The Burning Gates

by Parker Bilal

  ‘You’re a long way from Los Angeles. What are you doing in Cairo?’

  ‘I thought I warned you to stay out of my business.’ Cassidy lit a cigarette and dropped the lighter on the bedside table. ‘Why are you here, in my room in the middle of the night?’

  ‘That’s an interesting question.’ Makana flipped off the television and sat down in the chair again. ‘I find myself in a . . . how do you say, a predicament?’

  ‘You’re not going to start using fancy words now, are you?’

  ‘What I mean is that this is a difficult situation.’

  ‘Don’t come crying to me, buddy.’ Cassidy gave Makana a hostile stare. ‘How about untying this and we can talk like gentlemen?’

  ‘In a moment, perhaps. I need to ask you some questions first.’

  ‘I’m all ears.’ Cassidy jerked his arm like a gorilla on a chain. Makana wondered how long it would be before the bedstead came apart.

  ‘I saw you in the Marriott Hotel. You were looking for a man named Kane.’

  ‘Full marks. Go to the top of the class.’

  ‘Why are you after Kane?’

  ‘I told you, mind your own business.’

  Makana cocked the revolver. ‘I wouldn’t push my patience too far, Mr Cassidy.’

  ‘I thought you said you weren’t going to use that.’

  ‘This is Cairo. Things happen. A tourist is robbed at gunpoint in his room. Nobody will make a fuss. It’s the kind of thing they like to keep quiet. Bad for the trade.’

  ‘Something tells me you’re not kidding.’ Cassidy relented with a heavy sigh. ‘All right, Kane killed my son.’

  ‘The boy in the picture?’

  Cassidy nodded. ‘Is there really gin in that bottle?’

  Makana squinted at the bottle of Butler’s. ‘It’s a local brand. I can’t guarantee it.’

  ‘I’m asking for a drink, not a guided tour. Jesus, what’s wrong with you people? There’s a glass somewhere around here. Try the bathroom.’

  Makana placed the gun on top of the television set, then fetched the glass and poured raw gin into it. He winced as he handed it over.

  ‘Are you sure you want to drink it like that?’

  ‘It’s my liver, or do you have an opinion on that too?’

  ‘Just watch out with that cigarette, the whole place might go up.’

  ‘Help yourself to one, or is that against your precious beliefs?’ Makana passed on the drink but took another Camel. Cassidy sipped his drink and pulled a face. ‘Ouch. That would take the paint off a Sherman tank. Just leave the bottle where I can reach it.’

  ‘Can we get back to Kane?’

  ‘By all means. Zachary Kane is a very dangerous man.’

  ‘You say he killed your son.’

  ‘How about we take turns answering questions. What is it you do for Kane?’

  Getting to his feet, Makana crossed to the window and smoked his cigarette. Across the way a woman was hanging out her washing. Who does their laundry at this hour, he wondered. He turned back to the bed.

  ‘I don’t know about your jurisdiction as a police officer, but I’m pretty sure it doesn’t run to carrying a concealed weapon in this town.’

  ‘How would you know?’

  ‘I know that you’re out of your depth.’ Makana pointed at the telephone. ‘I could make a few calls that would turn your life upside down.’

  ‘If you were going to do that, you’d have done it already.’

  ‘You’re in a foreign country. You don’t speak the language. Have you ever seen the inside of an Egyptian prison?’

  ‘No, thank you, and I don’t intend to either. Maybe we should start talking turkey.’

  ‘Turkey?’

  ‘Money. How much do you want?’

  ‘I don’t want your money.’

  Cassidy laughed coldly. ‘Everybody in this country has a price. It’s just a question of picking the right number.’

  ‘I want you to tell me about Kane.’

  Cassidy considered the question for a moment. ‘All right. In Afghanistan Kane passed himself off as Special Forces, but he never made it through the programme. He’s a fraud. He’s more interested in making a career for himself in the media.’

  ‘American television?’

