City of Jackals

by Parker Bilal

  Was that so unusual? Makana had to conclude that she had a point. If Doctora Siham commanded respect it was not because she was usually smarter than anyone in the room, although that was often the case. It was because she was also as hard as nails. It took a particular kind of stupidity to go up against her, but Makana had witnessed it once or twice and it wasn’t a pretty sight. Nobody got near her. The police force was a herd of old men and their antiquated ideas. It wasn’t that old-fashioned attitudes still prevailed, more that they had never evolved beyond them. If Doctora Siham managed to keep them all at bay it was because she never let her guard down. To Makana’s mind she was, or had been until recently, quite terrifying in her own way. Quite why his image of her was changing he could not say.

  Getting to his feet, he nudged a saucepan slightly across the floor to better catch the drops coming in through the roof. There were a couple of soft spots where successive years of sun and rain had warped and weakened the thinnish wood. What it really needed was proper repair, a new layer of tar paper, and that wasn’t going to happen until he arranged and paid for it himself.

  Makana returned to his chair and resumed his scan of the newspapers for what he was really looking for: any word of Mek Nimr. Sami’s mention of his old adversary had dug a hook into his skin. It was a subject he usually tried not to think about, but now he wanted to know what he was up to. Finally, he came across an article in the recently revived al-Dustour on the controversy surrounding Sudan’s links with Iran: ‘Khartoum’s chief of the shadowy Counter-Insurgency and Intelligence Corps travelled to Tehran for talks rumoured to concern Iranian military and surveillance assistance in fighting rebel forces in Darfur.’ There he was, a shadow moving through the world. Makana could not shake off the feeling that their fates were intertwined, now and for ever. It would only end when they came face to face once more. Disappointed, relieved, Makana wasn’t sure what he felt. He folded the paper and dropped it by the side of his chair.

  On his way back to the distant neighbourhood of Arbaa-wa-Nuss, Makana checked in with Okasha on whether anything had been turned up on the Shaddad van. The answer was disappointing. Nothing further had been found in the vehicle to identify either the driver or his possible passenger.

  Sindbad navigated the flooded streets with all the care of a man driving over eggs, as if he expected a hole to open up at any moment and suck his precious Datsun down into a watery grave. The roads got worse the further they went. This part of town seemed to have received an unfair share of the overnight rain. Or perhaps the explanation lay in the fact that the drains around here were inadequate, or non-existent. Children hopped gleefully through puddles, thrilled with the freshness in the air that clearly wouldn’t last.

  ‘No sign of our friends from security today?’

  ‘Those two?’ Sindbad snorted. ‘In this kind of weather they probably don’t dare go outside.’

  Cornelius the gatekeeper was too busy trying to clear away a lagoon of water outside the church gates to give much attention to Makana. He offered a grudging nod inside when asked about Father Saturnius’s whereabouts.

  ‘Estrella?’ the priest blinked. ‘Why do you ask about her?’ He broke off to chastise a young man who was crouched down on the far side of his office. Water stretched languidly across one corner where a gap in the roofing had allowed the rain in. The ground was uneven and a group of people were helping to try and clear it up, with more enthusiasm than was needed.

  ‘Careful with the plaster. Oh my, we’re going to have to repaint the whole thing. This is a Christmas to remember.’ As he stepped out of the way, Makana’s attention was drawn to the large noticeboard on one wall, where a number of photographs had been pinned with tin tacks and sticky tape. One of these had come free, no doubt due to the damp in the air, and Makana knelt to pick it up from the pool it floated in. Shaking the water off he squinted at a picture of a young man wearing a broad gap-toothed smile and an American-style cap bearing a logo that read Buffalo Bills. The smile of someone whose prayers had been answered.

  ‘I’m sorry, I’m afraid you have called at a bad time.’

  ‘Please, don’t apologise.’

  ‘You were asking about Estrella.’

  ‘I believe that’s her name. I saw her the last time I was here. I think she knows Mourad, the person I am looking for.’

