by Parker Bilal
The world grows dark,
The shadows have spread over it,
Now is the glimmer of dusk.
The Epic of Gilgamesh,
Eighteenth century BC
Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Chapter Thirty-three
Chapter Thirty-four
Chapter Thirty-five
Chapter Thirty-six
Chapter Thirty-seven
Chapter Thirty-eight
A Note on the Author
By the Same Author
Prologue
They came out of the wall of sand like figures from a nightmare. In single file. Blindfolded. Hands tied behind their backs, a loop of rope binding them together. If one of them fell the others had to stop and haul him up. Five men, leaning forward against the wind, the weight of the dust storm pressing them back. They seemed to have no sense of where they were going.
The blind leading the blind, was Cody’s first thought.
Some kind of religious dream maybe, but he was too out of it to care much. The sandstorm was so thick you couldn’t see more than five metres in any direction. Black smoke swirled around him. Burning metal and rubber. Sand. Everything was on fire. And death, he could smell death. The smoke choked his throat and lungs. He lay there, gasping helplessly as the ragheads came towards him, stumbling along in single file. Where did they think they were going? It was almost comical. They bumped into one another. One of them nearly fell. They were moving forward in a slow weaving pattern, like a snake dancing.
Cody didn’t know how long he’d been out. His head was still ringing, still trying to piece it together. He couldn’t hear right. The smell of burning metal and flesh was seared into his nostrils. A vehicle on fire. The stench of gasoline. The remains of the Humvee they’d been driving in, with a hole punched right through it. Tyres burning. An IED. They were all dead. That much he was sure of.
When he turned his head he saw the legs and lower body of his buddy Jo Jo. The rest of him was gone. What was it for? They risked their lives every time they went out on patrol, but who were they trying to protect? ‘If we weren’t here, what would the terrorists have to fight?’ If he’d asked the question once he’d asked it a thousand times. It made no sense. Sergeant Andrews had said, ‘Don’t sweat that stuff. Think about the mission. Think about watching your buddy’s back and staying alive. You think any other way and you’ll never make it.’ Fine advice, he thought at the time, except that it didn’t help Andrews. That much he remembered. Routine search. How dumb was that? They’d done it a hundred times. They kicked in a metal door and turned the place upside down. SOP. Standard Operating Procedure. The family all wailing out there in the dark. Old lady and her kids. One of the girls was a looker. Ripe. At sixteen with a body on her that set the men drooling. They went over and flashed lights in her eyes. Pushed her around a bit to see her tits move. Then somebody out in the yard yelled they had something. Flares and AK ammunition. The men were lined up along the wall. Where’d you get this stuff? No answers. The hajjis all mumbling and the interpreter doing his best not to look like a dick. There was a door on the far side of the compound. Sergeant Andrews must have been tired to do something that dumb. A couple of men were on sick leave and they’d pulled night patrols three days in a row. Whatever it was, he yanked open the door without thinking. There was a click. Heat. The whole thing went up. He was knocked backwards. The whole corner of the house had gone. Nearby was what was left of Andrews. Just a headless twitching torso, blackened and burned meat. They lost it then. They turned on the hajjis and beat them, just clubbed them and kicked them until they had no strength to go on. Three of them dragged the girl inside. It must have got out of hand because she freaked out and started screaming. The rest of them were standing around. Her father and brothers were kneeling out there in the dust crying, listening to her screams. ‘Serves you right, motherfuckers.’ Somehow the girl got loose. Hysterical, she climbed out through a window and was running into the darkness. He and a couple of others jumped into the Humvee and went after her. All he could see was the girl’s naked ass jogging into the darkness and Jo Jo next to him was saying how this was one monumental fuck-up. Kept repeating it over and over. Monumental fuck-up. Cody turned to tell him to shut it when they hit something. The lights went out and when he opened his eyes he was in the sandstorm and everyone else was dead. Game Over.
The five ragheads had stopped moving. They stood huddled in a circle, unsure of their direction. He must have passed out then. Either way he closed his eyes and when he opened them again Wild Bill Hickok was leaning over him. Well, it looked like Hickok or perhaps he was thinking of General Custer? Blond hair blowing around his weatherbeaten face. Tapered beard and drooping moustache. Wraparound shades. He was saying something. Cody couldn’t make out the words. He felt himself being lifted up and he drank eagerly from the bottle of water.
‘How bad is it?’ he spluttered. There was a ringing but his hearing was coming back.
‘Broken ribs, a busted arm. Some shrapnel in your shoulder. You’ll live.’
‘The others.’
Hickok lowered the bottle. ‘What’s your name, soldier?’
‘Jansen, Cody, sir. Private First Class.’
‘Well, Cody, you’re one lucky son of a bitch, I can tell you.’
He squinted at the insignia on Hickok’s shoulder flashes. Crossbones and some kind of animal like a dog, only it wasn’t a dog.
‘What are you, Special Forces?’
‘Hell, no. We’re the goddamn horsemen of the apocalypse.’ Hickok threw back his head and laughed. Cody knew then who they were. Contractors. Mercenaries. Soldiers of fortune. The whole team wore uniforms with the same insignia on the shoulder; a red circle with a green jackal over crossbones. Private contractors pretty much did what the hell they cared to, and earned about ten times what any ordinary grunt did into the bargain.
