The Burning Gates

by Parker Bilal

  ‘Is it possible that someone might have deleted the record?’

  ‘Not completely. Even if by someone you mean State Security or a high-ranking officer, Samari’s name would still appear somewhere but the details would be blanked out. I went back over the last year and there is nothing.’

  ‘So, if we assume this man is in the country he didn’t come through regular channels?’

  ‘He wouldn’t be the first. There are plenty of other ways. Sea or land crossings. The desert. The military airports have their own system.’

  Makana knew from his own experience that it was possible to cross the border illegally. The country’s frontiers were long and porous, hard to seal completely. He gave Fathi a couple more names, Charles Barkley and Frank Cassidy.

  ‘What are you looking for?’

  Barkley was just Makana being cautious. Cassidy was a loose end. He didn’t like loose ends. As a rule they tended to unravel any thinking that had gone before. He wanted to tie that one off before it got away from him. He gave Fathi the date of entry from Cassidy’s airline ticket.

  ‘Coming from Amman. Any information you have on him. And for Barkley everything also. Date of entry, port of entry, and where he was coming from.’

  After that Makana settled down in the big chair out on the open deck, with his feet up on the railings, and lit a cigarette as he gazed out at the coloured lights playing on the water. In his mind he went back over the details of his conversation with Charles Barkley. Right now finding Samari seemed like a lost cause. If it was true that he had murdered Kasabian, and he seemed the most likely candidate, then he would hardly be inclined to sell a painting to the man that Kasabian had been working for. If he was the culprit then he would be busy disappearing back to where he had been hiding. Makana made a mental note to call Amir Medani, the human rights lawyer. He would know how to handle Samari legally.

  It was always possible that it wasn’t Samari who had tortured and killed Kasabian. That would mean there was another killer out there somewhere. But who? And what did they want out of Kasabian? The silence was broken by the sound of footsteps on the stairs. Makana looked round to find Aziza standing there. She wandered over and surveyed the pot of food by his chair.

  ‘You’re not eating,’ she said, handing him the cup of coffee she had made.

  ‘I’d forgotten about it. Help yourself.’ Makana took the coffee gratefully and nodded at the bag lying on the table. He watched as she settled down on the deck with her back to the railings and began to eat. She was an odd girl in many ways. Curious and sharp-witted, she seemed at odds with Umm Ali’s family.

  ‘So,’ she began, tucking into the heap of pasta and lentils with a plastic spoon. It seemed remarkable that she was able to eat such vast quantities of food without putting on weight. She still had the thin bony frame of a teenager. ‘What are you working on?’

  Aziza had appointed herself Makana’s private assistant. She took an interest in his work and would answer the big black telephone that perched like an ugly crow on the desk, a prehistoric ancestor of the folding plastic shell that he now carried in his pocket.

  ‘Do you know anything about art?’

  ‘Art?’ Aziza blinked and shook her head as another spoonful followed.

  ‘Paintings. Some of them are worth a lot of money.’

  ‘Sure, there’s a man over by the mosque who paints signs. He’s quite good. He did one of a man riding a horse. I can’t remember what it was for.’

  ‘Well, that’s what I’m looking for.’

  ‘A picture of a horse?’ Aziza chewed thoughtfully.

  ‘Something like that.’ Makana realised he hadn’t actually seen the picture in question. He wouldn’t recognise it if it was standing in front of him. ‘It’s rather a special picture. Somebody has flown a long way to get hold of it.’

  ‘Well, don’t let that fool across the way hear about it. He already charges a fortune for painting his signs, and his horses look like dogs.’ When she had polished off the food, Aziza collected the empty pots, along with various plates and cups distributed about the place, and left Makana alone with his thoughts.

  He must have dozed off, because when he opened his eyes again several hours had gone by and he could feel the chill in the air. He knew at once that he was not alone. The night was quiet and still, the traffic reduced to the faint grumble of a lorry in the distance. As he began to swing his head towards the divan he heard the unmistakable sound of a gun being cocked.