  Father Saturnius was distracted, trying to supervise the repair work. In the far corner the slap of heavy rags on the concrete floor was followed by the drip of water being squeezed into a bucket.

  ‘You say she knows him? Where from, I wonder.’

  ‘Aside from helping out here, I believe she works at a place in town, a fast-food restaurant.’

  ‘If it’s the same person, I know that she often helps out in the kitchen.’ The priest scratched his round head. ‘I confess I haven’t seen her today. I can ask. Give me a moment.’

  He disappeared out through the door, lifting the hem of his soutane to step over a threatening lagoon trapped by the sill. The two men who were crouched on the floor trying to mop up the mess regarded Makana warily. Father Saturnius was soon back with news that Estrella had not been seen today but that the kitchen staff would be sure to tell him when she turned up.

  ‘I’d appreciate it if you let me know as soon as you hear something. Might I ask . . .’ Makana held out the picture he had fished out of the water. ‘I noticed these the last time I was here.’

  ‘Oh, yes, of course. Those are, as I like to think of them, our graduates.’

  ‘Graduates, in what sense?’

  ‘They have left us and gone to a better place.’ Father Saturnius held up a broad hand. ‘I know, it’s a little impertinence of mine. All of them have made it to the United States, where they have a new life.’ He allowed himself a moment to survey the wall, the flooding forgotten. ‘It’s a small achievement, I know, a tiny fraction of those in need, but it signifies so much to our congregation. They see these pictures and they know there is hope, and maybe for them one day, or perhaps their children.’

  Makana studied the noticeboard again. There were maybe thirty of them. Individual pictures, studio portraits, blurred amateur snapshots taken in gardens, public places, amusement parks. Blowing out candles on a birthday cake, sitting on a funfair ride, floating in a fairy-tale boat that looked like a swan. Pictures of young men and women. A lot of crosses and churches in sight. Saving their souls for God. Unfair, perhaps. What did it matter who helped them? Invariably the subjects were smiling, laughing, happy to have escaped their destiny as stateless people.

  ‘How does it actually work? I mean, is this something you arrange?’

  ‘Oh no.’ Father Saturnius indicated a colourful strip pinned to the top of the board. It was a bright fluorescent-blue colour with gold lettering that read The Homehavens Project. The logo showed a crucifix with wings attached. Having faith would help you to fly? ‘If you’re interested, you should talk to Reverend Corbis.’

  ‘Is he the one who runs this?’

  ‘That’s the main reason he and his sister come here every year, to conduct the interviews.’ Father Saturnius wagged his head gravely. ‘They interview hundreds. They are very careful about selecting the right people. If you want to know more, I can arrange for you to talk to the Reverend.’

  ‘Thank you, Father, but right now I’m more concerned about speaking to Estrella. Do you have any idea how I could contact her?’

  ‘I’m afraid I don’t. I simply can’t keep track of all our volunteers, and people often move about quite regularly. I tell you what, let me make some inquiries. I’ll call you when I know something.’ With a flourish he whipped a small phone out from underneath his soutane. ‘Wonderful, isn’t it, the way we can communicate all the time?’

  ‘A miracle, some would say.’

  Although he had no reason to doubt Father Saturnius’s sincerity, Makana rather suspected that the priest had enough of his own worries to deal with. Back in the car he called Fantômas and told him who he was
trying to find.

  ‘You think she’s important?’

  ‘She might be.’

  ‘If she’s connected to the church in some way Aljuka will know how to find her.’

  ‘Aljuka?’ Makana recalled the last time he had met the flamboyant and headstrong character known as The Joker. ‘I’m not sure he’s going to be too thrilled about the idea of helping me.’

  ‘He’s not as bad as he looks,’ laughed Fantômas. ‘Don’t worry, he’ll do it as a favour to me.’

  The rain had started again and added its own ingredient to the chaotic mix. Figures leaned under bonnets trying to coax stalled engines back to life. Passengers slid and slipped behind microbuses, urging them to move. A man hopped on one foot, his sandal swallowed up while trying to cross a deep pool. People moved cautiously, as if the rain was a warning from on high to watch their step. Allah could be many things, but on a wet day he was particularly unforgiving.

