by Parker Bilal
Ahead of him on the river bank he had spotted a small group of people gathered at a spot under the bridge. The pick-up’s big wheels churned clumps of dried earth into a fine powder that swept in through the open windows, filling the cab with clouds of dust that stuck to the film of sweat already coating his face. It was just gone eight in the morning but already the heat made his shirt cling to his back.
The victim was lying face down in the shallows. Around her the water was fronded with green algae over the rocky bed of the stream. A long, diaphanous strip of cloth had wrapped itself around the otherwise naked body, floating around her like some strange plant. Tresses of hair ebbed back and forth as if alive. His sergeant Mek Nimr was there ahead of him, waving Makana down.
‘Who are they?’ Makana nodded at the five militia men standing around the body. They were all armed, Kalashnikov rifles slung over their shoulders, dressed in baggy peasant cotton.
‘People’s Defence Force. They are the ones who alerted us. They were driving by when a fisherman waved them down from the road up there.’ Makana’s sergeant pointed.
‘And where is he, this fisherman?’
‘We let him go.’
Makana turned on the man. ‘You let him go? Why?’
‘He didn’t have much to say,’ Mek Nimr said quietly. He lifted his hand and pointed. ‘He was rowing along here when he saw something in the water. That’s it.’
‘Find him.’
Mek Nimr tilted his head. ‘I don’t have any extra men.’
‘I don’t care if you have to swim up and down this river yourself, find that fisherman and bring him to me.’
The resentment in Mek Nimr’s stare was unmistakable.
‘I think you’re making a fuss about nothing.’
‘When you are made inspector you can do what you like. Until then, you’ll do what I tell you.’
With an impatient click of his tongue, Mek Nimr turned and moved away. Makana watched him go, wondering why he didn’t just file charges against him.
‘Hey!’ called one of the militia men, a wiry individual with a furrowed brow and thick beard. ‘We have to cover this woman up.’ He gestured at the naked body in the water. ‘You can’t leave her lying there like that. It’s haram.’
All five of the militia men stared malevolently at Makana. Three of them were young; the one with the beard somewhat older. They carried themselves with the swagger of those who believed that blind, unquestioning zeal was the only qualification they needed. They were the embodiment of the new militia forces that were undermining the authority of the Criminal Investigation Department.
The woman’s body still showed the early signs of bloating, which indicated that she had not been in the water long. The flesh on part of the right side of the face had been eaten away by fish. Makana saw puncture wounds, three at least, in the victim’s side. The weapon used must have had a large blade. He turned to address the militia men.
‘You have to stand back from here. You’re trampling all over the evidence. This is a murder scene. Whatever you think you are, you’re not policemen.’
‘You can’t talk to us like that.’ The tall bearded man stepped forward. ‘This is a clear case of moral corruption. You don’t need to be a policeman to see that.’
Makana stepped up to him until their faces were almost touching. ‘Get back or I’ll have you arrested for obstructing police enquiries,’ he said quietly.
The man stared contemptuously at him, then turned away, waving the others to follow him. When they had decamped to their pick-up truck further along the river bank, Makana kneeled down again beside the woman. Her head was tilted to one side. Despite the damage done by the fish he could see there was something familiar about her. Yes, he recognised her. She was a teacher in the nearby school across the river. Mek Nimr came back, ambling along the river bank, to report that there was no sign anywhere of the fisherman who had found the body.
‘I think I’ve seen her before,’ Makana told him. ‘I think she’s a teacher.’
Mek Nimr’s lip curled in a sneer. ‘I never liked teachers.’
‘She was a good woman.’
‘She can’t have been all good, otherwise what is she doing here, without her clothes on?’
Makana stood up and looked around him. ‘We don’t know that she died here. She might have been brought here after she was killed, sometime early this morning.’
Mek Nimr gave a laugh of incredulity. ‘How would they get round the curfew?’
Makana looked at him. He was right. The militia men huddled by their pick-up were involved in some kind of animated discussion. They fell silent as Makana approached.