A Latino named Raul bandaged his wounds.
‘Who are they?’ Cody asked, nodding at the Arabs.
‘Insurgents.’ Raul chuckled. ‘We do it sometimes, just to fuck with them. Tie them up and let them go. They don’t know which way to run. Tires them out, gets them panicked. They’re out in the open but they can’t get away.’ He laughed some more. ‘It softens them up for interrogation.’
‘Are we going back to Dreamland?’
‘I don’t know, man. I just follow orders.’
As they were about to lift him up to place him in the back of one of the SUVs, a tall man dressed in black strode up. On his head he wore a bandanna, also black, tied pirate style so that the tail hung down his neck. He had a fancy shoulder holster in which nestled a big chrome-plated automatic, a Desert Eagle by the look of it. A nice piece. There weren’t ma
ny men who would dare walk around in black. It made you stand out. He looked like some kind of Viking god come down from Valhalla to give them all a hand. He came over and knelt beside Cody, resting a hand on his shoulder.
‘You’re safe now, son. We’ll take you back to your unit.’
‘No.’ Cody grabbed him by the wrist. ‘I’m not going back there.’
The man smiled. ‘Don’t sweat it, kid, you can stay with us until you’re better.’
Cody watched him walk away.
‘You’ll be all right, kid,’ said Wild Bill. ‘We have our own palace outside Falluja. You can rest up there.’
‘Who is that guy?’ Cody asked.
‘That, son,’ grinned Hickok, ‘is God, or the closest you’re going to get to him in this life.’
Chapter One
Cairo, September 2004
Makana stood by the ferry station watching the sunset drape its cloak over the city. By the time September came around the summer heat usually began to diminish and the nights to cool down, bringing some relief with them. It hadn’t happened yet, but hopefully it would, and soon. For now purple and magenta streaks cut the sky like the flying banners of some old, forgotten army. There was something unfinished about this city, he decided, as if the medieval world refused to let go its grasp. It added to that sense of confusion, as if the present might just be swept away from one day to the next, and all would return to how it was in the days of the Mamluks, or the pharaohs even, when this was nothing but a patch of sand and a river. The more you looked at it the less substantial the present appeared. A thin layer of flood water that had washed over the old world and left behind ugly buildings and flying buttresses like listing shipwrecks scattered about.
Right now it was a city preoccupied with war. Ever since the invasion of Iraq. Over the last eighteen months the protests had died away and most people had resigned themselves to the fact that nobody was going to pay any heed to their demands, but there remained an undercurrent of anger and resentment, a sense of betrayal. The occupation of another Arab country by a Western power, a Christian one at that, put everyone ill at ease. The government did its best to reflect the common sentiment, with the president issuing statements of sympathy for the Iraqi people and calling for the restoration of power as soon as possible. Few really believed this was any more than amateur theatrics to keep the people at bay while not upsetting the Americans.
Inside the ticket office sat a small unshaven man who kept up a steady stream of chatter with anyone and everyone who passed him by. In front of him lay a messy heap of banknotes and coins that he shuffled with the confidence of a croupier in Monte Carlo, passing tickets back through the roughly cut hole in the glass with speed and dexterity.
‘Yallah, ya basha. Buck up your ideas before the Americans start landing.’
‘Why would the Americans come here?’ The man behind Makana wore an old check shirt covered with a liberal sprinkling of fishscales.
‘You ask why? Aren’t those two eyes in your head? Why? To liberate us from the oppression of our leaders, just like they did in Iraq.’
‘Don’t hold your breath,’ offered a woman in black with tired eyes. ‘We have nothing they want.’
‘You wait,’ nodded the croupier confidently, shuffling coins in the direction of the next in line, a girl of sixteen cradling a baby she could barely hold up. ‘When they finish with the Iraqi oil they will be thirsty for good water and they’ll be right over.’
The man in the fishscales lingered, his face a twisted knot of anguish. ‘Who do you think put the president in charge? He’s in their pocket. They’d never move against him.’
Makana left them to it and wandered down the ramp to the quayside where the other passengers waited. Already in the distance the water taxi was visible. Sitting low in the water, the vessel cut across the river at a good pace. Beyond it Makana could see the bridge that linked this side of the Nile to the island of Gezira. When he had first arrived in this city the river had been spanned by a quaint iron structure whose design harked back to the last century. The Boulac Bridge came with its very own myth attached, namely that it had been built by one Gustave Eiffel, better known for a certain tower in Paris. The legend went further, claiming that on discovering that the swing bridge would not open as intended, M. Eiffel had hurled himself from it in despair. As with so many stories in this city, the facts were seasoned with a good sprinkling of imagination. The bridge was not designed by the same engineer who had built the famous tower, and as for his suicide, this too appeared to have been an embellishment. Romance had eventually bowed its head to reality and the narrow, impractical bridge was replaced by a clumsy concrete structure that hummed day and night to the tune of thousands of vehicles flying back and forth over the river.
