The Burning Gates (9 page)

Kasabian’s secretary was fretting at the top of the veranda steps. Jalal or ‘Jules’. In broad daylight he looked older than he had the previous evening. Perhaps it had been an exhausting night. He was a pale, slightly plump man with thinning hair and a nervous disposition that caused him to fidget all the time, rolling his thumbs and clasping his fingers.

‘You really ought to have called. As a rule Mr Kasabian doesn’t see anyone without an appointment.’

‘Well, I just happened to be close by, and there are a number of things that need clarifying.’

‘Mr Kasabian is a very busy man.’

‘I understand. It won’t take a moment.’

Jules wrung his hands. ‘Well, I can’t promise anything.’ He disappeared inside and Makana leaned on the balustrade and contemplated the lush scenery. A man could get used to this kind of peace. Yet all things came at a price. He wondered what that might be in Kasabian’s case.

‘Mr Makana, I didn’t expect to see you so soon.’ Aram Kasabian was wrapped in a white bathrobe, as if he had just stepped from the shower. A hint of irritation in his voice.

‘I’m sorry to disturb you.’

‘Quite all right.’ Kasabian recovered his composure quickly. He gestured magnanimously at the garden. ‘It’s glorious at this hour, isn’t it?’

‘Delightful. Have you lived here long?’

‘Forty years. It’s been in my family for generations.’ A wistful look crossed Kasabian’s face, as if recalling a distant past. He snapped back to the present. ‘Now, what can I help you with?’

‘There were a couple of queries. I understand this is a delicate matter, but I think it might help if I could speak to your client, the American buyer.’

‘I’m not sure why you think that would be of use to you,’ frowned Kasabian, ‘but I see no objection. He is obviously concerned with maintaining a low profile.’

‘I understand that. It would just be for a few minutes.’ Makana smiled. ‘Just to help me get my bearings.’

‘Interesting.’ It wasn’t clear that Kasabian entirely believed him. ‘Well, I see no harm in it. As a matter of fact I was just preparing to go and meet him. We have an appointment for afternoon tea. Why don’t you join me?’

‘If it’s no inconvenience.’

‘Not at all,’ Kasabian waved the matter aside. ‘Let me finish dressing.’

Makana let Sindbad know what was happening and then waited on the veranda for another fifteen minutes. Turtle doves cooed in the trees. It gave him time to think. He recalled the conversation with Ali about enemies. It was quite possible that Kasabian was mixed up in something that he didn’t quite understand. Dealing in stolen artwork or historical artefacts was a risky business. Was it possible that one of Kasabian’s rivals was trying to set him up? Kasabian’s mysterious American client seemed a good place to start.

When Kasabian finally emerged he looked his usual immaculate self, in a silver-grey suit with a powder-blue tie and matching handkerchief in his top pocket.

‘We’ll go in my car.’

The car was a Mercedes in fine shape and with a uniformed chauffeur at the wheel, although it was hardly worth getting into. The ride to the Marriott Hotel, which was around the corner, took about four minutes. The car slid smoothly up the ramp to deliver them to the door. Makana followed hard on the heels of Kasabian, who moved quickly for a man his age. The Marriott seemed to have been built with people like him in mind. The staff snapped to attention everywhere they went, as if royalty were among them. Money commands respect, as some great man might once have said. At the front desk the receptionist nearly fell over himself in his eagerness to be of service. His smile dropped when he had to come back after a lengthy interval to inform them that the man they were here to see was not in. Kasabian did not disguise his annoyance.

‘That can’t be. Are you sure? Mr Charles Barkley? Check again, please.’

‘Yes, sir, Mr Kasabian. I’ve tried his room several times. I have also sent a bellhop to page him round the pool area and restaurants. I’m sorry, but he doesn’t appear to be in the hotel.’

‘Well, this is very strange. We had an appointment.’ Kasabian glanced at his gold watch. ‘Still, if he’s not here, then there’s nothing to be done.’

