The Burning Gates (6 page)

‘Actually, I was hoping to run into you.’

‘You’re toying with my feelings now.’ Marwan wagged a finger and reached for his glass. ‘I’m always here. Everyone knows that.’ Marwan poured beer down his throat, his Adam’s apple bouncing like a runaway rubber ball. The drink unleashed a sentimental streak. ‘You remember where we first met?’

Naturally, Makana remembered. It would be hard to forget. It was out on the Red Sea coast. A bomb had exploded in a hotel. Marwan had been part of the State Security team whose job it had been to keep an eye on a Russian named Vronsky who was killed in the explosion. Marwan was part of the surveillance team and was busy tidying up afterwards when Makana turned up. That was about six years ago. Since then they had bumped into one another on a handful of occasions. It wasn’t like they were friends, but you didn’t get anywhere in this world without contacts. Makana’s life depended on that fact in more ways than one.

For a time they talked about the past, cases they had worked on, people they knew. Makana was about to make his excuses and leave – hanging around with drunken policemen was not his idea of fun – but he needed information and Marwan seemed to have something on his mind. He called for another beer, which appeared as if by magic at his elbow. Makana had barely sipped his first. He braced himself and then tried to stave off the deluge by asking a question of his own.

‘How’s Lieutenant Sharqi?’

‘Sharqi?’ Marwan didn’t so much say the name as spit it. Foam flecked the table, missing Makana’s hand by millimetres. ‘People like Sharqi always manage to come up smelling of roses. They take care of him. He’s presentable. Young. Smart. Knows about computers. The Americans like him. That’s important. He’ll go a long way. I think Colonel Serraj is grooming him, maybe to take his spot one day.’ Marwan shrugged as if this was of no importance to him. Another bitter pill life had cast him. He drowned it with more beer for a time before finally coming up for air. ‘You were involved in that business out in the desert, weren’t you? Well, there was a lot of finger pointing after that. The operation went bad. Heads had to roll. They put a nice twist on it as usual, some stories in the papers about catching a few terrorists. You know how it goes. But a few of us found ourselves locked in a corner. Someone had to take the blame, right?’

‘I’m sorry to hear that.’

‘Hey, it’s not a problem. Actually, I’m glad. I’ve gone back to what I always was, a plain, honest policeman.’ It had an odd ring to it, the concept of a plain, honest policeman, but Makana said nothing. ‘I started out in the force and now I’m back there. Did you know my father was a policeman? Sure. Things were different back then. There was . . .’ Marwan’s glistening lower lip trembled as he searched for the word he was looking for. ‘Dignity. That’s it.’ He thumped a meaty fist on the table that made the glasses jump. The men at the next table nudged one another and grinned.

‘So where are you now?’

‘Amn al-Merkazi. They even promoted me.’

‘
Mabrouk
,’ said Makana. Marwan brushed the compliment off with a shrug, as if it was nothing more than he deserved.

The Amn al-Merkazi, or Central Security Force, CSF, was a paramilitary arm of the police, halfway between riot police and the army. They were armed and violent, the heavy brigade. Generally feared, they were a law unto themselves. Not so much a promotion as a sideways shift, then. Somebody thought Marwan was a liability and so they had farmed him out to a spot where he could do as much damage as he wanted and it wouldn’t matter.

‘Sure, I’m a first lieutenant now. How about that?’

‘Not bad. So something good did come out of all that.’

‘It certainly did.’ Marwan leaned his elbows on the table, almost tipping it over. ‘So, tell me, what are you up to?’

‘The usual things.’ Makana sat back and lit a cigarette. The noise had abated somewhat. ‘Actually, you might be able to help me – unofficially, of course.’

‘Naturally. You know me, I’m always there for a friend in need.’

He didn’t add the words ‘for a price’, but it was understood that nothing came for free.

‘Have you ever heard of a man called Kadhim al-Samari?’

Marwan drew back his big head and his nostrils flared rather like a horse encountering a snake in its path. His eyes were bloodshot and unfocused.

‘Why are you interested in him?’

