by Parker Bilal
‘I’ll try to remember that.’
Makana’s thoughts were elsewhere. He listened to the sound of her footsteps receding along the corridor, wondering who was waiting for her, then he swung the handle and rose one more floor. After stepping out of the lift, he followed the carpeted hallway through the building to his room.
Out on the balcony he lit a cigarette and tried to devise his next move. He was running out of options, and waiting around was poor strategy. He needed some kind of leverage. After a time, he went back into the room to retrieve the card Marty Shaw had given him and used the hotel phone to make the call.
‘I was hoping to hear from you,’ Shaw said.
‘We should meet.’
‘Sure.’ He could almost hear the Englishman smiling. ‘Just say where and when.’
After that he tried to settle down, but his mind was restless. Sleep would not come. The room felt claustrophobic. He pulled an armchair from the corner of the room and set it by the open doors to the balcony and sat there smoking, watching the stars slip across the darkened skyline as the city below fell quiet. Electric lights glittered like highly charged insects. There was something about this city that seemed to want to expel him, or failing that, to swallow him whole.
Nadir Sulayman’s death made things urgent. He had to bring Nizari in quickly. How he would get him out was another matter. He hoped Winslow would have an alternative plan. There was a faint chance this murder had nothing to do with him, that Sulayman had other problems – even, as the inspector had suggested, some link to organised crime.
At some point Makana must have fallen asleep, because he lurched awake with a start from a dream in which Nadir Sulayman’s dead body had been crushing him, bearing down on him with all his weight. Makana had kept on rolling from side to side to get out from under him, but no matter how he tried he could not shift him. The rotten stench of the man was suffocating. The engorged face and blue, swollen neck were vivid.
He was cold. The room was filled with shadows. He sensed there was something there, something that floated in the darkness before him, just out of reach. It was drawing steadily closer, not seen so much as felt, a figure at once familiar and strange. A woman dressed from head to toe in black. He knew who she was. He reached for his wallet and fished out the creased snapshot that he carried everywhere with him. The years had taken their toll. It was a cracked, dog-eared thing, the lighting was off and the colours showed the faded wash of time. Still, it was the most precious object he possessed: the image of Muna holding their baby daughter. He set the picture upright on the bedside table next to him.
Guilt endured as much as longing. He had survived after all, and they had not. A dark haven in his mind that wished he had surrendered to his emotions and taken his own life. There were times he had considered it, times when he had convinced himself that it would have been the honourable thing to do. The sequence of events played out over and over like a film on continuous loop. If only he had done this, or that. If only he had not chosen that route to escape by. If only he had been driving, rather than Muna. If only he hadn’t been prevented from throwing himself into the river after them …
It was almost midnight. His head throbbed and he would give anything for a good night’s sleep, but it seemed that must wait. He opened the envelope with the newspaper clippings Sami’s friend Kursad had left him and looked at the name of the journalist who had written the article on the traffic incident involving Nadia Razvan. Kara Deniz. This was where he’d seen the name before.
Chapter Sixteen
Istanbul Day Four
The Blue Ozan was a dark and smoky place after midnight. The music had an oriental feel to it, with soft hands sweeping across drums that sounded as if they were being played underwater. Reedy horns twisted in the background. The song sounded vaguely familiar, like a Turkish version of an old jazz standard, and it took Makana a moment to place it.
It was hard to see in here, but maybe that was the idea. Low blue and red lights provided barely enough illumination to navigate the furniture. Thin neon strips behind the bar lit up rows of coloured bottles. People were sprawled on couches and bowl-shaped armchairs set around coffee tables bearing glass lamps in which coloured wax shapes rose and fell, giving the place a dated feel. The clientele, however, appeared to be mostly young. Dressed in jeans and crumpled jackets. Intellectuals. On the walls were black and white images of distinguished-looking men and women whom Makana took for poets and writers. It was that kind of a place. A drunken man in a corduroy jacket was wandering from table to table, spilling his beer as he tried to interest people in buying a pamphlet. Makana shook his head, which invited a long lecture of which he understood not a word. When he finally moved on, Makana tried to pick out Kara Deniz. No face suggested itself, so he dialled the number he had memorised from Nadir Sulayman’s phone. A small woman in her thirties, sitting alone by the window, produced a mobile from her leather jacket. She was still staring at the screen when Makana sat down in the stool next to hers. She glanced over at him.
