by Parker Bilal
‘Look,’ Makana began, ‘I’m sorry about what happened . . .’
‘What?’ The man’s narrow brows arched like bows, pointing up towards the oily patina of thinning hair combed close to his skull. ‘Sorry?’ he thundered like an actor on stage, frowning and gesturing. ‘You stay away from my wife.’ He jabbed Makana in the chest with a hard finger. Makana stepped back until he found himself pressed against a sharp metal protrusion in the door frame.
‘Aziz!’ his wife cried.
‘You and your boss have done enough damage. You tell Farag. We will have nothing more to do with your dirty business.’ He gestured at his wife, who sat crying quietly to herself. ‘See what you have done?’ Suddenly he was beside himself, wretched and helpless. ‘We have done nothing . . . nothing, do you hear?’ The emotion was too much for him to bear. His head slumped and a sob escaped from him. ‘Just leave us alone,’ he whispered. ‘Go away and leave us alone. We’ve done nothing to you.’
‘Look, I’m sorry about what happened.’
‘Sorry?’ the man sneered. ‘I told Farag I will not have strange men visiting my wife at home and look what he did to her. Look!’
‘Did you call the police?’
‘The police? Do I need more trouble? She has lost her job. Look at her. You need to go. Now.’ He pushed the door firmly shut in Makana’s face. The hallway was dark. He stood for a moment. Fifteen minutes later he was leaning on the door buzzer of Faraga Film Productions, and kept leaning until there was a response from within.
‘All right, I’m coming!’ called a voice. Lumbering footsteps approached. ‘Where’s the fire?’
As the door began to swing inwards Makana threw his weight forward. The door struck Farag full in the face, causing him to let out a howl. He weaved about blindly, hands clutched to his nose, thumping into the wall behind him. Makana stepped inside and shut the door carefully, pushing the bolt across to make sure they would not be disturbed. Farag’s eyes widened with confusion over the mask of his hands, blood spilling through his fingers as he saw Makana lift the chair that stood by the reception desk and smash it against the wall. Forgetting his bleeding nose for a moment, Farag let out a high-pitched cry of terror and sank down as the chair splintered above him. A picture frame containing verses from the Quran exploded, raining shards of glass and holy words over him. Farag squealed and began to crawl on his hands and knees towards the door to his office.
He wasn’t moving very quickly and Makana had time to check there was no one else in the apartment before following him, pausing to separate a stout leg from the remains of the chair. A trail of blood smeared the floor tiles in Farag’s wake as he crawled into his room, weakly pushing the door to behind him. Makana kicked it aside. At the far end of the cramped office, Farag was half out of sight behind the desk, trying to pull open the bottom drawer. He had his hand inside when Makana came round and brought down the chair leg on his wrist. There was a snapping sound and Farag, still on his knees, let out another howl, clutching his hand to his chest as he rolled away.
Opening the drawer to see what he had been reaching for, Makana discovered a 9mm Beretta with a cross-hatched grip. He lifted it out, slipping off the safety catch and pushing back the slide to check there was a round in the chamber. Then he moved closer, bending down over the fallen man and pushing the barrel into his fat and somewhat sweaty neck.
‘Is this real, or just one of your film props?’
Makana didn’t really need or expect an answer. Farag was breathing heavily, his eyes clamped tightly shut.
‘Was it really necessary to hurt that woman? What were you afraid she might tell me?’
‘What are you going to do?’ he whimpered. ‘Shoot me? You’re mad, you’ll never get away with it. I’m not just anybody, you know.’
‘I wouldn’t be too sure about that, but for the moment I need your assistance so I’m not going to kill you right away.’
‘What do you want to know?’ Farag stared up sullenly, pressing his good hand hopelessly to his nose, trying to sit upright. Makana put the gun barrel to his ear and shoved his head flat against the wall.
‘Tell me about Vronsky?’
‘Vronsky? He arrived here with money in his pocket. Don’t ask me where he got it, because I have no idea. Where do any of those Russians get their money?’ He sniffed, guarding his broken wrist against him like a wounded animal. ‘They all come looking for a quiet place in the sun. Vronsky came here. Don’t ask me why, I suppose it’s safer than Spain, or somewhere in Europe where they still have policemen who do their job. So he settled for this place.’
