The Burning Gates (44 page)

Authors: Parker Bilal

BOOK: The Burning Gates

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The pilot jogged back onto the open ground towards the helicopter. It was a military grey, an old British Sea King without markings. Who it belonged to was unclear – more of Samari’s contacts, Makana guessed. Another figure was busy untying guy lines that secured the rotors, removing protective covers from the engines.

Clearly in pain, Samari straightened up. ‘Well, this is it, Makana, you’ll have to shoot us to stop me getting on that aircraft, but I sense that you are not the kind of person who takes the idea of shooting an unarmed man lightly.’ He turned and began limping away.

‘You don’t have to do this,’ Makana said. ‘It’s not too late.’

Bilquis hesitated. The boy clutched at her leg. She pressed him to her side.

‘It’s always been too late for us,’ said Bilquis. ‘In another life perhaps. I know too much about you and you about me.’ She stared at him for a long moment. ‘Goodbye Makana.’

Then she turned and hurried after Samari, stooping to put her arm under him to lend support, her son clutching her other hand. Makana let the gun drop to his side as the three of them walked out into the sunlight. Samari was right. Shooting a man in cold blood was not something he was capable of.

Makana watched as the helicopter rotors began to turn, beating themselves into a frenzy. Dust kicked up around the feet of the three passengers. Hands reached down to help them climb aboard. By now the whine of the engine had risen to a low scream. Makana watched Bilquis climb aboard last, the door sliding shut behind her. Then the rotors gathered force. They churned up the stinging sand, making Makana duck his head and cover his eyes. As he turned away he spotted the figure standing on a rocky ledge off to his left, on the periphery of the circle, a man whose head seemed to flutter in the wind. Kane. He was holding something to his shoulder. Makana knew what it was but there was barely time to register it before the cough of flame announced the launch of the rocket. The helicopter was about ten metres in the air, vertically above the wheel marks it had left in the sand. It had begun to turn, spinning slowly round. A few seconds more and it would have been clear, taking her into another life. Instead it exploded into an angry fist of flame and smoke. Makana ducked, hearing the whine of metal flying overhead, striking the rock with a resounding clang. For a moment the little arena was choked with dust and the smell of burning aviation fuel. The smoke cleared to reveal the helicopter had sunk back down into its tracks, a skeletal frame of its former self, flames and black smoke billowing from the fuselage.

Kane was striding towards him out of the blast, the rocket launcher cocked on one shoulder, the other hand thrown out wide.

‘Now, that’s entertainment!’ he yelled, throwing his head back and laughing. He tossed aside the spent rocket launcher. Then a shot rang out from behind Makana. Kane jerked backwards, lifted off his feet and fell to the ground. Makana turned to see Cody, Kane’s Desert Eagle held in both hands. He lowered the gun slowly.

‘Your father?’ Makana asked, although he knew the answer. Cody shook his head.

Makana turned back to the remains of the helicopter. Thick black smoke still billowed from the interior. It would have been instantaneous. She wouldn’t have felt a thing he told himself. He stood and watched it burn, thinking about what might have been and the pointlessness of it all.

A few hours later found Makana steering the Thunderbird down the last stretch towards the coast. In the back seat Sindbad was sleeping, dreaming of the feast he imagined awaited him in Cairo. Next to him in the passenger seat Cody sat and stared sullenly out at the landscape.

Marwan had been happy: his task was taken care of and he was in on another high-profile incident. Makana could see him working out what this would mean to him personally, how it would improve his chances of promotion. And Okasha had Kasabian’s killer. He had promised Cody that his father’s body would be transported back to Cairo and then repatriated by the embassy. He would take care of all the details. Cody sat on the front steps of the villa as they carried Frank Cassidy out on a stretcher.

‘He was a good man,’ Makana heard him say, ‘but sometimes being good just isn’t enough.’

To Makana it seemed that whenever he tried to help someone he ended up hurting them. Every time he closed his eyes he saw the image of the exploding fireball in front of him. He knew now that he would never be free of that feeling of guilt that he had carried with him all these years. Nasra’s and Muna’s deaths had changed him for ever. They would always weigh heavily upon him. He understood that in some way he had hoped that Bilquis would take the guilt from him. She couldn’t, of course. Nobody could. He realised that now, only now it was too late.

Below them, the sea appeared, a deep indigo blue that seemed full of promise. They dropped down towards the crossroads, where he stopped for a moment before swinging the wheel west and turning towards Cairo. Makana was in no mood for conversation. A part of him was curious to know what exactly the helicopter had been carrying. After all, it would be interesting to know how many of the old masterpieces had perished in the explosion. Was it a fascination with beauty or a desire for immortality that drove men to possess these objects? Perhaps it was just plain greed. Whatever it was, like moths drawn to a flame, it had cost Kasabian his life and now Samari and Kane theirs too, along with all the others they had taken with them. As for those items which had not been destroyed, he didn’t want to think about what would happen to them; didn’t want to know who would profit. He could imagine, and that was bad enough. Instead he lit another Cleopatra and focused his eyes on the road.

Ahead of them the sky grew ominously dark as thick ochre clouds gathered in the distance. A wall of dust rising up from the ground was sweeping towards them across the horizon. There was a
haboob
coming. He put his foot down and felt the big engine respond as they gathered speed and headed straight into the dust storm.

A Note on the Author

Parker Bilal is the pseudonym of Jamal Mahjoub.
The Burning Gates
is his fourth Makana Investigation. Born in London, Mahjoub has passed through Sudan, Egypt, Denmark and Britain, before settling in Barcelona.

By the Same Author

(writing as Jamal Mahjoub)

Navigation of a Rainmaker

Wings of Dust

In the Hour of Signs

The Carrier

Travelling with Djinns

The Drift Latitudes

Nubian Indigo

The Makana Mysteries

The Golden Scales

Dogstar Rising