  ‘That’s right, buddy. Americans would believe Kane was the Messiah if it came out of the mouth of one of those wax dolls that read the news. Anyway, Kane is smart. He strung them along with his story about hunting down the world’s most wanted man. Once the network figured out what was going on they had to see it through or they would all end up with egg on their faces. Don’t ask me how he got away with that.’ Cassidy drew on his cigarette and flicked ash onto a bedside table that already showed burn marks in the wood. ‘Kane is a strange man. I ran every kind of trace on him and came up with nothing. It’s like he didn’t exist before he joined the army.’

  ‘You say he killed your son. How do you know this?’

  Cassidy reached under his vest to produce a medallion on a chain. ‘St Christopher. Patron saint of travellers. His grandmother gave it to him when he went away.’

  ‘And you found it, where?’

  ‘In a palace outside of Falluja. The place had been torched. Kane and his men had gone off the map two months earlier. They survived the mess in Afghanistan and were reassigned contracts in Iraq. It’s a goddamn scandal, but things were getting out of hand with in Falluja. In March of this year Iraqi insurgents killed four security contractors. They dragged them from their cars, beat them and set them on fire. They hung the bodies from a bridge.’

  Makana recalled the incident. That was the first time he had heard of mercenaries operating in Iraq as private contractors.

  ‘The point is the US military needed all the help they could get. They got Kane. My son was also in the area. His unit was ambushed. A roadside bomb, but his body was never recovered.’ Cassidy stared into the bottom of his glass. ‘I was never satisfied with the army’s answers. They didn’t know where he was. I’m not the kind of guy to settle for that. Ask any of my ex-wives. They’ll all tell you. Old Frank never knows when to quit.’ He drained the glass and reached for the bottle.

  ‘So you went to Iraq to look for him.’

  Cassidy nodded. ‘I went to his base, Camp Volturno.’

  ‘It sounds like a place in Italy.’

  ‘Nice guess. Actually they named it after a river in Sicily. The Marines won an important battle there back in World War Two. Camp Volturno my ass. Before that it was a holiday resort for Saddam’s sons. They called it Dreamland.’ Cassidy shook his head in wonder. ‘Two pictures of the same scene, and neither of them make any sense.’

  ‘You said your son was caught in an ambush but he didn’t die?’

  ‘The whole story stank.’ Cassidy squinted as he drew on his cigarette. ‘The army couldn’t explain what they were doing out there that night. They had been on a routine mission searching for weapons, but that was miles away. The explosion happened way out in the desert, on a back road, not much more than a track. I went out there to take a look. Nothing but the burned-out wreck of their Humvee. It looked like a set-up by local insurgents. The other soldiers in the car were killed. Their bodies were recovered, but not Virgil’s.’

  ‘Virgil? The boy in the photograph?’

  ‘Virgil Cassidy. My son.’

  ‘I see. Please go on.’

  ‘Anyway, it turns out there was an incident involving a hotel owner in Falluja. Faisal Abdallah. Before the war, this hotel manager had been a driver for one of Saddam’s officers. Once it was clear the war was over he did what most people did. He took off his uniform and blended in.’ Cassidy straightened up in the bed as best he could. ‘The way I see it, Kane had something on this guy. There were rumours the insurgents were getting support from old Baath Party members and former army officers. They picked him up, along with four others. The reason I know this is there was a complaint made against Kane’s outfit by Abdallah’s family when he disapp
eared. A week later Kane goes off the grid.’ Cassidy gave a grunt of annoyance. ‘I don’t know what the hell we thought we were doing going into that country. The say Iraq was one of the most developed countries in the Middle East before the war. Hell, I’d hate to see the rest of it.’

  ‘The invasion, you mean.’

  ‘Have it any way you like.’ Cassidy reached for his glass.

  ‘As I understand it there was something to do with oil reserves,’ said Makana. ‘Tell me how you connected Kane with your son.’

  ‘I told you, the army’s story didn’t make sense. I’ve been a homicide detective for over twenty years and I know a cover-up when I see one. I know when I’m being lied to. Old habits. If the facts don’t add up . . .’

  ‘Then you don’t have all the facts,’ finished Makana.

  ‘Something like that,’ nodded Cassidy. ‘Anyway, I started nosing around but nobody knew anything. It was like my son had vanished into thin air. Of course there was always the chance that he’d been killed and dumped, or kidnapped by insurgents, but those guys are after ransoms. They’re not interested in soldiers, they want drivers, engineers, people connected to some big company with money. I came across the story of the hotel guy and that led me to Kane.’

