The Golden Scales (4 page)

‘You are rather an unconventional man, Mr Makana.’

He turned his attention to the upright figure sitting beside him. The man in the fancy suit carried himself with style. He wore expensive cologne that made Makana wonder if he himself should have devoted a little more time to his preparations for this meeting.

‘How exactly did you come by my name?’

‘Oh, you come highly recommended, by an old acquaintance.’ The slim man smiled reassuringly in a way that made Makana dislike him all over again.

They drove quickly south alongside the river, the gorilla using the horn the way he might have cracked a whip, sending other road users scattering to left and right. The centre of Hanafi’s empire overlooked the Orman botanical gardens – fittingly, perhaps, as they had once been part of the Khedive Ismail’s private grounds. The building itself was a blunt pinnacle of concrete and glass that seemed to hang in the air in defiance of gravity. Vines and fronds draped the many tiered balconies, stacked up like verdant steps leading to the sky. They called to mind the Hanging Gardens of Babylon or some other such ancient wonder. It wasn’t hard to believe that the people living in a place like this eventually started to think of themselves as gods. The other apartments in the building were occupied by ageing divas and film stars, directors and magnates of one kind or another, plus the odd African dictator hiding from justice. Lesser beings, one and all, content to perch their tents on a ledge beneath the enigma that was Saad Hanafi. The upper floors were reserved for the man himself. A tower of shimmering luxury rising out of a city flooded with poverty. A fairy-tale castle in the clouds. Makana knew the building. He’d passed by it enough times and had looked up and wondered like everyone else what life would look like from up there. He had never imagined he would one day find out.

As they approached alongside the river, Makana noted how the building resembled a medieval fortress. A
burj
from the days of the Mamluks. Only it wasn’t an invading army they were worried about these days, but the millions of hungry people who might one day grow tired of filing dutifully past the front door every day. It was anonymous and complete unto itself. The neighbours were several four-star hotels and a handful of despondent animals in the khedive’s old zoo across the street – a dusty and dilapidated reminder of that other empire which had pitched camp on this same river bank some two centuries before.

The silent car didn’t pause in the street but instead swooped straight down a ramp, like a big white bird, past a barrier and a vigilant security guard and into a subterranean parking area. Rows of cars were lined up on either side along the walls. Straight ahead was an extra-wide lift. As they approached, the driver pressed a button.

‘Open sesame,’ muttered Makana, as the doors slid aside and the long white car slipped into the waiting lift. Without anyone moving a muscle, they began to rise silently through the building. When they came to a halt Makana climbed out and followed the slim man through a door which led straight into a wide living area. The sensation was rather like stepping on to a cloud. Milky-white sheets of marble stretched away in every direction. You could have ridden a camel through the place without needing to lower your head. Two giant glazed ceramic leopards stood guard by the entrance. A reminder that when you had all the money in the world, you didn’t need taste.

‘This way.’

Makana followed obediently, noticing as he walked how dusty and scuffed his shoes looked against all that polished stone. The penthouse was roughly horseshoe-shaped, with windows on one side that curved around a large terrace. In the middle of the room the ceiling bulged into a high cupola below which hung an enormous glass chandelier. Through the sliding glass doors beyond was an oval of clear blue water. The pool area was crowded with mock-Roman pillars and Greek sculptures, marshalled by parallel rows of sphinxes in red marble.

They trekked across a wide salon divided into various levels, and all cluttered with more of the same – ceramic creatures, wooden Nubian attendants in pharaonic costume, stone statues of Isis and Osiris that looked as though they ought to be under lock and key in the National Museum, along with accompanying sets of sofas, chairs, television sets, bars, dining tables and even a roulette wheel. The furniture alone would have been enough to sink Makana’s humble home.

At the far end they reached a wide arch with mahogany double doors set into it. A statue of an Arab swordsman wielding a scimitar stood guard to either side, looking suitably ferocious. The doors opened as they approached and Makana found himself ushered into an enormous study. There were shelves along the walls, lined with more items that probably should have been in glass cases with labels on them, and cabinets full of books, all looking fresh and clean, as if no human hand had ever touched them except to dust them down once in a while. A complete lionskin was nailed to the panelled wall between the shelves and a niche which contained a series of framed photographs. Makana paused to examine these. They revealed a small, ugly, fat man with a mottled face, in the company of several of the world’s best-known presidents, prime ministers, royal personages, Arab sheikhs, with a few stars of stage and screen thrown in for good measure. The same man could be seen in the company of a group of football players, holding up a shirt featuring the DreemTeem logo and lettering in English and Arabic.
A long beige leather sofa took up the left-hand side of the room while at the far end stood a huge desk made of ebony, supported by two pairs of enormous gold pedestals embellished with elephant tusks. Upon the desk stood several frames containing more family portraits. In one black-and-white photo a much younger and slimmer Hanafi appeared, wearing a toothbrush moustache, accompanied by a stout woman and three girls of varying ages. The next, taken some years later, showed him wearing a pair of outsized sunglasses and a plaid jacket, in the company of a slim woman holding a boy by the hand. A third picture showed him surrounded by his four daughters, now grown up.

‘All of these pictures look somewhat dated.’

An expression of irritation passed over the slim man’s face.

‘Mr Hanafi’s two marriages ended, sadly. The first Mrs Hanafi passed away many years ago, although he enjoys an excellent relationship with his daughters.’ He indicated the black-and-white picture of the stout woman with the three girls.

Makana leaned forward to examine the four girls in the last picture. There seemed to be quite an age difference between them. He turned his attention to the photograph next to it, of the woman holding a little boy by the hand.

‘And this one?’

‘His second wife and his only son. They were tragically killed in a car accident.’

‘He doesn’t seem to have had much luck in that department.’

