The Ghost Runner

by Parker Bilal

  ‘How is Rania?’

  ‘She’s fine, spends all her time on the internet. I tease her that she has more friends in New York and LA these days than in Cairo.’

  Makana leaned back against the wall and lit a cigarette. The smoke wafted upwards to be gently swept in circles by the overhead fan. A gnarled old man, all bones and missing teeth, paused in the doorway and clicked a set of castanets together, improvised from a couple of shoe-polish tins. It was a half-hearted effort. He looked like he had barely the strength to stand, let alone get on his knees and shine a pair of shoes. He stared at the interior for a while, as if imagining another life for himself, or perhaps remembering a previous one, before wandering off.

  ‘What have you got for me?’

  Sami reached into his satchel and produced an untidy folder. As he spread out his papers, Makana felt a twinge of guilt at seeing the vivid scars on the backs of both of Sami’s hands, the result of having four-inch nails driven through them a few months ago, while helping on another case. He had regained most of the mobility in his fingers but, as his awkward movements showed, not all.

  ‘Let’s see. Okay, Magdy Ragab. Interesting case this. Parents were educated, but not particularly wealthy. Father died young. He was a lawyer, as was his uncle Fahmy, who seems to have taken a hand in rearing the boy after his brother died. Uncle Fahmy smoothed the path for young Magdy, who did about average at Cairo University’s Faculty of Law. He graduated but wouldn’t have got far without help.’ Sami looked up and shrugged his shoulders. ‘So far so normal.’

  Aswani swaggered over, his wide hips waddling from side to side like heavy sacks on the back of a donkey. Depositing a mound of green salad on a steel platter he mopped the sweat from his brow.

  ‘I should charge you for holding meetings in here.’

  ‘What for?’ Makana asked.

  ‘You’re taking up valuable space,’ he called over his shoulder as he walked away.

  ‘The man is losing his mind,’ Sami declared.

  ‘You were telling me about Ragab,’ said Makana, picking at the arugula leaves still dripping beads of water.

  ‘Okay.’ Sami ruffled through his notes. ‘Ah, yes, here is where it gets interesting. While at university he appears to have become involved with Islamist movements. He attended a number of meetings although it never really went beyond that. He stayed away from the real radicals. Tanzim al-Jihad, and so on.’

  ‘The ones who assassinated Sadat in eighty-one?’

  ‘Exactly. Ragab’s sentiments appear to be quite mainstream. Like a lot of people he became more religious as the threat became more serious. He even joined the Muslim Brotherhood for a time and then dropped out. It wasn’t helping his career. In the 1990s, however, he was close to Imam Waheed.’

  ‘Sheikh Waheed?’

  ‘The very same,’ smiled Sami. ‘He wasn’t so high profile in those days but he was on his way up, already championing the line that those in government were as good Muslims as anyone.’

  Waheed, a popular television preacher, was generally regarded as a government stooge, part of the campaign to try and outflank the Islamist radicals by painting the state as being more Islamic than anyone could wish for.

  ‘Are you going to tell me what this is all about?’ Sami asked, as the lamb, fresh from the grill, arrived on a metal platter. Makana explained the events of the last couple of days as they ate. Sami chuckled, ‘I’m impressed. Now you are working for the person you were investigating? Chapeau, as the French say. Isn’t there a moral clause against that?’

  ‘Perhaps there ought to be,’ Makana wondered aloud.

  For the next few minutes the case was forgotten as they chewed through the succulent roast meat, stripping the bones with their teeth. Utensils were something of a rarity at Aswani’s place.

  ‘Ragab is convinced that Karima’s death was not suicide, and I tend to agree.’

  ‘You have anything to support that?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘Who would want her dead?’

  ‘It’s hard to say. A question mark hangs over the father, a man named Musab Khayr.’

  ‘So we’re talking about some kind of honour slaying?’

  Makana glanced up. ‘Do you know much about that?’

  ‘Just what I hear. We tend to associate it with backward-thinking people who live in the sticks of Upper Egypt, but the truth is it’s much more widespread.’