  ‘Okay, now let me explain how this works.’ The voice was low and calm and spoke English with an American accent. ‘Good. Now sit back in the chair. I want to see one hand on each armrest.’

  Makana felt the barrel of the gun nudge against the side of his head. He lifted his arms slowly, one at a time, and placed them on the armrests.

  ‘You’re doing real good so far.’ Makana felt the man behind him move. He turned his head slowly to see Mr Frankie, the American from the Carlton Hotel. Still wearing the same beige linen suit, more crumpled and stained than it had been, but still serviceable. The gun he held level in his hand was a large revolver with a stubby barrel. From that distance it seemed unlikely he would miss. The pistol was a disappointment. Makana hadn’t found any gun when he searched his room. Either Cassidy carried it with him wherever he went or he was better at hiding things than Makana had given him credit for.

  ‘Colt Python 357, in case you’re wondering. Used to be standard police issue. This is my own personal weapon. You know how it is, old habits.’ Cassidy shrugged his shoulders. ‘What I am saying is that I am very familiar with this gun. I’d have no trouble hitting you from here. The bullet will go through you and that fancy throne you’re sitting on and straight through the rest of this boat of yours.’

  ‘It’s not a boat.’

  Cassidy made a throwaway gesture with his free hand. He didn’t care.

  ‘You followed me,’ said Makana.

  ‘Very good. Yes, I followed you from the Marriott Hotel. Bit of a roundabout route but here we are. A word to the wise: some of us don’t react well to threats.’

  ‘Threats?’

  Cassidy reached into his jacket with his left hand and produced a folded sheet of paper that he tossed into Makana’s lap. Makana opened it up and read what was written on it.

  ‘Go Home.’

  Cassidy was just below average height. A compact build. His hair was brownish, long at the back, hanging down to the nape of his neck. His face, like his clothes, had a lined, lived-in air about it. He wore a moustache that made him look older. Makana would have said he was around the same age as himself, in his late forties.

  ‘You’re making me feel very unwelcome.’ Cassidy was shaking his head. ‘Pushing notes under my door. I don’t like being told what to do.’

  ‘You don’t need the gun.’

  ‘I think I’m the best judge of that.’

  ‘What do you want from me?’

  ‘Well, that’s an interesting question. I could ask you the same. You follow me to my hotel and search my room. I assume that was you, wasn’t it? Why?’

  ‘We don’t get that many Americans around here.’

  ‘Somehow that doesn’t surprise me. You have a habit of killing them.’

  ‘You shouldn’t believe everything you read in the press.’

  ‘I’d be a fool to believe any different.’ Cassidy jogged the gun up and down. ‘Now tell me about you. Why are you so interested in me?’

  ‘I told you, I was curious.’ Makana reached for his cigarettes and the gun jerked up. He pointed at his shirt pocket. Cassidy nodded. Makana lighted one and tossed the packet over when Cassidy gestured for him to do so. The cigarettes were not to the American’s liking. He tossed it over his shoulder.

  ‘Tastes like yesterday’s newspaper.’

  ‘It’s an acquired flavour.’

  ‘So is bullshit.’ Cassidy reached into his jacket and produced a packet of Camels. The aroma of tobacco was so overwhelming Makana fel
t a twinge of envy. ‘Tell me why you’re after me.’

  ‘I spotted you first at the Marriott. I didn’t think much of it. But when I saw you outside the club in Maadi it seemed too much of a coincidence.’

  ‘So you thought you’d search my room. Is that standard practice in this country?’

  ‘You’d be surprised.’ Makana turned over the note. The handwriting and the fact that it was written on paper from the Carlton Hotel suggested that it had been written hastily.

  ‘I doubt it.’ Cassidy smoked in silence for a moment, looking about. ‘You live in this dump?’

  Makana glanced around him. ‘It has its charm.’

  ‘If you say so. So who are you, state security? Some branch of the police?’

  ‘Neither, I’m independent.’

  ‘Don’t make me laugh,’ said Cassidy, his mouth twisting in a sneer. ‘Nobody is independent in this country. Everyone is on the take. I’ve been here two weeks and already I’ve figured that much out.’

