Authors: Parker Bilal
‘Maybe he got tired of him.’ Kane shrugged. ‘Maybe they had a lovers’ quarrel. It happens.’
‘I am curious though,’ said Makana. ‘Why do you want him so badly? This isn’t about the reward. It isn’t about museum pieces or stolen paintings. It’s personal.’
Kane seemed momentarily distracted by the noise around him. The boys going from table to table with their trinkets, the waiter whisking through, tapping out a rhythm on his metal tray, even the tourists trudging by in their practical shoes and sensible clothing. Through the bands of light that filtered down through the covered screens high above, tiny birds chirped as they fluttered by.
‘You need to get things in perspective,’ said Kane finally. ‘You’re a smart man. There’s a lot of money at the end of this rainbow. Now, I don’t know what your plans are for the future, but charming as it is, me, I wouldn’t want to grow old and poor in this city. I’d want enough to lift me up out of the horseshit and give me a comfortable life.’
‘You’re talking about a deal?’
Kane leaned across the table, a gleam in his eye. ‘Do you have any idea how much Samari is sitting on? It’s a once-in-a-lifetime collection of stolen art. A king’s ransom and then some. When Samari marched into Kuwait with a unit of Republican Guards they turned the place upside down and shook its pockets. They came up with all sorts. Gold bullion, silver, diamonds and art, lots of art. They loaded it all up and drove it back across the border. Most of it they could get rid of, but the paintings, that’s not so easy, especially when your country is under UN sanctions. A Picasso in Baghdad is about as valuable as a pair of Prada shoes. There’s nowhere to go.’
‘How is it that you know so much about Samari?’
‘I’ve been following this guy’s progress for longer than you can imagine. I know everything about him there is to know.’
‘So this is not just about delivering Samari to justice. It’s personal.’ Makana sat back for a moment to think. ‘You must have known that killing Kasabian would stir everything up. There’s a manhunt going on, looking for the wrong man, but still. What did you think would happen? Did you really think Kasabian would lead you to him, just like that? Samari has a formidable reputation. Kasabian was more scared of him than he was of you. He didn’t know who you were.’
‘Well, he knows now.’ Kane’s face was set in a grim mask. It was the first admission of guilt, and Makana felt the palms of his hands grow damp. He reached for a cigarette and found the packet was empty. He raised a hand to summon the waiter. ‘Careful,’ said Kane quietly. Makana held up the empty packet.
‘Just cigarettes.’
The waiter came over with a packet of Cleopatras and Makana paid him. He unwrapped the cellophane thinking about Cassidy’s Camels. A rich man would be able to smoke Camels every day.
‘Tell me about what you had in mind.’
Kane eased up slightly. He rolled his shoulders as if to relax them.
‘The war has helped Samari. He’s richer now than he ever was. People come to him with items from the museums. Old, very old stuff. The great Iraqi heritage. We’re talking Ali Baba’s cave of wonders. Modern art, treasures of the ancient world, Mesopotamia, the riches of Babylon.’
Makana recalled the delicate shape of the palm tree on the tablet in Kasabian’s little treasure trove. Priceless fragments of a forgotten history. The world was always happy to buy up the past.
‘Added to that, I can show you a list of some of the paintings: Marc, Matisse, Chagall. A king’s ransom on today’s market, hundreds of millions of dollars.’ Kane talked with the zeal of a prophet and the charm of a sorcerer. A purveyor of flying carpets and miracle cures.
‘And how do you plan to get hold of these things?’
‘Well, that’s where you come into it. You lead me to Samari and you’ll get a cut.’ Kane took a moment. A shoeshine boy clicking tin caps on his fingers like castanets paused by their table. The American gave him a dirty look and the boy took himself off.
‘Don’t tell me your conscience is bothering you. Just remember that Samari helped gas the Kurds in 1988. He’s a war criminal. He’s going to stand trial.’
‘Along with George Bush and Tony Blair?’