  ‘Musab appears to be some sort of hothead. In prison he had a change of heart and turned to religion. According to Ragab he became involved with the jihadist movement.’

  ‘So he is known to State Security? I’ll get onto it.’ Sami licked the taste of Aswani’s special spices off his fingers – a tangy mix of cumin, chilli, fenugreek and half a dozen other things whose identity he guarded with his life.

  ‘When he came out he was tied to a plot to kill a government minister. Ragab argued his innocence and managed to get him out of the country. Twelve years ago he was granted political asylum in Europe, which is where he’s been ever since.’

  ‘And how is he meant to have done this, honour killing by remote?’

  ‘Maybe he got some of his old cellmates to do him a favour?’

  ‘It’s all possible.’ Sami leaned back in his chair and reached for a cigarette.

  ‘Ragab’s involvement in the whole business is a little suspect,’ said Makana. ‘He appears to have been close to the family, and to Karima.’

  ‘Too close?’ Sami raised his eyebrows.

  ‘Perhaps. The truth is, I don’t know.’

  ‘If Ragab was involved with the girl in some way, and Musab heard about it . . .’ Sami shrugged. ‘That could be motive enough for him to get some of his mates to burn her house down.’

  The word ‘burn’ brought back a vivid memory of the tortured creature on the hospital bed.

  ‘Possibly, only by all accounts Musab wasn’t close to his daughter. He wasn’t even sure she was his.’

  ‘Don’t tell me, our helpful lawyer?’

  ‘Ragab denies it. He says Musab’s wife was pregnant before he went to prison.’

  ‘But you don’t really trust him.’

  ‘Not entirely.’ Makana called for tea and reached for Sami’s cigarettes that lay on the table. ‘There is another thing you could do for me. A woman named Zahra Sharif. She works for some kind of women’s group, The Association for the Protection of Egyptian Women’s Rights.’

  ‘You want to know about her or the organisation?’

  ‘Both.’

  ‘Is this business or personal?’

  ‘Does it make a difference?’

  Sami grinned. ‘To me? None at all. I was just thinking it might make a difference to you.’

  After lunch Makana walked back over the square and used the footbridge to cross the busy Al Azhar road to reach the imposing high walls of the Ghuriyya complex. Built as a lavish burial place for the sultan, it bore the distinctive striped layers of stone that characterised architecture under the rule of the Mamluks. The sultan had passed through here in a cloud of incense, on his way to meet his fate. Accompanied by an elaborate procession of drummers and horsemen, camels laden with gold, silken banners that fluttered in the wind and elephants which ambled along silently on padded feet, it was a lavish affair. Naturally, someone had to pay for all this entertainment. As they watched him go by, the crowds, discontent and frustrated at the levies being forced on them, would have been muttering rumours of betrayal and treachery. Their wish was granted. The sultan’s army was soundly defeated by the Ottomans in northern Syria. His body was not recovered from the battlefield and so never arrived back at this grand resting place he had so fondly built for himself. And so it stood, as empty as a promise, home for centuries to itinerant traders and wanderers of every kind.

  This time Makana threw his net wider, moving through the side streets around the burnt-out shell of the shop. It was a sad sight. The windows of the room upstairs were narrow slits ringed with soot
that resembled eyes painted with kohl.

  ‘Who knows what they were up to, but no one deserves to die like that.’

  An old woman with gnarled feet clutching a bunch of turnips paused in front of him and spoke without lifting her head. He watched her shuffle away. A man from another stall offered him a handful of pistachios. ‘There were rumours that the woman had the ’ain.’ The evil eye. ‘People gave her a wide berth, especially men. You never know what a witch like that can do to a man.’ His eyes skittered away, never meeting Makana’s gaze as he swept at the flies with a sheet of cardboard. In a hot little crease of an alleyway a small man was frying kidneys over a gas flame. ‘They worked hard,’ he said. Beads of sweat fell from his brow into the pan where they hissed against the hot metal. ‘They ran a clean shop, mother and daughter. There wasn’t a word you could say against them. But people like to talk, especially when they think others are doing better than them.’

