Dark Water

by Parker Bilal

  ‘Why did you come to my room?’

  ‘What?’ She blinked.

  ‘My room at the hotel. You came there for a reason,’ he said. ‘You wanted to talk.’

  She met his gaze evenly and he thought for a moment that perhaps he had been wrong, but then she lowered her head in what was an almost imperceptible nod. When she looked up she was ready to speak. But whatever she might have been about to say was trapped there for ever.

  ‘Well, this is very touching,’ said a voice behind him.

  Marcus Winslow certainly knew how to make an entrance. And he dressed well. The slightly rumpled elegance that had no doubt stood him well over the years. He even managed to make the gun in his right hand look like a fashion accessory. But there was no mistaking the intent in his eyes. However playful he might have wanted to appear, there was no doubt he was here on business.

  ‘I knew that you two would find one another. It’s almost inevitable when you think about it.’

  ‘I had a feeling you might show up,’ said Makana.

  ‘Well, I hate to disappoint,’ beamed Winslow.

  ‘Do you really think this is going to get you reinstated?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t care about that. I’ve had my share of working within the constraints of government service.’ Winslow pulled a face. ‘It’s so dull.’

  ‘So what is this about, money?’

  ‘We haven’t known one another for long, but I have to say that I would be disappointed if I thought you really believed this was all motivated by greed.’

  ‘Then what?’

  ‘The game, old man. It’s all that’s left. To play on. To win.’ Winslow cracked a smile. ‘I used to think that these things would become less important in the fullness of time, but I was wrong. Getting older just makes you more determined to beat the odds. I thought I was dedicated as a young man, but that dashing fellow has nothing on the current version. Believe me, I’m more driven today than I ever was.’

  ‘You know this man?’ Nasra asked.

  ‘He’s British intelligence,’ Makana replied, before switching back to English. ‘Or perhaps I should say, ex-British intelligence. Isn’t that correct?’

  Winslow tugged at his ear with his free hand. He was wearing light cotton gloves. A nice touch, but then you would have expected nothing less.

  ‘Not exactly. I’m still officially on the books.’

  ‘But disgraced, now freelancing for the Israelis?’

  ‘Keep guessing. No, a man has to make a living. You might say I’ve gone into the consultancy business. I lend my expertise to whoever needs my services.’

  ‘I think the word you’re looking for is mercenary.’

  Winslow frowned. ‘There’s no need to be insulting.’

  ‘Shaw was on to you,’ said Makana. ‘That’s why you had to kill him.’

  ‘Marty Shaw was an amateur. I blame the education system. Level playing fields and all that nonsense.’ Winslow grimaced in distaste. ‘Never more than an exercise in deception, and that is a subject I know a little about.’ He stepped forward to take the Beretta from Nasra, offering a grin to Makana.

  ‘How does it feel, to know that she hates you? I imagine that’s must be hard to take. Not just you, of course, but everything you stand for.’ He looked Nasra over. ‘I find her rather magnificent myself. A warrior, a jihadiya of the first order. You should be proud of her.’

  ‘You used me to get at Mek Nimr,’ said Makana. Suddenly everything seemed clearer.

  ‘Ah, now you are getting warmer.’ Winslow smiled briefly. ‘I knew that the chance to watch you suffer was something he would never be able to resist. After all these years, everything he has invested in your child. A man can devote his life to hatred. And what’s the point of it all if he doesn’t get to watch you suffer?’

  ‘He’ll think I set him up.’

  ‘I honestly don’t think that’s your biggest problem right now.’ Winslow said drily. ‘Look on the bright side, at least you won’t have to worry about that for long.’

  ‘Is he that important to you?’

  ‘It’s nothing personal. He’s been leading us around by the nose for years. Playing his own double game. Laughing behind his hand at us British khawajas. Fair enough. Colonial history and all that. We all have an inheritance to pay off. Truth be told, there has always been something of a question mark hanging over this Directorate for Counterterrorism of his.’

