The Ghost Runner (32 page)

‘Hello?’

‘I’m worried about you,’ said Zahra. She was whispering, her voice so low he could almost imagine her in the room with him. He rolled onto his back and watched a spider crawl across the light shade over the bed.

‘There’s nothing to worry about.’

‘I think you might be in danger.’

‘Well, my time here seems to be coming to an end. Hamama wants me out of here. He thinks he’s solved the case.’ He explained about Luqman’s arrest.

‘If they’ve got their man there’s not much more for you there.’

‘True, but unless someone does something he is going to be held responsible for two murders he didn’t commit.’

‘And that someone has to be you?’

‘There doesn’t seem to be anyone else around.’ Makana got up and walked over to the window. Through the broken slats of the shutters he could see the stubby finger of the minaret across the narrow street.

‘These killings seem to be connected to something that happened here a long time ago.’

‘What kind of thing?’

‘I don’t know, but it’s as if everyone knows, except me.’ Makana leaned against the window. ‘Both men were killed in a very public way, almost as if they were intended to be a statement.’

‘You’re beginning to worry me again. I really think you should leave straight away.’

‘I’ll be leaving in the next day or so. Like I said, there’s not much more for me to do here.’

‘And no sign of Musab?’

‘None. The family is gone and nobody will talk about him. If he’s here, he’s lying low.’

The loudspeakers crackled into life and the drone of the recorded azzan started up, adding to the cacophony of the other muezzins all over the town calling people to prayer. It was the only sign of life. Otherwise the mosque appeared to be unused. It would be a good place to hide. Undisturbed by anything but a few pigeons unless something went wrong with the loudspeaker system.

‘I look forward to seeing you,’ she said.

‘Me too.’

Makana heard his own words repeated in his head long after he had hung up the telephone. Me too? What was he thinking? He gazed down at the empty side street and considered his feelings for Zahra. Did this mean he was finally putting the past behind him? Over the years he had grown used to the familiar heartache that had lodged inside him since losing Muna. It was a part of him now. He wasn’t quite sure he was prepared to let go just yet. Then what? How long would he carry this weight around with him? A year? Ten years? Already it felt like a betrayal, but how can you betray someone who is dead? Perhaps it was time to let go and trust himself to fate? A brief glint of light drew his attention to the dark shadow of the minaret opposite. Had he imagined it? How many times had he constructed an elaborate alternative to that long-ago night in his mind? He imagined them setting out on a different route, leaving the city in disguise, travelling east or south. So many choices and he had made the wrong one. Or had he? Makana refused to believe it was fate that had decided the outcome. He had made the decision to run, no one else. And here he was, ten years on, still running. Perhaps Zahra offered him the chance to move on. Start afresh. Maybe if he repeated that to himself enough times he might one day start to believe it.

Chapter Twenty-three

The Norton puttered happily along the soft ruts that passed for roads in these parts, rising and sinking, bobbing gently over the bumps as if they were waves on a calm sea. The main bulb of the headlight was playing up and provided only an intermittent beam that danced over the soft sand ahead of him like a wavering finger. Occasionally it vanished without warning, plunging him into soft darkness that closed around him like a fist. Overhead, the moon was a silver scimitar slicing over the crowns of the palm trees. It too provided only fragments of light. He leaned forward to tap the headlight and the beam stretched out and then vanished again. As the Norton rose and fell on the uneven track the light stuttered on and off as if to the beat of a strange drum.

Makana was not entirely convinced this was not a waste of time. Assuming the girl managed to get past her father, what could she tell him? She had seemed genuinely scared and so long as there was a slim chance she might shed some light on what happened here all those years ago then he was obliged to meet her. Still, Makana couldn’t help feeling he was losing track, not so much of this as the course of his own life. Riding through the trees in the dead of night to meet an excitable young woman? Maybe it was part of this strange environment in which nothing ever seemed to lead where it was meant to. What connection could there be between the brutal murder of a retarded hotel porter without even a decent set of shoes to his name, and the slaying of a conceited and quite probably corrupt old Qadi? And as for Musab, he might just as well be chasing a phantom.

