Authors: Parker Bilal
‘You’re making me dizzy. I need more coffee.’ Okasha tossed the dregs from his cup to the ground and cast around frantically for the boy, who was nowhere to be seen. The crowd on the barriers had started to disperse. Now that the body was gone there didn’t seem to be much of interest.
‘Na’il told Kane that Kasabian was trying to deceive him. Kane is not someone to take being crossed lightly. He must have been furious. I think he took Na’il along with him when he went to confront Kasabian. Here was Na’il’s chance to prove he was not to be messed with, only things got out of hand. Kane hung Kasabian up and started cutting strips off him. That was too much for Na’il, so he fled, probably thinking he might be next.’
‘What you’re saying suggests that this man Barkley, or Kane, is the one who did this.’ Okasha indicated the mangled remains of the motorcycle.
‘No, that’s not exactly what I’m saying.’
Okasha swore under his breath. ‘You’d better tell me everything or I swear I will throw you to the brigadier and his dogs.’
‘I’m getting there,’ said Makana as he lit another cigarette. ‘Kane is after Samari. He doesn’t care about Na’il. He tortured Kasabian to get him to talk. The only problem was that Kasabian couldn’t tell him what he wanted to know, because he had no idea where Samari was – nobody did then or now.’ Makana fell silent. They were loading the remains of the motorcycle onto a lorry to take back to the police compound. ‘If you’re serious about catching Kasabian’s killer then we have to move quickly.’
‘Nothing would give me more satisfaction than closing the case without the brigadier’s help.’ Okasha shook his head gravely. ‘Now that his nephew has been killed there’ll be no stopping him.’
‘Do you think you’re up to arresting an American?’
‘You mean this man Kane?’ An unhappy look came over Okasha’s face.
‘Can you do it?’
‘We’d have to have a pretty solid case against him. A thousand kinds of trouble are going to come down on our heads if we arrest an American.’
‘Come on, you’ll be a national hero. The man who arrested an American mercenary for killing an Egyptian. They’ll put a statue of you in Tahrir Square.’
‘We’ll need evidence. The murder weapon.’
It was a possibility. Kane might be that confident of his position to hold onto the knife he used. It was slim but it might be enough.
‘Or a confession.’ A light appeared in Okasha’s eyes as he began to glimpse a way forward. Signed confessions were something of a police speciality, after all. Anyone could be made to confess to anything. All it took was time.
‘We’ll need to move quickly.’
Okasha reached for his radio. ‘Is he still at the Marriott?’
‘No, but I know where he is.’
‘So let’s go and get him.’
‘We can’t just walk in there. Kane is not alone. He’s got five others with him. At least four of them are trained mercenaries and most probably armed.’
‘We can bring in the CSF, no problem.’
As with everything, it was easier in theory than in practice. There was a lot of standing around with Okasha barking orders into the car radio with one hand while making frantic phone calls with the other. It was made more complicated by the fact that Okasha was trying to avoid involving the brigadier or any of his cohorts.
‘We’ll meet the other units along the way. We haven’t much time. Brigadier Effendi’s informers will be tripping over themselves to let him know what’s happening.’ Okasha waved Makana into the back of his car. They swept off down towards the Pyramids Road. Even with sirens wailing and lights flashing the going was slow. The heavy mid-morning traffic could only respond sluggishly and they seemed to crawl at times. The longer it took, the more time Makana had to think of what the consequences might be if they didn’t get hold of Kane.
The Five Seesons Hotel proved to be an unsightly building, a cracked lump of concrete that once upon a time must have been painted a mint-green colour. A white stripe ran around the outside edge like piping on a cake. Time, intense sunlight and traffic fumes had faded it to a dusty off-white. Rain streaks ran like tear tracks down the pockmarked façade where dull patches of plaster had fallen off here and there. A dusty light-box sign ran down one corner of the building, each painted letter worn partially away.