‘Can I take a message?’

‘No, I imagine I’ll speak to him myself later. Thank you.’ Kasabian was already heading for the exit. There seemed to be no point in staying longer. ‘Quite ridiculous. A waste of time. I’m sorry about that. There must have been some misunderstanding. Can I give you a lift?’

‘No, that’s all right. I have my car coming to pick me up.’ Makana scanned the hotel entrance hoping that Sindbad had parked somewhere discreet and out of sight.

‘Very well. Let’s speak when you have something for me.’

The two men shook hands.

Makana took a moment to look around the lobby before heading outside. As he did so he noted a man in a beige linen suit, rather crumpled and with stains around the armpits. A visitor unused to the weather, or a man who had come unprepared. For a second he wondered if this might be Barkley, but that made no sense. It was the way he was standing that struck him as odd; off to one side, reading a newspaper and wearing dark glasses. The rumble of the Thunderbird brought Makana’s attention back to the front drive and he walked out to join Sindbad.

Chapter Seven

The Zerzura Gallery was set on the ground floor of a modern apartment building in Mohandiseen. A white horse that appeared to have wandered out of another century stood grazing in a patch of sparse yellow grass on the little square facing it. The gallery building was encased in grey marble and resembled a mausoleum. You might have expected to find a displaced head of state embalmed in the window, instead of carved lattice screens inlaid with mother-of-pearl.

To reach the window you had to clamber over piles of sand and broken brick. Construction appeared to have tailed off rather than come to a satisfactory conclusion, as if the builders had just lost interest. Despite this they were trying to preserve some sense of exclusivity. Chains prevented undesirable cars from blocking the entrance and a bored guard in a fancy uniform looked the Thunderbird over and decided to give them the benefit of the doubt. Tucked into the narrow gap between the next building were more leftovers: iron rods, timbers, more sand, heaps of broken breeze blocks and tiles, along with the tail end of a motorcycle: a yellow Yamaha.

Inside, a young woman wearing a headscarf sat behind a desk, her face illuminated by the blue glow of a computer screen. Makana murmured a greeting and moved on. Cases displaying jewellery in quaint rustic shapes evoked a city dweller’s romanticised view of rural life. Table lamps inside clay minarets, ashtrays shaped like farmhouses in the
rif
. At the far end was a wall of canvases picked out by hot beams of white light. As Makana took a moment to examine these Dalia Habashi stepped out from an office at the far end of the room. She brushed away her surprise at seeing him with a flick of her hair and came forward.

‘I wasn’t expecting to see you so soon.’ Her wrists jangled as she held out her hand.

‘I just happened to be in the area.’

Dalia Habashi was elegantly dressed in grey trousers and a black blouse. She carried herself with style, although underneath it he detected a jittery nervousness. Her movements were quick and awkward and her pupils were dilated. He glanced towards the office with the drawn blinds from which she had emerged and she immediately gestured at the walls around them.

‘What do you think so far?’

They strolled slowly around the gallery. ‘I haven’t really had time to take it in, but it all looks very interesting.’ Makana glanced dutifully at each frame. ‘How do you tell if something is valuable?’

‘You can’t, not really. I mean, you can, but there are no rules.’ She pushed a hand through her hair nervously. ‘It’s all about whether someone else can see what you see.’

Makana nodded as if this made perfect sense.

‘Many great artists never sold a painting in their lifetimes. Now their work sells for millions.’

‘That seems unfair.’

‘Did nobody tell you? Life is unfair.’ She swivelled to face him. ‘Why did you come here?’

‘I thought I should devote more of my time to understanding art.’

Dalia Habashi examined him for a moment. ‘You seemed a lot more charming last night. Now I have the feeling you are out to hurt me. You insult me by trying to appear more stupid than you are.’

‘That’s because I’m out of my depth.’ He gestured around them.

‘Not your sort of thing?’