  The sun beat down through gaps in the roofing. It burned the back of Makana’s neck. As he turned his head he caught a glimpse of two men flitting through the bands of shadow and light further down the market. Was it his imagination, or were they following him?

  ‘Her husband lived abroad. She was well rid of him. He was a real piece of work. Trouble followed him like a rabid dog.’ A man with hennaed whiskers and a grey eye that wandered of its own accord.

  ‘You knew him?’ Makana asked, intrigued.

  ‘Musab, oh yes. When they first arrived here, before they had the shop.’

  ‘Why did they come here?’

  ‘They said they had family here. I never saw anyone. Personally, I think it wasn’t so much why they came here as what they were running away from. Like I said, trouble stuck to him like shit.’

  ‘They never talked about that?’

  ‘Oh, no.’

  ‘How would you describe him? What kind of man was he?’

  ‘Oh, that one could take care of himself. It wasn’t long before he was mixed up with all sorts. He had business with a carpet merchant down by the furniture store in the next street. The girl was no more than a child.’

  ‘You mean his wife. Nagat?’

  ‘Yes, that’s the one. She was very young.’ The dyed beard flapped up and down agitatedly. ‘Maybe that’s why they ran away from wherever it was they came from.’

  ‘Siwa.’

  ‘Siwa, yes, that’s right, the oasis.’ He scratched his armpit. ‘He was one of those types, you know? The kind of man who’s going to end up badly, no matter what. You avoid people like that.’

  ‘He went to prison for a time.’

  ‘I don’t know anything about that.’ The man’s wayward eye fixed itself on Makana. ‘I don’t like to mix myself up in other people’s business.’ And with that he hurried away.

  The furniture store was closed and shuttered and looked as if it had been that way for years. The only hint being a pile of rugs laid out to catch any passing business. A sullen young man in jeans toyed with a string of prayer beads. He pushed his glasses up his nose and stared down the street. He wore a T-shirt stamped with the words: Happy Dreaming. When Makana asked him if he remembered Musab, he shrugged and looked away.

  ‘It was a long time ago. You’re probably too young to remember,’ Makana said, hoping to jog some kind of response from him. The notion that he was too young for anything stung the boy. He flipped the string of beads over quickly and glared at Makana.

  ‘You’d have to talk to my uncle. He used to run the place in the old days.’

  ‘How do I find him?’ Makana asked.

  ‘In the cemetery. He passed away three years ago.’ The smile of satisfaction on the young man’s face was compounded by the arrival of another man who came up to shake his hand. The two men fell into conversation, ignoring Makana who took the opportunity to sift idly through the carpets, which seemed to be Persian.

  ‘You’re interested in a carpet?’ the young man snapped. He was in the process of lighting his friend’s cigarette.

  ‘I’m curious to know where they come from.’

  ‘They are all genuine.’ The man blew smoke into Makana’s face as he smoothed the rugs back into order. ‘They have a certificate on them,’ he said, indicating a label.

  ‘No, I mean, how do they get here?’

  ‘What kind of a question is that?’ the man frowned.

  ‘It’s just a question.’

  ‘Who are you to be asking such questions?’

  Makana looked at the two men and shrugged. ‘I might be interested in buying a carpet.’

  ‘You don’t look the type to be interested in carpets.’

  ‘Is there a certain type that buys carpets? What type might that be exactly?’

  ‘A moment ago you were asking questions.’

  ‘What kind of questions?’ The new arrival had now taken an interest. His eyes ran over Makana as if measuring him for a suit.

  ‘Musab Khayr. Remember him?’ Makana asked. The second man muttered something and tilted his head fractionally in the direction of down the street. Makana followed his lead and saw the two men he had spotted earlier. They were standing by a stall selling women’s garments, trying to look interested.

  ‘Why don’t you take your friends and go ask your questions somewhere else,’ the first young man said, turning away.