  Cassidy paused for a drink.

  ‘Have you any idea how much a private contractor costs the US government? A Blackwater operative is paid six to nine times the amount a US army sergeant earns for the same services. Does that make any sense to you? Nor me. Kane had taken over one of Saddam’s old palaces. Legend had it he was living like Kublai Khan out there. When I arrived I found the place had been torched. They’d been running some kind of torture chamber in the basement. It was full of bodies.’ Cassidy stared into the bottom of his glass. ‘One of them was my son. That’s where I found the medallion. It had been burned. He went missing around the same time as Abdallah. Coincidence? I don’t think so. The way I figure it, my son stumbled onto something and Kane took care of him.’

  ‘You said this man Abdallah, the hotel manager, he worked for one of Saddam’s officers before the war. Do you know the name of this officer?’

  ‘No.’ Cassidy shook his head.

  ‘And he was never found. You said he disappeared.’

  ‘That’s right. His family were convinced he was murdered, but the body was never recovered. It’s not unusual,’ Cassidy shrugged. ‘Bodies disappear all the time over there. He might have been one of those poor bastards I found in the basement.’

  ‘A man named Abdallah was staying at the Marriott with Kane and his men.’

  ‘Is that so?’ Cassidy struggled to sit up and push his hair back from his face. ‘How many men does he have with him?’

  ‘Five. Four Americans and the Iraqi.’

  ‘I only saw a couple of them. They were careful not to be seen together. Wait a minute, you said was staying. Past tense. You mean they’re no longer there?’

  ‘Apparently not. Maybe you scared them off. How did you know Kane was in Cairo?’

  ‘Old-fashioned police work. I asked around and picked up his trail.’ Cassidy reached for a cigarette. ‘He drove out of Iraq and across the Jordanian border to Amman. I hired a car and did the same. I was taking a chance, but it panned out. He was staying in some dump downtown. I found out he reserved a room at the Cairo Marriott in the name of Charles Barkley. So here I am.’

  ‘You did pretty well for a man who doesn’t know the region.’

  ‘People are pretty much the same wherever you go. You give them the right incentive and they’ll tell you what you want to know. I think that makes it your turn to talk.’ Makana took a deep breath and got to his feet again. His back felt stiff and the room was stuffy and airless. He fiddled with the window until it finally swung open, letting in the fetid night air. He wasn’t sure which was worse.

  ‘Two weeks ago, Kane approached Aram Kasabian, a local art dealer. He claimed to be an art collector from New York named Charles Barkley, said that he’d come across rumours that pointed to a very valuable painting being on the market here in Cairo. This particular painting has not been seen since the Nazis were in power. According to Barkley it was in the hands of a man named Kadhim al-Samari, a former colonel in Saddam’s army.’

  ‘How would an Iraqi colonel get hold of a painting like that?’

  ‘Samari was in the Republican Guards when they invaded Kuwait in 1990. It’s possible this painting was in one of the private collections they looted and drove back to Baghdad with them when they retreated.’

  ‘Zachary Kane wouldn’t know a work of art if it was served to him in a cocktail bar with a paper umbrella in it.’

  Makana didn’t try to pursue the logic of this argument. ‘Three days ago Aram Kasabian was tortured and murdered using a method favoured by Samari. He cut him to shreds.’

  ‘Charming.’

  ‘Samari is a specialist in torture. He’s wanted for war crimes. There’s a reward on his head.’

  ‘And you think he killed Kasabian?’

  ‘That would make no sense. Kasabian was working with him, selling his artworks and making him a fortune. There’s no reason he would torture him.’ Makana shook another Camel out of the packet and lit it. ‘Kasabian hired me to keep Samari happy. He wanted to put Barkley, or Kane rather, off the scent, make him think they weren’t in touch. Samari is a very cautious man.’

  ‘Wait a second.’ Cassidy frowned. ‘The way you tell it makes Kane the most likely suspect.’

  ‘I agree.’

