Authors: Parker Bilal
‘He asked me to find someone on behalf of a client. An American named Charles Barkley.’ Makana opened the silver box on the table. The interior was lined with Dunhills, laid out in neat rows waiting for a hand to pick them up. Makana tried to imagine the box on the table on the awama. It might add a touch of style, though he couldn’t quite picture it.
‘I should bring in this Barkley.’
‘He’s at the Marriott.’
‘You’ve met him?’ Okasha asked.
‘No. I went there with Kasabian the day before yesterday, but he was out.’
‘I’ll have him brought in to the station.’
‘No,’ said Makana. ‘I think we should go to the hotel and see him.’
‘We?’
‘I want to see his face when you tell him.’
‘Okay.’ Okasha regarded Makana for a moment. ‘Anything else you want to tell me?’
‘Not just now,’ said Makana.
‘
Effendim
?’
Another saluting policeman appeared, this time a sergeant wearing white gloves.
‘What is it?’
‘We have located a potential witness, sir.’
As they passed him by, Makana took another, closer look at Kasabian. His face was almost unrecognisable; bloated and swollen and striped with blood, it resembled a hideous mask. Almost as if he had been turned into one of his artworks.
‘How much would you say he weighed, Doctora?’
Doctora Siham looked the body up and down. ‘Ninety-five kilos. Perhaps a little more.’
‘So it would take more than one man to haul him up like that?’
‘One strong man might be able to manage, but it would be a struggle, I would say.’
A rather dignified old man was waiting in the garden. The witness had the bearing of a military officer despite being dressed in pyjamas and what looked like an expensive paisley-green silk dressing gown. The neatly groomed moustache and hair perfectly in place lent him a passing resemblance to an actor who had stepped out of a 1950s film. He was in his seventies and presented himself with a little bow as ‘The poet Ahmed Aziz’.
‘Did you know the deceased?’
‘The deceased? Give him a name.’ The poet shivered – whether from cold, horror or age it wasn’t clear. Eventually he gave a quick nod. ‘Who would butcher a man like that, like an animal?’
‘Did you know him?’ Okasha repeated.
‘Of course. We were neighbours. Mr Kasabian is a recent arrival, but he is a respectable man.’
‘I understood Mr Kasabian had lived here for forty years.’
‘Exactly. He’s new.’ The poet stuck to his story. ‘His family had been here for generations, of course.’
‘Of course,’ Okasha sighed. ‘I understand you claim to have seen something.’
‘Claim? Do you think I would make such a thing up? Is that what happens now? The first witness is taken as a suspect? If you’re going to charge me you may as well get it over with.’
‘Nobody’s going to charge you. Please, tell us what you saw.’
The dignified poet was happy to talk. Indeed, one might have been forgiven for thinking that he was even a little grateful to have found a captive audience. Arms clasped behind his back, he spoke as if standing on a podium; the bushy white eyebrows batted up and down as if they had a life of their own.
‘Sleep is a rare luxury these days. And besides, it is in my nature to work at night. During the day there is too much noise and commotion. It disturbs the soul. Not like the old days.’
The sergeant leaned over to whisper something and Okasha cut the poet short.
‘So, let’s drop the poetry for a moment, shall we? A little bird tells me you are in the habit of spying on your neighbours, in particular a young lady who is a little careless with her bedroom blinds.’
The old poet glared at the sergeant. He did a good act of looking outraged. Then the fight went out of him. He looked confused for a second, then shrugged it off. ‘What can I tell you? If our Lord places such a sight before my eyes, who am I to deny him?’
‘Okay, uncle, so you like looking out of windows. Now tell me what you saw?’
‘What I saw?’ A tremor went through the old man’s voice. ‘I saw a bolt of lightning flying through the trees, like a yellow bird.’
Okasha was clearly not in the mood for flights of poetic fancy. ‘A bird, lightning?’ he snapped. ‘What are you saying?’
