The Burning Gates

by Parker Bilal

  ‘That can’t be. Are you sure? Mr Charles Barkley? Check again, please.’

  ‘Yes, sir, Mr Kasabian. I’ve tried his room several times. I have also sent a bellhop to page him round the pool area and restaurants. I’m sorry, but he doesn’t appear to be in the hotel.’

  ‘Well, this is very strange. We had an appointment.’ Kasabian glanced at his gold watch. ‘Still, if he’s not here, then there’s nothing to be done.’

  ‘Can I take a message?’

  ‘No, I imagine I’ll speak to him myself later. Thank you.’ Kasabian was already heading for the exit. There seemed to be no point in staying longer. ‘Quite ridiculous. A waste of time. I’m sorry about that. There must have been some misunderstanding. Can I give you a lift?’

  ‘No, that’s all right. I have my car coming to pick me up.’ Makana scanned the hotel entrance hoping that Sindbad had parked somewhere discreet and out of sight.

  ‘Very well. Let’s speak when you have something for me.’

  The two men shook hands.

  Makana took a moment to look around the lobby before heading outside. As he did so he noted a man in a beige linen suit, rather crumpled and with stains around the armpits. A vis­­itor unused to the weather, or a man who had come unprepared. For a second he wondered if this might be Barkley, but that made no sense. It was the way he was standing that struck him as odd; off to one side, reading a newspaper and wearing dark glasses. The rumble of the Thunderbird brought Makana’s attention back to the front drive and he walked out to join Sindbad.

  Chapter Seven

  The Zerzura Gallery was set on the ground floor of a modern apartment building in Mohandiseen. A white horse that appeared to have wandered out of another century stood grazing in a patch of sparse yellow grass on the little square facing it. The gallery building was encased in grey marble and resembled a mausoleum. You might have expected to find a displaced head of state embalmed in the window, instead of carved lattice screens inlaid with mother-of-pearl.

  To reach the window you had to clamber over piles of sand and broken brick. Construction appeared to have tailed off rather than come to a satisfactory conclusion, as if the builders had just lost interest. Despite this they were trying to preserve some sense of exclusivity. Chains prevented undesirable cars from blocking the entrance and a bored guard in a fancy uniform looked the Thunderbird over and decided to give them the benefit of the doubt. Tucked into the narrow gap between the next building were more leftovers: iron rods, timbers, more sand, heaps of broken breeze blocks and tiles, along with the tail end of a motorcycle: a yellow Yamaha.

  Inside, a young woman wearing a headscarf sat behind a desk, her face illuminated by the blue glow of a computer screen. Makana murmured a greeting and moved on. Cases displaying jewellery in quaint rustic shapes evoked a city dweller’s romanticised view of rural life. Table lamps inside clay minarets, ashtrays shaped like farmhouses in the rif. At the far end was a wall of canvases picked out by hot beams of white light. As Makana took a moment to examine these Dalia Habashi stepped out from an office at the far end of the room. She brushed away her surprise at seeing him with a flick of her hair and came forward.

  ‘I wasn’t expecting to see you so soon.’ Her wrists jangled as she held out her hand.

  ‘I just happened to be in the area.’

  Dalia Habashi was elegantly dressed in grey trousers and a black blouse. She carried herself with style, although underneath it he detected a jittery nervousness. Her movements were quick and awkward and her pupils were dilated. He glanced towards the office with the drawn blinds from which she had emerged and she immediately gestured at the walls around them.

  ‘What do you think so far?’

  They strolled slowly around the gallery. ‘I haven’t really had time to take it in, but it all looks very interesting.’ Makana glanced dutifully at each frame. ‘How do you tell if something is valuable?’

  ‘You can’t, not really. I mean, you can, but there are no rules.’ She pushed a hand through her hair nervously. ‘It’s all about whether someone else can see what you see.’

  Makana nodded as if this made perfect sense.

  ‘Many great artists never sold a painting in their lifetimes. Now their work sells for millions.’