‘If you don’t mind . . .’

The slim man gestured and Makana followed him out through some open glass doors that gave on to a raised deck covered with bright green artificial grass.

Good living had taken its toll on Saad Hanafi. The same small, ugly man who featured in the photographs was clumsily wielding a golf club. It swung back and forth a few times, like the wayward hand of an errant clock, and then struck the tiny white ball with a hard, powerful clip that sent it arching up into the air. It vanished over the end of the terrace in the direction of the river. Saad Hanafi clearly didn’t bother retrieving them and Makana wondered how much damage you could do with a golf ball dropping from a great height. The slim man motioned for Makana to remain silent while Hanafi teed up again for his next shot. A servant wearing white gloves bent down to place another ball. Hanafi made a few tentative swings, then wound himself back and swung the club. This time his aim was off and the ball flew up at an angle, causing the attendant to duck, before clipping one of the Greek statues and finally smashing into the glass screen at the far end with a splintering crash. Disgusted with his own performance, Hanafi tossed the club aside.

‘I’ll never understand this game,’ he spat, turning to look Makana up and down with a look of undisguised contempt. ‘Is this him?’

‘This is Mr Makana,’ the slim man confirmed with a barely perceptible nod.

No time was wasted on further introductions. Hanafi led the way back inside his office. Taking a towel proffered by his assistant, he wiped his brow. Saad Hanafi’s face was lumpy and disgruntled-looking. The wispy moustache and the few remaining strands of hair on his head were dyed an inky blue-black. His skin had a greyish tint to it, as though he had been soaking in muddy water for a long time. A tray of cold drinks had been set on the table and he helped himself, draining a glass of fruit juice in one long draught and smacking his fleshy lips together.

‘Do you have a family, Mr Makana?’ When there was no immediate reply, Hanafi glanced up. He slowly set down the glass and began to remove his golfing gloves. ‘Tell me something about yourself.’

‘What would you like to know?’

‘Gaber here says you were a policeman . . . that you came to this country for political reasons. Is that correct?’ His voice was like gravel churning steadily in a cement mixer.

‘I didn’t have much choice in the matter.’

‘Would you describe yourself as an idealistic man, Mr Makana?’ There was no warmth in the rigid smile on Hanafi’s face.

‘I’m not sure I follow,’ he said, meeting the other man’s gaze without flinching.

‘Sudan and Egypt are brothers, of course, so you will always be welcome in this country, but anyone working for me leaves his political ideas at the door. Do you have a problem with that?’

‘Not yet,’ said Makana.

The sneer on Hanafi’s face suggested a man who relished confrontation. He took another moment to size Makana up again and then flipped a finger in the direction of a low seat as he went round to the other side of the desk and settled back into a high winged chair. Makana sat down.

‘I have a problem with one of my players . . .’

Makana was not particularly interested in football. To his mind, one person kicking a ball was pretty much as good as another, though he knew that wasn’t how a lot of people saw it. The idea that a player could be a cause for concern was news to him.

‘What’s the problem?’

‘He has disappeared. Gone missing.’

Makana waited. Hanafi glared at him. He seemed annoyed that his words weren’t producing more of a response.

‘I’m not talking about just any player. This is Adil Romario.’

Even Makana had heard of Adil Romario. The DreemTeem star player’s face was everywhere, even more prominent than that of old man Hanafi himself. There was nothing under the sun Adil Romario did not appear to endorse with a bright smile that was far whiter than Allah had ever intended any man’s teeth to be. Cars, soft drinks, telephones, clothes . . . along with all kinds of strange snacks that kids got fat spending their parents’ money on.

‘He has one of the most well-known faces in the country. How could he disappear?’

‘If I knew that I wouldn’t need your help,’ grunted Hanafi.

‘How long has he been gone?’

Gaber stepped in then. ‘Ten days ago Adil was due to come here for dinner. He never turned up. Since then he has missed every practice session and does not appear to have slept in his home.’

‘Ten days is a long time. He could be anywhere in the world.’

‘He didn’t take his passport with him,’ said Gaber. ‘And his car is gone too.’

‘So you think he’s still in the country. Why did you wait so long to start looking?’

‘There is the small matter of the press.’ Gaber wrung his hands. ‘Our reputation is at stake. We don’t want the whole country to start speculating about this.’

Makana’s gaze wandered back and forth between the two men for some hint of what they were not telling him.

‘Presumably you want to get him back?’

‘What kind of a question is that?’ snarled Hanafi. ‘Of course I want him back.’

‘Then I don’t understand . . .’

Hanafi heaved in a deep breath. He was clearly making a conscious effort to control himself. Gaber opened his mouth to speak, but the old man silenced him with a jerk of his hand. He leaned forward and spread his stubby hands on top of the desk.

‘As I am sure you can appreciate, Mr Makana, no man gets where I am today without making a few enemies. I can trust no one. The moment I am seen to display any weakness, they will be on me like a pack of hyenas.’

‘I take it this is not the first time he’s gone missing then?’

A wave of exhaustion passed over Hanafi’s face. Gaber was staring at the floor. He shook his head.

‘But never for this long.’

‘Where does he usually go, when he disappears like this?’

Again it was Gaber who answered. Hanafi seemed unable to muster the energy.

‘A player like Adil is under a lot of pressure. It’s easy to understand. Sometimes he just needs to get away. He goes to the beach, to Sharm el-Sheikh to dive, or else to Africa . . . Mombasa maybe. Places where he can relax and nobody knows him. But he always leaves word, or gets in touch.’ Gaber held Makana’s gaze. ‘It’s never been this long with no contact.’

‘That still doesn’t explain the delay.’ Makana openly studied the coarse features of the powerful man sitting behind the desk. ‘Did something happen? An argument . . . a disagreement about money?’