‘You’re a laugh a minute, you know that?’
‘I don’t see anybody laughing,’ said Makana.
‘Don’t tell me you’re not interested. I’ve seen where you live. I know the kind of life you lead.’ Kane seemed to tire of the shisha and instead produced a packet of cigarettes and snapped the brass Zippo lighter open, producing flame and the high organic buzz of naptha fumes. ‘You’re almost there. All you have to do is point us in the right direction and get out of the way.’
Makana glanced back to see if the two other Americans were still in place. He wondered where Jansen and Clearwater were, and the Iraqi, Faisal.
Kane grinned. He reached down to a pocket and produced a thick envelope which he placed on the table between them. ‘There’s ten grand there. Call it an advance. You lead me to him and you’ll get double that.’
Makana contemplated the envelope. ‘It doesn’t seem like all that much compared with the millions on his head.’
‘Ah, now I think we’re getting somewhere.’ Kane wagged a finger at him. ‘You strike a hard bargain, Mr Makana, but I’m sure we can come to some arrangement. Take this as a down payment against, shall we say, a five per cent cut?’
‘Ten per cent.’
‘Five per cent of at least twenty million? That’s an easy one million dollars. Don’t get greedy my friend, a million dollars still buys a lot of falafel.’ Kane glanced over towards Hagen and Santos and a signal seemed to pass between them. The American glanced at his watch. ‘Time’s up,’ he said. ‘You’re almost there. All you have to do is lead me to him.’
‘What makes you think I know where he is?’
‘You wouldn’t be sitting here if you didn’t have a pretty good idea of how to find him.’ Kane got to his feet. He handed Makana a strip of paper with a number on it. ‘Don’t take too long about it. I’m not known for my patience.’
‘How do I know I can trust you?’
Kane smiled. ‘We all have to have a little faith.’ He looked over his shoulder. ‘I’m going to leave now. Don’t try to follow me. Stay here, enjoy your coffee.’
Makana watched Kane walk away down through the lane and turn left. When he looked back the two other Americans had disappeared.
The awama was quiet. The dying sun was warm on the soft ground and the smell of mud and growing plants conjoined in a rich mixture that seemed timeless. It reminded Makana that he was getting older and one day he would be dead and this ground would still be here, just as it had been in the last days of Akhenaton.
The rumble of the big engine announced Sindbad’s arrival. Makana made a mental note to call Ali and find out how the repairs were coming along. He was beginning to miss the old Datsun. Cramped and unreliable as it was, it had a certain modesty that he preferred over the brash showiness of its American counterpart.
A few moments later Sindbad appeared on the upper deck, his face sombre, as it always was when he had to deliver a report. He took his work very seriously.
‘Well,
ya basha
, I did what you asked. I waited until the American came out of the bazaar.’
‘Was he alone?’
‘Not for long. Two other men came out of the Khan al-Khalili behind him and followed him down to the road. A car arrived.’
‘What kind of car?’
‘American. Cherokee Jeep. Black.’
‘Egyptian registration?’
Sindbad produced a greasy scrap of paper, torn from a food wrapping. ‘Egyptian,
ya basha
. I checked it personally.’
‘Very good.’ Makana wondered where the Americans would have got hold of a car. Rented? Stolen? Perhaps it was not so difficult to explain. ‘Did you see how many people were in the car?’
‘First only the driver, Arabic, then two others arrived.’
That was all of them. Faisal would be doing the driving. Clearwater and Jansen must have been in the bazaar somewhere in case they were needed. Kane certainly didn’t believe in taking chances.
‘Where did they go?’
‘I followed them,
ya basha
, to a hotel on the Pyramids Road.’
On the paper Sindbad had scribbled the car registration and the name of the hotel.
‘Five Seesons.’ Makana squinted at the letters, printed in clumsy fashion, dotted around the paper almost as if they had no relationship to one another. He glanced up at Sindbad. ‘Was it really written like this?’
‘Yes,
ya basha
. Exactly like that.’