  He smiled at Nasra. ‘It’s a common enough strategy. You set up a body to serve a cause. Human rights, for example. It makes you look good, even though the real purpose is simply to mask your activities. It’s the perfect cover. We suspect them of funding hundreds of small operations around the world. Never directly, always in the background, channelling funds and logistical support. From Baghdad to Sydney by way of Mumbai and Massachusetts. Jihadism is the new industry.’

  ‘So where is he now?’

  ‘At this moment …’ Winslow glanced at his watch. ‘On his way to a black site somewhere nobody will ever find him.’

  ‘That can’t be right,’ said Nasra, taking a step forwards. The gun swung towards her. ‘You betrayed us.’

  ‘Guilty as charged, I’m afraid.’ Winslow gave an apologetic shrug. ‘Sorry. I dropped a word to our Israeli friends. He’ll manage and it will be cleared up eventually, but he’s going to have a rough ride.’

  A black site effectively meant falling off the ends of the earth. There would be no official record of Mek Nimr having been picked up and flown to a detention camp for interrogation. Normally, there was no way back from such places, unless you believed in miracles. Makana ought to have cheered, but somehow he didn’t feel like celebrating.

  Makana reached for his cigarettes and found the packet empty. The condemned man denied his last request. Winslow took pity and tossed over his Benson & Hedges. Makana used his own lighter and, glancing at Nasra, he threw them back. Winslow caught them without taking his eyes off either of them. He lit one for himself while Makana spoke.

  ‘Mek Nimr is the reason for your disgrace.’

  ‘I gambled on him once too often. Mek Nimr has been passing us snippets of information over the years. Always reliable, except when he wasn’t. Sometimes the cavalry charges in, or in this case the drone, only to find the target has fled. It didn’t happen that often, but when it did, it tended to be significant. One instance in particular. An Al Qaeda operator believed to be the strategist behind the attack on the USS Cole. Mek Nimr claims to have a personal contact close to him. He gives us a time and a place. The missiles go in and we destroy a house full of women and children. Nineteen deaths. That can weigh heavily on a man’s conscience.’

  ‘Abu Hilal.’

  ‘That’s what I was led to believe and that’s what I staked my reputation on.’

  ‘He must have given you some good information?’

  ‘Oh, he did, but he was smart that way, mixing up the good with the bad. And of course, the point is that it was a judgement call. At the end of the day, I trusted him, so it’s on me.’

  ‘So when he offered you a chance to get your hands on Abu Hilal, you couldn’t resist.’

  ‘It was too good a chance to pass up. Only this time I intended to take the initiative. I played along, the gullible Englishman trusting his native informant. Times change but the old tropes still last.’

  ‘Only by now you had figured out that Abu Hilal didn’t exist.’

  ‘Exactly, only he does now.’ Winslow wagged the gun at Makana. ‘Two can play at that game.’

  ‘Mek Nimr planned to use Nizari to lure the Israelis into his own trap, not realising that you were one step ahead of him.’ Winslow said nothing. Makana went on. ‘So you hand my body over as Abu Hilal and you are vindicated. British intelligence apologises and probably gives you a medal into the bargain.’

  ‘The medal’s not really the point, although I admit it would be nice.’

  ‘You warned the Israelis they were walking into a trap, and in exchange you
wanted the credit for the sting.’

  ‘You are actually good at this,’ Winslow conceded. ‘Unfortunately it’s a little late in the day for enlightenment.’

  Makana gestured around them. ‘Nobody’s going to believe this little show of yours.’

  ‘Well, that’s where I’m afraid you’re wrong.’ Winslow stepped over towards the wall and swept the heaped tarpaulin aside to reveal the incendiary device. ‘Crude, but as I’m sure you will agree, effective.’

  ‘And Nizari?’

  ‘A pawn in the game. Granted, a rather erratic pawn, but I shed no tears over a man like that.’

  Makana was feeling like something of a pawn himself. He looked across at Nasra and wondered if she had any other weapons on her.

  ‘We have a lot to learn from our friends in Tel Aviv. They are ahead of us because they are ruthless. They aren’t held back by colonial guilt, or quaint ideas about ethical codes and moral responsibility. They just get the job done. They are like a big angry hound that can never say no to a fight.

