City of Jackals

by Parker Bilal

  The night passed slowly. Makana’s thoughts kept drifting as they often did in these mournful hours, back to the time when he had a family and a home. When he was whole. When the car they were fleeing in plunged over the side of a bridge, Muna and Nasra had perished. Makana had escaped with his life, something he had never really forgiven himself for. And so the one great mystery in his life was fated to remain unsolved, because there could never be closure for him, not now, after all these years. He had never seen them after their death, never had a chance to bury them, and that somehow made their absence all the more difficult to accept.

  Over the years there had been persistent rumours that his daughter had survived, rumours that he had found unbearable. A form of never-ending torture. At one point he had even considered taking the risk of going back to Khartoum to find out for certain, a course of action that would almost certainly have led to his arrest and possibly death. He still had enemies back there, that much he knew. Still, imprisonment, torture, death, all of these seemed like a small price to pay for the peace of mind of knowing his daughter’s fate. All of his inquiries had led to nothing. The years had gone by and yet he had never been able to fully give up on the idea that somehow she might still be alive, that there was still hope that one day he might find her.

  As he finally, gratefully, fell into a brief but deep sleep, he heard the sound of loudspeakers crackling to life in the distance as the muezzins began calling the faithful to prayer.

  Munir Abaza’s offices were in Dokki. A broad modern building in a sidestreet with a view of the Sheraton Hotel in all its glory. Turn your head to the left and one of the more elegant stretches of the river came into view, complete with two members of the rowing club out early aboard a narrow skiff. Munir Abaza’s office had the buzz of a busy hub with some wealthy clients. Sharply dressed people moved with urgent purpose through the soft cloud of ringing telephones and the asthmatic wheeze of photocopier machines. The walls were splashed with colourful images of coral reefs on the Red Sea, drilling rigs in the desert, holiday resorts inhabited by happy people. It seemed an unlikely choice for a legal firm representing a small family restaurant, no matter how good the food.

  ‘Excuse me for asking, but how did the Hafiz family come to be your clients? They don’t seem to fit in with all of this.’ Makana gestured at the walls.

  ‘You’re right. I was doing a favour for someone.’ Abaza moved with the stiff-legged gait of a man itching to get somewhere in a hurry. He was around fifty years old, dressed in expensive clothes, a light blue shirt with matching tie held in place with a gold pin and oozing expensive eau de cologne that he appeared to have bathed in. Makana found himself in a glass-walled conference room with a view. There was no shortage of chairs around the heavy oval table that stretched the length of the room, but no seat was offered. Instead Abaza planted himself, arms folded, contemplating the river.

  ‘My daughter is friends with Sahar Hafiz. They went to school together. She came to me and told me that Sahar’s brother was missing and begged me to help. What can I do?’

  Makana wasn’t sure he believed him. Even a connection through their daughters sounded like a stretch. Compared with Abaza, Mr and Mrs Hafiz looked as though they had been living in a cave.

  ‘Do you row?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  Abaza indicated the river. He was watching the rowers with the keen eye of a professional. No doubt he kept himself in shape dragging a boat up and down the river for hours.

  ‘I rarely find the time these days,’ said Makana quietly.

  ‘It’s a great way to relax, to free the mind. We Egyptians think of exercise as something we do when we are children, after that it’s eat and eat. This country needs to become leaner, stronger, more confident about its own abilities.’

  ‘A lack of self-confidence isn’t something I’ve noticed a lot of.’

  ‘You mistake our national pride for confidence. It isn’t. We are a nation in doubt, that’s why we keep harking back to Nasser, as if he was the solution to everything. We pick on people, like your fellow countrymen squatting in that square.’ Abaza turned his gaze on Makana. ‘Do you even consider them to be countrymen? You are so different, North and South. Physically, racially, culturally.’

  ‘A little diversity is not a bad thing, surely?’

  ‘A little, perhaps, but unless I am mistaken you have had a civil war for almost half a century.’

  ‘Now we are at peace. War is over.’