‘In the midnight hour,’ he said in English, taking the stool next to her.
‘I’m sorry?’ Kara Deniz wore her dark hair cut short, which emphasised the economical lines of her face.
‘Is that some kind of code you shared? A song you both liked.’
She glanced at him briefly then. ‘You’re wasting your time,’ she said dismissively. ‘You’re not my type.’
‘I’m not talking about me. You sent the message to Nadir Sulayman.’
She was in the process of lighting a cigarette, but blew out the match before it burnt her finger.
‘Who are you?’
‘You sent Nadir a message that you would be here.’
She glanced around as if to look for help, then started to get to her feet. Makana put out a hand.
‘Please,’ he said. ‘Just hear me out.’
‘Why? Tell me why I should listen.’
‘Because Nadir meant something to you, and I intend to find out who killed him.’ He gestured at the stool she had vacated. ‘Please. I’m not here to hurt you.’
Kara Deniz dumped her shoulder bag back down on the table and slid onto the high stool. The news of Nadir’s death didn’t seem to surprise her.
‘How did you hear that he’s dead?’
She bowed her head. ‘I got a call from a contact in the police.’ She looked up at him. ‘How did you know him?’
‘Nadir was arranging something for me.’
‘What kind of something?’
‘Transport.’
She stared at him. ‘Did you kill him?’
‘I had no reason to.’
‘So you say.’
‘I got there just after it happened.’
‘Why should I believe you?’ Her eyes searched his.
‘Because I have no reason to lie to you. I came here because I need your help.’
She seemed unconvinced. She took a sip from her bottle of beer and picked at the label with her nail.
‘Is that how you found me, the message I left for him?’
‘In the midnight hour. It was on his phone.’
‘It was our own little joke, a code. It meant nothing.’
‘But you came here all the same, knowing he was dead.’
‘Did you ever lose someone close to you?’ she asked. She looked away again. ‘Nadir and I always said that if something happened to one of us, the other one would come here and get good and drunk.’ She took a long drink. ‘I just didn’t count on you being here as well.’
‘Do you have any idea who might have wanted him dead?’
The music had changed to some kind of rock ballad. It wasn’t a good change.
‘Look, you sound like a cop. I have no idea who you are, and I don’t know what you want, but if you don’t leave me alone I’m going to start screaming.’
Makana produced the newspaper clipping Kursad had sent him and put it on the table.
‘You wrote this.’
Kara Deniz
picked up the clipping and held it up to the light for a second before placing it back on the table. ‘It’s a story I filed about an accident.’ There was a defiant look in her eyes. ‘What’s your interest in this?’
‘Tell me about this accident.’
‘It’s all in the article. There’s not much more to tell. In the early hours of the morning, an ambulance was in a collision with a bus that had just come in from Anatolia. It happens all the time. The drivers fall asleep at the wheel.’
‘Why were you interested in the case?’
‘Why? Because it was a bit of a mystery. The ambulance had been stolen some hours earlier. An unidentified woman died and there were reports of two others fleeing the scene.’ Kara Deniz shrugged and reached for her beer. ‘End of story.’
‘You never followed it up?’
‘There was nothing to follow up.’
‘The identity of the woman, the people who fled the scene. Weren’t you interested?’
‘What has this got to do with Nadir’s death?’ Kara Deniz frowned at him.
‘I’m trying to find someone. I believe he was being taken somewhere in that ambulance. After the accident he managed to escape. Was there any description of the people who survived?’