In the medieval age, Arab geographers had reported that Siwa contained a thousand fresh-water springs. In all likelihood, this was romantic embellishment which helped to conceal a lack of research. Geographers used to work by gathering second- and third-hand reports of places. By the end of it there was no guarantee that the places they described existed anywhere but in their imagination.

During the day, Cleopatra’s Eye was a pool of brilliant sapphire-blue, pure and clean. At night it was a dark, gleaming disk from which there emanated a certain mineral glow. It was surrounded by a fence of high canes and papyrus reeds that swayed over his head. It was also deserted. A low brick parapet circled the water. The tall reeds rustled noisily in a brisk night breeze. Trails of air bubbles gently rose through the water.

Makana paced the small clearing. The road into town disappeared into the palm trees, dissolving in the shadows. In contrast the sandy slopes of the hill to the north were silvery and bare in the moonlight. Makana stopped dead in his tracks as the faint sound of someone singing in the distance reached him. Musical instruments. Strings, keyboard and voices. Was his mind playing tricks on him? He smoked another cigarette. It was already past 1 a.m. and something told him that Rashida wasn’t going to show.

The sound of the music, he decided, was not in his head, although so soft that it might have been. It rose and fell with the wind as Makana found himself moving towards the source. He slipped through the thin band of reeds that lined the northern side of the road and crossed a ditch to find himself on open ground. He paused for a moment to take his bearings and focus again on the direction the sound was coming from. Above him the flanks of a hill rose gently towards a flat-topped summit. In the dark it resembled a sleeping monster. The music was coming not from the top of the hill but from further over towards the east. Makana moved slowly, his feet slipping in the loose sand. He was curious to know where the noise was coming from.

To the east of the hill was a depression that ran past the old burial chambers that skirted Jebel Mawtah and gave the hill its name, the Mountain of the Dead. At the far end of this elongated gully three vehicles were parked under a grove of trees, all of them identical. Black Cherokee Jeeps. The music filtered out into the night air through the open doors. A group of men wandered about a small camp fire. Tourists, was Makana’s first thought. They preferred camping out in the wild rather than trusting the town’s hotels. They were dressed in casual outfits, baggy trousers with lots of pockets on them and T-shirts. He spotted a woman among them. Makana was about to turn around and go back to the pool but something kept him hanging on. The woman and one of the men were foreigners. If he had to guess he would have said Americans. Something about their manner. The others were Egyptians, although they dressed in similar fashion. Wealthy locals taking some friends for an excursion into the desert? Guides often dressed more like their clients than like other locals. But that didn’t seem right either. Makana moved closer, staying low. The more he looked at them the more they resembled military personnel. The way they stood. Their clothes. These weren’t tourists.

As if in answer to the question forming inside Makana’s mind a tall, shaven-headed officer appeared, coming back towards the fire while buttoning up his trousers. There was laughter and chatter between the men. Lieutenant Sharqi. Makana rolled onto his back. He lay in the cool sand and stared at the stars high above him. What was Sharqi doing out here, he wondered, hiding in plain sight? He lay there for a while, listening to the music and the idle chatter. Makana had run into Sharqi before and he knew that he commanded a special anti-terrorist unit, part of an elite military intelligence corps somewhere inside the complex workings of State Security. It could be a coincidence, of course. The Americans could have been here on a courtesy visit and they decided to take a bit of a tour, off the beaten track. It could have been a coincidence but something inside him told Makana that it wasn’t. They were here for a reason, and the most likely reason was Musab Khayr. He lay there for a while trying to make sense of what he had just seen, and then he crawled back slowly away from the lip of the gully until it was safe enough to stand. He walked quickly down the shallow incline, his feet sinking into the cool sand with every step.