‘You say a fisherman called you down from the road?’
‘It’s what happened.’ A small man with sharp, pointed teeth answered for them. He had the wild, feverish look of a man with a taste for violence.
‘Haven’t I seen you before somewhere?’
The eyes darted sideways and the man was shoved out of the way as another one pushed in.
‘Who do you think you are? You have to treat us with a bit more respect.’
Makana reached into his shirt pocket for a cigarette, noting their looks of pious disapproval. The bearded man was taking a back seat now, climbing back into the car.
‘Until I get confirmation of your story, that’s all it is . . . a story.’
They were crowding round him, like football players protesting against a penalty.
‘There are five of us. You think we are all lying? We took an oath to defend this country and the believers in it.’
‘My job is to look at the facts, not to listen to what people profess to believe.’
This provoked more scuffling. The more Makana saw of them, the less he trusted them.
‘Why do you need this fisherman? Are our words not good enough for you?’
‘He’s the only other witness,’ Makana sighed. ‘For all I know you could have killed her yourselves and dumped her here.’
That was too much for them. They lurched forward, guns raised. Threatening a uniformed police officer didn’t seem to be a problem for them. Mek Nimr finally stepped in. He was smiling, that thin, contemptuous smile Makana had come to know.
‘You stand with your back to them,’ Makana said. ‘Does that mean you are more afraid of me than of five armed men?’
Mek Nimr lowered his hands and stepped back. The picture of humility. ‘I was only trying to do my duty, sir.’
‘Then get these awaleeg out of here. I want all their names and I want them checked for criminal records. That one I have seen before.’ He pointed at the man with the sharp teeth. Makana was sure he had arrested him five or six years back for something. Aggravated burglary?
‘They are People’s Defence Force. You can’t treat them like suspects,’ protested Mek Nimr.
‘No one is above the law, or has that changed too?’
The militia men were protesting loudly, calling on the Almighty to verify that they were speaking the truth, as if that was all the proof of their innocence that was necessary. Makana knew there was something wrong here. These men had not simply found this woman in the water, he was sure of it. There might have been a fisherman, but Makana knew they would never find him, not alive at least. Had he come across them dumping the woman’s body, or worse?
He watched Mek Nimr lead them away. He seemed to have their ear. Why was that? Makana had the sense that something dangerous was being played out right before his eyes, though he still couldn’t make it out clearly. It was pointless going to Major Idris about the run-in with the militia. Idris was too busy seeking out technological wonders of the modern age that had been foreseen in the abstractions of the Quran. It was a hobby of sorts. He published articles about it in the police gazette. He didn’t want to hear about these incidents. The major already considered him a maverick. He was young and zealous and probably the worst policeman Makana had ever met. He’d once asked Makana why he never went to prayers during the day.
‘I wasn’t aware it was obligatory,’ Makana had replied.
‘You’re not an atheist or something are you?’ Then, without waiting for a response, Idris burst into laughter. ‘I was only joking. Of course you are not!’
But the cold smile, the evasive eyes, told Makana that this was probably exactly what his superior was thinking. For him it wasn’t about religion, it was about conforming. Idris had revealed his scorn for someone who did not know how to join in. An atheist heathen. Might he have been able to save them at that point? Makana wondered afterwards. If he had been smarter, if he hadn’t been so stubborn, would he have managed to keep his family alive?
Chapter Fifteen
Decades ago, in his native Italy, Guido Clemenza’s career as a player was halted by a scandal involving match fixing. There were rumours of links to the Mafia. The case was eventually dropped and he managed to reinvent himself as a trainer by going into exile. After an unsuccessful stint in the Gulf he had been hired by Saad Hanafi. In Egypt he was built up into the archetypal European technocrat. A dictator of sorts, obsessed with punctuality and efficiency. Physically, he fitted the bill perfectly, with his chilly blue eyes and steel-coloured hair. A new Mussolini. Clemenza’s brutish face made regular appearances in the gossip columns, beside one model or another. Apparently he enjoyed the high life. His once trim waistline had expanded and the sharp angles of his jaw were sunk now beneath the onset of jowls. Clemenza put Makana in mind of a Roman senator from the days of Hadrian or Marcus Aurelius. Perhaps football managers were the modern-day equivalent. Certainly he could be ruthless. By all accounts he was good at what he did. He worked the team hard and got results. Or, at least, he used to. More recently their record had been disappointing. And there clearly wasn’t much affection for him as far as the players were concerned.