  ‘That seems unfair.’

  ‘Did nobody tell you? Life is unfair.’ She swivelled to face him. ‘Why did you come here?’

  ‘I thought I should devote more of my time to understanding art.’

  Dalia Habashi examined him for a moment. ‘You seemed a lot more charming last night. Now I have the feeling you are out to hurt me. You insult me by trying to appear more stupid than you are.’

  ‘That’s because I’m out of my depth.’ He gestured around them.

  ‘Not your sort of thing?’

  ‘Not really.’ Makana strolled on. Dalia Habashi followed. ‘What was the name of your friend, by the way?’

  ‘Which one?’

  ‘The one on the motorcycle.’

  She pulled up. ‘So this isn’t a social call?’

  ‘I don’t, as a rule, make social calls.’

  ‘You must lead a very quiet life.’

  ‘I’m not complaining.’

  ‘What did Kasabian hire you to do?’

  ‘I can’t go into the details.’

  ‘But you came here to ask me something. Why do you think I can help you?’

  ‘Because you know this world.’ Makana nodded at the walls. ‘I need to understand how it works.’

  ‘Why should I help Kasabian?’

  ‘I get the feeling that whatever he’s mixed up in might affect you too.’

  Dalia Habashi considered this for a moment. ‘Aram Kasabian is about as well established as you can be. He is the leading art dealer in the city. His grandfather started the business.’ They turned along an aisle of glass cabinets containing jewellery. Makana peered at some gold earrings bearing pendants shaped like palm trees. A young couple walked in through the front door. It clearly wasn’t their first visit. There was an air of confidence about them. The girl behind the front desk got up to greet them. These were the gallery’s true customers. Young, wealthy and by the looks of them, recently married. Looking for something a little different but nevertheless familiar.

  ‘How is business?’

  ‘It’s difficult for everyone,’ Dalia answered glibly. ‘Nobody is doing well.’

  ‘I imagine there is a black market in valuable items – museum pieces, for example.’

  ‘What makes you think I would know anything about that?’ Dalia Habashi’s chin lifted.

  ‘You strike me as someone who makes it their business to know everything.’

  ‘Nice try. I don’t deal in stolen artefacts, if that’s what you’re after.’

  ‘I didn’t mean to imply that. I meant simply that you’re an insider. You hear rumours.’

  She studied him for a moment. ‘All right. You don’t get far in this business by sticking to the rules. There are too many grey areas. Clients are protective about their collections. They like to buy and sell with discretion, anonymously.’

  ‘But there’s a certain amount of risk involved. I imagine you have to invest quite heavily in a piece with no guarantee of a sale?’

  ‘Where exactly is this leading?’

  ‘I’m trying to get a feel for the art world. You are a leading reference, so it seems like a good place to start.’

  ‘I’m afraid there isn’t much I can tell you. This is a very discreet business. Clients are fickle and easily scared off. You have to learn to instil confidence in them.’

  ‘Is that what Qasim is to you? A client?’

  Dalia Habashi smiled. ‘Now you are fishing. I think you might learn more if you directed your questions to Mr Kasabian.’

  ‘I intend to,’ Makana nodded. ‘By the way, how is your friend doing today?’

  ‘Which friend?’

  ‘The one you were defending last night. The motorcycle? I couldn’t hel
p noticing it outside.’

  ‘Why does it always come down to this?’ she sighed. ‘Now if you don’t mind, I have work to do.’

  ‘Of course.’

  Makana watched her go, switching on her charm to greet her customers. He left quietly. Outside he found Sindbad using an old rag to polish the car with all the loving care of an archaeo­logical curator.

  ‘Drive us around the corner and wait.’

