The Golden Scales (28 page)

There was nothing else out here but desert in any direction you cared to look. The tables outside were unoccupied. For a long time he sat there smoking as he waited for his tea, watching the traffic buzz by like a stream of insects. A faded green Datsun rolled over the dust towards him, circling round to park right beside Farag’s Mercedes. As he watched, the door creaked open and a familiar figure climbed out. He straightened his shirt, shut the door and walked straight towards Makana.

‘May I join you?’ And without waiting for an answer, Sami Barakat sat down.

Chapter Twenty-five

‘Before you start threatening me, I should tell you I have seen enough to be able to go straight to the police with everything I know.’

Sami Barakat was so nervous he was shaking. The lighter in his hands clicked over and over like an enraged cicada. Finally Makana leaned forward and struck a match, the flame bobbing between them as Barakat bowed his head to light his American cigarette. He sat back and signalled for the waiter to bring him a glass of tea.

‘So,’ Makana said, ‘what exactly do you know?’

‘I thought you were working for the government. Then I thought you were working for Hanafi, and now it turns out you’re with the Russian.’

‘You sound confused.’

Sami Barakat pushed a hand through his ruffled hair and smoked nervously. ‘Okay, look, I admit it, I’m out of my depth here. I don’t understand what is going on.’

Makana laughed. ‘What are you doing here anyway? I thought you had finished with this story. Why don’t you go home and make up the rest like you did last time?’

‘I didn’t make it up.’ The reporter looked genuinely offended. ‘Well, the majority of it anyway.’

‘The mystery man was a nice touch.’

‘I have you to thank for that.’

‘Kind of you to say so.’ Makana studied him for a moment as the waiter arrived and poured the tea. ‘You followed me all the way down there and back?’

Sami Barakat nodded as he leaned forward to spoon a thick white layer of sugar into his glass which he then stirred into a syrup, never taking his eyes off Makana the whole time.

‘Why is your editor so interested in Adil Romario?’

‘He isn’t.’ Sami Barakat hunched his shoulders. ‘I was fired.’

Makana whistled. ‘I thought you were their star reporter?’

‘Hanafi gets what he wants. If he pulls his advertising like he threatened, the paper could be closed down in a week.’

‘Then what are you doing here?’

Sami Barakat puffed on his cigarette for a time. ‘I’m not sure. I just have a feeling about this story.’

‘What kind of feeling?’

‘The kind that tells me this is
the
story, the one I have always dreamed about. A story big enough to catapult me out of the reach of any small-minded editor.’

Makana thought this over. Sami Barakat struck him as genuine.

‘Hanafi is that important to you?’

‘Hanafi, and people like him, are the reason this country is in such a mess.’

‘You could wind up in prison talking like that, or worse.’

Sami Barakat sat back, one leg crossed over the other, his foot tapping to a nervous beat in his head somewhere.

‘Why are you telling me all this?’ Makana asked.

‘Because there’s something about you . . . I can’t put my finger on it, but you’re not like the rest of them.’

‘Hanafi hired me to find Adil. Whatever I think of the man, it’s a job, and in my position I can’t afford to be too fussy about who does the paying.’

‘I hear what you are saying, but still. Maybe it’s because you’re not from here, but you know what I’m talking about. You’re not in this to protect Hanafi’s interests.’

‘All I am concerned with is finding Adil Romario.’

‘This is about more than that.’

‘That’s what you say.’ Makana sipped his tea. ‘Let me ask you a question.’

‘Go ahead.’

‘What is so fascinating about Adil Romario?’

Sami Barakat leaned back and looked up at the sky where a few faint pinpricks of stars were visible beyond the glow of the neon above their heads.

‘He’s an icon, I suppose. The classic case of a poor boy who got lucky. He’s done what we all dream of, gone from rags to riches. It’s too good to be true. The papers all repeat the same platitudes and clichés about him.’

‘Not you?’

‘Not me. To me this story is about dignity. We all dream of becoming rich, but what does that actually mean . . . how does it change us inside? And how much are we willing to compromise ourselves in the process?’

‘You’re writing a moral tale?’

Sami Barakat leaned forward, his gaze fixed on Makana. ‘This is a fairy tale come true. Poor boy born in a village gets picked out one day and put on a pinnacle. He’s up there, a star, a legend. But the question is, how did he get there? And how does he feel about that? Adil Romario is a smart man. No matter what he does in life, he knows he will always live in the shadow of the man who pulled him out of the mud. How does he live with the knowledge that he owes such a debt to someone who embodies all the corruption and dishonesty which is ruining our country?’ He sat back in his chair, his case made. ‘For me, it’s all about dignity.’

‘You should listen to yourself sometime, you’re a dangerous man,’ said Makana slowly.

‘I have to tell it the way I see it. I can’t lie.’

‘A lot of brave men have lived to regret similar sentiments.’

‘Sure, I know that.’ There followed a long silence. Finally, the reporter said, ‘Why exactly did you come to this country?’

‘It’s a long story, and it’s late.’ Makana’s eye fell on the Mercedes and his mind went back to Farag. ‘Who are you writing this story for if you don’t have a paper to go to?’

‘Oh, I’ll find a way to be published.’ Sami shrugged. ‘If I believe in this story, then I am sure there are countless others who feel the same. Old Hanafi can’t tie up all of the press, in his pocket. But like I said, there’s a lot going on here I still don’t understand.’

‘And you think I can help you?’

‘Maybe we can help each other.’

Makana considered the idea. Sami Barakat nodded over his shoulder, tapping his useless lighter against his knee.

‘The owner of that car. What happened to him?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Makana quietly. ‘But I have a bad feeling.’

‘And the guy you went to visit, the Russian. How does he fit into all of this?’