‘Then what?’
‘What do I know? He builds himself a palace and prepares to die of old age.’
‘What does he want from Adil Romario?’
‘Nothing.’ Farag tried to smile, his face a grotesque mask, nicotine-yellow teeth stained with blood. ‘Vronsky likes to have fun. Parties, that kind of thing.’
‘I heard about the parties, and the girls.’
‘There’s no harm in it,’ Farag snivelled. ‘It’s just a bit of fun, that’s all.’ Makana realised he was trying to smile and gave him a kick.
‘What was that for?’
‘You looked like you were enjoying yourself too much.’ Makana flicked the gun under his nose. ‘What was your part in all this?’
‘I filmed them, discreetly. It was all just for fun.’
‘What kind of people attended these parties?’
‘Ministers, aides, officials, people who could get things done. Businessmen. Vronsky wanted to invest his money.’
‘Saad Hanafi?’
Farag shook his head. ‘No, but his lieutenant was there.’
‘Gaber?’
‘Slim, white hair, looks down his nose at you.’
Makana couldn’t resist bringing the chair leg down hard again on the man’s knee. There was another howl of pain.
‘You’re insane,’ Farag whimpered. ‘I’ll never walk again.’
‘You should have tried acting instead of directing,’ said Makana. ‘You might have been more successful. Now get up.’
‘What?’ Farag licked blood from his lips, real horror in his eyes.
‘You heard me. We’re going for a drive.’
‘Please tell me,’ the man whined hysterically, ‘are you going to kill me?’
‘If I had wanted to do that, you’d be dead already.’
Farag didn’t look reassured.
‘Where are we going?’
‘To see your friend Vronsky.’
‘No, no . . . wait,’ Farag implored. ‘Please don’t make me do this. You don’t know what kind of person he is. I mean, he’ll kill me, I swear.’
‘Where’s your car parked?’
Chapter Twenty-three
It took a while for Farag to hobble down the stairs and out into the street. He exaggerated his difficulties somewhat, which caused Makana to jab him in the ribs with the gun a couple of times. They got some odd looks on the street, but the car was parked in a narrow alley out of the way, an old beige Mercedes 200 that had seen better days. In the boot Makana found a length of electrical cable, among the rest of the junk that was in there. He pushed Farag into the passenger seat and tied his hands to the door handle.
‘What’s wrong with him?’ asked a man in rags who had emerged from behind a heap of discarded office furniture to stand watching. He looked like he’d been shipwrecked a century ago.
‘I’m taking him to the hospital,’ Makana explained.
‘Is that why you have to tie him up?’ The man’s trousers were in shreds and he only wore one shoe.
‘He’s not right in the head. He might hurt himself some more.’
‘This whole city is full of crazy people,’ said the man, shaking his head.
On Farag’s directions they drove out south-east of the city in the direction of the sea. He remained silent for the most part, staring at the empty landscape they were driving through. A few times he asked if he could
smoke but Makana ignored him.
The traffic eased up as the narrow streets gave way to open highways. They stopped to fill up the tank. Farag said he needed the toilet, so Makana untied him and led him round the back of the petrol station and told him to get on with it. There was no fight left in Farag, who was convinced that he was about to die. He was shaking so much he pissed on his shoes. They were back on the road in less than five minutes. Makana relented and gave him a cigarette.
The Mercedes was sluggish but powerful and had no difficulty passing the slow trucks and tourist buses lumbering towards the coast. It took them just over an hour to reach the Red Sea and from there the road wound south along the shoreline for another three hundred kilometres. It took them just over four hours altogether.
