The Ghost Runner (48 page)

Ragab champed his teeth down on the stem of his pipe. ‘It’s true that he was paranoid, even in the old days. He trusted no one, including myself. I assured him many times that I would never have committed such a dishonourable act. But I told you all of this before.’

‘Yes, of course.’ Makana tilted his head in concession. ‘I just need to clarify things.’

‘I understand, for the record. Very well, please go on.’

‘Well,’ said Makana. ‘I began to wonder if perhaps Musab was not the only person to suspect Karima of being your daughter.’

Mrs Ragab had appeared to have lost interest in the conversation. She not only did not speak, she barely seemed to be breathing. When Makana’s eyes came to rest on her she shifted in her seat.

‘Who else might have suspected that all those years ago her husband had been unfaithful? Even more, that he had maintained the outcome of that brief liaison secret all these years? Wouldn’t that be enough to provoke a fit of jealous rage?’ Makana paused for long enough to light a cigarette. He tossed the matchstick into the fireplace before realising that it was meant as mere decoration. ‘Somebody started that fire with the deliberate intention of trying to kill Karima, regardless of who else was in the house.’

Neither of the Ragabs said a word. Makana went on. ‘For a long time I struggled to try and make the facts fit into this picture. I couldn’t. The problem was that I assumed Karima’s death was the result of jealousy, or some twisted sense of honour. Either on the part of Musab, or . . . someone else.’ Makana glanced at Mrs Ragab but left the rest unsaid. He reached in his pocket for the sheet of paper Sami had given him. ‘I took a chance in going to Siwa, but I was angry about Karima. I wasn’t thinking clearly. All I could think was that she had been young and she had died a painful and unjust death. I was convinced Musab was the key and that I would find him in Siwa. It was a risk, but in this business sometimes you have to take risks to make progress.’

Magdy Ragab shifted his weight and crossed his legs. His pipe had gone out and after a time he gave up trying to puff it back into life and took it out of his mouth and just stared at it.

‘I learned a lot in Siwa,’ Makana went on. ‘It’s surprising how much goes on in such a quiet place. You’d be amazed.’

‘I’ve never been,’ said Mrs Ragab. She was picking at a loose thread on her sleeve.

‘No, but your husband has.’

‘For business,’ Ragab shrugged indifferently.

‘Yes, exactly. And that’s what began to interest me.’ Makana unfolded the sheet of paper. ‘Do you know a man named Nadir Diyab? You should. He’s a lawyer who used to work for your company.’

‘Yes, I recall him, vaguely.’ Ragab was irritated.

‘Mr Diyab was in charge of taking care of some important business in Siwa. He was buying up land, very valuable land it turns out for an investment company he set up called Arousa Resources. A survey company named LandTech believes there are substantial gas deposits just to the east of the town.’ Makana shrugged. ‘I really don’t know a great deal about the subject, but Mr Diyab was very helpful when a colleague of mine contacted him posing as a potential investor. The land is private. Whoever owns that land stands to make a small fortune. LandTech say it’s not worth mounting the extraction operation unless they have access to the entire area. As it happens, Arousa Resources has been busy doing just that, buying up plots of land over the years with the idea of creating a package to sell to the developers. In this they were helped by the local Qadi who had a substantial stake in Arousa. They had almost achieved their goal, but there was only one outstanding plot left and it belonged to an old Siwan family who had fallen on hard times, the Abubakrs.’

Ragab flapped a hand through his pipesmoke in protest. ‘I understand your need to clarify the details, Mr Makana, but I really can’t see where this is leading.’

‘I assure you, I am doing this as fast as I can.’ Makana smiled as graciously as he could. Mrs Ragab looked as though she might be sick. ‘Musab had signed over his legal rights to you years ago and so it wouldn’t have been difficult for you to take care of his side of the ownership. Karima was the problem. You could have offered to buy the land but she might have become suspicious. Why would you want a worthless piece of farmland on the other side of the country? You would have had to explain your interest but then she might have demanded a substantial share, or even worse, decide to hold onto the land and sell it herself.’

‘This is preposterous. Pure speculation. I have never been so insulted in my life.’

Makana ignored Ragab. He felt suddenly tired, weary of a world driven by material gain. Weary of greed, weary of stupidity. ‘You took care of Karima’s affairs. She was a simple girl. She knew nothing about gas or land. She ran a small shop in the market selling foam mattresses and pillows. But she had known you since she was a baby and she trusted you, but when you asked her to sign a document making you her legal executor, she grew suspicious and refused. What happened then? Did she accuse you of taking advantage of her, of trying to profit from her?’

‘I protest!’ Magdy Ragab got to his feet.

His wife put a hand on his arm and said quietly, ‘Sit down.’

‘I imagine that must have annoyed you. A mere peasant of a girl getting in the way of your plans? Who was she anyway? Still, she posed a problem and getting rid of her wasn’t going to be easy. You needed a witness to prove that you had nothing to do with it. That was where I came in. Mrs Ragab gave me the story about her fears you were seeing another woman behind her back and so I followed you. For that whole week I provided the alibi you needed to prove you not only had nothing to do with Karima’s death, but that you were heartbroken, devastated and spared no expense to try and save her. I was the perfect witness.’

