City of Jackals

by Parker Bilal

  ‘You must know this country well by now,’ he offered, trying to put her at ease.

  ‘It’s hard to believe, but ten years ago I would have had trouble picking out Sudan on a map. Now I know the Dinka from the Nuer. I even speak a few words of their language.’

  ‘Progress,’ he said, finding a smile.

  ‘Yes, I suppose you could say that. And what brings you here?’

  ‘I was looking for information, about a young man who has gone missing.’ As he spoke the words Makana marvelled at the irony. Which young man was he looking for, Mourad Hafiz or the nameless head lying on the examination table in the pathology lab?

  ‘Correct me if I’m wrong, but you’re a Northerner, are you not?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘And a Muslim? No offence, it’s just that we don’t see many Northerners here.’

  ‘None taken.’

  ‘Is this man bothering you, Sister?’

  The newcomer was a young man with a lean, hard face criss-crossed by scars. He wore the staple uniform of his generation, outsize blue jeans that threatened to fall about his ankles. Over this a khaki vest and white tracksuit top with red, gold and green stripes down the arms. Around his neck a handful of chains and necklaces, strings of leather amulets to ward off evil. Behind him trailed a small entourage of similarly dressed young men. Doctor Corbis took the intrusion in her stride.

  ‘No, Aljuka, he’s not bothering me in any way.’ Her smile was a mixture of annoyance and amusement.

  ‘Policeman? Spy?’ he said with scorn, looking Makana up and down. ‘What brings you here?’

  ‘You’re mistaken,’ Makana said, surveying the crowd.

  ‘A brother from Khartoum.’ His accent gave him away, the smile as lean and mocking as a razor blade. ‘You have no business here.’

  ‘Are you running all this?’ Makana gestured at the disarray surrounding them.

  Aljuka ignored the question. ‘Don’t think you are safe here. Khartoum kills our people, burns our villages, murders our women and children.’ Behind him the men bristled, eager to get at Makana. They clenched their fists and spat on the ground. A raised hand held them uneasily at bay.

  ‘Then your fight is with Khartoum, not with me.’

  ‘My brother!’ Out of the crowd a loping, dreadlocked figure. Fantômas was older than Aljuka and more heavily built. Age commanded its own respect, or perhaps the artist had a reputation among the young men.

  ‘You know this man?’

  ‘He’s one of us.’ Fantômas patted Makana on the shoulder.

  Aljuka frowned. ‘What are you saying? He’s one of them.’

  ‘This time you are mistaken. He’s one of us.’ Fantômas carried himself with calm confidence. Already the tension was seeping away.

  Aljuka shook his head. He stuck a finger in Makana’s face. ‘I’m watching you.’ With that he turned on his heel and marched off, his men falling in behind. They cut a swathe through the camp as people stepped out of their path.

  ‘Oh, my,’ said Liz Corbis a little breathlessly. ‘He is rather intense.’

  ‘Aljuka is an orphan of war,’ Fantômas said, as they watched the gang vanish into the crowd. ‘He lost his family during government attacks in the Nuba Mountains in the 1990s. Since then he has moved from camp to camp.’

  ‘Just when I think I understand a little about your country I discover that I don’t.’ Liz Corbis smiled. ‘Where did he get that name anyway?’

  ‘It’s a kind of playing card. You know, a figure with a funny hat, who can do anything?’

  ‘You mean a joker?’ Doctor Corbis shook her head at the absurdity of it.

  Fantômas explained, ‘He and his men are always up to all kinds of tricks, money-making schemes. People respect him because he’s so generous. He helps those in need.’

  ‘Oh, you mean a kind of Robin Hood?’ the doctor asked.

  Unfamiliar with the name, Fantômas frowned. She waved her own suggestion aside, and excused herself, saying she had work to do.

  ‘Actually, it’s you I came to see.’ Makana turned to Fantômas. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘Trying to do what I can to help in this crazy mess.’ They turned to survey the scene before them. ‘This is a bad time. People are suffering with this closed-file business.’

  ‘Closed file, what’s that?’ Makana asked.

