by Parker Bilal
‘Whenever you say that, I know you’re onto something.’
Chapter Five
Ali Shibaker’s auto-repair business was not so much a workshop as a walk-in garage cluttered with machine parts and deconstructed vehicles. More cars were dotted along the narrow street, hoisted up on blocks, hydraulic jacks, wheels off, doors removed, engines stripped. The dust that skirted the road was stained black with caked engine oil.
Once upon a time, in the days when Ali had been a lecturer and Makana a police inspector, they had met through a mutual friend of his wife, Muna. It might have been centuries ago. Luckily Ali was not the type to reminisce. If he had been Makana doubted they would have remained friends for long. Despite the overalls, Ali was almost ten years older than Makana. On top of that he was an intellectual, a man of learning, a sensitive issue for a man who had dashed his schoolteacher father’s grand hopes for him the day he announced his plan to become a detective.
There were around a dozen boys, the youngest about eight. All of them had been street orphans when Ali took them in. He gave them work and let them sleep in or around the cars for as long as they wanted to. He trained them, fed them and paid them what he could. It was a kind of life. And they looked happy enough wandering about, one rolling a tyre along, another stripping the plastic insulation off a piece of wire with his teeth, or swilling out a carburetter in a hubcap of kerosene.
‘So, you’ve finally come around.’
‘I think it’s time.’ Makana glanced in Sindbad’s direction. The big man stood with his hands in his pockets, staring at the ground. Makana had overruled him. On the drive through Dokki the Datsun had protested, screeching at every turn. The clutch whined, the brakes squealed and there was something alarming happening to the steering.
‘Good, good. Now, let’s have a look.’ Ali summoned a couple of his boys and they opened up the bonnet of the Datsun and peered inside. One of them went round checking the wheels, leaning his weight out and giving each a good shake. The Datsun protested noisily at the indignity of this examination. Sindbad bit his lip.
‘Hmm,’ Ali said. He stuck his hands in the pockets of his dirty overalls to feel about for his pipe, a relic from his days as an academic, when such things were still fashionable. He very rarely allowed himself to put tobacco in it, but he liked the feel of it.
‘You’ll need a car in the meantime.’
‘Just a couple of days.’ Makana noted the way Ali’s eyebrows lifted. ‘Perhaps a bit longer.’
‘Perhaps.’ The mechanic peered into the bowl of his pipe as if expecting it to talk. ‘Let’s see what we’ve got.’
Occasionally, when people brought a car in and found they didn’t have the cash to pay for the repairs, they left their vehicle behind. A car might sit around for weeks, months and, in some cases, years. In the meantime, it was understood that Ali could try to earn back some of the money owed him by running an informal rental business on the side. In an empty space underneath a dull brown apartment building down the street, a collection of vehicles of varying ages was parked between the dusty yellow pillars. This was his vintage section. There was an old black Citroën with running boards, circa 1940, a long flat Chevrolet, a rounded Mercedes from the Fifties that lacked seats. In one corner, covered by a ripped tarpaulin, was an old whale of a thing. Sindbad helped Ali to tug off the dusty cover to reveal a faded green relic, the like of which Makana had never seen.
‘How about this? It could do with a bit of exercise.’
‘What is it?’ Makana squinted warily.
‘This, my friend, is a 1971 Pontiac Thunderbird.’
‘Where’s it been for the last thirty years?’
‘Waiting for you, of course. It was the first of a series of sports cars. They got bigger and faster but personally I prefer the early models. The Japanese adopted the style for that thing you’re driving around.’ The upholstery was ripped and the interior was faded by the sun. Wires poked like thorny tendrils out of vacant slots in the dashboard.
‘Where did you get it?’ Makana asked.
‘A rather fine old lady walked in one day and she just wanted someone to take it away. She couldn’t stand the sight of it. It had been parked outside her house for years, ever since her husband had died.’
A raggedy boy of about eleven came scampering over, struggling under the weight of a car battery. The hood yawned up like the jaws of an extinct carnivore and he clambered onto the bumper and disappeared inside. When he turned the key the growl of the engine sounded like a jet plane starting up, deep and throaty. It grumbled and popped, the reverberations made the floor tremble under Makana’s feet. Leaving the boys to prepare the car they retired to Ali’s studio for coffee.