He had almost forgotten about Rashida when he got back. The pool was still deserted. The water gleamed in the moonlight like a solitary eye aimed at the heavens. The reeds sawed back and forth in the cool breeze. Makana crossed the clearing and lifted one foot to rest it on the low wall. He undid the laces and shook out the sand from one shoe. It was as he was replacing it that the shadow rose up through the water towards him. A cold tremor went through him. He could wait until Judgement Day and Rashida would never turn up, because she was already there.

The shadow that floated just below the surface of the water seemed alive. It expanded and contracted like a gigantic black jellyfish. The abaya she was wearing fluttered about her in the water like wings. Was it possible she had been there earlier and he hadn’t noticed? After trying in vain to haul her in, Makana took of his shoes and slipped over the side into the water. It was cold enough to make him worry he was having a heart attack. A couple of strokes brought him alongside the body which rolled when he touched it, the long folds of cloth wrapping themselves around his legs. He wrestled to try and get a grip on her. He felt the cloth tearing, stitches ripping. The body turned and he found himself looking into Rashida’s face. Her eyes were closed and her face looked so calm she might have been sleeping. The body was slack and clammy to the touch as it nudged up against him, almost as if she was trying to say something, to whisper in his ear. Then it rolled again and the clothing seemed to enshroud him. Fighting panic, Makana kicked with his feet while straining to keep a grip on the body as he dragged it to the edge of the pool. He hauled himself up onto the wall with difficulty, feet scrabbling to find some purchase on the rock. Still holding on to one arm, Makana slumped exhausted. Rashida floated below him. Her face turned towards his. He felt another tremor of emotion go through him. She was so young. She didn’t deserve to die, not like this. Eventually he managed to drag her up onto the wall, his muscles aching. He wiped the hair away from her face. Who had she told that she was meeting him tonight?

Makana straightened up and looked around. The wind was picking up. The canes were whipping back and forth, their tips bending until they were almost brushing the ground. The palm trees were rustling wildly overhead. A handful of dust whipped up from the ground and blinded him for an instant. Someone had followed her, or him, to this place. And that someone had killed Rashida. He listened carefully for a time, for the sound of sirens, or engines approaching, but there was nothing. Yet. But something told him they would be coming soon.

Makana slid the body back into the water as gently as he could. It would keep her safe from wild dogs and birds, for a time at least. Then he pushed the Norton towards the trees, turned on the ignition. He felt a surge of gratitude when the engine came to life. Then he was riding back along the road, feeling the soft sand sliding underneath the wheels. Distracted, he realised he was going faster than he should and eased back on the throttle. The headlight was still not working properly. It went dark for long periods. He trusted to his sense of where the road was, without actually seeing it. As he came around a bend the beam flickered on briefly then went out again. Makana was not aware of making a decision. Something inside made a subconscious connection. A faint glint from ahead of him where there should have been darkness. He lifted a hand instinctively to protect himself and ducked in the same instant. Pain sliced into the side of his hand, and his head was thrust backwards. Kicking down on the footbrake Makana felt the rear wheel slide out from under him as the Norton went down, spinning sideways. He skidded off the bike, the soft ground cushioning his fall. The air was knocked from his lungs and he lay there winded. The engine had stalled. There was no sound but the surge of the trees overhead which sounded as regular as a tide rising and falling. His hand hurt and when he touched his fingers to his head he could feel blood. Slowly, he got to his feet and looked back the way he had come. Moonlight broke through a gap in the trees and he saw something. Moving forward slowly, one step at a time, hands out in front of him, he didn’t see it until he walked into it. Something so thin and sharp as to remain invisible in the dark. A steel wire. Stretched taut across the road. Fixed between two trees. It would have taken off his head if he had ridden straight into it. A nasty way to die. He dismantled the cable and threw it aside. Then he hobbled over to the Norton and wrestled it upright. His knee and shoulder hurt, aside from the pain in his hand and the blood from his ear. None of that affected him as he bounced on the kick-start. He felt angry. Somebody had used Rashida to get at him. They had set her up and then killed her. The engine burst into life and he climbed back into the seat. High above, the silver moon was trapped in the madly waving fronds.