  ‘If the UN rejects your application for political asylum, then the case is closed. You have no chance of being allowed to stay legally. It makes your situation worse. Better to be a grey area than to be identified as a reject. That’s why many prefer to have nothing to do with the authorities.’

  ‘Why do they get turned down? I mean, aren’t they here because of war and persecution of one sort or another?’

  ‘Sure, but try and prove that.’ Fantômas brushed his dreadlocks back. ‘Your case is different. You’re a former officer of the law. You were arrested and imprisoned.’

  Makana was well aware of the precarious nature of his presence in this country. He had no dependants but he was making a living of sorts. In many ways he knew that his situation could change in the blink of an eye. He had found himself on the wrong side of the security services more than once and the threat of expulsion was never absent.

  ‘Most arrive here without documents of any kind. To seek political asylum you need refugee status, and that’s their first mistake. They’ve been betrayed by their own government. They don’t trust anyone, not even the UN. They’ve heard enough stories about others being turned down, so they make stuff up. Of course in the interview it all falls apart.’

  ‘What happens when they’re turned down?’

  ‘They have to start all over again. Two years more of waiting.’

  They surveyed the camp in silence for a moment.

  ‘You know what they call this place?’ Fantômas asked. ‘Jackal City.’

  ‘Where does that come from?’

  ‘Well, traditionally, the jackal used to inhabit cemeteries, and this is a graveyard of sorts.’

  The astonishing thing wasn’t the protest, but why it had taken so long to happen. Makana turned to Fantômas again.

  ‘I saw some of your artwork this morning, at the Church of Josephine Bakhita.’

  ‘What took you all the way out there?’ Fantômas rubbed his chin. Makana told him about the severed head. ‘The early forensic investigations suggest the victim was a young man, a Southerner. A Mundari, to be exact.’

  ‘Mundari? There aren’t many of those around.’

  ‘You’re smiling,’ said Makana. ‘I know what you’re thinking.’

  ‘Northern guilt. You can’t put centuries right. You know that, don’t you?’

  ‘So people keep telling me.’

  ‘You can’t take it all back. People like Aljuka will still hate you.’

  ‘Let me ask you, what makes you decide to paint one thing and not another?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Fantômas shrugged. ‘You see it, the moment seizes you. Something like that.’

  ‘Well, maybe that’s what this is,’ said Makana.

  ‘Somebody came to you for your help on this?’

  ‘There are always exceptions.’

  ‘You’re all right, Makana.’ Fantômas laughed. ‘A little strange sometimes, maybe. So tell me how I can help you.’

  ‘There’s someone working at the church I want to talk to, and it might help if I have a little backup.’

  ‘You mean you need me to lend you some street credibility?’

  ‘It’s just that I get the feeling I’m not too popular over there right now.’

  ‘You’re Nubian, not Arab anyway. That practically makes you one of us.’

  ‘When did it all turn tribal again?’

  ‘It never stopped. You just weren’t paying attention.’

  ‘What do you know about those two?’ Makana nodded off towards Liz Corbis, who was wandering through the crowd, pausing here and there to speak to someone, offer advice o
r dispense medicines from a trunk being carried around by a young man who followed behind her. Now she was joined by her brother.

  ‘What can I tell you? Missionaries. It seems there are plenty of good people in America who are willing to give money to help us. They are here a couple of times a year. They run a clinic at the church and they have a programme to help young people to get to America.’

  ‘Everyone needs something to believe in.’

  On his way back to the car, Makana’s phone began to vibrate. It was Okasha.

  ‘I need you to get into that thing you call a car and drive out on the Cairo–Ismailia highway. Just before 10th Ramadan City you turn to the right.’

  ‘What am I looking for?’

  ‘You’ll know when you see it.’

  Chapter Eleven

  The fire was visible from the main highway, some way off to the east. They missed the turning for the curiously named Geneva Road and had to double back to find themselves on a narrow strip of tarmac running through open ground. An angry orange glow spiked the black horizon, ringed by a nervous flurry of red and blue lights. A roadblock had been set up to control the traffic and Makana leaned out of the window to speak to the first police officer they reached.

