The Burning Gates (17 page)

‘That’s impossible for me to know at this stage, but I don’t think we can rule out the notion that it might be related to the purpose of your visit to Cairo.’

‘You think this has something to do with me?’

‘That is a possibility we cannot ignore. Inspector Okasha is going to post extra guards outside and the hotel has increased its own security, but my advice is to avoid leaving the hotel.’

‘I understand.’ Barkley paused. ‘That’s terrible. To think he might have been killed because of what I asked him to do.’

‘We don’t know why he was killed. But it seems wise to take precautions.’

‘Of course. I understand fully. Is there any way I can help?’

‘Well, perhaps you could tell me a little more about your business with Kasabian. I know you came to Cairo because of a certain work of art, but what made you think that it was here? Can you tell me more about where you got your information? You mentioned that you had heard rumours.’

Barkley raised his hands. ‘Who can say where these things start? Rumours are just that, but if they stick around for long enough it’s usually because there’s some truth to them.’

‘Enough to get on a plane and come all the way here?’

‘I’m an impulsive man, Mr Makana,’ Barkley smiled. ‘If there’s something I want, I go after it. This is a very special piece of work.’

‘I understand that, but you had very specific information connecting this painting to Kuwait in 1991 and Kadhim al-Samari. Now, where would you get such detailed information?’

Barkley exhaled and looked off into the distance for a moment, then he reached into his shirt pocket for another cigarette. He lit it and held his lighter across for Makana to light his.

‘Look, you can call it coincidence or luck, but several things came together. Stories of what was taken out of Kuwait had been floating about since 1991. Legends, most of them. Nobody really knew what was in those private collections that Saddam’s men broke open. I’ve been in this game long enough not to get too excited when people start talking, but then there was this Colonel Samari. His name started to come up.’ Barkley clicked his fingers. ‘At some point I just decided that was enough for me. So I came.’

‘Where would information about Samari come from?’

‘Come now,’ Barkley grinned. ‘You don’t expect me to reveal my sources, do you?’

‘I suppose I’m wondering how the name of an Iraqi colonel who is rumoured to be very secretive could come to circulate in New York.’

‘It’s odd, I agree, but that’s the nature of the business we are in.’

‘I had hoped to have this talk with you before this unhappy situation occurred. Kasabian brought me to see you the day before yesterday, in the afternoon, but you weren’t in.’

‘Well, I’m sorry I missed him.’

‘I’m surprised he didn’t mention it when you spoke on the telephone yesterday.’

‘Must have slipped his mind.’ Barkley spread his hands wide, then let them fall again. ‘What makes you so sure that Kasabian’s murder is linked to my business with him?’

‘The method of torture used on Kasabian is that favoured by Samari.’

‘So, that would suggest that he is in Cairo, after all?’

‘It’s possible,’ conceded Makana.

‘But you’re not convinced?’

‘I’ve seen nothing to prove it was actually Samari who carried out the torture.’

‘But it could be him, is that what you’re saying?’

‘Kadhim al-Samari is a very dangerous man. If he thought someone was trying to find him he might have been trying to find out why.’

‘Well, I’ll be damned.’ Barkley sat back in his chair. ‘The way you put it very much suggests I could be in serious danger myself.’

‘It would be wiser for you to go home, yes, but while the investigation is ongoing you will not be permitted to leave. As I said before, if you remain in the hotel you should be safe.’

‘What about you? He might be after you.’

‘Well, I have nowhere to hide,’ said Makana. ‘If he wants to find me, he can.’

‘You say that almost as if you’d welcome the chance to meet him.’ Barkley seemed intrigued. He cleared his throat. ‘How does this affect the arrangement I had with Aram Kasabian? I mean, are you still willing to try and find Samari?’

‘Under the circumstances, I’m not sure how wise that would be.’

‘But you were paid to find him.’

‘I was paid an advance, yes.’

Barkley placed his hands on the table. ‘Let me try to be clear, Mr Makana. I’m not sure if you are aware just how valuable a find we are talking about. This one painting by Franz Marc is worth a great deal, but if it led to further discoveries then we are talking about a fortune.’

‘A fortune?’

‘And naturally, if you were to help me your share would be substantial.’

‘How substantial?’

Barkley smiled and gestured around them. ‘Life-changing. You would be eating here every day.’

‘Supposing he’s not interested in selling?’

‘Everyone has a price, Mr Makana.’ Barkley smiled, reaching for his sunglasses. ‘I’m confident Mr Samari has his.’

‘And you have no qualms about dealing with a man your country has declared a war criminal?’

‘Mr Makana, let’s not be naive. I’m as much a patriot as the next man, but we both know some of the worst war crimes in history were committed by the United States of America itself. Let history be the judge.’

‘Samari has a substantial price on his head. Three million dollars. He’s wanted for human rights abuses.’

‘Believe me, these paintings are worth far more than that.’

‘I take it that you’ve never been tortured, Mr Barkley?’

‘No, I can’t say that I have.’

‘Well, I have. I don’t care about the reward, but I believe he should be handed in to face justice for his actions.’

‘Fair enough, if that’s how you feel.’ Barkley nodded his head slowly. ‘I can see that I did Kasabian a disservice. When he told me he had hired the best I was in doubt. People tend to exaggerate these things. In your case I can see that he was right to put his trust in you.’ Barkley got to his feet and held out his hand.

As Makana walked away he thought to himself that it all sounded fine except for the fact that finding Samari was not going to be easy. Add to that the chance that even if he did succeed he might wind up like Kasabian, in which case he wouldn’t have much need for money ever again.

As he came out of the hotel a bellhop came hurrying after him.

‘Sir, you dropped this,’ he said, holding out the little silver object. ‘A gentleman picked it up.’ He turned to search for the person. ‘Oh, he seems to have gone.’