Makana paid Sindbad some money for the day’s work and sent him home. Then he sank down into the big chair with a sigh and watched the sunset ripple on the water. Two white egrets flew by, flying in tandem as if they had plans, somewhere to go. He was caught at the centre of a hazardous constellation. Samari. Kane. The Zafrani brothers. If he wasn’t careful he was going to end up torn to bits between them. The brutality of the attack on the golf course came back to him and he called Dalia Habashi’s number. When he got her voicemail he hoped it meant she was out of the country. He didn’t leave a message.
His phone rang. It was Bilquis.
‘I tried calling you earlier,’ she said.
‘Sorry, I was caught up with something. I had the phone switched off.’
He could hear noises in the background. A child talking to someone. ‘Is that your son?’
‘Yes. He’s here with me. I’m at home.’
‘You’re not working tonight?’
‘No, not tonight.’
Makana put his feet up on the railing and stared out at the river. A calm seemed to come over the city just before nightfall. That magical moment that would be gone in a handful of minutes.
‘I was thinking about you last night,’ he said.
‘You mean you were thinking about your wife and daughter?’
‘No, it was you I had in mind. The story you told. It made me think about how much I left undone behind me. I ran away.’
‘Did you have a choice?’
‘We always have a choice.’
‘To die for nothing, that is not a choice.’
‘Perhaps. But by turning my back I left the place to those who abuse their power.’
‘There is a lot of evil in the world,’ she said. ‘It takes more than one man to put it right.’
‘Who is there with you?’
‘It’s the neighbour who stays with him until I get back from work.’ She paused. ‘Don’t you get lonely living there all alone?’
‘It doesn’t feel as though I’m ever alone.’ Makana looked up at the bridge loaded with cars that rumbled by off in the distance. There was the bustle of the street behind him. Muffled by the embankment and the low wall and the trees, but still there. And perched halfway up the bank was the little shack that seemed to have been nailed to the earth where Umm Ali and her little family lived.
‘You’ve made this country your own,’ she said. ‘I admire that. Me, I will never be at home here.’
‘You have your son with you, at least that’s something.’
‘Yes, and one day he’s going to be ashamed of me. How will I face him then?’
The light was almost gone, a thin film over the river, a strip of sodium orange above the bridge. He lit a cigarette.
‘Why did you call me?’ he asked.
‘What we talked about. Will you really help me?’
Makana sighed. ‘I think it’s a bad idea for you to get involved.’
‘What choice do I have?’
‘Samari’s a dangerous man.’
‘All men are dangerous.’
‘Not like this one.’
‘This is my chance to get out. I don’t want to live this way for ever.’
‘Someone could get hurt. You could get hurt. Your son.’
‘You’re afraid.’
‘I’d be a fool if I wasn’t.’
‘You’re a man, you don’t understand what it’s like. To have to do what I do every night.’ Her voice was trembling. ‘I know what you must think of me, but you have to believe me. I just want to make a new life for myself and my boy. Is that such a bad thing?’
‘No,’ he said quietly, ‘of course not.’
Her voice was low, whispering in his ear. The water below was dark now, so thick and viscous it could have been blood. There was a long pause, longer than the last. Makana almost thought she had gone.
‘If you don’t help me then I will have to do something myself.’
‘Bilquis, listen to me. You don’t need to get involved.’
‘One of these days I won’t be able to hide from him any longer. If my son ever finds out what I do, I will die of shame. It’s as simple as that.’ There was a pause. ‘He called me.’ She hesitated. ‘He wants to see me.’
‘When?’
‘Tomorrow afternoon. He’s visiting his tailor in town. He wants me to go away with him.’
‘Does he normally do that – I mean, arrange his times with you?’
‘He’s always very exact about when he comes to visit. He’s not interested in the other girls.’
‘I understand.’
‘Don’t you see? This is our chance to get him. Inside the tailor’s shop he will be unguarded, vulnerable and alone.’