The boat ride was a pleasant alternative route, an idyllic interlude, a humble reminder that without this river the city would not, in all its fury and ferocity, exist. Ten minutes later Makana stepped ashore on the far side and walked through the tree-lined streets of Zamalek while the birds overhead sounded their shrill excitement in the last rays of daylight.
The house was a large villa, set back elegantly behind a row of enormous banyan trees. Ali Shibaker was already kicking his heels in the dust outside. Tonight he was dressed in full artist’s regalia: a velvet jacket that he kept in a bag full of mothballs and a beret that seemed to have acquired a crown of cat hairs somewhere along the line. Makana remembered the jacket from the early years when they had both been strangers in this city. He had no idea where Ali had got the notion that this was how artists were supposed to dress, but it wasn’t a subject that came up easily in conversation. Ali felt he had to look the part, and on the rare occasions when he saw him like that Makana felt obliged not to comment.
Appearing in public as an artist seemed like a nerve-racking business. Shibaker couldn’t stand still and insisted on tugging nervously at the silk scarf around his neck, which wouldn’t hang right. If Makana hadn’t shown up in time he might well have succeeded in strangling himself.
‘Where have you been? I’ve been waiting for ages.’ Makana muttered an apology. He knew better than to argue when Ali was in this mood. ‘Let’s go in. We don’t want to be late.’
They were, by Makana’s estimate, right on time, but he thought it unhelpful to say so. Instead he followed Ali through the gate, past a couple of men who were checking invitations. They didn’t bother with Ali, who no doubt had been in and out a dozen times already while waiting. Instead they gave a sigh of relief, happy to see the back of them.
The garden was a wide, cool expanse of green lawn, edged by shrubs, tall neem trees and palms. Indeed, it was so crowded with vegetation that the outside world seemed to pull up sharply at the gate, ceasing to exist, giving way to another age. A path lit by old-fashioned oil lamps marked the way up to the house. The flickering light lent the scene a timelessness, putting Makana in mind of the Ottoman pashas in the nineteenth century, living inside a silken cocoon, oblivious to the wretched fate of the world outside. Certainly, the handsome villa that stood at the far end of the lawn might have dated from that age. Steps rose up the front to colonnades and a veranda running along the front of the house. Open French louvre doors on the right led to a brightly lit set of interconnecting rooms. The hum of voices and faint music drifted out to mingle in the night air. On both sides of the stairway long tables covered by white cloths had been set out and laden with food and drink. Makana slowed, suddenly acutely aware of his hunger. Ali tugged him along impatiently.
‘There’s no time for that now.’
A woman in an elegant black dress, wearing a translucent shawl that did a bad job of covering her bare shoulders, exchanged a smile with him.
‘Don’t talk to that one, she’s a snake!’ Ali hissed, managing to smile at the same time. But the woman was clearly not going to be passed by. She stepped into their path and extended a hand.
‘Ali, you weren’t going to go by without even saying hello?’<
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‘Never.’ He clutched her hand in both of his and did a convincing job of looking like a devoted admirer. ‘How lovely to see you, Dalia.’
‘Aren’t you going to introduce your friend?’
‘Yes, of course. This is Makana, my manager.’
‘Your manager, really? Well, we must get together.’ She was an attractive woman in her forties. Her eyes had a somewhat faded spark of mischief.
The smile stuck to Ali’s face as he dragged Makana onwards.
‘Who was that?’
‘Dalia Habashi. Another dealer. Hates Kasabian, of course. Doesn’t have a fraction of his taste. Look at the way she’s dressed, flaunting herself.’
‘Do you think it was wise telling her I’m your manager?’
‘Of course, why not? It makes them think you’re important.’
‘But don’t you think she might find out?’
‘Let me worry about that. I know how this business works.’
Makana fell silent. Ali was as jumpy as a cat in a dogfight. They walked up the stairs to be met by a large man wearing a silvery grey suit. Although he had never met him before, Makana knew at once that this had to be Aram Kasabian.
‘Ali, Ali, where have you been? We’ve been waiting for you.’
For a man in his sixties, Kasabian had the smooth features of somebody twenty years his junior. His wavy grey hair matched his suit in colour, his hand was cool to the touch and he gave off an aroma of expensive cologne. Makana was wearing his best jacket and yet it still seemed as if the waiters were better dressed than him. He felt Kasabian’s well-trained eye appraising him.
‘And this is the man you’ve been telling me about.’ He stretched out a hand.
‘This is Makana,’ said Ali perfunctorily. ‘We’ve known each other for years.’
‘Welcome, merhaba.’ Aram Kasabian leaned over as he ushered the two of them in. ‘We will talk later, Mr Makana,’ he said confidentially.
They stepped through the first set of double doors to find themselves in the midst of Kasabian’s well-heeled guests. The lights seemed very bright after the relative gloom of the veranda. The two front rooms had been turned into galleries. The walls were hung with framed canvases of various sizes. Makana watched Kasabian slide through the crowd with practised ease, pausing to shake a hand here or exchange a greeting there before arriving at the far end of the room where a small stage had been set up. He spoke like a man who was not only used to speaking in public but who enjoyed it. His natural charm soon had his guests nodding and chuckling.