Makana looked Sami Barakat over once more, and decided that, for whatever reason, it made sense to trust him for the moment.

‘Adil was working with Vronsky, or for him. Doing what exactly, I don’t know.’

‘I could look into the Russian, if you like? I know people who work for the development company out there.’

‘Well, he’s a bit of a mystery. But what seems clear is that he is trying to build himself an empire in this country.’

‘You think he’s competing with Hanafi?’

‘He could be.’

‘So he’s using Adil to get at the old man?’

Makana stared off into the darkness. Could that be it? Was Vronsky using Adil to get a foothold inside Hanafi Enterprises? He watched a large black Toyota SUV pull off the road and park in front of the café. The driver got out and hitched up his trousers, then walked around the side of the building following an arrow scratched in charcoal on a whitewashed wall, indicating the direction of the toilet. Another got out of the passenger side and stretched his arms above his head.

‘It’s funny how the disappearance of one person can send everyone around him into disarray. It’s like astronomy or something,’ Barakat continued.

‘Astronomy?’ Makana frowned.

‘You take one piece away and the whole system becomes unstable.’

‘You think you can find out about Vronsky?’

‘I’ll make a few calls. I know some people.’

‘Okay,’ nodded Makana. ‘If we’re moving towards the idea that this has less to do with Adil Romario than with Hanafi himself, we will need to know the state of his company. You must have contacts or former colleagues with some insight into the business world. Perhaps you can find out something about the state of Hanafi Enterprises . . . what their situation is, who their enemies are.’

‘I think I can manage that.’

The two men from the black Toyota nodded a greeting as they moved past them to settle at a table behind, up against the wall. Both ordered coffee. One of them called for a shisha.

‘Does this mean we are working together?’

‘It means we are cooperating.’

‘How do I know I can trust you?’ Sami asked.

‘You don’t,’ Makana said. ‘That’s the nature of these things. And there’s something else you need to bear in mind,’ he said, getting to his feet. ‘I’m not trying to scare you, but you need to realise that some of the people in this game are pretty ruthless.’

‘Don’t worry about me,’ grinned Sami Barakat, ‘I can take care of myself.’

‘I hope so, for your sake.’

It was well into the early hours before Makana arrived home. He parked the Mercedes under the eucalyptus tree and stumbled down the slope towards the river, barely able to keep his eyes open. The
awama
was silent and dark. He stepped on board, pulling the Beretta from his belt. Then he went through every room. When he was sure he was alone he set the gun down next to the answering machine. The red light was flashing to tell him that he had a message. He punched it and heard Soraya Hanafi’s voice. Her nervousness was plainly audible as she tried to affect a light tone.

‘I feel I have been unfair to you. I’d like us to start afresh.’ She wondered if he would mind meeting her the following morning for a game of tennis at the Gezira Club. Makana couldn’t help smiling. Tennis? He would have to watch himself. Before he knew it he would be hobnobbing with the best of them.

Chapter Twenty-six

The guards on the front gate of the Gezira Club did not appear overly convinced of Makana’s qualifications to join the well-to-do members inside. They detained him, asking him to pull over to one side as they waved every other car through. Stern looks were thrown Makana’s way in passing as the well-heeled sons and daughters of the city wondered what deviousness he might be guilty of.

Makana waited patiently. In the distance he could make out the giant finger of the Cairo Tower rising into the air. Modelled on a lotus flower, symbol of life in Ancient Egypt, it was built in the late fifties to transmit the
Sawt al-Arab
radio signal. The legendary broadcasts united the Arabs around the bold leadership of Gamal Abdel Nasser and his defiance of the West. In his determination to remain independent, Nasser symbolised Arab pride and dignity. Nowadays, people looked back upon that era with fond nostalgia. Where had it all gone, they wondered, all that hope? He was said to have built the tower with a $
3
million bribe the Americans threw his way before refusing to finance his construction of the High Dam. It had never struck Makana as a particularly attractive object. There was a restaurant up there which revolved while you ate. Spinning around in the air trying to eat struck him as a strange idea. Was that what had become of Egyptian independence?

One of the guards approached, looking as officious as a presidential aide, fiddling with something that looked like a children’s toy but was some kind of walkie-talkie. He waved Makana through with a distracted gesture, as if, now that he had been given permission to let him in, he had something more important to do with his time. Peer into any sentry box and you’ll find a little dictator in the making, thought Makana. Who said that?

Soraya Hanafi was waiting for him. Even when she dressed casually she managed to look more elegant than most people did when turned out in their best clothes. She was wearing a white tracksuit that was slim-fitting and immaculate. In the bright sunlight her hair looked lighter, tied back in a pony tail that peeked out of the back of an American baseball cap. Her face was radiant though largely obscured by a pair of sunglasses. Makana instinctively straightened his jacket, even though he knew it would make no difference. He made a mental note to go shopping for a new outfit one of these days. Presuming he ever managed to finish this case, he might actually have the money to purchase something. Soraya Hanafi tapped her racquet against one hand impatiently.

‘You didn’t come ready to play.’

‘I’m sorry. It completely slipped my mind.’ Makana had never played tennis in his life and he wasn’t about to start now. Soraya Hanafi gave him a knowing look.

‘No need to apologise. It’s my fault for insisting. Come, let’s sit down.’

It was early and the air was cool and fresh as they proceeded along a path to a terrace where a table with a parasol over it was reserved for them. Despite her attempt at disguise, if that’s what it was, they were stopped several times by people wanting to say hello. She acknowledged all of them with warmth and grace. Makana felt as if he were in the presence of royalty. She might have been a princess or a film star. What she was, of course, was heiress to one of the largest fortunes in the country. She handled herself well in the role. A waiter appeared the moment they sat down and she ordered freshly squeezed lime juice. Makana asked for tea.