The Burning Gates (26 page)

‘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 aftermath 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.

Two men jumped out, from front and rear. They came round to Makana’s door and pulled it open. He found himself looking into the barrel of an automatic pistol.

‘Out!’

Raising his hands to show they were empty, Makana stepped out of the car. Hands pressed him to the side of the Thunderbird and searched him carefully. The bullets from Cassidy’s gun were weighted up and tossed aside. When they were satisfied they turned him round and held him as the second BMW slid up. The rear window slid down smoothly. The gun pressed hard into his spine urging him forwards.

‘No false moves,’ whispered the bodyguard.

Inside the rear of the second car sat a man wearing a dark suit. His grey hair was cut short. He wore dark glasses even in the night, but perhaps they performed another function. A jagged scar ran across the front of his face from above his left eye and down to his right cheek. The glasses covered up some of the damage. He leaned forward to examine Makana from top to toe. When he spoke his voice was low.

‘Do you know who I am?’

‘Kadhim al-Samari.’

‘Very good. Now tell me, why are you so interested in me?’

‘Kasabian hired me to find you.’

‘Kasabian is dead.’

‘That doesn’t mean I’m not supposed to finish what he paid me for.’

‘A loyal employee.’ Al-Samari removed his glasses. His eyes were hidden in shadow, but Makana could feel them scrutinising him. ‘Why was Kasabian killed?’

‘I thought you might be able to help me with that.’

‘You think perhaps I had something to do with it?’

‘A man calling himself Charles Barkley came here looking for you. Kasabian hired me to find you, or rather to prove to this American that you are not here.’

‘You know who this man is, the one calling himself Barkley?’

‘An American mercenary by the name of Zachary Kane.’

Samari’s lips drew into a thin smile. ‘A bounty hunter.’

‘I believe he’s the one who tortured Kasabian.’

‘Why?’

‘He wanted Kasabian to lead him to you.’

‘Why should he be after me?’

‘I can think of a million reasons. Several million in fact.’

‘The price on my head?’ There was something slightly off about the Iraqi. He had clearly been badly wounded at some stage. It looked as if the bones of his face had been broken and then reset themselves slightly out of shape, so that the two halves didn’t quite match up.

‘Either that, or a fortune in stolen artwork, beginning with the German Expressionists.’

‘You’ve done your work well.’ Samari smiled. ‘Would you say that he was a dangerous man?’

‘Yes, I think it’s safe to say so.’

‘And would you say that he intends to do me harm?’

‘I can’t say, but from what I’ve seen I would think that was a possibility.’ Makana kept his eyes fixed on the man inside the car.

‘You don’t need to be afraid of me.’ When Samari smiled it had a strange effect on his features. ‘I’m not going to hurt you.’

‘What makes you think I’m afraid?’

‘I know your story. Kasabian told me who he was hiring for the job. I know everything there is to know about you.’

‘Not everything.’

‘Don’t be too sure. I have my sources.’ He leaned forward and lowered his voice. ‘It never leaves you, ever,’ he whispered. Makana breathed in. The street was quiet and deserted, so silent that you could hear the light wind shifting the leaves of the tall neem trees. Then Samari signalled and the guard behind Makana stepped back a pace. ‘Don’t bother looking for me here again, I shall not return.’ Samari looked at Makana again. ‘But I wish to make a proposition.’