Authors: Parker Bilal
The Burning Gates (24 page)
‘Hagen became something of a local hero.’ Ubay pulled up several more pictures of a smiling Hagen celebrating his victory outside what appeared to be a courthouse.
‘Did you find any more pictures?’
‘Not really. These are exceptions. Santos celebrating with his friends online and Hagen shooting someone.’
‘And no images of a Charles Barkley in the art business?’
‘I have lots of them, if you’re looking for a basketball player. Other than that, no.’ Makana started to get to his feet. Ubay leaned back and cocked one enormous and very worn shoe on the edge of the desk. ‘I get the impression they try to avoid publicity, apart from Kane, of course.’
‘Kane?’
‘Zachary Kane, the founder of Green Jackal Security. He appears to be something of a strange bird.’
Makana sat back down again. ‘Tell me about him.’
‘Well, Green Jackal was started up about three years ago. Right after the attacks on New York and the Pentagon. Somebody spotted an opportunity. It’s a small outfit. They had about thirty operatives in Afghanistan when they began, most of them ex-marines and Special Forces.’
‘How did you find all this out?’
‘Oh, there’s no end to stories about him. Kane loves publicity.’
‘What were they doing in Afghanistan?’
‘They began providing protection for US and Afghani officials, and then graduated to running a detention centre in Helmand. They got the jobs nobody else wanted.’
‘Tell me about Kane.’
‘Well, like I said, there are lots of stories about him. It’s not clear what his military history is. Some versions say he was in the Green Berets, that’s the American Special Forces, but it’s a claim that has been disputed. I can’t find confirmation either way. In any case, he got himself involved with a television film crew in some hotel in Kabul. He told them he was in charge of a mission to capture Osama Bin Laden. They paid him a huge amount of money for permission to go along.’
‘He made it up?’
‘American military sources deny he was ever part of such a mission and said it was certainly not their policy to turn a manhunt for the most wanted terrorist in the world into a television show.’
‘So he made a lot of money out of it.’
‘Not just money. Kane became a celebrity. He appeared on television talk shows. For a time he was a hero, something like a modern-day John Wayne.’
‘They never found Bin Laden?’
‘No.’ Ubay laughed in great hiccups, like a cartoon character. ‘They drove around for a time, but never found anything.’
‘What happened to Kane?’
‘The army couldn’t discipline him because he wasn’t a soldier. They couldn’t fire him because of some technical problem about who actually employed him. But they didn’t like him. They didn’t approve of his methods.’ Ubay brought up another document. ‘This is a Human Rights Watch report on the treatment of prisoners. There’s a whole section devoted to Kane’s outfit. They were torturing people.’
‘I thought they all did that.’
‘Sure, but they don’t get caught. Kane was out in Helmand province, executing people in public squares. He was acting like some kind of warrior king, calling tribal leaders to vow their allegiance.’
‘That must have damaged his image.’
‘Not at all. When the case came up you had celebrities on Fox News defending his actions, saying he was giving the Taliban a taste of their own medicine and there should be more like him.’
‘He was never charged then?’
‘No. Mercenaries, or contractors to give them their proper title, fall into a grey area as far as the law is concerned. You can’t charge them as civilians and they can’t be disciplined as military officers.’
‘In other words they are free to do as they like.’
‘Pretty much.’
‘So what did they do with him?’
‘They moved him out of the way, transferred the whole outfit.’
‘To another part of the world?’
‘To Iraq. Kane’s unit was given a new task, providing support for forces around Falluja.’
‘And since then?’
‘Nothing. It seems he learned his lesson. Kane vanished from the front pages. He was in enough trouble. He was sued for breaching all kinds of contracts, owed money to publishers and movie producers. It seems he just dropped out of sight. Just got tired of it all, I suppose.’
‘Do you have a picture of him?’
‘Here you go.’ Ubay pointed at the computer. Makana leaned forward to look at the grainy image. ‘That’s Zachary Kane.’
Although somehow he had been expecting it, Makana still felt a jolt of recognition as he stared at the face of the man he knew as Charles Barkley.
The early evening traffic was in full swing as Makana threaded his way across the underpass between the maze of fast-moving cars. It meant taking your life into your hands, but there was no other way. When he reached the relative sanctuary at the middle, the fading light illuminated a battlefield of potholes, twisted iron railings and broken kerbstones. The rush of a bus going by whipped at him with a blast of hot, combustible air as the driver mercilessly triggered a three-tone party horn designed to provoke cardiac failure in all but the most sturdy-hearted.
Learning that Charles Barkley the art collector was actually Zachary Kane the mercenary felt like a light going on in Makana’s head. It filled out the landscape with new shapes and forms. The complexity of what lay ahead of him was growing clear. Kane had come to Cairo with his associates, other soldiers of fortune, to seek out Kadhim al-Samari. They had flown in from Amman, carrying a false credit card and at least one fake identity. Kane had registered as Charles Barkley and contacted Kasabian. He had persuaded Kasabian that he was after a priceless painting. Was that what he was really after, or was it Samari he wanted? Why not both? There was always the possibility that this was some kind of American hit squad, here in some kind of semi-official capacity.
At the Ramses Hilton, Makana asked for Dalia Habashi and they called up. He spoke to her briefly. She told him to come straight up to room 719. She was standing in the doorway waiting for him, looking the worse for wear, when he stepped out of the lift. Her clothes were crumpled as if she had been sleeping in them and her hair was a mess. A glass dangled in one hand. A half-empty bottle of vodka stood on the table next to a television set that showed American soldiers patrolling in some desolate corner of Iraq.
‘What took you so long?’
‘I came as fast as I could.’
