Authors: Parker Bilal
‘I wanted to ask you a question,’ said Makana.
‘A question?’
Smoke flared from his nostrils, turning blue where it picked up a fissure of light. He made no move to invite his visitor to descend into the basement. This intrigued Makana. Where was the former hospitality, the offer of coffee and a chat? He recalled the brusque dismissal of the woman and her son the first time he had spoken to the old man.
‘Have you told anyone about me?’
‘About you?’ The old man tilted back his head.
‘About someone coming round here asking questions about the old days?’
‘What makes you think I would do a thing like that? What would make you say a thing like that?’ In the dim light he resembled an old and wrinkled tortoise. Beyond that he was a mystery.
‘Is there anyone you can think of, from those days, anyone who might still hold a grudge against Hanafi?’
‘I can think of hundreds . . . thousands.’ A shudder seemed to run through the man’s frail body.
‘How about Daud Bulatt?’
‘I heard that he was killed in his pursuit of jihad. You’re hunting ghosts.’ The bony face creased with amusement. ‘Anyway he would be insane to come back. He declared war on the state.’
‘But is it possible?’
‘That he didn’t die?’ The old man stared into the darkness. ‘Who knows?’ he said finally, his voice hoarse. ‘It’s in the hands of our Lord.’
‘Would you tell me if you knew?’ Makana called as the shopkeeper turned away and out of sight. But there was no response from him.
Walking back out through Sharia al-Muski, past the stalls, the spice merchants who sold everything from rough black peppercorns and bright strands of saffron to sacks stuffed with starfish, Makana wondered about the change in the old man. Perhaps he was busy, in the middle of some tricky piece of forgery. No, it wasn’t that. He was worried about something. Makana walked on, deep in thought. The ground was littered with discarded leaves and scraps thrown to the scrawny hordes of cats which skittered about underfoot in search of a feast.
When he arrived back in the busy thoroughfare where he had left the car Makana found Okasha leaning against the side of the Mercedes. Sunlight gleamed off his expensive sunglasses and the inspector was wearing a rather pleased expression, his square jaw jutting out at the sky. Nearby a police driver sat behind the wheel of a battered blue sedan, picking his teeth with a matchstick.
‘If I didn’t know any better, I would think you had informants all over this city.’
‘
Wahyat Allah
, you are the most suspicious-minded person I have ever met.’
Okasha opened the rear door of the police car and motioned for him to enter. Makana climbed in while the inspector went round to the other side.
‘What’s this all about?’
‘I care about you, Makana. Don’t you know that? When I say I’m the only friend you’ve got in this town, I’m not joking.’
The upholstery was shot and Makana felt the hard metal frame digging into his back. The car was hot and uncomfortable and smelled of raw onions and vomit, the stale odours of men in fear. Okasha sat back and folded his arms, taking a moment before speaking.
‘I had a phone call. Guess who from? That’s right, your friend and mine, Colonel Serrag. And while I was wondering what I had done to deserve such an honour, he told me what he wanted.’ He paused, taking his time, easing his bulk in the seat, adjusting the tight belt around his waist. ‘You know what they want to do? They want to send you back.’ He nodded solemnly. ‘That’s right, my friend, home. Now why would they want to do that? More importantly, what would your old friend Mek Nimr say when you landed back there in handcuffs?’
‘Why would they want to do that?’
‘Who knows? I’m just a humble inspector. It is not my place to question the motives of my superiors. A gesture of goodwill, they say, to help repair relations with our brethren to the south.’
Makana was silent. Someone had been eating
tasali
. The floor was littered with the husks of roasted melon seeds that had been spat there.
‘You know what I think he might do?’ Okasha went on. ‘I think he might just drive you out to a quiet spot in that godforsaken
khalla
you call a country, and put a bullet through your empty head, because that is what you deserve. It would be quick and simple and it would leave nothing to worry about. No loose ends.’
‘Why would Colonel Serrag take an interest in me?’
‘It’s not so strange. You’re an interesting case, Makana, as I have pointed out many times. You are . . . what do you call it? An enigma. That’s it, a puzzle. You hang in the balance. We don’t really want you here, but at the same time we don’t like regimes that try to kill our President.’ Okasha grimaced, referring to the assassination attempt by a group of Sudanese militants on President Mubarak in Addis Ababa three years earlier. ‘You know what that makes you? No? Well, I’ll tell you. It makes you a hostage.’
‘Are you going to tell me what I am supposed to have done, or do I have to guess?’
‘I’m going to tell you what you are not going to do again, okay?’ Okasha lifted a warning finger. Then he threw out his hand and slapped the driver in the front seat on the back of the head. ‘Go and smoke a cigarette, Mustafa.’
‘I don’t smoke.’
Okasha rolled his eyes heavenward. ‘Well, go and arrest somebody then, and keep your eyes peeled for any bearded assassins.’ Grudgingly, the policeman climbed out of the car and went over to stand by the wall and smoke a cigarette. Okasha turned back to Makana.
‘What you are not going to do is bother Alexei Vronsky. He is a guest of the state.’
‘Ah.’
‘ “Ah” is right, my friend. You step on his foot and I feel the pain.’
‘The two gentlemen in bad suits in the lobby.’ Then Makana remembered the car at the roadside coffee place on the way back. The black Toyota.
‘SSI. Their job is to protect our Russian friend.’
‘He didn’t strike me as the kind of man who needs a lot of protection.’
‘Vronsky’s connections go all the way to the top.’
Makana leaned back and reached for his cigarettes. ‘Just why is he so important?’
‘That doesn’t concern you.’ Okasha held his breath for a moment and then decided to press ahead anyway. ‘He is cooperating with our security forces, if you must know, providing valuable information. Vronsky is ex-Russian Military Intelligence. He was Special Forces. He knows the
Afghanis
. He fought against the bastards and their jihad.’