The Big Blue was located in a new tourist development just north of Hurghada itself, which was a sprawling mess of hotels and cheap restaurants. El Gouna was an old fishing village gradually being transformed into an upmarket alternative, a complex of luxury resorts. The construction work was in full swing, and the raw, unblemished shoreline was slowly but surely being whittled down to make way for more marinas and golf courses. In a few years’ time there wouldn’t be an inch of it that remained untouched. The Big Blue was placed on the tip of a peninsula that jutted out into the sea. You could see the walls, a pale turquoise colour, rising out of the sand against the sea beyond, capped with a wavy white strip along the top to make them blend in better. This was what distinguished it from the less classy places down the coast, supposed Makana as they turned in off the road and circled a roundabout that resembled a desert island, complete with palm trees. A black squad car was parked to one side inside the car park. The police officer inside it was asleep, snoring with his head thrown back. Makana pulled on the handbrake and reached over to untie Farag.
‘You’re going to behave yourself, aren’t you?’
Farag nodded, weak and limp, nursing his bruised and bloody face. Makana hauled him out of the car. Then he placed the gun in the glove compartment and locked it.
‘I’ll hang on to these for a while,’ he said, putting the car keys into his pocket.
The lobby of the resort had a sleepy feel to it, as if nothing of any great importance ever happened there. In its air-conditioned interior the quaint ceiling fans were mere decoration. They turned languorously, offering the change of pace conducive to a good holiday.
‘Ah, Mr Farag,’ the receptionist began. His smile faded when he got a closer look at the fat man’s battered face.
‘Tell Vronsky I’m here,’ muttered Farag, trying to maintain some dignity.
‘Right away, sir.’ The receptionist nodded and fumbled for the telephone.
Makana leaned on the counter and surveyed the reception area. It was a wide open lobby, cluttered with furniture that seemed to have been set down with no real consideration of the space available. Open doors led through to a sunny inner courtyard. In the far corner two men lounged in rattan armchairs. One was snoring with his head inside a newspaper and the other was picking his teeth. In front of them were the remains of a meal and some half-empty glasses. They were SSI agents. A blind man could have spotted them a mile off. The second one nudged the first awake and they both stared sullenly at Makana for a time. Then one of them produced a telephone from his pocket and began to press buttons.
‘Mr Vronsky will see you right away.’ The receptionist snapped his fingers and a porter appeared. A slim young man still in his teens, he wore a uniform topped off with a red tarboosh. It was fixed to his head by an elastic band worn under his chin, which made him look like a monkey about to perform somersaults. Instead, he led the way across the lobby and out into a wide, shady courtyard. At the centre was a swimming pool. It was surrounded on three sides by villas arranged in a semicircle around a curving beach. They were linked by a series of terraces covered in teak tables and chairs, shrouded by large umbrellas. Along the beach straw sun shelters like large umbrellas shaded pairs of loungers. A few of these were occupied, mostly by middle-aged Westerners. They were dressed in swimsuits and sunglasses, and were reading books or sleeping. Over on the other side another set of guests were standing in a shallow pool up to their well-stuffed waistlines. A group of elderly ladies waved their arms in the air in enthusiastic if ungainly time to the disco music screeching from loudspeakers, while their eyes feasted on a young, muscular instructor who yelled orders at them from the side, like a sergeant major in a T-shirt and flowery bathing trunks.
The bellhop led them through to an area fenced off by a bamboo screen to prevent curious eyes from seeing into it. This part of the resort stretched all the way down to the sea and seemed to mark the beginning of an even more exclusive section of the property. The crowns of tall palms waved majestically overhead. A high green gate was set in an archway covered in glazed blue tiles. The porter rang the intercom and whispered something. A buzzer sounded and the door swung open to admit them.
The inner sanctum was almost as spacious as the main area, only there were fewer buildings and people. A wide lawn stretched out, ending in a neat file of palm trees lined up along the beach. There was another swimming pool, around which lounged a number of women in bikinis. These were younger and in better shape than the ones Makana had seen exercising in the pool next door. Some were Europeans, some not. A couple of them sat on the edge, kicking their feet in the water. Nobody paid much attention to Farag and Makana as they took the path towards a large Spanish-style villa. A wooden door heavy enough to guard a palace opened automatically as they climbed the steps. Someone somewhere had seen them coming.
