The Golden Scales

by Parker Bilal

  Neither of them really had any idea what they were going to find. The further they drove, the harder Makana found it to reconcile what he was seeing around him with what Soraya Hanafi had described. Luxury residential estates, safe and secure. Remote enough from the crowds to put you and your money at ease. Stations on the road to happiness. A little chunk of heaven at an affordable price. They drove past a few similar developments, their titles displaying naked ambition: Paradise Oasis, Green Lands, Happiness Valley, Sunny Park. All the names were invented in English and then transcribed to make up words which made no real sense at all in Arabic, language being another notch in the gap between those who could afford such places and those who were not welcome. Hanafi and others like him were busy constructing another world out here. One which bore as little resemblance as possible to the rest of the country. A bowl for exotic fish to swim about in. And so the wealthy classes abandoned the city to the poor and the less fortunate – the wretched of the earth. More lush golfing greens and swimming pools popping up out of the ground like fairy-tale castles, complete with perimeter fences and security guards to keep the riff-raff out.

  ‘It should be somewhere up here,’ said Sami, turning on to what was really not much more than a single track. Makana was not convinced. The wind had picked up and sand had built into drifts that covered the road almost completely in places. From time to time the wheels caught and began to spin freely, slinging the rear end of the battered Datsun from side to side. After about ten more minutes of this they climbed a small rise and found themselves gazing down upon a dusty bowl at the centre of which was a compound, or rather the beginnings of one.

  As they got out of the car, the wind wrenched the door angrily from Makana’s hand. He wrestled it back into place. Squinting, he shielded his eyes with one hand, both feet sinking into the soft ground as fine sand poured into his shoes. Sami was pointing at a hoarding, now flapping back and forth as if a demon was shaking it. Hanafi Heavens, it read.

  ‘This is it?’ yelled Sami.

  Beyond the high fence, however, there wasn’t much to see of the promised bliss. Out of the ochre landscape a faint glimmer of green drew the eye, but it was a circle of windblown and withered palms, fronds snapping in the air like switches. Makana could make out the beginnings of some construction. Sami indicated a place where there was a gap in the fence for them to duck through. The barbed wire hummed in the air over their heads as if charged with electricity.

  The houses were no more than empty concrete shells. Most of them were unfinished and even those that did have four walls were lacking a roof or some other essential component. They wandered through what felt like the ruins of a forgotten city, already half-buried in the sand. A vanquished empire.

  Staggering up a slippery dune, stumbling and cursing before he reached the top, Makana turned to survey the development. He remembered the model he had seen back at the offices of Hanafi Enterprises and could roughly make out the lie of the land. At some point the first phase had been marked out. The tops of wooden stakes daubed with red paint protruded from the ground here and there. Many of them had fallen over, or been swallowed up by the drifting sand. It wasn’t easy to imagine what it would look like when it was finished. The parks and ponds, the connecting paths, the cinema and shopping mall, a funfair playground for the kids . . . This place was meant to be complete in itself with no need for contact with the outside world. Sami had reached him by now and flopped down on the burning ground, gasping for breath. Makana stared down the hill for a moment then started off. With a sigh, Sami dragged himself to his feet again and followed.

  As they made their way back along the curving path that traversed the undulating landscape, Makana said, ‘At least you have a title for your article, when you eventually write it.’

  ‘And what would that be?’ Sami asked, squinting through the stinging dust.

  ‘Paradise Postponed.’

  Sami laughed all the way back to the car, partly with relief that they were leaving. But there was more work to come. The Datsun was stuck in the shifting sand. The more Sami pressed his foot down, the deeper the wheels spun themselves in. They climbed out and stood contemplating the buried tyres.

  ‘Now what?’

  ‘Now we start to dig,’ said Makana, dropping to his knees.

  Chapter Thirty-four

  The accountant’s name was Mustafa Debbous and he lived in a shabby block of flats underneath a flyover in Bulaq. Makana and Sami climbed the stairs in the gloom, stumbling over discarded bones and empty cans that had been scattered from a bag of rubbish, probably ripped open by a stray cat. On the fourth floor Sami leaned on the doorbell until a tremulous, excitable voice spoke from within.