  When Makana looked again, the two men had disappeared. In their place stood Zahra Sharif.

  Chapter Eight

  At first Makana thought it was just his eyes playing tricks, that she was summoned from some part of his subconcious that he was not fully in command of. Between the constant movement of people she was there and then she was not. Then the crowd parted once more and he saw her striding towards him. This time her headscarf was white. It hung in a loose loop under her chin and made her skin look darker and her eyes seem larger. Makana had the odd sensation that his heart had tripped a beat when he realised the smile she was wearing was meant for him.

  ‘I thought I might find you here,’ she said.

  ‘You have been following me.’

  ‘No, not at all.’ She pointed back the way she had come. ‘I had to visit some ladies who are running a collective. It’s very interesting. Would you like to see?’

  Makana was thinking that the smile was definitely an improvement. He checked over her shoulder one more time for any trace of the two men, but they had disappeared. ‘Actually, I was going to call you.’

  ‘There, you see, I did better than that,’ Zahra said. ‘I did call you. There was no reply the first time, and the second time your secretary said she would take a message. She sounds very young.’

  ‘That would be Aziza.’ Makana smiled. He really ought to start paying her something as a regular salary, just for answering the phone.

  They were standing in the middle of the street, having to dodge from side to side as porters went jogging by, backs bent under huge cartons stamped in Mandarin, boys dragging trolleys loaded with bales of cloth, women carrying baskets bulging with indigo aubergines, bottles of olive oil and armfuls of small children.

  Turning to walk on by mutual consent they passed Bab Zuwayla, where Tumanbey, the last of the Mamluks, was hanged in 1517. Across the other side they reached the Tentmakers Bazaar where they strolled through rays of dappled light in the cool, dark space beneath the high roof.

  ‘Let’s see, a friend of mine is usually here,’ Zahra said. They came to a little opening that was tended by a young woman in her twenties. Her eyes lit up when she saw Zahra and the two greeted each other warmly.

  When the introductions were taken care of the girl turned to Zahra. ‘I need to ask you a favour. Can you look after the place for half an hour? Only I need to take my son to the doctor and I know my father would hate it if I closed.’

  Half an hour for a visit to a doctor sounded optimistic, but Makana said nothing.

  ‘Make yourselves comfortable. Tell the boy to bring you whatever you want.’

  When the girl had gone they sat
inside the open-fronted shop that was really no more than a large cubicle. The walls were covered in colourful printed cloth used for fencing off streets for weddings and funerals. There were handsewn appliqué covers. It added up to a vivid collision of colour and geometry. Makana took the only narrow chair in the place while Zahra settled herself cross-legged on a heap of cushions, untied her headscarf and removed it, shaking her long black hair free so that it fell down over her shoulder. Her eyes glittered with mischief.

  ‘I shock you.’

  ‘No,’ he said, although it wasn’t quite true.

  ‘You don’t look like the kind of person who shocks easily, nor the kind of stuffed shirt who disapproves of women who don’t cover their hair. No,’ she surmised, ‘on the whole you seem like a fairly modern man, which is saying something in this day and age.’

  ‘You always cover your hair?’

  ‘For work, I have to. A woman who wants to be taken seriously? If I worked in more enlightened circles then perhaps not. But I have to speak to families, most of which are poor and simple. I would never be allowed in if I didn’t look like a respectable girl.’

  ‘Which you are, of course.’

  ‘Whether I cover my hair or not.’ She nodded.

  A boy of about twelve peered inside and they ordered coffee. He blinked twice at Zahra’s hair and then bounced away. She gave a long sigh.

  ‘What are we going to do with this country?’

  ‘I thought we were already doing as much as we could,’ Makana said, reaching for his cigarettes. She held out a hand for one and he lit it for her. She inhaled deeply and blew the smoke into the air above her head.

  ‘It’s silly, this whole place would go up in a second with just a tiny spark and yet here we are puffing away like idiots.’ She giggled. ‘I feel like a naughty schoolgirl.’

  ‘Did you grow up around here?’