‘Nothing that was any use to anyone.’
‘There must have been something to go on. Why didn’t you follow it up?’
‘I’m a reporter,’ she laughed. ‘Not a detective.’ She grew serious. ‘What do you want from me?’
‘Nadir was helping me,’ Makana said. ‘I’d like to know who killed him and why, but I don’t know this town. You’re the only person I know who knew him.’
‘I thought the police were supposed to do that kind of thing.’
‘I don’t know how things work here, but where I come from the police don’t have a reputation for being helpful.’ Makana glanced around, but nobody was paying them any attention.
‘Where would that be?’
‘Cairo.’
She fished through her bag for cigarettes. ‘Why should I trust you?’
‘Because he was your friend.’ Makana studied her face. It was a hard face and would not be described as pretty, but she had a striking gaze. She looked at him as if she was weighing every word, but she was hesitating, and that was in his favour. He watched her light her cigarette.
‘You’re right about the police; they are useless. They’ll do nothing, especially for Nadir.’
‘He wasn’t popular with the authorities?’
She blew smoke over his head. ‘He was mixed up in politics. A long time ago. They never forget that kind of thing.’ She swung round to signal to the bartender, who waved back. She swivelled back to Makana.
‘So, if this is about trust why can’t you tell me what Nadir was helping you with?’
‘Transport. He was helping a friend out of the country.’
‘A friend without papers? You mean, smuggling him into Europe?’
‘Something like that.’
She looked him up and down. ‘You don’t look like a smuggler.’
‘What do I look like?’
‘Like a cop.’
Makana smiled. ‘I take it you don’t much like the police.’
‘What’s to like?’ The waitress arrived with what looked like whisky and ice. Kara Deniz drank down half of it in one swallow and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. She slid off her stool, wrestling the bag back onto her shoulder. ‘I have to go.’
‘You haven’t finished your drink.’
She reached for the glass and drained it. ‘Happy?’
‘If you decide to help me, you have my number.’
‘Don’t count on it.’
She moved swiftly towards the door, her slim hips twitching left and right as she edged her way through the crowd, pausing to drop some money onto the waitress’s tray. Through the window Makana watched her walk down the street. Every opportunity he had seemed to be slipping out of his grasp.
He emerged from the bar to be greeted by the angry chatter of a helicopter overhead. It was joined by another, and the two circled like clumsy insects. Others along the street had noticed the activity too. There were raised heads and a few comments. Curious, Makana followed the crowd that gravitated down a long, winding street towards the waterfront. It brought him out onto a busy road where on the other side a jumble of vehicles was bathed in the blue and red stutter of flashing lights from emergency vehicles.
Looking north Makana could see the arc of lights over the Bosporus on the high bridge that tethered the edge of Europe to the Asian continent. A horn blast caused him to step aside as an ambulance nosed its way into the confusion. Beyond the vehicles and the restless crowd, more lights could be seen out on the water. Powerful searchlight beams played back and forth over the same section of dark water. A couple of police cruisers bobbed around a large rusty vessel. Garbled orders over a megaphone were drowned out by the clanking of chains and the high whirr of a winch. A fishing net was being hauled up into the air.
In the harsh, fragmented light, the water dripped off in sheets like diamonds pouring into the sea. A groan of dismay went up from the crowd as the object trapped within the nylon netting grew clearer. The fish had not had time to do their work, but something had bitten a chunk from the side of the body. Perhaps the propeller of one of the countless ferries that shuttled across here every day, or one of the huge ships that ploughed regularly up and down this strait. It was starting to rain now. There was some kind of technical problem with the winch, and the teardrop-shaped net swayed back and forth with its gruesome cargo trapped in the beams of light.
Turning away, Makana caught sight of a familiar figure. The tall Dutchman. Wearing a long coat that was already slick and shiny with rain, he was standing off to one side, talking to somebody Makana could not see. He moved to try and get a better view, but people kept getting in the way. When his line of sight finally cleared he saw the lanky figure walking away, alone in the distance with his hands in his pockets.