  ‘Who is it?’

  ‘It’s me, Sami Barakat.’

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘I have a last question for you.’

  ‘But I’ve told you everything I know,’ insisted the voice plaintively.

  ‘I’ve got someone with me. A friend.’

  ‘I . . . uh . . . thought I made it clear, I can’t be seen talking to people.’

  They both turned as a door opened behind them to reveal a solid-looking woman wearing a black gellabia.

  ‘If anyone wants an apology here, it’s me!’ she shouted. ‘What right do you have, coming here and conducting your business in the middle of the hall so that everyone can hear you?’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ began Sami.

  ‘Am I talking to you? I’m addressing the rat hiding behind that door!’

  ‘I’ve told you before,’ squeaked the rat, ‘you have no right to involve yourself in my affairs.’

  ‘Why are you afraid to come out and show your face?’

  ‘I’m not afraid, certainly not of you.’

  The door opened to reveal a small fellow with a narrow, elongated face and tiny eyes behind round spectacles. He did bear some resemblance to a rodent. He peered round them to address his irate neighbour.

  ‘Khalas, we leave you in peace.’

  ‘Peace? You don’t know the meaning of the word. There won’t be any peace in this house until our Lord gives you what you deserve.’

  With that the door opposite slammed shut and Debbous stood aside to usher them in, glancing quickly round the outer hall before closing his own door. He stood wringing his hands as if trying to drain them of feeling. Producing a large handkerchief, he proceeded to wipe his brow.

  ‘That woman is unbearable. She murdered her husband, I’m sure of it!’ he hissed.

  Then, like a caged mammal, he scurried away down a narrow, unlit corridor, leading the way into a shuttered salon that was cluttered with all kinds of antique objects: heavy standing lamps, chandeliers, ornate mirrors, gilded chairs and tables. It looked like a cave stuffed with treasures salvaged from the long-gone days of the pashas. The fact that it felt rather like a museum perhaps explained why the three of them remained standing in the middle of the room.

  ‘Quite a collection you have here,’ observed Makana. ‘Are these all yours?’

  Debbous clutched Sami’s arm. ‘Who is this?’ he demanded in a faint whisper.

  ‘This is my associate, Makana.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Debbous, his mouth locked into a circle. ‘Another journalist?’ He nervously fingered the tip of his shirt collar. ‘Perhaps I should insist on raising my fee?’

  ‘And perhaps you have already been paid quite enough,’ said Makana.

  ‘Well, it’s not easy,’ fretted the accountant. ‘I could get myself into a lot of trouble.’

  ‘You’re a brave man,’ said Makana. ‘There aren’t many who would steal from Hanafi.’

  ‘Well, I didn’t steal exactly.’ Debbous’s voice was a plaintive whine that sawed on Makana’s nerves like an out-of-tune violin. ‘I just sort of borrowed it.’

  ‘Borrowed it for what?’

  ‘Oh, to buy things.’ Debbous gestured around the room. ‘You know, bargains like these were not going to be available for long. Once sold they
are gone for ever.’

  ‘How did he catch you?’

  ‘It wasn’t Hanafi. He has no idea what is going on. It’s all Gaber.’ Debbous clenched his little fists together. ‘He’s like a snake, that one. You can’t get anything past him.’

  ‘What about the daughter, Soraya?’

  ‘What about her?’

  Makana spelled it out. ‘How does she fit into the Hanafi empire?’

  ‘Oh, she’s smart.’ The accountant tapped his temple with one finger. ‘But she’s a girl, of course, so nobody takes her seriously. In this country, if you want to be in charge of something you need to be a man.’

  ‘She’s her father’s daughter . . . his heiress.’

  ‘It makes no difference to some people.’

  ‘So Gaber is running things?’