‘How are you getting on with Kasabian’s job?’
‘It’s too early to say.’ Makana peered at a striking canvas leaning against a wall, trying to make out what it was. He saw a golden lion with wings flying through a dust storm.
‘Just so long as you do right by him, I don’t care.’
‘I’ll do my best,’ said Makana, reaching into his pocket for his Cleopatras. He lit one and dropped the match into the ashtray, which was some kind of sculpture made of broken glass.
Ali stared at Makana for a while, puffing at his pipe, trying to get it to light. He set it down with a sigh. ‘Look, the truth is, I’m not sure what I got you into.’
‘I thought you trusted Kasabian?’
‘I do. I told you, he’s been good to me. Well, you may as well hear it from me. The truth is . . . There are rumours.’
‘What kind of rumours?’
‘Involvement in the black market. Trading in national heritage artefacts. There’s nothing new about that. Tomb-robbing is almost as old as the tombs themselves.’
‘How serious are these rumours?’
‘You know how it is. A man like that creates enemies. People say things. He’s successful. He has a lot of rivals. They all want to wear the crown.’
‘You’re thinking of Dalia Habashi.’
Ali shook his head. ‘From what I hear she’s in too much trouble to pose a threat to anyone. Look, all I’m saying is that you should be clear who you’re dealing with.’
‘I’ll bear that in mind. What is that, by the way?’
Ali glanced over at the canvas set against the wall. ‘Oh, that’s Fantômas.’
‘Who?’
‘What can I say? Everyone wants a fancy artistic name nowadays, something to make them stand out.’
‘Fantômas?’
‘He got it from a film, I think.’ Ali called out and a dark-skinned young man with stark features and long dreadlocks appeared. His prominent cheekbones looked like bruises under his eyes.
‘Tell us about your work,’ Ali said.
Fantômas stared at his canvas. ‘It’s a tetramorph.’
‘A what?’ Ali winked at Makana.
‘The Greeks called them that. A combination of four forms, corresponding to the four corners of the world, the four elements of nature. The Assyrians had them, you know, on the walls of their palaces. A bull and a lion, with an eagle’s wings and a man’s head.’
‘I see.’ Ali was trying not to laugh.
‘Are those real hieroglyphics?’ Makana pointed to a vertical line of squiggles in gold.
Fantômas regarded Makana suspiciously, as though unsure if he was genuinely interested.
‘Per-Hapi-On. The House of On, the sun god. What later became Heliopolis. The Romans said it wrongly and it came out as Babylon.’
‘Babylon?’
‘Sure, the word Babylon came to signify the power of the Romans in biblical times. Nothing to do with Mesopotamia.’
‘So that’s what it represents, the corruption of power?’
Fantômas shrugged. ‘It’s a comment on the times, on the war.’
‘And there?’ Makana indicated the wall of flame over which the lion appeared to be flying.
‘The city of Babylon in flames.’
‘Right.’ Ali got to his feet impatiently. ‘Some of us have work to do.’ The young apprentice made himself scarce. ‘Now, about the car. Do you really want to pay for the repairs on that wreck? I can give you a good price for the Thunderbird.’
Makana got to his feet and stepped to the window. Downstairs he could see Sindbad pacing about the big car as the boys gave it a quick wash.
‘We’ll borrow that monster for the time being. Can’t you find a Datsun just like that one of his but in better condition?’
‘It’s an idea,’ nodded Ali, sucking his pipe stem. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’
‘Maybe we can fix it so that Sindbad won’t know the difference.’
‘Now you’re asking for miracles.’
Chapter Six
On the phone Marwan had insisted they meet somewhere neutral. Makana suggested a roadside stall just off Maidan Sphinx, famous for its ful. The national dish. Mashed-up fava beans sprinkled liberally with olive oil and cumin were ladled into a couple of tin bowls and set on the narrow slanting shelf that served as a counter. A miniature television set had been ingeniously incorporated into the wooden structure of the cart so that diners could keep abreast of world events while they ate. The tiny black-and-white screen was no larger than a couple of packets of cigarettes and the image so grainy it was like staring into a rainstorm. None of it was good. A newsreel played out the unfolding disaster in Iraq. Resistance to the American occupation was gaining momentum. According to the rather excitable commentator the country was firmly on the road to civil war.