‘A motorcycle, ridden by the devil himself, voom!’ The old poet’s hand glided up into the air and away.
The terrace of the Marriott Hotel was a world unto itself. People wandered about in a happy daze. They were on holiday, recounting their adventures while ordering club sandwiches and French fries, ice-cream sundaes for their howling children. It might have been a terrace in Monaco or some other sunny resort. Waiters rushed to and fro bearing refreshments to keep them happy. Tall drinks, bottles of ice-cold beer and trays laden high with salads, hamburgers and pizza. A man wearing the tall hat and spotless white uniform of a chef strolled among the tables with all the ceremony of a pasha on a tight budget. The arches and elaborate ironwork of the original building were a lingering reminder that this had once been a palace. There was an irony in the fact that the opulence of the nineteenth century now survived only as a backdrop for tourists on holiday. The Khedive Ismail had built the place to impress visiting European dignitaries, including Princess Eugénie of France. Hard to imagine he would have approved of the travellers and traders who now thronged the place. The elegant lines were now dwarfed by squalid concrete blocks thrown up on either side to house more of them.
On the way over Okasha gave the order to start a search for Na’il’s yellow motorcycle. Makana called ahead to warn Charles Barkley that he was coming to see him about Kasabian. The American sounded calm on the telephone. Detached, almost amused.
‘How will I recognise you?’
‘I’ll be the one with a police inspector standing next to me.’
Okasha had asked Makana to make the call, claiming that his English wasn’t good enough—
‘I don’t want to make a fool of myself before I even meet this fancy American.’
In the event, Barkley had no difficulty spotting them. He waved from a table close by.
‘Mr Makana?’
Charles Barkley was in his early forties. A tall man, he was neatly dressed and wore a pair of wraparound sunglasses, jeans and a short-sleeved shirt. He looked lean, tanned and fit.
‘I’m Makana, and this is Inspector Okasha of the Cairo police.’
They all shook hands. Barkley gestured for them to be seated.
‘Can you tell me what all of this is about?’
‘Well, I’m afraid we bring you bad news,’ began Makana. ‘It’s about Mr Aram Kasabian.’
‘Aram? Yes, of course. What has happened?’
‘It appears that he has been murdered.’
Okasha cleared his throat. ‘Very badly murdered.’
‘But that’s terrible!’ Barkley leant forward, resting his elbows on the table. He stared blankly. ‘I was speaking to him only yesterday.’
‘What time yesterday?’ Okasha produced a notebook and pen from his top pocket.
‘I don’t know. In the afternoon. Wait, I can tell you exactly.’ Barkley reached for a telephone that rested on the table and scrolled through a list. ‘Five-thirty p.m.’
‘Can you tell us what you talked about?’ Okasha’s confidence in his linguistic abilities seemed to increase with every word.
‘Well, it was about a confidential matter. I’m sure you understand that I am a little reluctant to discuss my business with Mr Kasabian in public.’
‘I am familiar with your business with Mr Kasabian,’ Makana said. ‘I was hired by him on your behalf.’
Barkley regarded Makana more closely. ‘I see. Well, in that case I imagine you can explain as well as I can.’
‘It would be good if you could tell us in your words. I know you came to Cairo looking for a painting.’
‘Is this relevant?’ Barkley appealed to Okasha. Makana translated the last word.
‘In murder all is . . . relevant,’ said Okasha. ‘Please, why you come to Cairo?’
‘Very well, let me see. A few months ago I started to hear rumours of a certain painting. A very important piece of work, you understand. It has been missing for a long time, confiscated by the Nazis in Germany in the 1930s. After that it disappeared. It’s been gone a long time. Now, apparently it has reappeared.’
‘Where did these rumours come from?’ Makana asked.
‘Where do all rumours come from?’ Barkley smiled.
‘Excuse me,’ Okasha interrupted. He turned to Makana. ‘Can we stick to the murder here? I mean, if you want to ask more about this painting then by all means do so, but I’m trying to catch a killer and with every minute he is getting further away.’