  ‘Inspector Okasha?’

  They were flagged on from one officer to the next until they reached the firefighters still spraying gouts of white foam which, from time to time, released the flare of a hot blue flame. Black smoke billowed up from beneath the gutted chassis of what appeared to have been a petrol tanker.

  A succession of uniformed men blocked their progress, armed soldiers who peered inside the Datsun before waving them on. An officer was shouting into a handheld radio set, apparently to no avail. Ambulance crews stood around waiting to be told what to do. Nobody appeared to be in need of urgent medical attention. The victims were all beyond that. They finally located Okasha standing off to one side surrounded by a group of officers. The location of the accident had clearly drawn various police forces in. When he caught sight of Makana he waved him to wait to one side. Eventually, he made his way over.

  ‘A little off your usual beat, aren’t you?’

  Without a word, Okasha beckoned for Makana to follow him. The air left a smoky, singed feeling in his mouth, like steel and ashes. The sand was covered by a hard crust that crunched underfoot like glass crystals. The tanker was sprawled half on its side, sunk down onto its frame, the tyres melted into the scorched sand, a blackened, burnt-out wreck. The driver, or what was left of him, looked small behind the wheel, as if the heat had shrunk the body into a charred wooden icon, a doll whittled out of carbon and toasted to a crisp. It bore only a bizarre resemblance to a human being. Wisps of smoke rose from the curled shoulders. Okasha was pointing to the tracks in the sand curving from the lip of the roadside.

  ‘He was trapped when the vehicle tipped over as it came off the road. He’s young, perhaps fifteen. No doubt he was driving too fast and very probably without a licence. He wouldn’t have stood a chance. He’d be cooked alive.’

  The driver’s mouth was locked wide in a never-ending scream that would never be heard. The faintly sweetish smell in the air was that of roasted meat. Not a nice way to go. Okasha was already moving towards the second vehicle, a small Mitsubishi minivan with panelled sides that was some thirty metres away. It had no markings on it. The front end was completely crushed. Three firemen were busy trying to cut what was left of the occupant out of the mangled remains of the driver’s cab.

  ‘It didn’t catch fire?’

  Okasha shook his head. ‘It’s so light it must have bounced on impact and rolled away, but the occupants were badly crushed.’

  ‘What is the army doing here?’

  ‘Anti-terrorist squad. The tanker was almost full. The explosion was big enough to make people think it was a bomb.’

  ‘So they were the first on the scene?’

  ‘That’s right.’ Okasha beckoned Makana over. He crouched down and pointed into the cab. ‘We haven’t identified the driver yet, but we think there was a second man in the car. There’s blood on the dashboard and door.’

  ‘Where did he go?’ Makana looked up and down the road, following the tracks made in the sand, trying to work out how the accident might have happened.

  ‘We don’t know. Maybe he was concussed or something.’

  It could happen. A head wound might cause all kinds of confusion. ‘The van was coming from Cairo, and the tanker?’

  ‘The other way. There’s a refinery about ten kilometres away.’

  On the main highway the traffic streams were separated by a wide gap and a concrete barrier, but here it narrowed to a thin strip of tarmac that ran in both directions.

  ‘So you have a road-traffic accident. Very interesting, but I don’t see how this is connected to me, or to you for that matter.’

  Okasha tilted his head and they moved round towards the back of the van. The rear door had been popped open. The interior was scattered with small bottles and packets. At the far end, up against the driver’s cab, a long metal locker had been welded in place. It was the size and shape of a coffin. The interior was lined with some kind of foam cushion. There were stencilled hazard signs on the side of it.

  ‘The van is registered to a medical supply company in Cairo. Shaddad Pharmacies. They distribute pharmaceuticals around the city.’

  ‘Why the locker?’

  ‘To keep valuable or dangerous items secure. It was locked. We opened it to make sure it was safe, and this is what we found.’ Okasha led the way around the side. Laid out on the ground was a body, small, dark-skinned and wearing ragged trousers and a torn shirt. His feet were bare. A young man in his teens.