‘Not really.’ Makana strolled on. Dalia Habashi followed. ‘What was the name of your friend, by the way?’

‘Which one?’

‘The one on the motorcycle.’

She pulled up. ‘So this isn’t a social call?’

‘I don’t, as a rule, make social calls.’

‘You must lead a very quiet life.’

‘I’m not complaining.’

‘What did Kasabian hire you to do?’

‘I can’t go into the details.’

‘But you came here to ask me something. Why do you think I can help you?’

‘Because you know this world.’ Makana nodded at the walls. ‘I need to understand how it works.’

‘Why should I help Kasabian?’

‘I get the feeling that whatever he’s mixed up in might affect you too.’

Dalia Habashi considered this for a moment. ‘Aram Kasabian is about as well established as you can be. He is the leading art dealer in the city. His grandfather started the business.’ They turned along an aisle of glass cabinets containing jewellery. Makana peered at some gold earrings bearing pendants shaped like palm trees. A young couple walked in through the front door. It clearly wasn’t their first visit. There was an air of confidence about them. The girl behind the front desk got up to greet them. These were the gallery’s true customers. Young, wealthy and by the looks of them, recently married. Looking for something a little different but nevertheless familiar.

‘How is business?’

‘It’s difficult for everyone,’ Dalia answered glibly. ‘Nobody is doing well.’

‘I imagine there is a black market in valuable items – museum pieces, for example.’

‘What makes you think I would know anything about that?’ Dalia Habashi’s chin lifted.

‘You strike me as someone who makes it their business to know everything.’

‘Nice try. I don’t deal in stolen artefacts, if that’s what you’re after.’

‘I didn’t mean to imply that. I meant simply that you’re an insider. You hear rumours.’

She studied him for a moment. ‘All right. You don’t get far in this business by sticking to the rules. There are too many grey areas. Clients are protective about their collections. They like to buy and sell with discretion, anonymously.’

‘But there’s a certain amount of risk involved. I imagine you have to invest quite heavily in a piece with no guarantee of a sale?’

‘Where exactly is this leading?’

‘I’m trying to get a feel for the art world. You are a leading reference, so it seems like a good place to start.’

‘I’m afraid there isn’t much I can tell you. This is a very discreet business. Clients are fickle and easily scared off. You have to learn to instil confidence in them.’

‘Is that what Qasim is to you? A client?’

Dalia Habashi smiled. ‘Now you are fishing. I think you might learn more if you directed your questions to Mr Kasabian.’

‘I intend to,’ Makana nodded. ‘By the way, how is your friend doing today?’

‘Which friend?’

‘The one you were defending last night. The motorcycle? I couldn’t help noticing it outside.’

‘Why does it always come down to this?’ she sighed. ‘Now if you don’t mind, I have work to do.’

‘Of course.’

Makana watched her go, switching on her charm to greet her customers. He left quietly. Outside he found Sindbad using an old rag to polish the car with all the loving care of an archaeological curator.

‘Drive us around the corner and wait.’

Sindbad climbed behind the wheel and started the big engine. He seemed to have acquired a degree of formality since he had begun driving this car. The Thunderbird rolled around the uneven roads circling the square before turning off down a side road. Sindbad waved away a couple of boys who appeared to help with the parking process in return for a small tip and entered into a protracted discussion with them. Makana left him to it. He walked back to the corner of the road from where he could see the entrance of the Zerzura Gallery. It was less than ten minutes before the man appeared from inside the gallery. He rolled the Yamaha motorcycle backwards down to the road, climbed onto it and kicked the starter a couple of times before it came to life. Makana waved Sindbad forward, jumping inside as the Thunderbird rolled by.

‘Turn right here.’

‘But that’s the wrong way,
ya basha
!’

‘We’ll lose him if we don’t.’

They made it almost to the end of the street before a taxi turned in, blocking their way.

‘Go around him.’

Sindbad swung the wheel and they lurched up onto a patch of broken pavement and rubble before lumbering by.