  ‘In theory, yes, but his hands are tied. He still has to follow the old man’s orders. If Hanafi insists he wants a new stadium . . . what can he do? It is like a ship being steered by a blind man,’ Debbous insisted. ‘Sooner or later it’s going to hit something.’

  ‘How easy would it be to take control of a company that big?’

  ‘You mean, buy it out?’ The thin eyebrows twitched. ‘Well,’ Debbous folded his arms and shot a glance towards one corner of the room, ‘I’m not sure I ought to share this with you . . .’

  ‘If the information is good my associate will be happy to compensate you,’ said Sami, which cheered Debbous up somewhat. He cocked his head to one side.

  ‘If somebody really wanted to take control, it would be easy enough. If you bought up the bank debts. I mean, there’s nothing wrong with it as such,’ he added. ‘If you made a few adjustments, there’s no need for the business to fail.’

  ‘What kind of adjustments?’ queried Makana.

  ‘Some projects would have to be put on hold.’

  ‘Like the stadium?’ suggested Sami helpfully.

  The accountant threw up his hands. ‘It would be cheaper to build a pyramid. The company is over-extended. The housing projects, the stadium . . . it’s too much. All you need is for someone to step in and offer to take the loans off the bank’s hands. They would be more than willing to part with them.’

  ‘Even though Hanafi is an old and trusted customer?’

  ‘Old is the right word. He could die at any moment and where would that leave them then? There’s no one to take over. Who wants to be saddled with loans that size? They could bring down the bank. The government would be forced to step in, and everyone knows they don’t have any money.’

  ‘It’s like one big house of cards,’ whistled Sami.

  ‘Theoretically speaking, who might be capable of stepping in and taking over loans that big?’

  Debbous folded his arms. ‘It’s not so much the size of them. You’d need government approval, of course, but that can be taken care of . . . for a price.’

  ‘Then what is the problem?’ asked Makana.

  ‘You’d need to have guts to take on Hanafi. He has a lot of enemies, and a lot of friends. Anyone who tried a hostile takeover of his business would be sticking their head in the lion’s jaws.’

  ‘So tell us about this Russian, Vronsky.’

  ‘What about him?’ The accountant’s eyes began to wander nervously again.

  ‘Has he been buying up Hanafi’s debt at the bank?’

  ‘Well, yes, but only in the last few months. Maybe six at the most.’

  ‘Is there someone else?’ frowned Makana.

  ‘Oh, yes.’ Debbous rubbed his hands together as if washing them.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Well, I’m not sure who’s behind it. It’s a bank I’d never heard of before: Green Nakhala Reserve Fund.’

  ‘And you don’t know anything about them?’

  Debbous shook his head. ‘They seem to have unlimited funds. There is a suspicion that it is one of those Arab princes who has decided to put his millions at the service of Allah.’

  ‘How much of Hanafi’s empire is in their hands?’

  ‘I couldn’t tell you, not without making a few calls, but a good thirty per cent, I would say. The banks aren’t keen for people to know their business. But you know what this country is like. Everyone wants a chance to talk.’

  Makana was silent for a long time. So Vronsky had a rival. Another bank with Arab connections. Who was behind it, he wondered, and was Adil involved with them? The accountant was still talking.

  ‘Between them, Vronsky and the Arabs own over fifty per cent. If they combined their resources they could take over tomorrow.’

  As he turned towards the front door, Sami tried to reassure the nervous accountant.

  ‘It’s all right, you’ve done well.’

  ‘I thought there was some talk of further compensation,’ Debbous whined. ‘I mean, I could get into a lot of trouble . . .’

  Makana left Sami to negotiate and wandered back down the hall, his mind turning over the possibilities. The flat was a private museum full of ugly, useless objects from a bygone age. In the days of the pashas he himself would have been a Nubian servant who came and went at the beck and call of people like Debbous. Perhaps that was what the little accountant dreamed of: his own glorious reign. Everyone wanted to be king, it seemed. That was why everybody loved Hanafi, wasn’t it? They dreamed of having the life he had. And what of Adil Romario . . . who did he dream of becoming?