  ‘For someone who was in a car crash he looks surprisingly unharmed.’

  ‘The locker would have protected him to some extent. My feeling is that he was dead before they put him in there. We’ll have to wait for Doctora Siham to tell us how he died.’

  ‘Why did you call me?’

  Okasha grinned. ‘Call me impulsive, but wouldn’t you say he was from South Sudan?’

  ‘It’s possible.’

  ‘More than possible I’d say. You know what I think? I think you’ve started something with your head in the river.’

  ‘Careful, you sound almost concerned.’

  ‘You know how it is. If I report this the Major is going to tell me to get on with some serious work.’

  ‘So you’re handing it to me?’

  ‘Whatever this is, we both know there’s something wrong here, but I have my hands tied. Resources are scarce. We’re being asked to cut back on all sides. I hate it, but you know how it is, nowadays policing is getting more like politics.’ Okasha glanced over his shoulder to see if anyone was listening in. ‘I can give you any help you need, and full access to the forensics reports.’ He noted the look on Makana’s face. ‘I know, it’s not a lot, but I’m telling you, this thing is going to be forgotten in a hurry.’

  ‘Where were they taking him?’ Makana wondered, looking off into the darkness. In the distance he caught a glimpse of what looked like a glowing coal, a smudge of smoke and the pinpricks of lights picking out chimney stacks.

  ‘It’s some kind of industrial complex. Steel, I think.’

  Makana reached for his cigarettes. Okasha, still eager to farm out the case, pointed back up the road.

  ‘So, as I see it, the boy lost control of the lorry. Perhaps he fell asleep. Some of these kids drive for hours without a break. He wakes up as the lorry is coming off the road and manages to twist the wheel, which turns it over. As it goes it knocks the van aside, just a glancing blow but enough to send the lighter vehicle flying off the road. The tanker caught fire instantly. One spark is all it takes. There are enough fumes coming off these things for it to explode. That’s why they hire kids. They’re too young to have any fear.’

  Makana walked up the road a way, looking for tyre marks. Okasha followed along. Something didn’t quite fit.

/>   ‘What’s the matter?’ Okasha asked.

  ‘The way the vehicles are arranged it could almost be the other way around.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Could the van driver have lost control and veered across the tanker’s path?’

  Okasha shrugged. Makana went back to the wreck of the van.

  ‘It’s the boy in the back that I don’t understand. I mean, what was he doing in that locker?’

  ‘They were taking him somewhere.’

  ‘If he was dead, as you say, then where were they taking him?’

  Okasha looked up and followed Makana’s gaze into the distance.

  Chapter Twelve

  The head office of Shaddad Pharmacies was on Sharia Shihab in Mohandiseen. Okasha suggested Makana drive with him. They would make better time in a squad car with siren and lights going. It was late now and Makana gave Sindbad the rest of the night off. They would speak in the morning. As promised, the drive into the city was fast, with the police driver using lights and horn with relish. It was easy to see how the power to get other vehicles to veer aside might become addictive. The road opened up the way the Red Sea might have parted for Moses. Well, perhaps a sluggish, reluctant sea. Although it was almost midnight the city was still wide awake.

  ‘You’re sure you want me to come along?’

  Okasha waved the question aside. ‘Don’t tell me, you have something better to do with your time.’

  While two young men was not an epidemic, Makana wondered if Okasha thought this might be the start of a trend. All the two deaths had in common was the fact that the victims were male and from South Sudan, and also that someone had taken the trouble to try and displace the bodies in some way. Different method in each case. Perhaps the killer was fond of variety.

  Despite the late hour they found Omar Shaddad still at work when they arrived. The ground floor of the gently crumbling modern building was occupied by a row of shops. On one side of the entrance were chintzy places selling shoes and shirts arrayed on mirrored pedestals. The other side of the building’s main door was taken up by a large all-night pharmacy. Within the brightly lit interior staff rushed to and fro serving lines of customers. Sickness was a profitable business.