A waiter bearing a broad smile and a heavily laden tray appeared. He began to unload fruit, coffee, a plate of scrambled eggs and bacon. Barkley waved it all away.
‘I’m sorry, I ordered breakfast. I didn’t know.’
The waiter carried on smiling.
‘Please, just take it away. Or leave the coffee. Would you gentlemen like coffee?’
Both Makana and Okasha shook their heads.
‘No, take it away. All of it. I’ll eat later.’
The waiter bowed and withdrew discreetly. Barkley turned to Makana.
‘Perhaps we can talk in more detail after you’ve finished your questions. I’d like to hear your view of things.’
‘Ask him if he can think of anyone who might want to kill Kasabian,’ Okasha said. Makana relayed the question and the inevitable answer.
‘No, I can’t. I mean, I still can’t believe he’s dead. He was such a likeable man, and you say he was murdered?’
Okasha nodded. ‘I am sorry to say so.’
Barkley took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. ‘I always knew coming here was a risk. I was warned Egypt was a dangerous place. No offence.’
‘Of course,’ said Okasha. ‘Mr Barkley, do you have family?’
‘A family? Why, yes, a wife and two daughters. They’re back in the States.’
‘At this time a man must be with his family, but I ask you go nowhere without you are informing me first.’ Okasha handed Barkley his card and stood. ‘I take no more of your time.’ He turned to Makana. ‘Are you staying? Walk out with me. I want a word.’
Barkley picked up his telephone as they moved away.
‘I want you to work with me on this,’ said Okasha.
‘As what?’
‘I don’t care as what. As my personal adviser, anything. This Kasabian is a big fish and a murder like this is going to bring the sky down on my head. We need to close it as soon as possible.’
‘What choice do I have?’
‘No, you don’t understand.’ Okasha jabbed a finger in Makana’s chest. ‘Back at the house you wanted to say something and you stopped. I know you, Makana. I don’t want you going off by yourself. I want you to come to me, understood?’
Okasha invoked the wrath of Allah at the sight that greeted them when they took a wrong turn and found themselves on the steps leading down to the discreetly shielded swimming pool. Women in various states of undress, and men who paraded themselves in clinging loincloths that left little to the imagination.
‘Barbarians,’ muttered Okasha. As they turned away a man bumped into Makana.
‘Sorry,’ he said before going on his way. Makana caught a glimpse of a tall thin man with dark, unkempt hair that hung to his shoulders.
‘Remember what I said,’ Okasha called over his shoulder.
When he returned to the table Makana found Barkley smoking a cigarette and pouring from a pot of coffee. He got to his feet as Makana approached.
‘I took the liberty of ordering a cup for you.’
‘Thank you.’
Makana sat down, lighting a cigarette as he did so. It was easy to see how one might grow accustomed to such places. The hotel seemed a million light years removed from the city that lay beyond its high palatial walls. There were no crowds, no hustle, no hassle. The tooting of cars was a muted distraction, like distant birdsong. Waiters wandered discreetly and attentively between the tables. And it wasn’t restricted to foreigners. A good number of the people sitting on the terrace were locals. Men with money, some here for meetings with hotel guests, others with families. All seemed to have wandered in for a reminder of what tranquillity felt like. Here was the reason why men like Kasabian, and Zafrani for that matter, strived to increase their wealth and power, so as to be able to afford this lifestyle, to raise themselves above the daily struggle.
Makana became aware that Barkley was studying him.
‘Aram spoke highly of you. He said you were the best in the business.’
‘He was very generous.’ Makana wondered if this was what Kasabian had really said.
‘I take it he explained the delicate nature of this matter?’
‘Yes, he did. Mr Barkley, I’m not sure you’re fully aware of the situation. Mr Kasabian was tortured. It looks as if somebody wanted information from him.’
‘What kind of information?’ Barkley snapped open his lighter and lit another cigarette.