Watching him now, sitting at a card table in the casino of the Semiramis Hotel, Makana saw that Guido Clemenza certainly did not look like a happy man. He was losing. The croupier raked in the chips and prepared the shoe for another round. It was an odd crowd in the casino, mostly foreigners, guests at the hotel, outsiders. Makana imagined it was like that most nights. A few Westerners, and a lot of Arabs, Malays, Chinese. They stood chatting at the bar, or wandered around to see what was happening at the other tables. Getting in had not been easy for him. The door was guarded by a jackal of a man with the flat, emotionless gaze of a seasoned criminal. He was wearing a tuxedo so shiny with wear that it might have been painted with varnish. It made Makana feel a little better about his own clothes. He was wearing his best suit, which had clearly seen better days.
‘No access for Egyptian nationals,’ the man said, holding up a hand to bar his entrance.
‘I’m not here to gamble,’ said Makana, reaching into his jacket pocket to flash one of Okasha’s visiting cards, of which he had assembled a small collection over the years. An involuntary twitch crossed the doorman’s face at the sight of the police insignia. He stepped aside, tilting his head for Makana to pass.
There was something distinctly sleazy about the casino, despite the care that had gone into setting it up. Everything, from the fake pillars and plastic vines round the entrance arch, to the waiters circulating with trays of drinks and the croupiers spinning the roulette wheel or dealing out the cards on the green baize-covered tables, felt off-key. Underneath the façade of sophistication was a hard, ugly edge, and Makana felt an unusual sense of moral repugnance asserting itself inside him. Still, the name of the game was separating fools from their money. Anyone foolish enough to come in here deserved everything they got, or rather lost. It was all a charade, the fancy waiters and the obsequious manners, all infused with deceit. Over on one table a pair of loud Iraqi men and their respective women were throwing money down in a doomed bid to outdo one another. Their luck was about to end. A tall croupier wearing white gloves tapped his younger colleague on the shoulder and quietly relieved him. The Iraqis didn’t pay much attention, oblivious to the fact that they were about to start losing.
Clemenza, perhaps sensing that his own chances were diminishing, decided to take a break. He got up from the table and went over to the bar where he ordered himself a drink. He was dressed in an expensive linen suit with a pink shirt and a wide blue silk tie. He perfectly fitted the role of a rather vulgar Italian playboy. As he raised his glass he caught sight of Makana in the mirror behind the bar. He even managed to raise a smile as he turned towards him, though there was about as much warmth in it as in the ice cubes in his glass.
‘Not the kind of place I would have expected to find you.’
‘No.’ Makana glanced about him. ‘Nor me.’
Clemenza chuckled to himself as he sipped his drink. ‘Always it is teatro with you people. Why does everyone in this country play a game of masks?’
‘I thought you were here out of love?’
The Italian snorted. ‘I would leave tomorrow if I could.’
‘What’s stopping you?’
Clemenza’s chilly eyes were tinged with red. ‘What do you want from me this time?’
‘I’m just curious. With hobbies like this, Hanafi must be paying you a good salary.’
‘It’s none of your business, but yes, he pays me well enough,’ said Clemenza, turning to lean wearily against the bar. ‘And besides, the idea is that you win.’
‘From what I hear, you haven’t been doing a lot of that lately.’
‘Everyone goes through rough patches,’ he said, casting an eye over Makana’s worn suit. ‘But then I expect a man like you knows all about that.’