The bellhop abandoned them here to a Filipino valet in a crisp white uniform. Without a word he turned and led the way across a wide hall with arches and doorways on both sides and a staircase leading upwards. Another arch admitted them to a large semicircular patio the size and shape of a small amphitheatre. It was cool and airy here. There was the splash of water from a pool of some kind, this time occupied by bright tropical fish flitting about in it like coloured darts. Water spilled into the pool down a wall of rippled brown coral. To the right of the steps was a long bar equipped with high stools, another Filipino waiting attentively behind it. Beyond this was a gym area. Fans blew cool spray into the air over their heads. All manner of running machines and weight-lifting equipment were spread about on a rectangle of artificial green turf, which brought to mind Hanafi’s golf range.
Vronsky, or the man Makana took to be him, was lying face up on a bench, lifting a bar loaded with weights. Beads of sweat rolled down his forehead as he concentrated on his workout. The two men standing beside him seemed to serve no purpose other than to provide him with an audience, but when he’d finished his routine they stepped in to take the heavy bar from him and set it on its stand. It didn’t look easy, even for the two of them. Vronsky sat up to reveal a torso covered in tattoos. Both shoulders were decked with feathers that descended down his back and along his arms as far as his elbows, giving the appearance of wings. On his forearms were words in Chinese and what might have been Sanskrit. Makana would have put his age at close to fifty, though a man ten years younger would have been happy with that body. There was no excess fat. It was all muscle. Someone handed him a towel and a bottle of water. Someone else handed him a shirt, which he pulled on but didn’t bother to button. He was wearing tracksuit pants and flipflops on his feet.
One of the bodyguards stepped towards Makana and Farag, and indicated for them to lift their arms. He ran a quick, expert hand over them both and stepped back with a nod.
‘What happened to your face?’ asked Vronsky, amused, peering at the blood caked around Farag’s nostrils. He murmured something inaudible. Vronsky stepped forward for a closer look before turning to Makana.
‘Did you do this?’
‘We were having problems communicating.’
A quizzical expression crossed Vronsky’s face as he studied Makana for a moment before turning back to Farag.
‘So, my fat friend,
have you been playing games?’
‘No! Really. I have done nothing . . .’
‘Always trying to make a little extra money for yourself. You know what that’s called? Greed. That’s what. You can’t trust a man who doesn’t know when to stop.’
‘I swear on my mother’s life, I never told him anything,’ Farag whimpered.
Vronsky turned to Makana.
‘And what is your game?’
‘I don’t have a game. I’m looking for someone.’
‘And what leads you to think I know anything about your friend?’ Vronsky clowned for his audience, rolling his eyes. The two bodybuilders, or bodyguards if that was what they were, didn’t smile back.
‘He’s looking for Adil Romario,’ explained Farag, trying to be helpful.
The Russian circled a finger in the air. ‘What part of this story am I missing?’
‘I work for Saad Hanafi,’ Makana said.
Vronsky tilted his head to one side, and his eyes seemed to light up.
‘Hanafi? Why didn’t you say so?’
He wasn’t a tall man, but what he lacked in height he seemed to make up for in presence. The smile was unconvincing on that rigid face. Without taking his eyes off Makana, Vronsky said something over his shoulder in a language that Makana assumed was Russian. One of the other men stepped towards Farag, who tensed.
‘It’s okay.’ Vronsky had reverted back to English. He ran a hand over the smooth bristles of his silver-flecked hair. ‘Go with them. They’ll fix you up. That looks nasty.’ He winced in exaggerated fashion, pointing at the wound on Farag’s nose and patting him on the shoulder. ‘It’ll be fine. They will clean it up and you should get some rest. Have something to eat.’
Clearly unhappy, Farag was led away, head hanging, like a condemned man on his way to the gallows.
‘Why did you really do that?’ Vronsky’s pale blue eyes seemed to radiate their own inner light.
‘I don’t like men who beat up women.’
The Russian’s eyebrows lifted in mock astonishment. ‘What are you? The avenger of the poor and abused . . . restorer of justice?’ He led the way over to the bar and ordered a glass of juice which appeared in front of him in no time. ‘What can we offer you?’