  ‘And yet you remain here.’ Abaza smiled. ‘That should tell us something, no?’

  ‘Is this why you summoned me here?’

  ‘I wanted to see who I was recommending.’

  ‘A little late for that, don’t you think?’

  Abaza pushed his hands into his pockets and strolled along by the window, still admiring the view.

  ‘Your friend Amir Medani is a colleague of mine. We do not share the same political perspective, but I believe there is mutual professional respect. He believes in working to make the world a better place and I . . .’ He stretched his arms wide. ‘Well, we have different priorities. Not so surprising. Anyway, I have operatives that I use for this kind of work, but in this particular case I felt I needed someone different.’

  ‘A little more downmarket?’

  The lawyer smiled. ‘You are a direct man, I like that. In recommending someone one should always take into careful consideration the needs and the means of the client.’

  ‘How well do you know the Hafiz family?’

  ‘Not that well, to be honest. I used to eat at their restaurant with my aunt, when I was a child. The place was run by Mourad’s grandfather in those days.’

  ‘They came to you for help?’

  ‘As I said, it was through my daughter.’

  ‘Do you know the Hafiz boy?’

  ‘Mourad? No. The girl I’ve met a few times, through my own daughter, but that’s about it.’

  ‘What can you tell me about her?’

  ‘Sahar? Well, she’s a smart girl. Ambitious, but completely wasted so long as she remains tied to her parents and their business. Her best hope is meeting a man who will make a good husband.’

  Not the most charitable assessment, but Munir Abaza clearly had more important things on his mind. In his view the explanation for Mourad’s disappearance was simple.

  ‘He’s probably met a young woman and is off somewhere enjoying himself. Who wouldn’t want to be twenty again!’ The laugh was clumsy and self-conscious.

  ‘So you don’t find it odd that he hasn’t contacted his family?’

  ‘If he’s anything like me he won’t want anything to do with them.’ More laughter. Abaza had the laugh of a man with no sense of humour.

  ‘I still need to find him.’

  ‘That’s why they hired you.’ Abaza rapped his hand on the table. The meeting was over. ‘Look, don’t take this the wrong way. See it as an opportunity. Play your cards right and you can make good money out of this. The Hafiz family have a lot of old clients, people with money and problems. And I am always on the lookout for new operatives. This could be very good for you.’

  There was something reptilian about Abaza’s smooth manners. The kind of person to whom nothing nasty or foul-smelling ever seemed to stick.

  As he waited for the lift to arrive Makana found himself staring at a poster for yet another client of Abaza’s. The picture showed a view of the Giza pyramids with a square building in the foreground. The juxtaposition of the two images was intended to suggest a link of some sort. The Hesira Institute, the caption read. Where modern technology meets the wisdom of Ancient Egypt. A line of hieroglyphics ran down one side of the poster, topped by a cartouche containing a figure bearing a stick. The physician himself presumably. Hesira. Yet another example of putting the ancient world to profitable use, thought Makana as the lift announced its arrival.

  Sahar had promised to connect him with a couple of Mourad’s friends. A rare breed if he had understood correctly.
Fadihah and Ihab were waiting for him at a café by the Nile, next to the Fish Gardens. Both were dressed in typical student attire, jeans and sweatshirts. They sat huddled together, whispering and smoking as he approached.

  ‘We’re not sure how much we can help,’ the boy began, almost before Makana had pulled up a chair. He could barely bring himself to sit still. He smoked nervously, his knee jogging up and down. Makana waved the waiter over. Both declined anything so he ordered a coffee for himself.

  ‘Why don’t you tell me a little about yourselves to begin with?’

  ‘There’s not that much to tell,’ said Fadihah, glancing at her companion. ‘We’re all studying the same thing. We met Mourad in our first year.’

  ‘So you share Mourad’s interests in, what is it, city planning?’

  ‘Something like that.’

  The boy gave a derisive snort.

  The girl said, ‘We found we had certain things in common.’

  ‘What kind of things?’

  ‘Politics. The way this city is being driven into the ground by speculators.’

