Authors: Parker Bilal
The Big Blue was located in a new tourist development just north of Hurghada itself, which was a sprawling mess of hotels and cheap restaurants. El Gouna was an old fishing village gradually being transformed into an upmarket alternative, a complex of luxury resorts. The construction work was in full swing, and the raw, unblemished shoreline was slowly but surely being whittled down to make way for more marinas and golf courses. In a few years’ time there wouldn’t be an inch of it that remained untouched. The Big Blue was placed on the tip of a peninsula that jutted out into the sea. You could see the walls, a pale turquoise colour, rising out of the sand against the sea beyond, capped with a wavy white strip along the top to make them blend in better. This was what distinguished it from the less classy places down the coast, supposed Makana as they turned in off the road and circled a roundabout that resembled a desert island, complete with palm trees. A black squad car was parked to one side inside the car park. The police officer inside it was asleep, snoring with his head thrown back. Makana pulled on the handbrake and reached over to untie Farag.
‘You’re going to behave yourself, aren’t you?’
Farag nodded, weak and limp, nursing his bruised and bloody face. Makana hauled him out of the car. Then he placed the gun in the glove compartment and locked it.
‘I’ll hang on to these for a while,’ he said, putting the car keys into his pocket.
The lobby of the resort had a sleepy feel to it, as if nothing of any great importance ever happened there. In its air-conditioned interior the quaint ceiling fans were mere decoration. They turned languorously, offering the change of pace conducive to a good holiday.
‘Ah, Mr Farag,’ the receptionist began. His smile faded when he got a closer look at the fat man’s battered face.
‘Tell Vronsky I’m here,’ muttered Farag, trying to maintain some dignity.
‘Right away, sir.’ The receptionist nodded and fumbled for the telephone.
Makana leaned on the counter and surveyed the reception area. It was a wide open lobby, cluttered with furniture that seemed to have been set down with no real consideration of the space available. Open doors led through to a sunny inner courtyard. In the far corner two men lounged in rattan armchairs. One was snoring with his head inside a newspaper and the other was picking his teeth. In front of them were the remains of a meal and some half-empty glasses. They were SSI agents. A blind man could have spotted them a mile off. The second one nudged the first awake and they both stared sullenly at Makana for a time. Then one of them produced a telephone from his pocket and began to press buttons.
‘Mr Vronsky will see you right away.’ The receptionist snapped his fingers and a porter appeared. A slim young man still in his teens, he wore a uniform topped off with a red tarboosh. It was fixed to his head by an elastic band worn under his chin, which made him look like a monkey about to perform somersaults. Instead, he led the way across the lobby and out into a wide, shady courtyard. At the centre was a swimming pool. It was surrounded on three sides by villas arranged in a semicircle around a curving beach. They were linked by a series of terraces covered in teak tables and chairs, shrouded by large umbrellas. Along the beach straw sun shelters like large umbrellas shaded pairs of loungers. A few of these were occupied, mostly by middle-aged Westerners. They were dressed in swimsuits and sunglasses, and were reading books or sleeping. Over on the other side another set of guests were standing in a shallow pool up to their well-stuffed waistlines. A group of elderly ladies waved their arms in the air in enthusiastic if ungainly time to the disco music screeching from loudspeakers, while their eyes feasted on a young, muscular instructor who yelled orders at them from the side, like a sergeant major in a T-shirt and flowery bathing trunks.
The bellhop led them through to an area fenced off by a bamboo screen to prevent curious eyes from seeing into it. This part of the resort stretched all the way down to the sea and seemed to mark the beginning of an even more exclusive section of the property. The crowns of tall palms waved majestically overhead. A high green gate was set in an archway covered in glazed blue tiles. The porter rang the intercom and whispered something. A buzzer sounded and the door swung open to admit them.