  Sindbad climbed behind the wheel and started the big engine. He seemed to have acquired a degree of formality since he had begun driving this car. The Thunderbird rolled around the uneven roads circling the square before turning off down a side road. Sindbad waved away a couple of boys who appeared to help with the parking process in return for a small tip and entered into a protracted discussion with them. Makana left him to it. He walked back to the corner of the road from where he could see the entrance of the Zerzura Gallery. It was less than ten minutes before the man appeared from inside the gallery. He rolled the Yamaha motor­cycle backwards down to the road, climbed onto it and kicked the starter a couple of times before it came to life. Makana waved Sindbad forward, jumping inside as the Thunderbird rolled by.

  ‘Turn right here.’

  ‘But that’s the wrong way, ya basha!’

  ‘We’ll lose him if we don’t.’

  They made it almost to the end of the street before a taxi turned in, blocking their way.

  ‘Go around him.’

  Sindbad swung the wheel and they lurched up onto a patch of broken pavement and rubble before lumbering by.

  ‘This is no way to treat a car like this, ya basha.’

  ‘Just go after him.’

  With Sindbad muttering to himself, they rolled out of the square in time to see the Yamaha turning at the far end of the street.

  ‘Stay with him, but don’t get too close.’

  Sindbad put his foot down and smiled as the big car surged forwards.

  ‘Wallahi, this isn’t a car, it’s an F-16.’

  The yellow motorcycle had reached an intersection and was already swinging round onto the opposite side of the dual carriageway. Sindbad spun the wheel and cut across three lanes of traffic. The lights were coming on in the shops on Ahmed Abdel Aziz Street. A plume of black smoke from the Yamaha’s tailpipe sailed over the cars ahead of them like a banner. It felt as though following its movement was more a matter of faith than observation. Makana wanted to know more about the rider and his relationship to Dalia Habashi. Her dilated eyes suggested she was taking drugs of some kind, which added to the picture of her difficulties. This man, with his rough manners and motorcycle, seemed at odds with the kind of high-class environment in which Dalia Habashi’s clientele moved.

  The burr of the engine was audible as the Yamaha accelerated up the ramp.

  ‘He’s turning onto the bridge,’ Makana warned, but Sindbad was already turning, forcing a small scooter bearing a family of four to weave erratically out of their way. They thumped over a pothole and the Thunderbird rocked like a boat as they curved up the ramp and onto the 6th October Bridge. They were lucky. The traffic was light and it was easy to keep the target in sight. ‘Don’t get too close,’ Makana warned. In the distance green strip lights fluttered in the dusk, announcing mosques like flagships dotted on a sea of ochre. Towards the end of the bridge the ve­­­hicles began to coagulate, slowing to a halt. The rider flicked the Yamaha through the cars and veered right. He was taking the Gezira exit before they crossed to the east bank of the river.

  ‘He’s going towards the Qasr al-Nil Bridge,’ Sindbad said.

  The light was almost gone as they dropped off the bridge onto the Corniche. The single rear light of the motorcycle led them into Maadi, where finally they lost him. For a time they drove in circles, turning left and right, widening the net in the hope they would catch a glimpse of him.

  ‘Maalish, ya basha, I’m sorry. It was my fault.’

  ‘Not at all. We’ll do one more circle.’

  ‘But we can hardly see anything in this darkness.’

  ‘Just once more round the block.’

  They did one circuit and then another. Then Makana thought of something. He reached into his pocket and produced the piece of paper Marwan had given him.

  ‘See if you can find this address.’

  They drove round some more and finally turned into a quiet street, only to find, leaning up against a high white wall that surrounded a large villa, the Yamaha.

  ‘Who said you can’t believe in coincidence?’

  Chapter Eight

  Sindbad snoozed contentedly behind the wheel while Makana observed the building on the opposite side of the road. Over the high walls that fenced off the grounds from the street the crowns of a row of palm trees rose majestically. The languorous fronds dipped gently in the night air, a cool breeze wafting from the river. Beyond the trees he could see lights and his ears caught the faint sound of music. There was something not quite right about the gateway, which was made of stone and did not match the rest of the perimeter wall or the modern building behind it.