‘It’s nothing big. The name came up and I was curious. He’s Iraqi, isn’t he?’

Marwan might have been drinking, but the look he gave Makana was as sharp as a pin. ‘You’re moving in murky waters, my friend. That much I can tell you.’ He raised a hand. This time a bottle of Arak Haddad arrived on the table along with two glasses filled with ice. He poured a glass for both of them. Makana knew there was no point in protesting. He understood that this was a kind of initiation ritual. In a society governed by religious piety, breaking the rules invariably involved being tested on how far you would step over the line of respectability. A kind of pact of mutual culpability. Makana watched the clear arak turn milky in the glass.

‘You do know him then?’

‘Not personally.’ Marwan lowered his voice and his eyes fixed on Makana as he leaned in to him. ‘By all accounts a very nasty piece of work.’ The big man swallowed and reached for his glass, which he drained in one. ‘He was a senior officer in Iraqi military intelligence. If I remember correctly he was based in Falluja – where the fighting is going on right now. He disappeared, of course, right after the American invasion. So what’s this all about?’

‘Well, I was just curious.’

‘No, no.’ Marwan refilled both of their glasses to the rim. ‘You’re not getting away with that. This man is way out of your class. No offence, but he was one of the most high-ranking members of the Baath Party under Saddam.’

‘You’ve seen reports on him?’

The big man gave a clumsy shrug. ‘It’s what I used to do, read intelligence reports. And I have a good memory for names.’ He tapped a finger to his forehead.

‘Do you have any idea if he might be in this country?’

‘Here?’ Marwan laughed out loud before his face grew serious. ‘Even if I did know, I wouldn’t be telling you.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because it would be classified.’ He pushed his glass aside and leaned his elbows on the table. His eyes were rimmed with red. ‘We’re supposed to be helping the Americans, our friends, remember? We couldn’t possibly be giving shelter to a man who is a fugitive. You never know who might be listening.’ He raised his voice. ‘Isn’t that right, Amm Ahmed?’

‘Isn’t what right?’ A bald man at the next table leaned out.

‘That you never know who might be listening? The Americans have ears everywhere.’

‘And the Jews. Don’t forget the Jews,’ cackled the other man. Marwan was enjoying the moment, playing the big man. He raised his glass in salute.

‘Here’s to the victory of the just and the triumph of the brave.’

‘Sounds like you’ve had your fill for tonight,’ said Makana, getting to his feet. ‘I have anyway.’ He paused. ‘What we just talked about . . .’

‘You don’t have to tell me,’ Marwan squinted up with bloodshot eyes. ‘It’s between us.’

After giving him his new number Makana headed for the street. As he edged through the crowd, he wondered about the wisdom of involving Marwan, but to find Samari he needed someone on the inside of the system. He wasn’t exactly the kind of person he liked to put his faith in, but when it came to making a little money on the side Makana knew there was nobody more trustworthy and dependable than Marwan.

Chapter Four

The next morning the sun was bright and Makana felt a slight throbbing between his temples. He had slept badly. The combination of alcohol and the matter of Nasra having resurfaced during his conversation with Ali had left him in a sleepless daze. He had passed half the night in the big chair on the upper deck of the
awama
, to which the overflow of cigarette butts in the ashtray and the soreness in his throat testified. He stepped over to the railings and looked down to see Umm Ali and Aziza tending the little vegetable patch they kept on the riverbank. Aziza was the only one of the children left at home. The boy, still a teenager, was rarely to be seen. He hung around with some disreputable types his own age who lived in the neighbourhood and was busy charting a course for himself towards a life of delinquency.

It was a beautiful morning, despite the grumble of traffic and the raucous discord of car horns. A small family of ducks quacked in reply as they wandered in single file along the river’s edge. By the time Makana had washed, shaved and dressed there was still no sign of Sindbad. He reached for his new acquisition and was about to press the button to make his first call when he heard the strangled squeak of the Datsun’s horn from up on the road. He waved to Aziza as he walked up the path under the big eucalyptus tree. When he reached the road he found an apologetic Sindbad.