‘Shia versus Sunni, it’s the kind of thing the Americans have dreamed of for years. Muslims killing Muslims. Rid the world of them once and for all.’
Makana turned to find Marwan standing behind him.
‘I wasn’t sure you would find the place,’ said Makana, scooping up a mouthful of beans with a strip of bread.
‘Me? I’ve been coming here since I was a cadet.’ He might have known the place, but he seemed to have other things on his mind than lunch as he stood there with his hands in his pockets waiting. Makana pushed his dish aside and pulled out his cigarettes as he followed Marwan a few paces away from the crowd.
‘What’s up?’
Marwan sized Makana up carefully. ‘This man you’re asking about.’
They stood under a small tree that was grey with exhaust fumes. The road alongside them was clogged with vehicles jockeying their way onto the roundabout.
‘What about him?’
Marwan rolled his shoulders. ‘I started looking into it, quietly.’
‘And . . . ?’ Marwan seemed reluctant. ‘Look, if this is about money.’
‘It’s not that.’
‘Then what’s the problem?’
‘This man is worth a lot.’ Marwan leaned in close. A large man at the best of times, but close up it was easy to see why people might find him threatening. ‘You understand?’
‘A lot of money. I get it. There’s a price on his head. That has nothing to do with this.’
‘So you say.’ A fat smirk spread across Marwan’s lips. ‘You wouldn’t be trying to cut me out?’
Makana sighed. ‘Don’t tell me you’re thinking of claiming the reward?’
‘He’s worth millions . . . of dollars.’ Marwan’s eyes widened.
‘Before you can do that you have to find him.’
‘I’m getting to that. I may have something.’ Marwan looked away, suddenly coy.
‘Have you thought how you are going to collect your reward?’
Marwan shrugged. ‘Just deliver him to the American embassy. What could be easier?’
‘Aren’t you forgetting something?’
‘Like what?’ Marwan’s brows knotted together.
‘If he’s in this country then someone has their hand over him. He’s being protected.’
‘Sure, I realise that.’
‘If he suddenly disappears, his friends are going to want to know who sold him out.’
Marwan sniffed. For all the swagger and bluster he wasn’t the kind of man who liked to go out on a limb. ‘Are you saying you’re not interested in the money?’
‘You’re welcome to it. If you want to go after him for the reward money, that’s fine by me. Just let me get out of the way first.’
Marwan’s head rocked from side to side as he weighed up the benefits.
‘I just want us to be clear, that’s all.’
‘It’s clear. I’ll pay you for whatever you give me, and so far you’ve given me nothing.’
‘All right. All right. I’ll get something for you.’ Makana stared at him. Marwan cleared his throat. ‘There’s a club, a private place, in Maadi. Apparently he goes there.’
Makana reached for his envelope and counted out a hundred dollars, then he changed his mind and added another hundred. ‘That’s just to be going on with.’
‘Sure, I understand.’ Marwan tucked the money away and handed over a slip of paper with directions. ‘You sure you’re okay about the reward? Money like that can change a man’s life.’
‘Be careful what you wish for.’ Makana somehow doubted Marwan would go through with it, but you could never tell. Greed was a powerful motive. ‘Just make sure you don’t move without telling me first.’
‘Don’t worry about it.’ Marwan grinned, back to his old self. ‘I’m trying to do you a favour. Anyone would think I was cutting out your liver.’ He turned and cheerfully kicked at a pink plastic bag lying at his feet. ‘You see what this country is coming to?’ A mountain of rubbish had collected along one side of the street. ‘You think it’s healthy to live like this, in a garbage dump?’ Makana watched him walk away, still grumbling.
The conversation with Marwan put Makana off his lunch. Already he was getting a sense that this case could turn into something much more complex. That Samari had a price on his head was not going to make things easier, but Marwan wasn’t the only person who would start to see dollar signs when talk of a bounty came up. On the other hand, Makana had nothing against a man whose crimes were clearly documented being brought to justice. Let Marwan hand him in. Once Makana had delivered him to Kasabian what difference did it make?