  Cassidy scratched his chin. ‘Kane is an impulsive psychopath. If he thought Kasabian was trying to take him for a ride he would turn on him in a heartbeat.’

  ‘If he felt Kasabian was holding back he might torture him to find out where Samari was,’ said Makana. ‘The problem being that Kasabian couldn’t tell him because he didn’t know.’

  ‘Which is why he died.’

  The question remained as to how Kane could have known that Kasabian was deceiving him.

  ‘Why does Kane want Samari so bad?’ Cassidy asked.

  ‘There is a reward on his head. Three million dollars.’

  Cassidy clicked his tongue. ‘Three million dollars is nothing to someone like Kane. You split that between him and five others and you come up with peanuts and change. No, he’s after something else, and whatever it is, it has to be big. My guess would be this artwork you’re talking about. There’s more than one painting, right?’

  ‘According to Kasabian, if there are more it would be one of the finds of the century.’

  ‘That sounds more like it.’ Cassidy reached for the bottle of gin again and then decided he’d had enough. He set the bottle down on the bedside table and settled back on the bed. ‘Still, it’s a big move. If he goes into the stolen art business what happens to his military career?’

  ‘Maybe he’s thinking of retiring.’ Makana snapped open the revolver and emptied the bullets into his pocket. ‘One last question. When you find Kane, what are you planning to do?’

  ‘I’d like to arrest him and take him back to the States to stand trial for Virgil’s murder, but I don’t think there’s much chance of him coming quietly, do you?’

  Makana tossed the Colt down onto the bed and headed for the door. ‘Take my advice, Mr Cassidy, go home. There’s nothing for you here.’

  ‘Hold it just a minute. You are going to untie me before you go, right?’ Cassidy jerked the plastic tie and the bed shook. ‘Hey, you can’t leave me like this!’

  ‘Call room service.’

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Down the street Makana had to wake up the driver of a taxi who was sound asleep under a sheet of yesterday’s newsprint. He was a young man with several missing front teeth and a wayward look about him that said he was as honest as they come. The radio played old love songs that floated out of the open windows and lost themselves in the night air. When they reached Maadi he asked him to wait. Sindbad had nothing to report. The front seat of the car looked like the af
termath of a cockfight, with bones and grease-covered paper strewn about. It seemed that Sindbad had been staving off boredom by eating. Makana gave him some money and told him to take the night off.

  ‘Take the taxi. Go home and get some rest.’

  ‘Whatever you wish, ya basha. I wouldn’t complain but my wife tells me she should have married the baker, as she sees more of him than she does of me. You know how it is.’

  There was a time when Makana would have nodded understandingly and dismissed the subject. Now he found himself wondering what he actually knew about domestic life. It seemed so long ago that he had lived in a family, with people around him that he loved and who loved him in return. Now he was surrounded by people who struggled almost every day to maintain relationships. First Sami and Rania, now Sindbad.

  Once he was alone, Makana opened all the windows to get rid of the smell of fried food before settling himself behind the wheel and lighting a cigarette. Sindbad had chosen the spot well. Without moving his head he could observe the entrance to the villa. The light over the gate and the stone lions with wings on either side were all the advertising there was. If you didn’t know it was here you wouldn’t stumble upon it. The windows on the upper floors were shuttered and the glass painted over. Nobody could see what went on behind them.

  Makana smoked another three cigarettes as cars came by, dropping off passengers in twos or threes. Some came alone. The night dragged on. The party upstairs showed no signs of abating. Cars arrived to carry people away. Then, Makana saw the headlights of a car turning into the quiet street ahead of him. It stopped at the far end. Its headlights raked overhead and Makana peeped up to see a large BMW with dark glass. In itself this wasn’t so unusual. Nowadays even lowly NGO consultants drove SUVs with smoked glass in the hope that potential terrorists and assassins would be put off by not knowing whether the vehicle’s occupants were Westerners or not. What did it tell you about a country where invisibility was a sign of privilege? Everyone wanted to disappear.

  Without warning the SUV began reversing out of the street and round the corner. Makana started the engine and was just pulling out to follow the first car when another identical SUV cut in front of him from behind, blocking his escape.