‘Never mind,’ said Makana, taking the phone. ‘Thank him for me when you see him again.’

Chapter Sixteen

In a taxi across town whose longevity would have put Sindbad’s old Datsun to shame, Makana clung to the door with one hand to stop it from yawning open every time they went around a bend, and still managed to talk to Sami. The driver was amused, grinning as if he hadn’t seen anything so entertaining in years.

‘I just heard about Kasabian,’ said Sami.

‘I’m on my way over to you now.’

‘Is it true that he was tortured?’

‘Where do you get your information?’

‘You know how it is, a policeman’s salary these days is hardly enough to keep a family of cats alive. Is it any wonder there are leaks?’

Makana wondered what Okasha would say when he found out that details of Kasabian’s murder were already being passed to the press.

‘That would tie in with our friend, though, wouldn’t it?’ Sami was saying.

‘It certainly looks that way.’

As he hung up he noticed the driver staring at him.

‘The brother is not from here, is he?’

The curiosity Makana’s accent provoked was not new. He gave his usual answer and got the customary assurances of being welcome. He had a feeling that wasn’t going to be the end of it.

‘It’s not that I have anything against people coming here, you understand? I mean, it’s not their fault that people can’t find work. The old ways are gone. The factories, even the farms. Nowadays everything comes from China. One of them knocked on my door the other day. He had walked up eleven flights of stairs with a sack on his back.’ Makana stared ahead, desperately hoping for a break in the traffic. Two young men were sitting in the open boot of the car in front of them, looking bored, their legs dangling over the back. As a method of transport it didn’t look the most comfortable in the world, or the safest, but if it got you from one place to another what was the difference?

‘Don’t take it the wrong way. I’m only asking.’

‘What are you asking?’

‘Why would a man come all the way from China with a sack on his back to sell my wife a thing for taking the stones out of olives?’ The car eased forward half a length. The driver was still talking. ‘I’ve been eating olives since before I could walk and I never needed anything to take the stones out.’ The more he talked the less progress they made.

When they arrived Makana waited for the driver to find change, resisting his usual tendency to tell him to keep it. In the end a pair of torn and dog-eared notes made their way out through the window and Makana tucked them into his shirt pocket making a mental note to give them to the first Chinese he came across. Once at the Info Media centre, Makana found Sami was not there. ‘He went on a food run,’ Nefissa, the woman with the curly hair, told him. Makana found him in a sanbusak place in Huda Sharawi Street. It took a while to push through the crowds. Was it Makana’s imagination or did everyone do nothing but eat? Sami was perched on a stool beside the cash register reading a book, oblivious to the chaos around him.

‘We’re going to adopt him,’ the club-footed man behind the cash register said. ‘We’ll change the logo to a picture of him sitting there with a book and a pastry. The students will love it. They’ll think they’ll get smarter just by eating here.’ He chuckled like a locomotive running out of steam.

‘No wonder it takes you so long to eat,’ said Makana.

Sami looked up as a young boy in a plastic apron wearing a paper hat appeared with a warm bag full of freshly baked sanbusak for him. The two men pushed their way back out through the crowds thronging the doors. Outside a woman knelt on the pavement holding up a handwritten sign, itself something of a miracle in a country with forty per cent illiteracy. The shaky letters only added to the mystery: ‘Where is Al-Baghdadi?’ Makana handed her the change from the taxi.

‘I can’t go back to the office,’ Sami was saying. ‘Rania is annoyed with me again.’

‘What have you done this time?’

‘I don’t know. I’ve lost track. I’m beginning to think it’s something I did in a previous life.’ Sami turned to look at Makana. ‘Did you ever, you know, have doubts . . . ?’

‘Doubts?’

‘I mean, when you were married.’ Sami hesitated. He came to a halt and stood there for a moment. ‘Forget it,’ he said, dismissing the subject with a wave. ‘It’s insensitive of me to even ask.’

They walked back in silence, Sami lost in his thoughts. In the spacious offices above Midan al-Falaki they found Rania beside herself.

‘Where have you been?’ she demanded.

‘I went to get lunch, remember?’

Rania ignored Makana completely, an indication that she was not in the best of moods. The others in the room appeared to sense domestic strife and were keeping their heads down. She folded her arms.

‘We have deadlines to meet, remember?’

‘The good people of Holland can surely wait for us poor fellaheen to feed ourselves?’ Sami edged past Rania and walked up and down between the desks distributing orders. The others, while glad to receive the food they had been waiting for, kept their thanks discreet. Rania turned her back and walked away as Sami retreated behind his desk. His old leather satchel and his battered laptop were dumped on a table loaded down with heaps of files. Makana found a chair that was more or less in one piece and sat down while Sami busied himself with his computer. He talked as he clicked away, one hand reaching for the opened bag of savoury pastries that lay between them.

‘Help yourself,’ he said, not taking his eyes from the screen. ‘So are you out of work yet?’

‘Not exactly. I met the mysterious American, Charles Barkley.’

‘That’s his name?’ Sami frowned. ‘Like the basketball player?’

‘I don’t know anything about that.’

‘Don’t tell me you’re going to carry on looking for Samari? You must be insane. He’s the number one suspect in the murder of your former employer, remember?’

‘We don’t know that for a fact.’

‘How much fact do you need? I’d say one man cut to pieces is enough for most people.’

‘How do you get all these details?’

‘I can’t tell you,’ said Sami, biting into a golden pastry. ‘Trade secrets. They’re best when they’re warm, by the way.’ He pointed. ‘See, I was right.’ Makana moved round to look at the screen. ‘The woman. You know, the one in the street just now, asking for money?’

‘The one with the sign?’ Makana remembered her. ‘What about her?’