  Makana was bothered by a thought that had been nagging at the back of his mind for some time. There were too many coincidences linking Adil’s story to his own. He needed to find out where the Green Nakhala Reserve Fund was based, but he had an idea he already knew. The course of Adil’s life appeared to have changed after his trip to Khartoum for the DreemTeem exhibition match. What had happened there exactly? Who had he met?

  Finally, Sami finished counting notes into the accountant’s hand and the two men took their leave. As they stepped out of the apartment they were met by a hail of abuse from the strident neighbour. The building reverberated to the sound of her raised voice as Makana and Sami descended the staircase.

  Chapter Thirty-five

  The door to Faraga Film Productions stood open. Even as he stepped inside, Makana could see that the place had been emptied. A tall man wearing a striped gellabia and a sullen look on his face was walking out of what used to be Farag’s office, cradling a television set in his arms. Makana recognised him as the bawab who usually stood listlessly on guard in the front hallway downstairs.

  ‘What happened here?’

  ‘Oh, they left.’ The man blinked, replying with an unconcerned air that seemed to imply there was nothing odd about him walking out holding a television set that clearly wasn’t his.

  ‘Left how?’

  ‘Some people came to pick up the films and stuff.’

  ‘Not everything.’

  The man looked down as if he had just noticed what was in his own arms. ‘They said I could hold on to this. It’s just as well because they never paid me for the last month.’

  ‘Who exactly were these men?’

  ‘How should I know?’ He made to move by and Makana blocked his way.

  ‘What did they say?’

  Irritation crossed the man’s face. He was annoyed at having his getaway delayed.

  ‘What’s it to you anyway?’

  Makana flashed him Okasha’s card, fast enough for him to see the police insignia and not much else. The man groaned.

  ‘I’ve done nothing wrong. They told me I could keep it.’ He hefted the set in his arms. ‘It’s for the children.’

  ‘Who told you?’

  ‘The ones who came. They said Mr Farag was moving his office to another place and that everything was arranged with the owner of the building, so there’s nothing wrong with that.’

  ‘Who were these men?’

  ‘How should I know?’ The bawab stared at the wall. ‘They sounded foreign. And they work fast. If I hadn’t come back from my breakfast early, I might have missed them.’

/>   ‘Did they say where? I mean, where they were taking Farag’s things?’

  He edged towards the door again. ‘Oh, no, and frankly, I don’t make it my job to interfere in other people’s business. Could you pull the door closed on your way out?’ He gestured to indicate that he didn’t have a free hand, and then he was gone. Makana listened to his slippers slapping their way down the stairs.

  If a plague of ravenous termites had fallen upon it Farag’s office could not have been stripped more efficiently. Nothing was left. Table, desk, chairs, the stacks of papers, the dusty computers and decrepit printer and fax machine, even the telephone, were all gone. It wasn’t a bad room once the clutter had been removed. Makana went over to the window and peered down at the street below where a woman in black with a tray of guavas on her head stood on one foot while she chewed the strap of her slipper. Then she dropped it to the floor, stepped into it and shuffled on her way.

  Makana tried to imagine Farag on an extended holiday by the sea, splashing about in the pool with Vronsky’s stable of beauties, but somehow the image did not convince. Would he have been foolish enough to keep all of his incriminating tapes here in his office? Knowing Farag, it was quite possible. Whatever they thought he had, they wanted to make quite sure nothing was left behind. Makana was surprised they hadn’t stripped the walls. Now it was gone, furniture and all, spirited away by the Russian bodybuilders. It didn’t bode well for Farag.

  On his way out Makana paused by an open doorway that led into a tiny room under the stairs where the doorman and his family lived. The bawab was thumping the top of the television set with one hand while frowning at the kaleidoscope of colour that fluttered before him but refused to settle into a picture. Behind him a flock of grubby urchins screamed and hit one another while a small, round woman, who looked no older than eighteen, reclined on a large bed, her head against the wall and her eyes closed in exhaustion.