  It took over an hour to clear the traffic and get onto the highway to Ramadan City. The exit to Geneva Road was blocked by a heavy lorry whose trailer had jackknifed and was hanging lopsided over the side of the road. Wet sacks skidded from its back like happy turtles diving into the sand. They edged past and carried on. The rain had eased to a trickle, though the sky remained overcast and dark. The lone remaining wiper screeched across the Datsun windscreen to its own discordant tempo.

  The accident site already resembled an ancient memory, warranting barely a glance from the flow of traffic rushing by. The remains of the two vehicles had been shunted to one side. Sindbad stayed in the taxi with the engine running. The headlights picked out the crumpled frame of the van. Makana peered inside the cab. There were brown bloodstains splattered all over the upholstery. Stuck to one corner of the splintered windscreen was an adhesive transparency from the Quran. Most of the passage was torn away. All that remained was the last line: ‘To our lord we shall all return.’ Consolation indeed.

  Makana wandered around the vehicle. From the damage the van had suffered it seemed clear that it had rolled several times. The huge dent in the front cab seemed consistent with a frontal collision with the tanker. All in all it seemed to fit with the theory that the young driver of the tanker had simply fallen asleep. Yet something caused him to stop. What looked like a scratch in the side was actually a line of paint. In the poor light and the rain it was hard to make out the colour, but he would have guessed beige or perhaps yellow. It was fresh. Where had it come from? The tanker was blue and white. A previous mishap, then? The rain was quickening and his clothes were wet and sticking to his skin. Returning to the Datsun, Makana leaned inside to light a cigarette. Sindbad recognised the distracted look on his face.

  ‘Not much to see out here.’

  Makana wasn’t going to debate the point. He resisted the temptation to get back into the car and instead he straightened up and squinted into the distance. Heavy black clouds were draped across the flat horizon. The real question was what were they doing out here with a body hidden in a steel locker? Where were they going? As if in response to his thoughts he caught the flare of a fire in the distance that seemed to flicker and beckon.

  ‘Let’s drive on a bit more,’ he said, climbing back into the car.

  Sindbad straightened up in his seat and a spring twanged in protest. ‘It’s not that I’m refusing to comply,’ he grumbled, ‘but I did promise my wife I would drive her to the doctor’s.’

  ‘Don’t tell me she’s expecting another child.’

  Sindbad was taken aback. ‘You say that as if it was a curse to be a father, when in fact it’s a blessing.’ His words remained suspended in the air. Makana stared at him, surprised at the conviction in the big man’s voice, which then began to waver – ‘Well, actually, I’m not sure blessing is the word I’m looking for. An honour, maybe?’

  ‘You’re the expert.’

  ‘Look, the truth is I rarely get a full night’s sleep. I can hardly get into the flat for all the toys and clothes and the rest of the junk that clutters up the place. And don’t let me start talking about bills for schoolbooks and doctors.’

  ‘You’re the one who brought it up.’

  ‘A man carries his family on his back like a camel.’

  There seemed to be no adequate response to Sindbad’s philosophical musings and for a time there was no sound but the light patter of rain on the sheet metal over their heads and the contented grumble of the engine. Then the moment passed and Sindbad levered the gearstick into position.

  ‘A thousand apologies, ya basha. Please excuse my insolence. Which way?’

  Makana pointed. They drove for another five minutes during which the glow that Makana had seen drew slowly nearer. It was off to one side of the road. There wasn’t much else to look at. The road ran through flat, grey, sandy ground. Every now and then a turn-off marked the way to an industrial complex, a factory or a building site.

  ‘Slow down here.’

  The Datsun eased to a halt. Veering away from the main road a well-used strip of tarmac cut a crumbling line through the sand to the south-east.

  ‘What is that?’

  Sindbad leaned over the wheel, squinting into the distance.

  ‘It looks like a fire, but it’s inside a building.’

  ‘Let’s take a look.’