It stood directly on the Pyramids Road, a dual carriageway swamped with traffic running into and out of town at high speed. The noise and vibrations alone would have put paid to any ideas of rest and tranquillity. They approached from the wrong side and had to go half a mile down before effecting an illegal U-turn and coming back up. Makana managed to persuade Okasha to switch off the sirens. By now everyone in Cairo must know they were on their way.
The procession of police cars, CSF vans and a prison lorry much like the one Makana had been locked in few hours ago all swept into the hotel forecourt. The interior had an abandoned quality to it, as if the place were about to be condemned. A few visitors sat huddled together looking bored as they waited for something to happen. The sight of some thirty-odd police officers charging in off the street in riot gear certainly created a stir. Some clutched one another in panic while one red-faced man cheered like a supporter at a football match. Behind the desk an unhappy woman in her twenties, wearing thick lipstick that glistened the colour of pomegranate juice, took a step back as they approached.
‘There’s a group of Americans staying here,’ Okasha snapped.
‘Take your pick,’ she said, clicking a stapler nervously.
‘A man named Charles Barkley, or Zachary Kane?’
‘We don’t have anyone by that name.’ She was watching the men in riot gear moving around the lobby. ‘What’s this all about? We don’t have terrorists staying here.’
‘Americans,’ Makana explained. ‘They are trained soldiers. There are six of them altogether. Zachary Kane, along with Clearwater, Santos, Hagen, Jansen and an Iraqi named Faisal Abdallah.’
‘Does that description make any sense to you?’ Okasha demanded.
She turned coy, eyes darting from one to the other. ‘We might have a group of men like that.’
‘They would have checked in sometime in the last couple of days,’ said Makana.
The receptionist’s eyes were on the computer screen as she tapped a couple of keys.
‘Don’t you normally examine passports when people check in?’
‘We have to, those are the regulations.’ Her eyes remained on the screen.
‘But sometimes you don’t.’
‘If it’s very busy. You know, they’re tourists. They have nothing to hide.’
‘You’re saying these men checked in without any documentation?’ Okasha waded in.
‘Oh no, we would never do that.’ She smiled again. ‘Usually it is arranged in the first day or so.’
‘How did they pay?’
‘In cash. American dollars.’ The receptionist held up a handful of newly painted fingernails. The colour matched her lipstick. Makana wondered how much extra Kane had given her to keep her happy. ‘Anyway, they’ve gone. They checked out about an hour ago.’
‘An hour ago?’ Okasha thumped a hand down on the counter. ‘Where did they go?’
‘Back to where they came from, I suppose.’ The receptionist shrugged. It was nothing to do with her. ‘They paid in full.’
‘I’m sure they did.’ Okasha pulled Makana aside. ‘You’d better get out of here, because it won’t take long for the brigadier to get wind of this operation. He’ll be calling any second to tell me he’s on his way. It’s going to be hard enough to explain this without you around. We’re going to search their rooms and then I’m going to leave a car here in case they decide to come back.’
‘They may have left town or simply switched hotels.’
‘We’ll find them, wherever they are,’ Okasha said, before turning away.
Some two hours later found Makana and Sindbad sitting in the Thunderbird. The downtown area was calm and almost deserted. Most people were at home with their families on a Friday afternoon. The shops and businesses were shuttered and padlocked. In the evening it would come to life again as people strolled about beneath the buzzing lights looking for diversion, but for now it was tranquil, almost unnaturally so. The occasional toot of a horn sounded plaintively in the distance and for a time it was possible to imagine these streets as they might once have been, when the volume of traffic and people still fell within the parameters of what city planners might have had in mind for it. A solitary vendor made his way up the middle of Sharif Basha Street, an enormous net filled with footballs on his back. The brightly coloured globes rose up over his head. They resembled mysterious planets and lent his figure an air of myth: a god of other worlds keeping the universe in motion.