‘
Maalish, ya basha
, she was tired this morning.’ Sindbad had his own way of explaining the car’s mechanical problems.

‘Maybe we really should consider Ali’s offer of assistance seriously?’ It was only a suggestion. Sindbad grunted.

‘My brother-in-law knows all about cars.’

‘He’s the one who usually repairs it, isn’t he?’

‘Oh, he’s a real expert.’ Makana fixed him with a look that made Sindbad crunch his eyes tightly shut. ‘Really, he can fix anything.’

‘Except he never does, not really. Think of it like going to the doctor.’

‘The doctor?’

‘If you went to a doctor and he gave you some bad news, you would ask for a second opinion, right? I mean, you would perhaps consult another expert before preparing for your funeral.’

Sindbad muttered a soft invocation to Allah under his breath before turning the key. He beamed with delight as it came to life. Happily he struggled with the gearstick which stubbornly refused to go where it was told. At last he accepted the inevitable. ‘Yes, a second opinion.’ Then, as if by divine intervention, the gearstick slid smoothly into place.

On the way into town, Makana tried out his new telephone. He called two people. First, a contact in a real estate agency in Maadi. He asked him to enquire whether anyone by the name of Kadhim al-Samari had bought or rented any property in the last few months. He didn’t think there was much chance of this yielding worthy results, but it was worth a try. Then he called Fathi on the immigration desk at the international airport, who had access to the entry visas processed at the airport.

‘How far do you want me to go back?’ Fathi asked, his tone already implying futility.

‘Start with the American invasion of Iraq and work your way up to the present.’

‘Have you any idea how many entries that is?’

‘I know how fast you work when you have the right amount of motivation,’ said Makana.

The flow of traffic slowed to a halt as they approached Midan Tahrir, the sun glinting off the cars like molten iron, that locked solid in a matter of minutes. Makana climbed out of the Datsun as the horns began their unorchestrated keening and set off on foot. Skirting the side of the fenced-off area in front of the Nile Hilton, he found himself forced to walk in the road by the uneven pavement and the sheer weight of numbers. In the mid-nineteenth century this was the site of the Khedive’s army barracks. The hotel was constructed in the Fifties, ushering in a new era of modernity with the promise of American luxury available right there on your doorstep. The gardens in front of the hotel, once popular for family gatherings, had since been fenced off – nobody really knew what for, which led most people to the obvious conclusion, which was that large spaces were unpopular with a government concerned about crowd control.

It took him ten minutes to reach Bab al-Luq and the building on Midan al-Falaki. The entrance was on a corner, and although the elegant staircase had seen better days it was kept neat and clean. On the third floor the door, as always, stood open. Makana wandered in through an unmanned reception area into the main office, which was illuminated by windows made grimy by the traffic. The space was divided by tables and desks that had been pushed into place to use the maximum floor space. They were all covered in heaps of paper and computers, although few people were in evidence. They seemed to keep irregular hours, coming and going according to their own schedules. Makana had no idea what they all did, or how it all fitted together. The sign on the door informed visitors that the office was occupied by something called the
Masry Info Media Collective
, MIMIC for short. As Makana understood it, a collective meant nobody was in charge. Sami Barakat had explained it to him. They gathered the news and fed it out to agencies around the world. ‘In the old days every agency would have its own correspondent in every part of the world. Nowadays they can’t afford it, so they depend on local sources, which is good for us.’ Sami grinned. ‘And gives us an outlet abroad, which means we can get around the state controls in this country.’

‘Except that nobody here reads Japanese or whatever language your stories are published in.’

‘It’s true we have little influence locally, but that will come. Give it time.’

Sami and his wife Rania shared an area on the left-hand side of the L-shaped room. They had more space to themselves, which reflected a certain seniority. Over the years, Sami had become known as a voice of dissent. He was clever enough to be able to avoid trouble with the authorities most of the time, although a couple of short spells in prison were unavoidable for anybody in the sector. In recent years he had become something of a focal point for the younger generation.