But there was something else bothering Makana. Why had Kasabian not been able to verify Samari’s presence in the country? With people like Qasim around, it should have been easy. Unless Qasim had his own reasons for protecting Samari. He was beginning to wonder if Kasabian had been entirely frank with him. He asked Sindbad to drive him back to Zamalek. He had decided to pay an unexpected call on Aram Kasabian. He leant on the bell, stepped back and looked up at the high trees and the grand villa. It hadn’t lost any of the charm it had possessed the previous evening. After a long delay the big white metal gate yawned open and the ageing gatekeeper let him in. His back was so stooped that as he followed him back up the path to the big villa Makana had to resist the temptation to reach out and stop the man falling flat on his face.
Kasabian’s secretary was fretting at the top of the veranda steps. Jalal or ‘Jules’. In broad daylight he looked older than he had the previous evening. Perhaps it had been an exhausting night. He was a pale, slightly plump man with thinning hair and a nervous disposition that caused him to fidget all the time, rolling his thumbs and clasping his fingers.
‘You really ought to have called. As a rule Mr Kasabian doesn’t see anyone without an appointment.’
‘Well, I just happened to be close by, and there are a number of things that need clarifying.’
‘Mr Kasabian is a very busy man.’
‘I understand. It won’t take a moment.’
Jules wrung his hands. ‘Well, I can’t promise anything.’ He disappeared inside and Makana leaned on the balustrade and contemplated the lush scenery. A man could get used to this kind of peace. Yet all things came at a price. He wondered what that might be in Kasabian’s case.
‘Mr Makana, I didn’t expect to see you so soon.’ Aram Kasabian was wrapped in a white bathrobe, as if he had
just stepped from the shower. A hint of irritation in his voice.
‘I’m sorry to disturb you.’
‘Quite all right.’ Kasabian recovered his composure quickly. He gestured magnanimously at the garden. ‘It’s glorious at this hour, isn’t it?’
‘Delightful. Have you lived here long?’
‘Forty years. It’s been in my family for generations.’ A wistful look crossed Kasabian’s face, as if recalling a distant past. He snapped back to the present. ‘Now, what can I help you with?’
‘There were a couple of queries. I understand this is a delicate matter, but I think it might help if I could speak to your client, the American buyer.’
‘I’m not sure why you think that would be of use to you,’ frowned Kasabian, ‘but I see no objection. He is obviously concerned with maintaining a low profile.’
‘I understand that. It would just be for a few minutes.’ Makana smiled. ‘Just to help me get my bearings.’
‘Interesting.’ It wasn’t clear that Kasabian entirely believed him. ‘Well, I see no harm in it. As a matter of fact I was just preparing to go and meet him. We have an appointment for afternoon tea. Why don’t you join me?’
‘If it’s no inconvenience.’
‘Not at all,’ Kasabian waved the matter aside. ‘Let me finish dressing.’
Makana let Sindbad know what was happening and then waited on the veranda for another fifteen minutes. Turtle doves cooed in the trees. It gave him time to think. He recalled the conversation with Ali about enemies. It was quite possible that Kasabian was mixed up in something that he didn’t quite understand. Dealing in stolen artwork or historical artefacts was a risky business. Was it possible that one of Kasabian’s rivals was trying to set him up? Kasabian’s mysterious American client seemed a good place to start.
When Kasabian finally emerged he looked his usual immaculate self, in a silver-grey suit with a powder-blue tie and matching handkerchief in his top pocket.
‘We’ll go in my car.’
The car was a Mercedes in fine shape and with a uniformed chauffeur at the wheel, although it was hardly worth getting into. The ride to the Marriott Hotel, which was around the corner, took about four minutes. The car slid smoothly up the ramp to deliver them to the door. Makana followed hard on the heels of Kasabian, who moved quickly for a man his age. The Marriott seemed to have been built with people like him in mind. The staff snapped to attention everywhere they went, as if royalty were among them. Money commands respect, as some great man might once have said. At the front desk the receptionist nearly fell over himself in his eagerness to be of service. His smile dropped when he had to come back after a lengthy interval to inform them that the man they were here to see was not in. Kasabian did not disguise his annoyance.