  ‘The truth is,’ Winslow went on, ‘We don’t understand what goes on these days. That’s our Achilles heel. We fell in love with the idea that technology would solve our information-gathering problems.’ He smoked in silence for a moment. ‘We lost the human factor. Partly it’s because the world changed and we didn’t. I mean racially, ethnically. We’re still pulling in people from the same narrow band. When someone like me walks through the bazaar in Peshawar, or Baghdad or Cairo, they stand out a mile. We’re the khawaja, the gaijin, the mzungu. James Bond was fine when the world was ruled from London. The spy game was all about class. They mingled in gentlemen’s clubs. Not any more.’

  ‘And you hate that because it makes you dependent on people like Mek Nimr,’ Makana commented. People like us, he might have said.

  ‘I get it, I really do. They don’t hate us for what we stand for. What do we stand for anyway? They hate us because they want what we’ve got. It’s as simple as that.’ Winslow shrugged. ‘And for bombing the shit out of their loved ones. The point is that nobody wins any more, not really. Not in the long term. Short-term gains perhaps, but nothing lasting. Nothing of value. Shakespeare understood that. We seem to have forgotten it.’

  ‘Looks like you’ve played everyone to your advantage.’

  ‘That’s what I like about you,’ said Winslow. ‘Always so pragmatic. Never one to let your feelings get in the way. I suppose that’s necessary for someone like you. Still, it’s a shame our partnership has to end here.’

  Makana nodded at Nasra. ‘You can let her go. She’s not a threat.’

  ‘Everyone’s a threat,’ said Winslow, raising the gun. ‘But I’ll spare you the pain of watching her die.’ He aimed the gun at Makana.

  Where the knife came from Makana couldn’t say. His best guess was a sheath concealed in the spine of her jacket. It caught Winslow just below his right collarbone, a handspan away from his throat, which she must have been going for. She probably would have hit it if she’d had the chance to stand and take proper aim. She didn’t. She just threw it.

  The shot meant for Makana went wide and he heard the bullet ring as it hit something metallic. With the knife still buried in him Winslow dropped to one knee and fired the gun again. Nasra collapsed. Winslow stood and ran bent double towards the door behind him. Makana knelt over Nasra. She had her hands to her stomach, blood seeping through her fingers.

  ‘Go after him,’ she hissed through clenched teeth. ‘Stop him!’

  ‘I can’t leave you,’ he said, taking off his jacket, thinking of how to stem the blood. She clutched his arm.

  ‘Go!’ she urged. ‘Don’t let him get away.’

  By the time he came out into the yard Winslow was nowhere to be seen. How far could a wounded man get? Splashes of blood led in a wavering arc across the cracked cement. Makana tracked along it cautiously, pondering the wisdom of pursuing an armed man. A cornered Winslow would be all the more dangerous.

  A pair of pigeons flapped noisily into the air and Makana looked up in time to see Winslow aiming at him from the roof. He threw himself left and felt the bullet hit the ground at his feet even as he heard the shot.

  There was a simple stone staircase in the far corner leading to the flat roof that connected around the four sides of the yard. Makana ran up the stairs to see rows of washing lines strung between poles stretched out ahead of him. Beyond them, he glimpsed Winslow sinking down onto the parapet at the far end. Long strands of his thin hair blew back and forth in the breeze. He was bowed forwards, clutching at the knife embedded in his shoulder.

  ‘I must be getting old. I used to be better at tying everything up neatly.’ He gritted his teeth as he pulled the blade out and pressed a handkerchief to the wound to stem the flow of blood.

  ‘It’s over,’ said Makana, edging closer. The automatic rested on the low wall next to the other man.

  ‘You’re forgetting something, aren’t you?’ Winslow reached into his pocket and held up a mobile phone. It took Makana a moment to realise what he was going to do. ‘Look, you can’t blame me for the girl. Self-defence. She shouldn’t have thrown the knife. Nice shot, though, I have to admit.’

  ‘There’s nowhere for you to run.’

  ‘There’s plenty of places.’ Winslow shook his head and raised the phone. ‘No matter what happens to me, I can’t let emotion stand in the way of a careful strategy. Sorry.’

  ‘Wait!’ Makana knew he was too late. He was always too late.