  ‘Idiots who think only of lining their pockets,’ added Ihab.

  ‘What did Mourad think of that?’ asked Makana.

  ‘He thought it should all change.’ The boy’s eyes narrowed. This was something he cared about too much to make wisecracks.

  ‘So he saw himself as something of a rebel?’

  ‘How is any of this of use?’ The girl was wringing her hands. ‘Sahar said you were trying to find Mourad.’

  ‘I am, but to do that I need to understand him, learn how he thinks, know the things he cares about.’ They were looking at one another. ‘What’s the problem?’

  ‘Nothing,’ shrugged Ihab. ‘We’re just not sure, about you. I mean we know nothing about you.’

  ‘I have nothing to do with the security services, if that’s what you’re worried about.’ Makana looked from one to the other. ‘The family asked me to look into this. Sahar told you that, right?’

  ‘Sure, that’s why we’re here, because she asked us to help,’ Ihab said. ‘That doesn’t mean we trust you.’

  They fell silent as the waiter approached and set Makana’s coffee down. He lit a cigarette.

  ‘This is a private matter. I have no duty to report anything to the police. All I care about is helping the family to find Mourad. Whatever he may have been up to, whatever any of you are up to, it doesn’t matter to me.’

  ‘Now why would you say something like that?’ Ihab was biting his nails. ‘What makes you think we are up to something?’

  ‘I didn’t say you were,’ said Makana, holding his gaze. ‘Are you?’

  ‘What kind of idiots do you take us for? We know what you’re after.’

  Fadihah put out a hand to restrain Ihab, which he shook off. He stared off at the river, smoking furiously. Makana addressed the girl.

  ‘Anything I turn up remains between us. His parents want him back, that’s all. You can understand that, right?’

  ‘You mean, you don’t report to the police?’

  ‘I don’t report to anyone.’

  None of this seemed to do the trick of calming their fears. Makana stirred his coffee. He was in no hurry. He didn’t want to rush them. Let them get used to him.

  ‘When was the last time you saw Mourad?’

  ‘Maybe two weeks ago.’ The girl flicked ash from her cigarette towards the river.

  ‘No, it’s more like three,’ the boy corrected her.

  ‘Whatever,’ she said dismissively.

  ‘Would that have been at the university?’

  The girl nodded, but Ihab immediately contradicted her.

  ‘No, it was at the place he worked. A fast-food place.’

  ‘Westies?’

  Ihab nodded. ‘You know about that?’

  ‘I know Mourad worked there for a while. I also know he hasn’t been back there for over ten days.’

  Fadihah and Ihab exchanged a glance.

  ‘Has Mourad dropped out of university? Is that what this is all about?’

  ‘Even if he has, so what? I mean, what’s the point, right? You’re not going to get a job unless your father knows somebody in a ministry or something.’ Ihab broke off to light another cigarette. ‘Unemployment among university graduates is around eighty per cent. It’s not what you know, it’s who you know.’ It sounded like a rehearsed speech, but he was angry. Most of their friends, Makana guessed, were in agreement. Those that weren’t were not friends.

  ‘Mourad had the courage to admit it was a waste of time,’ said Fadihah.

  ‘Just not to his father.’

  Ihab came back in. ‘His father is dreaming if he thinks Mourad would ever take over that restaurant.’

  ‘What’s wrong with the restaurant?’

  ‘Are you kidding? It’s a dead end. You think he should spend his life serving pasta to the ageing population of a decadent elite?’

  ‘What do you think he should be doing?’

  ‘He wants to change the world,’ Fadihah interjected, gaining confidence. ‘We all do.’

  ‘Change it how?’

  ‘Make it a better place, for everybody.’

  ‘Justice, equality, that sort of thing?’

  The girl nodded, but Ihab gave a sardonic laugh. ‘Revolution. Kill them all. The ones who have poisoned everything.’ He leaned across the table, suddenly intense and intimidating. ‘There can be no revolution without violence.’