Afghanis
was the term for Egyptians who had left to join the holy war in Afghanistan after the Soviet invasion of
1979
. When the Soviets retreated and the war was over they were left with nothing to do. Instead they looked for other holy causes to fight. Many of them turned their attention to the people who ruled their own country. They’d returned home battle-hardened and victorious. They made a formidable enemy.
‘Where does Serrag come into it?’ pressed Makana.
‘Nowadays he runs a special counter-terrorist task force. He answers directly to the Minister of the Interior.’
‘He called you?’
‘Out of the blue, and it’s not so much a call as a summons. To Lazoughly, the last place on earth I want to go and I am an inspector of police. My hands are shaking. But there he is, all smiles. He starts telling me what wonderful progress I am making. He enquires about the case of the Englishwoman, Markham. Of course, he had heard that we had a visit from Scotland Yard.’
Makana was about to correct him again, but he didn’t bother.
‘That was why he summoned you, to congratulate you?’
‘This is SSI, Makana, they don’t call you in to pat you on the back. That was just the preamble. He tells me that he is always on the lookout for bright officers.’
‘He wants you to work for him?’
Okasha stroked his moustache. ‘Not bad, eh? This dead Englishwoman could be a blessing in disguise. There’s only one fly in the ointment and that’s you, my friend.’
‘He wanted you to warn me off Vronsky?’
‘Which I have duly done.’
‘You’ll go far in this world if you carry on betraying your friends like that.’
‘Come on, you’re out of your depth with this Russian. He’s a state asset.’
‘Did Serrag remember any more details about the Alice Markham case?’
Okasha dismissed the question with a curse. ‘SSI doesn’t care about that lord and lady nonsense, especially when the English are so keen on reminding us of the fact.’
‘So what is Colonel Serrag interested in?’
‘He is interested in Daud Bulatt.’ Okasha heaved a sigh. ‘It turns out you did me a favour by asking me to look into the guy. It brought me to Serrag’s attention. He’s asked me to join his team.’
‘So, Bulatt’s alive?’
‘Well, let’s put it this way, he’s not just part of the old folklore around here any more.’
‘What’s the connection to the Russian?’
‘Vronsky apparently tangled with this particular snake back in Chechnya,’ said Okasha.
Makana sniffed and stared out through the grimy windscreen, the outside world obscured by scratches and smears. He was trying to think, only half listening as Okasha went on.
‘Anyway, I wanted to let you know, we have a tip-off. Colonel Serrag’s unit is going to be hitting a possible hide-out tonight. I’m going with them.’
‘Where is this?’
‘I’m not supposed to tell you, but it’s an old farm about ten kilometres out of town. We have to hit them soon and fast, before they get a chance to organise themselves and disappear. Want to come along, it might be fun?’
Makana’s impression of this kind of paramilitary assault on supposed terrorists was that it was a very dangerous place to be. Civilian casualties tended to run high and the idea of being in the company of a band of trigger-happy policemen with semi-automatic rifles held no appeal for him.
‘Thanks, but I’ll sit this one out. Serrag thinks Bulatt is there?’
‘If he is, he’s going to wish he’d stayed dead.’
‘One last question. Who made the connection between Liz Markham and Bulatt?’
‘How do you mean?’ Okasha glared.
‘Was it you or Serrag who made the link?’
‘The only person who made that link was you.’ Irritated, Okasha waved a hand as if brushing away a fly. ‘Go, do your detecting thing. But don’t forget to keep me informed. I need to know what you are up to before Serrag hears about it, and if you think I have eyes and ears everywhere, you should see what
he
has. I can’t protect you from them now. If you cross the line you’ll find yourself on a plane with a one-way ticket to paradise.’
Makana cracked open the stiff door of the police car and made to get out. Okasha leaned out after him.
‘By the way, where did you get that car from?’
‘A friend.’
‘I told you, Makana, you don’t have any friends except me. You would do well to remember that . . . and remember what I said about staying away from the Russian from now on.’
‘Believe me, I don’t want to get any closer to him than I have to.’
‘You know, we’re supposed to be on the same side,’ said Okasha. ‘It might be an idea for you to act like that from time to time.’
‘The law is only as strong as those who police it.’
‘Always with the philosophy,’ chuckled Okasha. ‘If only I could remember to write down some of the things you say . . . I would die a happy man.’ But the joviality in his voice was tempered by a note of unease that Makana hadn’t heard in it before.
He should have been excited. The news that Bulatt was alive and in the country backed up his notion of a connection between Hanafi’s past and Adil’s disappearance. The link to Vronsky was also confirmed. But what really disturbed him was the sound of Okasha’s laughter, which still rang in his ears long after the police car had turned the corner and vanished from sight. Makana couldn’t put his finger on why it was that it disturbed him so. It was like hearing a songbird that was off-key and instinctively knowing something was very wrong. It took him a while to realise what it reminded him of: a faint echo of something which took him back in time, back to the old days.
The moment Makana’s life had jumped off the rails and departed along a new and very dangerous track was burned into his memory. All at once he had found himself in a universe where the once familiar was suddenly strange.
He should have listened to Muna. Back then, when he still had a chance to change things, he should have listened to his wife, but he didn’t. He was afraid of giving in to his own fears. So he did what any husband would do, he tried to calm her. He reassured her that they were safe, that he was a police inspector and that they would always enjoy a certain degree of protection, even when he was no longer sure how long this would last. Muna saw things more clearly than he did.
‘You can’t see it, can you?’ She spoke softly in the dark. ‘Or maybe you don’t want to see it.’
‘You’re upset.’