  ‘Perhaps we’re doing this the wrong way round.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘Maybe if you tell me why you came here we can be of mutual assistance.’

  ‘You want to help me?’ laughed Cassidy. ‘You live on a shipwreck. How are you going to help me?’

  ‘Let me guess,’ said Makana. ‘You came to Cairo to look for someone, or something.’

  ‘Very good. Maybe you want to read my palm next?’

  ‘You’re after the Franz Marc.’

  Cassidy frowned. ‘I don’t even know what that means.’

  ‘Why were you at the Winged Lion club?’

  ‘There aren’t that many places a man can get a drink in this town. The guy at the hotel told me about it.’

  ‘What did you come to Cairo for, Mr Cassidy?’

  ‘None of your damn business.’ Cassidy had the smile of a man lost at sea, clinging to his life raft.

  Makana got slowly to his feet. He held up the note.

  ‘I didn’t write this.’

  ‘You don’t mind if I tell you I don’t believe you?’ The gun followed him, but it was no longer really a threat and both of them seemed to know it.

  ‘If I didn’t do it, then somebody else did.’

  ‘That’s what you say.’

  ‘Perhaps we are looking for the same thing,’ said Makana.

  ‘I told you I’ve never heard of this Franz guy. What say we try this my way?’ The gun flicked upwards. ‘Tell me why you’re interested in me, and what your connection to Kane is.’

  ‘Kane? Who is Kane?’

  ‘This isn’t what I call mutual assistance. Move over to the railing.’

  ‘Is it something to do with the boy?’ Makana asked.

  ‘What boy?’ Cassidy stared at him.

  ‘The boy in the photograph.’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Cassidy. ‘I forgot you were familiar with my private possessions.’ He got to his feet and moved towards the railing where Makana stood. ‘What do they call you?’

  ‘Makana.’

  ‘That’s it? No first name?’

  ‘That’s it.’

  ‘Okay, let me spell this out for you. I don’t know what your angle is, and I don’t know what you want, but I’m warning you to stay out of my way. Understood?’ He lifted the gun. ‘Now I need you to sit down on the deck. Put your hands around that railing and bring them together.’ Makana considered his options and decided to do as he was told. He watched Cassidy slip a plastic tie over his wrists and tug the loop tight. Then he stood up and tucked his gun away. He brushed his hands through his hair.

  ‘I got to you once. I can do it again, any time I like. So this is the part where you need to pay careful attention. You stay out of my way, pal. Next time I won’t be so gentle.’

  Makana heard Cassidy walk away. He struggled to find a comfortable position and after a time gave up and slumped back to lean against the railings behind him.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Under the circumstances Makana did not pass too uncomfortable a night. He had known worse, he told himself. Aziza found him lying on the deck the next morning. The sun was coming up, the air still cool and clean. His bones felt as if he had been trampled on by a herd of buffalo and his wrists were chafed raw by the plastic strip. Aziza took it in her stride, taking one look from the top of the steps before disappearing to return carrying a large and very sharp knife.

  ‘You had visitors last night?’

  ‘I’m afraid so.’ Makana sat up and rubbed his wrists.

  ‘Why didn’t you call me?’

  Why hadn’t he called? He had been lost in his thoughts. Cassidy was not after the painting. Then what? He was here in Cairo for quite another purpose. What that might be wasn’t clear. At some point Makana had simply fallen asleep, and he was paying the price for that now. He tried turning his head to get the crick out of his neck and decided against it. Instead he got to his feet and sighed. As if reading his mind, Aziza disappeared down the stairs to boil water for tea. Makana lit a cigarette and slumped down into his chair. He turned the strip of plastic over in his hands. Cheaper and lighter than handcuffs, but typically designed to be used and thrown away. He’d seen them on the news. The American soldiers used them in Iraq.

  A shower and a shave along with several cups of tea restored Makana’s humour, and although his wrists still stung, his neck was loosening up. He climbed the path to the road, pausing to greet Umm Ali on his way. She was busy shredding a piece of sacking, to what purpose he could not imagine, but he was sure there was some benefit to the exercise.