‘With your current run of luck you probably could do with a little bonus.’ Makana gestured round the room. ‘To fund your gambling habit.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘How much commission would you make on a transfer deal for Adil?’
‘That old nonsense! Anyone in this room will tell you he is not good enough for that.’
‘For a man who could arrange the outcome of matches before they even took place, a transfer deal for someone like Adil Romario shouldn’t present too much of a problem.’
Clemenza’s nostrils flared. ‘I was cleared of all charges.’
‘You were suspended, which is why you went abroad, which is how you ended up here.’
Setting down his glass, Clemenza snapped his fingers impatiently at the bartender for another. When it came, he lifted the glass and took a long, deep draught, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
‘Just where did Hanafi find you? Ask yourself why he went to all that trouble when he could pick up a phone and have any of the top men in the country at his service. Why did he pick you?’
‘Maybe because he knew I couldn’t be bought off.’
Clemenza chuckled, shaking his head as he raised his glass again. Across the room the tall croupier turned away from the card table, handing it back to the younger man who had been managing it before him. The Iraqis were rather more subdued now, having lost most of their chips. They gathered up their things and moved off towards the roulette table, looking sombre. Clemenza caught the eye of the older croupier, who removed his white gloves and ran the tip of his index finger over his moustache, watching Makana, his face impassive. Whispering a word of advice to his relief, he approached them.
‘Is everything all right, sir?’ he asked Clemenza, his eyes not straying from Makana.
‘It’s fine, but I’m afraid my friend here is feeling unwell. He is about to leave.’
The tall man straightened up, taking a deep slow breath. ‘I understand.’ He nodded, raising a hand. Two men in shiny tuxedos appeared.
‘This is really not necessary,’ protested Makana. ‘I can find my own way out.’
‘It’s a big hotel. You might get lost.’ The tall croupier smiled coldly.
Clemenza leaned closer. ‘Don’t come poking your nose in again. Is that clear?’
‘I think Hanafi might have something to say about that.’
‘I don
’t care what Hanafi says,’ hissed Clemenza. ‘He’s finished anyway.’
The Italian turned his back as the two men took hold of Makana’s arms and steered him out of the casino. People glanced in his direction but nobody said anything. The doorman studiously examined the guestbook as they went by.
Makana was bundled along a long hallway.
‘I think the front exit is that way,’ he said, as they passed the main staircase leading down to the hotel lobby. At the end of the wide curve of the mezzanine floor they turned into a narrower corridor. The two bouncers shouldered their way through a heavy fire door and descended a set of emergency stairs. Three flights down they came to another door which they kicked open, and suddenly they were outside. Makana was flung headlong against a wall. He put out his hands to protect himself and grazed the skin of his palms. The big men caught hold of him and jerked him back. The seams on his jacket gave as he was propelled forwards again to tumble head over heels and skid along the road. It all seemed to happen very slowly, but there was nothing he could do to prevent it. He was on the ground, trying to plan his next move, when he heard the door bang behind them as they went back inside.
Getting to his feet slowly, Makana dusted himself down and assessed the damage. Some of Hanafi’s money would have to be invested in new clothes, he decided. The jacket had come apart down the back seam and his trousers were ripped. He touched a hand gently to one knee. It hurt to stand up straight. As he did so Makana became aware that he was being watched.
The alleyway ran downhill at both ends, arching upwards towards the middle. To Makana’s left where the alley met the street there were lights from some kind of loading bay at the back of the hotel. Opposite this stood a row of parked cars. Makana stared for a long time before he made out the figure standing there. It might have been anyone: a homeless person looking for somewhere to sleep; a late-night reveller looking for a spot to relieve himself. But Makana knew it was neither of these. The figure stood motionless against the wall. Makana took a step backwards, out of the band of light coming from the windows high above. As he did so there was a cracking sound from the wall by his head and he felt brick and plaster shower down on him. It took him a second to realise that he had been shot at. The man had a gun with a silencer. When he looked again he saw that the shadow had moved. Makana felt a moment of panic. Where was he?