Chapter Seventeen
When he woke up and disentangled himself from the damp sheets, feeling more tired than when he’d closed his eyes, Makana took a long shower. He felt mildly better by the time he dressed and left the hotel.
The call shop he had used before was closed, so he went back to the phone box on the corner. It was occupied by a woman dressed in dirty trousers and an unravelling jumper. She was surrounded by half-a-dozen plastic carrier bags of various shapes and colours. Turnips and carrots stuck cheerfully up out of one. She eyed Makana warily, holding the receiver at a distance from her ear. Someone was shouting down the line from somewhere. By the time she had finished her call a small arc of cigarette butts littered the ground around her feet.
Makana smoked another cigarette before the phone booth was finally free. First he dialled Marcus Winslow’s number in Cairo. After three rings there was a beep. He left a message:
‘Our travel agent is no longer able to offer us his services. We need an alternative plan.’
Makana hung up and then tried Sami, whose phone was answered by Rania.
‘He’s in the Sinai doing some background on this Dahab bombing. How are you doing?’
‘It’s getting complicated.’ Makana gazed into the distance. Cairo suddenly felt a long way away. They talked for a few minutes and then he rang off, promising to call back. He dialled Jehan at home, half hoping she wouldn’t answer. When she did he was taken aback.
‘You’re home.’
‘Today’s Friday, or have you already forgotten? We don’t work on Fridays. I was getting ready to take my nephews to the zoo. Heaven knows why, I hate the place, and it’s always full of the noisiest people.’ He had fallen silent. ‘Are you all right?’ he heard her ask.
‘I’m fine.’
‘You sound worried.’
‘I’m not sure this is going the way it was planned,’ said Makana slowly.
‘Are you talking about your work, or us?’
; ‘I thought I was talking about work.’
‘You left without saying goodbye.’
‘I know, I’m sorry.’
There was another long pause. He could hear her scrabbling about for cigarettes, followed by the rasp of the lighter. She exhaled.
‘How much longer do you think it will take?’
‘It’s hard to say.’ He turned to look out at the view again.
‘I’m worried about you,’ she said, her voice slow and measured. ‘I have the feeling you’re in a lot of danger.’
He tried to strike a brighter note. ‘I’ve been doing some sightseeing while I’m here.’
‘That’s nice. I was there, you know, years ago, when my husband was still alive. It’s such a romantic city.’ There was another pause. ‘You’re not worried about coming home?’
‘Me? No, why should I be worried about that?’
‘I don’t know. You just sound … so far away.’
‘It’s not a very good connection,’ he said.
‘I don’t mean that,’ she shot back.
‘Look, I can’t explain what it is,’ he began. ‘It’s as if there’s something here, some part of me …’ He was halfway through the sentence when he realised he didn’t know what he was talking about.
‘Come home soon, please. I miss you.’
‘As soon as I can, I promise.’
He heard her start to say something but then the line cut out. Jinn at play, or something more? More likely the card had simply run out of credit. As he made his way back to the hotel he wondered at the wisdom of calling. All he’d achieved was to worry her more. He would have to wait until the assigned time to call Winslow again.
As he came through the door of the hotel, Haluk, the diminutive receptionist, skipped towards him and bowed. What with the high marble walls, the crystal chandeliers and the gilt-framed doors, Makana felt as if he had just wandered into the court of the Sultan.
‘Your honourable guest has arrived, Mr Amin.’
‘My guest?’
‘I took the liberty of showing him into the dining room, where you will be most comfortable.’
The man appeared to somehow have got it into his head that Makana was a visiting dignitary of some kind. With great ceremony he led the way into the vast dining room. The breakfast crowd had already departed, desperate to get out and see the sights in case they had disappeared from the face of the earth overnight.