  He saw the flash of the blast rushing through the schoolroom behind the papered-up windows before he heard the explosion, before it knocked him flat on his back. Then the windows blew outwards and glass and smoke erupted in a cloud, taking Nasra with it, back to that non-existence from which he had just started to believe she had escaped. His ears rang. The air was thick with concrete dust that clogged his nose and mouth, forcing him to close his eyes. He didn’t want to open them again. Just to lie there and let it all wash over him. The world. Death. He didn’t care what happened next. He opened his eyes and looked upwards, seeing the gently swirling scraps of paper floating in the air like butterflies. He had the sense that he was falling, far down inside the ground, as if the earth had opened up to swallow him.

  Chapter Thirty-five

  He heard voices, as if from far away, speaking gibberish, sounds that he couldn’t translate into words. It was all muffled by a blanket of cloud. Like the whispering of ghosts, spirits of the past come back to plague him with their unfulfilled dreams, their unlived lives. He wanted only for it to go away, to leave him here, floating in darkness, where there was nothing more to lose. A light shone into his eyes, hard and sharp, and then the sounds increased. He sensed the excitement around them as they set to the digging with renewed enthusiasm, then the darkness flooded back in and carried him away like a magic carpet.

  In his dream they were all together again. A little family. He and Muna and Nasra. Only it wasn’t Muna, he realised, but Jehan, which confused him at first, and then made perfect sense. They lived in a place he thought at first he’d never seen before. It was by the sea. The wind was blowing through the pines. The world was far away. He recognised it as Heybeliada, the Princes Island. It seemed fitting. An exile from all the dangers of the world. Nasra was about twelve years old. An age he had never known in her life. As they walked towards him the little girl began to rise up into the air. ‘Stop her!’ he heard Jehan call, again and again. But although he ran towards them the little girl continued to rise slowly upward. He jumped to try and catch her. Nasra herself didn’t seem too concerned. She gazed down at them with a peaceful look on her face.

  When he came to again he was lying in bed. For a moment he imagined he was dreaming, but then the smell of the sheets told him he wasn’t home on the awama but in a hospital. Now the rest came back to him. His first thought was for Nasra. Was it possible she had survived? Everything told him it wasn’t, but he would not rest until he knew.

  He started t
o sit up and felt a sharp pain cutting into his side. When he tried to put his hand to it he discovered he was handcuffed to the frame of the bed, only it wasn’t a bed, it was a stretcher. It wasn’t a hospital either, but a windowless grey corridor. He heard the roar of jet engines, the sound of loudspeaker announcements in the distance. He was in an airport.

  ‘My wife keeps telling me that we should get proper health insurance, as an investment for the future.’

  Makana craned his neck to see Inspector Serkan standing behind him.

  ‘She is right, of course, thinking ahead. One day we will be old and sick and then, when they give us a nice clean room with a magnificent view, we will be happy that we spent so many years paying for health insurance.’ He shrugged as he turned to look at Makana. ‘Me, I think it is better to live in the present than to prepare for some sad day in the future. Who knows, I could get hit by a meteorite falling from the sky when I walk out of here, or I could be one of those people who seem to live a charmed life, as if watched over by angels. I mean, of course, people like you.’ He folded his arms as he came round to stand in front of him.

  ‘You have important friends in high places, Mr Makana. That is your real name, right? I had a call from a lawyer in Cairo. Mr Munir Abaza. He has contacts in ministerial positions. One person pulls a string and … like magic’ – Serkan circled his hand in the air – ‘one thing leads to another and here you are, having passed through the best clinic in Istanbul.’ He nodded at a male nurse standing at a distance.

  ‘No doubt you are surprised to see me. I wanted to thank you.’

  ‘To thank me?’ Makana still felt dazed, his mind elsewhere.

  ‘For your help with the murders. We picked up the woman you told me about. She had been keeping souvenirs from her victims, carrying them around in plastic bags.’ The inspector twirled an unlit cigarette between his fingers. ‘She was a sad case. A victim all her life after being abused and raped at a young age. She suffered a breakdown followed by years in a mental institution. She was released when they shut down the hospital.’