  The road was a couple of kilometres long and was clearly well used by heavy lorries and poorly maintained. The Datsun bumped along over cracks and potholes that had Sindbad wincing every time they hit something a little too hard. Finally they reached a wire perimeter fence and a large sign that read Algorabi Industries. One side of the gate was left swinging in the wind. A man in khaki overalls wearing a headcloth over his face to protect him from the dust was struggling to fix it in place with a clump of breeze blocks and a tattered length of nylon rope. He straightened up as the car rolled to a halt and stared from the car to the road and back again, as if not sure where they had come from.

  ‘There’s nothing down this way.’

  ‘I think we’re lost. We need to go back to the main road.’

  ‘Then you need to turn around.’

  Makana turned to look back the way they had come.

  ‘Sure. What is this place anyway?’

  ‘Can’t you see the sign?’ The man pointed.

  ‘I can see it, I just wondered what they do here.’

  The wind whipped the gate out of the man’s hand and Makana got out to help wrestle it back into place.

  ‘What’s that fire in there?’

  The gatekeeper spoke through the tail of the headcloth that he gripped between tobacco-stained teeth.

  ‘It’s a foundry. They run the furnace twenty-four hours a day. Too expensive to shut down.’

  The building was nothing more than a gigantic, open-sided shed, its walls and roof covered by overlapping corrugated sheets that flapped in the high wind. Time and dust had rendered it all the same colour as the surrounding landscape, almost invisible, a gigantic beetle with armoured sides and a sloping roof spiked with chimney stacks. The opening was big enough to make the trucks parked there look like toys. A deep orange glow could be glimpsed far within the shadows of the interior.

  The gatekeeper pulled him out of the way as an articulated lorry approached at high speed, dust flying out from under its sides. A deafening blast on a two-tone horn shrilled as it went roaring by, whipping the gate hard and blanketing them with dust. Makana caught a glimpse of long iron rebars tied to the flatbed trailer, their ends bouncing like soft reeds.

  ‘Is that what they make?’

  ‘Sure. It’s the iron supports they use in buildings.’ They watched the lorry shrinking into the distance, then the gatekeeper turned and wandered off towards a solitary shipping container that was his guard post.

  ‘Go back the way you came,’ he called over his shoulder. ‘There’s nothing for you here.’

  Makana took one last look at the foundry. Through the opening he glimpsed sparks flying up, rising into the air in spur
ts, turning over gracefully before darkness extinguished them.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Progress back to Cairo was slowed to a crawl when they ran into long tailbacks on the outskirts. On the dashboard a spinning wheel of coloured lights announced an incoming call on Sindbad’s mobile. He stared at the device with repulsion.

  ‘Now my life is not going to be worth living.’

  Makana would have offered his condolences but for the fact that he had his own explaining to do. Hossam Hafiz rang at that moment to ask what progress he was making.

  ‘These things take time, Mr Hafiz. It’s difficult to explain how the process works.’

  ‘I’m beginning to wonder if this is worth it.’

  ‘I don’t follow.’

  ‘I mean . . .’ There followed a lengthy pause. Makana could hear whispers in the background. He knew what was coming. ‘I mean, don’t take this the wrong way, but this wouldn’t be a way of making more money out of us, would it?’

  ‘I can assure you, Mr Hafiz, it is in my interests to find Mourad as soon as possible. I have a reputation to keep.’

  Hafiz sounded crestfallen. ‘I understand, forgive me . . .’

  ‘There’s no need to apologise. Now that I have you, do you mind if I ask you a question? Did Mourad ever mention any girls? I mean, a young man like that. Was there anyone special?’

  ‘Girls?’ There was a pause as he consulted his wife. ‘No . . . no, he never mentioned anything like that.’ There was a lengthy pause. ‘Is this important?’

  ‘Anything might be important at this stage. It’s just one of a number of leads I’m following up on. Try not to worry too much. I’ll be in touch as soon as I have anything.’

  Makana rang off to find Sindbad still assuring his wife that short of sprouting wings there was no way for him to reach her any faster. He took the opportunity to make another call and discovered that Omar Shaddad answered his own telephone.