City of Jackals Page 32

  The battle outside the Mustafa Mahmoud mosque had dominated the day’s news. The number of casualties reported varied from twenty to almost thirty. Nobody knew for sure. What was clear was that a number of those killed had been children.

  ‘This is a turning point. I can feel it.’

  At the next table the aspiring player announced checkmate. His white-haired opponent chuckled to himself.

  ‘They’ve crossed a line.’ Sami lowered his voice, glancing over at the nearby table, and got a glare from the man in the eyepatch. ‘It shows how desperate they are.’

  They being the regime. Images of the camp in tatters had flashed around the world. It gave the impression of the regime as an ugly bully, picking on those who were incapable of defending themselves. Not that anyone was going to be brought to task. The Americans and Europeans would remain silent. Nobody wanted to risk upsetting their most important ally in the region.

  ‘Twenty-seven dead. Eleven children. Nothing like this has ever happened before. The human rights organisations are up in arms.’

  ‘It’s a bit late for that, isn’t it?’ said Makana. His coffee arrived and he sipped it too quickly, scalding his mouth.

  ‘This thing makes me so angry, I need to write about it.’

  ‘Sounds like the old Sami.’

  Sami sat back. ‘Yes, maybe it is.’

  Makana considered the case of Aljuka and his men. The bulk of the protesters had been dumped at a camp somewhere in the sand to the east of Cairo. According to Fantômas, Aljuka was leading a group of them back to the city, which summoned the image of Moses.

  They left the café and walked for some time in silence. The city surged around them, jostling, finding its form as if changing its shape with the light. The markets behind the Ghouriyya were choked with merchants and customers, brushing past one another. Hefty women balancing crates of bread on their heads, young men with arms like taut cables, hauling sacks of goodness knows what to who knew where. Trolleys, bicycles, the smell of spices, sweat and rotting fruit. As if life was a feast that no one had the time to stop and enjoy.

  It would be fair to say that Aswani had not quite embraced the concept of Chicken Kiev. He pulled a face, his moustaches curling downwards in disapproval. It wasn’t that he was averse to the idea of new things. He actually considered himself something of a dab hand at throwing things together in his own inimitable fashion. Perhaps it was the name, or the idea of something coming from abroad. It might simply have been the way Makana explained it. And although he claimed not to like pretentious food, but preferred good honest dishes, as he put it, he had put a remarkable amount of effort into a dish he had modestly dubbed Chicken Aswani.

  ‘What’s in it?’ Makana asked when a hefty platter was set before him.

  Aswani hissed, as touchy as a ballerina. ‘You ask that? You think they pepper the chef with questions in those fancy French places you have been frequenting? Naturally, they do not. They eat, they enjoy.’ The rotund cook folded his arms and waited for Makana to give his verdict.

  Chicken Aswani was served on skewers. Rolls of chicken had been coated in crushed almonds and a heady blend of spices including cardamom and cloves and a dozen other things Makana could not readily identify. It was then further wrapped in sheets of salty bastourma. A spectacular sight, and Aswani, never a man to avoid the limelight, took a bow.

  ‘Seems like a lot of trouble to dress up a piece of chicken, but never let it be said that I do not try to meet the tastes of my more classy customers, which would be you.’

  He retired behind the counter, leaving the group staring at the table of starters and salads set before them. Aswani had clearly outdone himself. Everyone was there. Well, almost everyone. Fantômas had joined them. Rania and Sami were actually sitting next to each other, which seemed like a good sign. Makana had even managed to bring Aziza along this time, under the pretext that she was accompanying him into town to help choose the material to make new covers for his divan, which was starting to look rather threadbare. Sindbad was holding forth about the terrible deeds of Hakim and Karim and how justice had finally caught up with them, as it always does with crooks like that. Hakim had been arrested trying to board a plane to Jeddah. He was charged with the murder of Abu Gomaa and Jonah, and that was just the beginning. Tom and Jerry had made a lot of enemies over the years, and new witnesses were coming forward every day. More charges related to corruption, fraud and extortion were pending. Okasha was pursuing the case with remarkable zeal, perhaps due to the fact that the rotten apples were in another department’s barrel.