Her eyes were red from crying and drink. ‘You don’t seem to take this very seriously. My life is in danger.’ She crossed unsteadily to the table and poured more vodka over a handful of melting ice cubes. Then she sank down onto the bed with a sigh. ‘I don’t know. I was doing really well, and then, boom! I just couldn’t deal with it any more. I couldn’t stay at home for a moment longer. I booked myself on a plane and got myself this room and everything is packed. Then suddenly it hit me that I’d never see him again.’
‘You don’t know that for sure.’
‘A woman can tell,’ she insisted. Her eyeliner had run in monochrome streaks down the side of her face.
‘I think you’re doing the right thing,’ he said. ‘You should get out.’
‘I feel like I’m running away.’ She took a gulp of her drink.
‘And still no word from Na’il?’
She shook her head wordlessly, then lay down on her side and clutched the bottle to her. ‘He’s dead. I can feel it. And that means I have no one to protect me.’
‘Protect you from whom?’
‘Who do you think?’ She mumbled something to herself that he couldn’t catch. ‘Once they’ve had a taste, they just keep coming back. I should never have gone to him. Why does it always have to be about money?’
Makana realised she was talking about Qasim.
‘Is that why Na’il was trying to blackmail Kasabian? To get the money to pay off Qasim?’
‘The police came to ask me questions. They think he killed Kasabian. That makes no sense. He was getting money from him and he was going to get more. Why would he kill him?’
‘He was seen fleeing Kasabian’s house on the night of the murder. It’s possible he saw something.’ Makana sat down on a chair facing the bed. ‘Are you sure he didn’t tell you anything?’
‘Why would I lie? Look at me, I’ve got nothing left to lose.’ She rested the vodka on the bedside table to light a cigarette, ignoring the sign on the table that asked guests not to smoke.
Makana lit a Cleopatra. One more wouldn’t matter. He got up to open the window, which moved twenty centimetres and then stopped. The building was sealed like a glass box for the air-conditioning. The sounds of traffic and horns far below filtered through the gap.
‘The last time we talked you said Na’il was mixed up with the Zafrani brothers. Was that Ayad Zafrani?’
‘I don’t know. How would I know something like that?’ She scowled at him, her eyes out of focus. ‘You don’t listen to half of what I say,’ she grumbled, and reached for her vodka.
‘Did Na’il ever mention an American named Charles Barkley, or Zachary Kane?’
‘He mentioned a lot of names. He was always bragging about how many important people he knew and how they were all going to be his ticket to the stars. He was a dreamer.’ Her glass was empty. She reached for the bottle again and slipped to the floor. Makana tried to help her up. She giggled and wrapped an arm around his neck.
‘Why don’t you stay here tonight and keep me safe.’
‘I don’t think that’s a good idea.’
‘Why not?’ She pulled him down and kissed him.
Makana said nothing. He held her at arm’s length until she slumped back with a sigh and pushed her hands through her hair.
‘You’re right. I know. I’m just going to pieces.’ She lay back and closed her eyes. ‘What does any of it matter? Tomorrow I’ll go to the airport and be in another country by noon. I probably won’t be back for a while.’
‘What about the gallery?’
‘It can take care of itself. Besides, it’s not as if people are stampeding through the doors.’
In a few moments he heard her gentle snores. He got to his feet. Night was falling. He saw his reflection in the glass, a shadowy presence against the brightness of the room behind him. The woman on the bed seemed to be shrouded in a halo of light. Below him Cairo surged in constant anxiety, a seething mass of light and movement. An enigma, as ancient as the Sphinx and just as incomprehensible.
His telephone rang as he walked down the ramp from the hotel entrance.
‘I’d been hoping to hear from you,’ said a familiar voice.
‘Mr Barkley.’ Makana drew to a halt. ‘I’m sorry, I’ve been busy.’
‘Not so busy surely to make time for a client?’ A hearty chuckle came down the line.
‘Of course not. Where are you?’
‘I’d rather not say.’ There was a long pause. ‘The situation has changed slightly. I don’t have as much time as I thought I had.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that. These things have a pace of their own.’
‘I understand. I think it’s better we meet in person.’
‘Shall we say the Marriott like last time?’
‘No . . . no, that’s no longer an option. Why don’t we try somewhere different? I think I really need to get out and see a bit of the town. You can’t hide behind high walls all the time.’
‘If you’re sure.’
‘I hear there’s a great café inside the old bazaar, the Fish bar or something.’
‘Fishawi’s.’
‘Yes, that’s the one. Shall we say three o’clock tomorrow afternoon?’
Makana tucked his telephone back into his pocket and stood for a moment in the midst of the whirling turmoil. Cars rushed past him, lights flashing, horns screeching. The city felt as if it were about to implode.
Walking past a supermarket Makana’s eye caught the glitter of light on glass. It gave him an idea, and he retraced his steps. When he reached the Carlton Hotel, the man behind the desk was not the person he had met before. This one was half asleep, his face squashed out of shape by his upturned palm. He jerked awake as Makana walked in.
‘What is it?’ He was a large man with a loose, jowly face and red eyes that cried out only to be allowed to close once more. Makana fished in his pocket for a slip of paper and squinted at what was written there.
‘Mr Frank, Room 27?’
‘What about him?’
‘Special delivery.’ Makana held up the supermarket bag containing a bottle of Butler’s gin. ‘He called from his room.’
‘You can leave it here.’ The receptionist licked his lips.
Makana drew back. ‘My life wouldn’t be worth living. He’s American, you know.’
‘You don’t have to remind me. May Allah spare us from them.’
‘I’d be out of a job tomorrow. I can’t afford that.’
The receptionist rubbed his bleary eyes. ‘I don’t think I’ve seen you in the shop before.’
‘I’m standing in for my brother-in-law, he’s having a baby.’
‘Really, the short one, Abdelhadi?’