The inner sanctum was almost as spacious as the main area, only there were fewer buildings and people. A wide lawn stretched out, ending in a neat file of palm trees lined up along the beach. There was another swimming pool, around which lounged a number of women in bikinis. These were younger and in better shape than the ones Makana had seen exercising in the pool next door. Some were Europeans, some not. A couple of them sat on the edge, kicking their feet in the water. Nobody paid much attention to Farag and Makana as they took the path towards a large Spanish-style villa. A wooden door heavy enough to guard a palace opened automatically as they climbed the steps. Someone somewhere had seen them coming.
The bellhop abandoned them here to a Filipino valet in a crisp white uniform. Without a word he turned and led the way across a wide hall with arches and doorways on both sides and a staircase leading upwards. Another arch admitted them to a large semicircular patio the size and shape of a small amphitheatre. It was cool and airy here. There was the splash of water from a pool of some kind, this time occupied by bright tropical fish flitting about in it like coloured darts. Water spilled into the pool down a wall of rippled brown coral. To the right of the steps was a long bar equipped with high stools, another Filipino waiting attentively behind it. Beyond this was a gym area. Fans blew cool spray into the air over their heads. All manner of running machines and weight-lifting equipment were spread about on a rectangle of artificial green turf, which brought to mind Hanafi’s golf range.
Vronsky, or the man Makana took to be him, was lying face up on a bench, lifting a bar loaded with weights. Beads of sweat rolled down his forehead as he concentrated on his workout. The two men standing beside him seemed to serve no purpose other than to provide him with an audience, but when he’d finished his routine they stepped in to take the heavy bar from him and set it on its stand. It didn’t look easy, even for the two of them. Vronsky sat up to reveal a torso covered in tattoos. Both shoulders were decked with feathers that descended down his back and along his arms as far as his elbows, giving the appearance of wings. On his forearms were words in Chinese and what might have been Sanskrit. Makana would have put his age at close to fifty, though a man ten years younger would have been happy with that body. There was no excess fat. It was all muscle. Someone handed him a towel and a bottle of water. Someone else handed him a shirt, which he pulled on but didn’t bother to button. He was wearing tracksuit pants and flipflops on his feet.
One of the bodyguards stepped towards Makana and Farag, and indicated for them to lift their arms. He ran a quick, expert hand over them both and stepped back with a nod.
‘What happened to your face?’ asked Vronsky, amused, peering at the blood caked around Farag’s nostrils. He murmured something inaudible. Vronsky stepped forward for a closer look before turning to Makana.
‘Did you do this?’
‘We were having problems communicating.’
A quizzical expression crossed Vronsky’s face as he studied Makana for a moment before turning back to Farag.
‘So, my fat friend, have you been playing games?’
‘No! Really. I have done nothing . . .’
‘Always trying to make a little extra money for yourself. You know what that’s called? Greed. That’s what. You can’t trust a man who doesn’t know when to stop.’
‘I swear on my mother’s life, I never told him anything,’ Farag whimpered.
Vronsky turned to Makana.
‘And what is your game?’
‘I don’t have a game. I’m looking for someone.’
‘And what leads you to think I know anything about your friend?’ Vronsky clowned for his audience, rolling his eyes. The two bodybuilders, or bodyguards if that was what they were, didn’t smile back.
‘He’s looking for Adil Romario,’ explained Farag, trying to be helpful.
The Russian circled a finger in the air. ‘What part of this story am I missing?’
‘I work for Saad Hanafi,’ Makana said.
Vronsky tilted his head to one side, and his eyes seemed to light up.
‘Hanafi? Why didn’t you say so?’
He wasn’t a tall man, but what he lacked in height he seemed to make up for in presence. The smile was unconvincing on that rigid face. Without taking his eyes off Makana, Vronsky said something over his shoulder in a language that Makana assumed was Russian. One of the other men stepped towards Farag, who tensed.