  Makana wondered if he had underestimated the gravity of Mourad’s situation. He stirred sugar into the thick black coffee. They made an odd couple. Beneath the boy’s swagger he detected a well-brought-up son of the middle class looking to pick a fight. Did Mourad have that level of arrogance? That wasn’t the impression he had formed so far, but impressions could deceive. The girl’s resentment showed itself in a slight sneer. She wore loose baggy clothes that disguised her femininity, giving her a shapeless look. Her hair, which hung past her shoulders, had a lacklustre sheen to it. She tugged nervously at her sleeves.

  ‘I want to go.’

  Ihab leaned forward to stub out his cigarette. ‘You won’t find him, you know, not unless he wants you to.’

  ‘Do you know where he is?’

  ‘Mourad is his own man. If he wants to contact his family he knows how to find them. He doesn’t need you.’

  ‘Mourad had a new computer. Do you know where it is?’

  ‘Ask that idiot he shares a room with.’

  ‘Abdelhadi, you mean?’

  The girl was on her feet now. Ihab followed suit.

  ‘One last thing. Was Mourad involved with anyone – I mean a girl?’

  Ihab levelled the same lopsided grin at Makana. ‘Is that what his old man is worried about? Tell him to sleep easy, Mourad would never be foolish enough to bring her to meet the family.’

  ‘Estrella, that’s her name, right? Do you know where I can find her?’ But they were already gone. Ihab’s nervous energy propelling him forward. Breaking free of Fadihah’s grip he raced towards the stone steps leading up to the road. The girl jogged behind. As he went, Ihab tripped from side to side, upturning chairs and even a table as he went. The waiter yelled but it was too late, the two were already almost out of sight.

  ‘These kids today are crazy,’ he muttered loudly as he went about setting things back in place. Makana felt sorry for the man and left a large tip underneath the ashtray. When he came upstairs, he found Sindbad sitting in the Datsun across the street.

  ‘Did you see them?’

  ‘The boy and the girl, yes, ya basha.’

  ‘And you’d be able to recognise them again?’

  ‘As easily as my own mother.’

  Which was good enough for Makana.

  Chapter Fourteen

  The small, slight figure who emerged from the university mosque after afternoon prayers was undoubtedly the same person in the photograph Makana had borrowed from the wall of Mourad’s hostel room.

  ‘Ab
delhadi?’ The slightly built young man jumped at the sound of his name. He spun round to take in Makana and the rather imposing figure of Sindbad standing just behind him. For a moment it looked as though he was trying to decide whether to make a run for it. In the end, this resulted only in an involuntary step backwards, after which he froze in his tracks. Makana held up the photograph. ‘This is you, isn’t it?’

  ‘Am I in some kind of trouble?’

  ‘That depends on whether you cooperate.’

  It was a constant revelation to Makana how people always assumed they were the innocent victim of a misunderstanding.

  ‘I haven’t done anything. I just came down for sunset prayers. Can you tell me what this is about?’

  ‘It’s about your roommate, Mourad Hafiz. I believe you have something of his.’

  ‘Something of his?’ Abdelhadi was becoming uncomfortable with the attention they were drawing. People were slowing down to whisper as they went by.

  ‘Why don’t we go up to your room and take a look.’

  With a quick glance at Sindbad, Abdelhadi turned and led the way to the student hostel. There was music playing on the upper floor. A procession of people came and went. One carried a large ghettoblaster, the cable dragging along the floor behind him, another was holding a saucepan filled with some blackened mass. Heads turned as they made their way along.

  ‘What have you been up to now?’ called one young man, leaning in a doorway. The comment drew a chorus of catcalls and laughter down the hall. The door was jammed and Abdelhadi fumbled with the lock. In his panic he threw his shoulder at it and then fell inwards when it flew open.

  Makana followed him in. Sindbad hung back in the doorway, holding onlookers at bay. People slowing down kept on walking when they caught his glare. Abdelhadi was fussing around, talking nervously as he went.

  ‘It’s really quite all right, you know. Mourad and I are friends. He said I was free to borrow it whenever he wasn’t around.’