  ‘Sabah al khair, Umm Ali.’

  ‘Sabah al nour, ya bash muhandis.’ She would have bowed if she could.

  There was a kind of cyclic nature to their relationship. During hard times common courtesies were kept to a min­­imum, but those times were balanced by the good days, when the rent had been paid and there were offers to do his laundry without his asking. Makana was aware that there lurked a furious temper inside her. He had heard it enough times, chastising her children, and more than one neighbour had felt the wrath of her tongue. Umm Ali’s ferocity was legendary. In the local market he had witnessed her haranguing merchants for the accuracy of their scales. Somehow it mattered to her that they adhere to the social norms. He was the tenant and she the landlord. She would allow him a little leeway with the rent, on the understanding that when it finally arrived there would be a little extra for her – a gift, to buy herself something, which she would only accept on the premise that one or the other of the children needed new trousers or a shirt for school. He complied as if it was simply an afterthought and not an obligation.

  Sindbad was waiting and twenty minutes later the Thunderbird circled the stern figure of Saad Zaghloul, aiming his bronze glare at a city in turmoil. In the 1920s, Cairo was ruled by a wealthy class that identified themselves more with London and Paris than with the fellaheen peasants who trod the muddy fields about them. As unrest spread across the region, eventually the British understood that their time was up. Independence was granted. Zaghloul was elected prime minister. So much of yesterday looks like today, thought Makana, as they pulled up outside the Opera House. Only the numbers on the calendar change.

  ‘I want you to go back to that house in Garden City,’ he told Sindbad, handing him a printout of the Most Wanted playing card of Kadhim al-Samari. ‘Park where you can see the gate and keep an eye out for this man.’

  ‘A playing card?’ Sindbad looked amused. He could read well enough to make sense of the figures. ‘Three million dollars is a lot of beans.’

  ‘More than you and I could stomach. You call me if you see him.’

  Sindbad was about to charge off when he noticed something. ‘Ya basha, there must be some mistake here. There’s no face on this figure.’

  ‘That’s right. Because there is no picture. All you have is the description.’

  The big man’s brows furrowed. He started to speak and then stopped himself. Makana went on.
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  ‘He’ll be cautious. Discreet. Around fifty years old. He’s dangerous so don’t go near him. Iraqi. A military man. He’ll have an escort – guards, more than one, and maybe more than one car.’

  Sindbad looked doubtful. ‘I understand.’

  ‘Call me if anything turns up, anything at all.’

  Eager to prove himself worthy of the task, Sindbad gunned the engine and with a powerful singing sound the heavy car rumbled away. It was going to take some adjusting to go back to the Datsun after this.

  The memorial for Aram Kasabian was held at the Opera House. Where else would be suitable for such a man? A solemnly dressed crowd hovered around the entrance to one of the art galleries that lay alongside the main building. The white dome and arches made it resemble, in this setting, a mosque. All it lacked was a minaret. Maybe that was the idea. A kind of secular defence held up against the superstitions of the encroaching masses. Ces crétins, as King Fouad once referred to his subjects. Educated abroad, he couldn’t even speak their language.

  The well-heeled set shuffled around one another inside the circular space. There was a subdued air. Uniformed waiters circulated bearing trays of fruit juice and soft drinks. Nobody asked who Makana was and he didn’t offer that information. The guards on the door seemed to assume that anyone who could find the place was here for the express purpose of paying their respects. Guards generally knew to tread lightly when it came to stepping on expensive toes. Makana sipped what he discovered was guava juice and tried to mingle. As he slipped through the crowd he overheard snippets of conversation which confirmed that Okasha’s leak was still running smoothly and freely into the press.

  ‘To die like that, hung up like a sheep,’ one woman exclaimed. Her earrings trembled, with indignation or excitement, it wasn’t clear which.

  ‘Butchered like an animal,’ murmured her companion, a fleshy man with a bloated face. Nervously, he squinted sideways through thick glasses at Makana and licked his lips. Makana moved away. These people could scent an interloper the way a gazelle might a lion. He wasn’t one of them.