‘It’s okay.’ Vronsky had reverted back to English. He ran a hand over the smooth bristles of his silver-flecked hair. ‘Go with them. They’ll fix you up. That looks nasty.’ He winced in exaggerated fashion, pointing at the wound on Farag’s nose and patting him on the shoulder. ‘It’ll be fine. They will clean it up and you should get some rest. Have something to eat.’
Clearly unhappy, Farag was led away, head hanging, like a condemned man on his way to the gallows.
‘Why did you really do that?’ Vronsky’s pale blue eyes seemed to radiate their own inner light.
‘I don’t like men who beat up women.’
The Russian’s eyebrows lifted in mock astonishment. ‘What are you? The avenger of the poor and abused . . . restorer of justice?’ He led the way over to the bar and ordered a glass of juice which appeared in front of him in no time. ‘What can we offer you?’
Makana declined with a shake of the head. He looked around him, taking in the glass tables, the trickling waterfall, the vulgar display of opulence. Vronsky’s wealth was of a different order to Hanafi’s, but the two men had a lot in common. They were both ruthless and uncompromising, both determined to win. The difference was that Hanafi had put killing behind him. Vronsky looked like he still enjoyed hurting people who rubbed him up the wrong way.
‘Shall we go into my office?’ he suggested.
Makana followed him up a short flight of stairs and through a door into a large, L-shaped room on the corner of the building. Glass walls on two sides provided a panoramic view of the sea. When you looked back towards the shore the full extent of the development under way there became apparent.
‘In a few years this will be one of the most exclusive resorts in the world with a luxury marina, pools, golf courses, fine restaurants. It will be a world unto itself.’
Makana could not shake off the feeling that there was something ominous about the fact that as soon as people had some money, the first thing they wanted to do was cut themselves off from the rest of the world. Maybe it was just human nature. But whatever it was, there was no denying the fact that it was happening here.
‘And who is going to come to your little paradise on earth? Fellow Russians?’
‘People of the world,’ Vronsky announced proudly, as if he had just discovered a new class of the human race. ‘The new global citizens. Yes, there are already Russians here, and there will be more probably. They have money, they want somewhere quiet to live. Is that so much to ask?’
Makana turned to look in the other direction. Along the shore to his left he could make out a collection of dull brown dwellings of quite a different sort, simple houses and shacks. Vronsky followed his line of sight.
‘That’s what it used to look like,’ he said. ‘The past and the future, side by side. That’s all there was here a few years ago, a few fishing villages. This is the last one. People find that they can make more money working in a resort than they do fishing.’
‘Convenient for you.’
‘It’s the way of the world.’ Vronsky sized Makana up again. ‘You don’t look like the usual kind of clown that Hanafi hires.’
‘Am I to take that as a compliment?’
Vronsky allowed himself a smile.
‘Why have you come to see me?’
‘I’m trying to find Adil.’
‘And how can I help?’
‘Well, it might be useful to know what kind of business you and he were engaged in. Was he thinking of going into the tourist trade?’
That brought a laugh from the Russian. He moved behind the large glass desk to sit himself in a swivel chair so big it made him look like a midget. He sat with his back to the view.
‘It may surprise you to know that I don’t feel I have to discuss my business with you, Mr . . . ?’
‘Makana.’
He was busy examining the office. The furniture was modern, all black leather and stainless steel. A lot of glass. A row of lacquered black cabinets lined up along one wall upon which stood an array of fax machines and printers, telephones and monitors of one kind or another. On one of these a series of black-and-white images showed various aspects of the complex on a split screen. Makana leaned down to peer into it. Vronsky was obviously concerned about security.
‘Farag told you I have some kind of business arrangement with Adil?’
‘It wasn’t Farag.’
Makana straightened and turned towards the Russian, whose dull flat gaze struck him as being almost reptilian in its stubborn, unflinching intensity. Then Vronsky appeared to relent.
‘Okay, all right. Adil is simply an acquaintance. He comes to visit sometimes. He likes it here. And the staff all get very excited when he turns up.’