  Makana sat and watched as people came and went. As the evening progressed more cars arrived, most of them expensive and chauffeur-driven. They pulled up and unloaded their passengers before driving off. The vast majority of these arrivals were male. They tended to be of a certain age and clearly comfortably off, as proclaimed by their clothes and bulging waistlines. Makana recognised a couple of television hosts, the odd journalist and businessman.

  Inside, the party continued. By now there were figures leaning against the railing of the roof, strings of coloured lights over their heads and the movement of what might have been people dan­­cing behind them. Makana’s eye was drawn back down to ground level as a figure stepped into the street from the path leading up to the house. He paused to light a cigarette and Makana sat up. It took him a moment to remember where he had seen the man before. The Marriott Hotel, and wearing the same crumpled linen suit. This time the sunglasses were perched on the top of his head. He staggered on the uneven pavement. Makana nudged Sindbad awake. The big man yawned and rubbed his eyes like a baby.

  ‘Aiwa, ya basha.’

  ‘I need you to follow that man.’

  ‘Man, which man, ya sidi?’ Sindbad scrabbled about trying to right himself and straighten his clothes. Makana pointed to the figure retreating down the street. When he reached the end he would find a taxi and disappear. Makana opened the door and climbed out.

  ‘Get going, and don’t lose him. When you finish with that, go on home and get some rest. I’ll see you tomorrow.’

  Sindbad looked up at him. ‘What about you?’

  ‘I’ll find my own way.’

  Makana watched the big car surge away from the kerb. A beautiful thing to observe, but probably swallowed a fortune in petrol as well as drawing a crowd like a conjuror with a trick monkey. Crossing the street, Makana examined the entrance set into the modern wall. While the heavy metal gate was new, the stone archway that supported it looked out of place, flanked as it was by stones that had been carved with a motif. The structure didn’t belong in this neighbourhood; it looked more like an architectural relic salvaged from the old part of Cairo.

  The motifs on either side were identical: a lion with wings.

  Before he had time to consider the significance of this fact the gate in front of him gave a slight lurch and began to swing inwards. An explanation was to be found in a security camera set high up to one side that angled down on whoever was standing outside.

  A path led straight up from the gate to an open entrance at the front of the building where a small reception committee observed his progress. Three men. One enormously fat one sat behind the desk on the left watching a monitor. The second stood by the metal detector while the third man, who rivalled Sindbad in stature and had a shaven head, stood blocking Makana’s path. He wore a tuxedo that fitted him the way a wedding gown might fit a water buffalo, but he knew his place and stood with both hands cl
asped before him.

  ‘Good evening, effendi.’

  ‘I’m not sure if this is the right place.’ Makana struggled to light a cigarette, swaying on his feet for effect.

  ‘What place were you looking for?’

  ‘Well, it was recommended to me by a friend. Actually, I was supposed to meet him here, but I got delayed.’

  ‘What was the name of your friend?’ enquired the bouncer.

  ‘You can’t tell me he’s not here because his motorcycle is parked right outside.’ Makana swivelled and stabbed a belligerent finger in the direction of the gate. The bouncers exchanged a look. The fat one behind the desk grunted.

  ‘Na’il? You’re a friend of Na’il? Why didn’t you say so?’

  As they waved him through Makana noted the man behind the desk reaching for a telephone. The staircase took him up to the first floor, where an open gallery led to a white door. There was no sign of anyone about. He peered back down the stairwell to see the man in the tuxedo looking up. Stepping away, Makana turned to his right and began to walk. Before he reached the door it swung open.

  The interior was illuminated by low lighting set around the walls. Plastic plants bloomed from every corner. Behind a high reception counter stood a tall woman with dyed blonde hair, fingernails painted blood red, and wearing a black-sequinned dress that sparkled and shone in the strange blue and red glow. She smiled as he entered.

  ‘Good evening,’ she purred. ‘I am Gigi.’

  ‘Good evening, Gigi. This is my first visit.’