‘You have not a shred of evidence for this fairy tale you are spinning. It belongs in the
Thousand and One Nights
!’ Ragab puffed himself up.

‘Then Musab turned up, quite by coincidence, to provide the perfect scapegoat. Nobody was supposed to know that he was in the country, but a man like yourself, with connections high up inside the Ministry of the Interior, would have a friend somewhere who might just warn him that his old client had turned up. You knew that I would pursue Musab if I found out, and so you leaked it to a certain member of the press. Remember that evening when you visited me and you were studying the newspaper cuttings on the wall of my office? That was where you got Sami Barakat’s name.’

Ragab sank back down in his chair as Makana continued. The fight seemed to have gone out of him, or perhaps he was gathering his thoughts.

‘You knew that I would in all likelihood not find anything in Siwa. You knew why Musab could never go back there. Your friend the Qadi would have confirmed that for you. Your efforts to find the killer no matter the expense would only add to your innocence.’

‘You have no evidence,’ Ragab spoke in a low voice. ‘Nothing to back up your claims.’

‘Perhaps, but the same member of the press who was so useful to you will be happy to make the whole story public and I imagine that will not help your reputation. Then there is the matter of the fire itself. I can’t imagine you would dirty your hands yourself, so someone in your employ would have set the fire. Let’s see how they respond to police questioning.’

Downstairs in the street, Makana stood for a moment and waited as Okasha climbed out of his car and came towards him. A dozen policemen ran past and into the building.

‘I’ve softened him up for you, but you’ll have your work cut out.’

‘I have a feeling I’m going to enjoy this. Aren’t you going to stick around?’ Okasha asked.

But Makana was already gone, walking with purpose.

Chapter Thirty-seven

The late afternoon sun played its golden light on the water bringing a timelessness to the scene. The sound of children’s laughter drifted across the river from the playground on the Zamalek side as the chatter slowed down and everyone sank back into their own thoughts. Okasha was settled back in the big chair talking into his telephone. Sami and Rania were sprawled on the sofa talking in low voices, while Sindbad was gathering up plates to go downstairs and take care of the kitchen. He had produced rather a splendid feast, proving himself to be a man of many talents. The party was partly to welcome Makana back to town after his excursion to Siwa, and also to give them all a chance to catch up.

Makana stepped out to lean on the railings. In the thickening twilight a single heron floated by on a raft of papyrus, looking for all the world like a hieroglyphic that had come to life. He was tired of talking. It seemed he had done nothing but talk for the last three hours. Now, as night was falling, he felt the exhaustion of his long walk through the desert sinking into his bones. He would be asleep in seconds if he closed his eyes. Instead he lit a cigarette and watched the pale ghost of a moon rising over the city’s lights. The sound of the others chatting was a welcome background. It felt as though perhaps this was the closest he was ever going to get to the idea of home.

‘Were you scared?’

He turned to find Aziza standing behind him. She had been given special permission to attend the meal by Umm Ali who made her promise not to bother the
bash muhandis
and his guests. She was an odd little girl with her hair sticking out in all directions and her eye that wasn’t quite straight. For the occasion she was wearing her best dress, a dark-green outfit that looked as though it had been handed down once too often.

‘In the desert, you mean?’

Aziza nodded.

‘Sometimes,’ said Makana. He wasn’t thinking so much about the ambush, but about the long game Sharqi had tried to play. Exchanging one terrorist for another. No mention had appeared in the paper of Daud Bulatt which described a plot that had been foiled by State Security and Investigations. Jihadists, planning to exploit public anger about the Israeli incursion into the West Bank by creating an armed uprising in this country, had been stopped. Musab Khayr, a key terrorist on the world’s list of wanted men, had been killed.

‘Are there scary animals out there?’

‘A few,’ said Makana. ‘But most of them are more scared of us than we are of them. They keep away.’

‘What did you think about when you were out there alone at night?’

What did he think about? Out there everything seemed jumbled up in the mind, the way the stars seemed to turn in a confusion that was impossible to comprehend.

‘I thought about my daughter, Nasra.’

It was Aziza’s turn to nod. ‘I’ll bet she knows you’re thinking about her.’

‘I hope she does,’ said Makana.

A Note on the Author

Parker Bilal is the pseudonym of Jamal Mahjoub. Mahjoub has published several critically acclaimed literary novels, which have been widely translated.
The Ghost Runner
is his third Makana Mystery. Born in London, Mahjoub has lived at various times in the UK, Sudan, Cairo and Denmark. He currently lives in Barcelona.

By the Same Author

(
writing as Jamal Mahjou
b
)

Navigation of a Rainmaker

Wings of Dust

In the Hour of Signs

The Carrier

Nubian Indigo

The Drift Latitudes

Travelling with Djinns

The Makana Mysteries

The Golden Scales

Dogstar Rising

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The first Makana Mystery takes place in 1998. Makana accepts a case for the  corrupt owner of a soccer team, setting him on a treacherous course toward an encounter with an enemy from his past.

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