While Makana studied the street for any signs of movement, Sindbad yawned and grumbled about there being none of his favourite snack bars anywhere near. It wasn’t that he minded sacrificing his day off. To hear him talk it sounded as though he was glad of the opportunity to get away from home and his expanding brood of growing children.
‘The little ones are two years old now and I swear by our lord above I have never heard such a noise. They could waken Sayidna Hussein himself from his tomb. If it’s not one it’s the other.’
Makana had lost track of just how many children Sindbad had. He suspected there were five, but it was possible he might have missed a couple along the way. Sindbad never tired of reminding him that a man’s pride was in his family, as if to underline the fact that Makana had nothing around him in the way of spouse or offspring.
‘A man needs children. It’s in his nature.’ Sindbad’s understanding of philosophy was as a means of endorsing his way of life. His voice rang with the wisdom of centuries. Two minutes, or whatever the average time for the act of procreation might be, and suddenly he was an expert on all things human.
As he listened with half an ear, Makana considered the wisdom of not bringing Okasha in on this. But right now it made more sense for Okasha to be dealing with the brigadier while Makana focused on tracking down Kane and his men. Makana also felt that it would be hard to explain to Okasha what exactly he was trying to do.
Another twenty minutes went by without change. Sindbad’s head lolled back against the door frame. His mouth hung open and he snored softly to himself. Makana shook him awake.
‘They’re here.’
The tailor’s shop was an old-fashioned place on a small square set back from the street and tucked under a row of arcades. The name
Awad Suleiman & Sons
was hand-painted across the glass in flowing gold script both ways, in Arabic and English. The square was dotted with a few palm trees and some grey blocks that must once have been meant for some other kind of vegetation that had either perished or never arrived. Pigeons drifted down and waddled across the paving stones.
The two black BMW SUVs rolled up to the kerb in tandem. The tinted windows hid the occupants but Makana was sure they were the same vehicles he had seen outside Zafrani’s club. There was a moment’s lull. On the far side of the square was a branch of Bank Misr, its doors barred and a guard in a white police uniform lolling in an old chair by a sentry box. Across his knees rested a battered AK47. To the left of this, directly opposite the tailor’s shop, was an old apartment building. It looked as though it had been neglected for years. The windows were covered with brown wooden shutters, many of which were cracked, half-open or closed and missing slats.
From where they were parked Makana had a view of the arches and the door to the tailor’s shop. The car doors opened and three men climbed out of the lead vehicle. They were dressed in grey suits. Probably not the kind made by Awad Suleiman & Sons, but respectable enough. They spread out. Two of them walked back to the second vehicle and took up positions on either side. The third man opened the rear door. None of the guards was holding a weapon, but the way they stood, protecting one side of their jackets, suggested they were armed. The sentry outside the bank pushed back his beret and scratched his head, wondering perhaps if the car’s passenger was a famous singer or actress.
When he appeared, Kadhim al-Samari was dressed in black. He wore a polo-neck shirt that went up to his chin, a black suit and dark glasses. He buttoned his jacket calmly before moving off. He carried himself with the confidence of a man who was comfortable with money and power. He wasn’t a big man: all the bodyguards were taller than him, which made sense if their job was to shield him from attack. As the little procession made its way over the square towards the tailor’s shop, Makana climbed out of the car.
‘Stay here and keep your eyes open.’
‘
Hadir, ya basha
.’ Sindbad sat up and rubbed his eyes, suddenly anxious. All thoughts of children and food were gone.
As Samari went inside two bodyguards took up positions outside, one close by the door, the other a few metres away in the middle of the square. They each took up an angle to watch; one to the left, the other to the right. The third man remained by the cars. A fourth and fifth man were presumably behind the wheel of the cars. A team of five for one man. Samari didn’t like to take chances. He knew he had enemies. No doubt there were plenty of people who would like to see him dead, as well as others who would be more than happy to collect the reward for turning him in.