on the second floor. It was small, surprisingly clean, and revealed almost nothing about its occupant. There was a single aluminium suitcase resting on a scuffed trestle in a corner of the room. Despite being equipped with an array of complicated locks, it was open. Makana lifted the lid and looked through its contents, which were few and in need of washing. Shirts, underwear, socks. A couple of books. In the sleeve were travel documents. An Egypt Air ticket in the name of Frank Cassidy which showed he had arrived in Cairo nearly two weeks ago from Amman, Jordan. There was no date of departure. The bathroom revealed a toilet bag, packed and ready to go. As he wouldn’t need a change of socks, Mr Cassidy could be out of the door in less than two minutes. The glass in the bathroom smelled of alcohol. He found a half-empty bottle of rye whiskey concealed above the wardrobe. Hanging inside was a raincoat and a heavier blue suit. The cuffs of the suit were frayed and the elbows shiny from use. Whatever he was, Cassidy certainly wasn’t rich, which begged the question of what he had been doing at Zafrani’s club. He travelled light and he had travelled a lot.

There was something a little too familiar about this spartan existence. Whoever Frank Cassidy might be, he was not a simple tourist. The room added up to a portrait of a lonely man, a man who had come a long way for a reason. On the bedside table lay a well-thumbed guidebook to the city. As he flicked through the pages a photograph floated through his fingers to land on the floor. It showed a handsome boy with blue eyes peering out from under a mop of blond hair. Makana wondered who the boy was and what his relationship to Frank Cassidy was.

As he was replacing the picture inside the book he felt the buzzing of his telephone in his pocket. It was Dalia Habashi.

‘I was wondering if we could meet? I think it might be in both our interests.’

Her voice had changed. There was something subdued about her tone now. Makana stepped to the window, which was shuttered. Through the slats he could see the street below. People came and went. A woman in black trudged along with a bucket in each hand. She walked as if she had been doing the same thing for a hundred years or more.

‘What did you have in mind?’ The telephone on the bedside table began to ring.

‘Not over the phone. Shall we say Groppi’s, around four o’clock?’

The phone on the table rang a second time and then stopped.

‘Four o’clock. I’ll be there.’

Makana turned to leave. In the doorway, he stood for a moment and studied the room one last time, wondering what it was he was not seeing. He took the stairs down to the lobby, moving quietly. The lift hummed up past him. Through the opaque glass he could make out the blurred shape of the American in the crumpled linen suit.

‘Here he is,’ said Sami as Makana walked in. ‘Our very own favourite investigator of international renown. Have you had breakfast? I was just about to send someone out.’

Makana naturally had given no thought to eating. He reached into his pocket. Sami rarely allowed him to pay for any of the help he provided, and so in return Makana would try to contribute where possible. He came up with the wad of money Zafrani had given him. A reminder that if he wasn’t careful he was going to wind up in debt to some very dubious people. Sami waved away the offer of money.

‘Keep it, people might think you’re trying to bribe me. And besides, you’ll probably be needing it soon.’

‘You know something I don’t?’

‘I was speculating.’ Sami frowned. ‘Don’t tell me Kasabian fired you already? No, don’t answer that or we’ll never eat.’ He shouted orders for one of the others to arrange a run to the nearby snack bar before slumping back behind his desk. ‘So, are you out of the art business?’

Makana perched on the front of his desk. ‘Not so far as I know, but I have an odd feeling about this.’

‘What kind of odd feeling?’

‘The kind where I’m in the dark and I can’t see what’s in front of me.’