  On the other hand, it looked as though no charges would be brought against Omar Shaddad, who had pleaded ignorance of all that went on in his basement. His powerful friends included Munir Abaza, whose legal firm was defending him. Amir Medani was preparing a case against the border guards for unlawful killing and the case was drawing a lot of attention in the international press. An investigation was under way. As for Mustafa Alwan, he was still in a coma. His prospects did not look good, but Jehan was looking into the possibility of helping his son get treatment abroad, which was something. Fadihah had come forward when she heard about Mourad’s death from his sister Sahar. She had been living rough on the streets. After what she witnessed in the old palace she had been too scared to go back home or anywhere she was known. There was something unfair, it seemed to Makana, about the fact that the three young people had paid such a high price for their courage and conviction. However misguided they might have been, they had wanted to change the world for the better, and surely that counted for something.

  Liz Corbis was recovering from her injuries at the American embassy where she and her brother were being held. A team from the FBI had flown in to question them and they would be repatriated to face charges in the United States as soon as she was fit to travel. Makana felt sorry for her in a way, despite everything. She had been a victim of her own misguided principles. That and being unable to stand up to her brother and Ihsan Qaddus.

  Aswani’s boys appeared at regular intervals, bearing huge platters of rice and roast meats, vegetables from the grill, and more of the Chicken Aswani; stuffed peppers and one of his pastries, the dough fine enough to dress a bride on her wedding night, as he liked to put it, inside was a succulent mix of quail meat and dried apricots.

  While everyone was tucking into the food and commenting on the case and the way things had turned out, Aswani leaned over and whispered in Makana’s ear,

  ‘I believe there is a lady outside who wishes to speak to you.’ He twirled his moustaches and raised an eyebrow with all the theatricality of a seasoned actor. The others did not seem to notice.

  Makana slipped as discreetly as possible from the room. Outside he found Jehan waiting. She was dressed in rather sensible clothes, but still looked uncharacteristically glamorous, her hair loosely wrapped in a colourful and expensive-looking silk scarf.

  ‘You should come in and eat something. Aswani has outdone himself.’

  She smiled. ‘No, I don’t think so. This is where you are most at home.’

  Makana hesitated. ‘It’s something of a tradition. I’ve been coming here for years.’

  ‘And you should continue to do so.’ There was a long pause. ‘We don’t have to like the same things, or even do everything together,’ she said. ‘I mean, I hate those couples who are never apart. Have no kind of life of their own.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Makana.

  ‘We don’t have to do that.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You can enjoy your time with your friends, and at other times we can do other things.’

  ‘That sounds reasonable.’

  ‘I’m glad we see eye to eye,’ she smiled.

  He watched her walk away, still wondering what exactly he’d just agreed to. Then he turned and went back inside, to be met by a hearty cheer from the others.

  Read on for a preview of the first Makana Investigation . . .

  The Golden Scales

  Pr
ologue

  Cairo, 1981

  The bright light struck her full in the eyes and for an instant she was blinded, as if struck by some ancient curse. Liz Markham reared back, completely stalled by the human mass that confronted her. Her heart racing, she began to run. Her child was somewhere out there, lost in this madness.

  She stumbled. Behind her she heard someone make a remark that she couldn’t understand. Several other people laughed. Darting away from the eyes that seemed fixed on her, closing in from every angle, she ran on. Glancing back, certain that someone was behind her, she moved away from the hotel, pushing impatiently through the crowd of tourists and tea boys, pushing at everything, knocking over tables, sending glasses and trays flying, hearing cries of astonishment and curses. But she didn’t care. All she cared about at this moment was Alice.

  Where had it all gone wrong? Her life, this trip? Everything that had happened since she had arrived in Cairo had turned out differently from the way she had expected. From the moment she’d stepped off the plane and been hit by the oppressive heat, the clothes instantly sticking to her back. It was supposed to be the end of September, for Christ’s sake, and it felt like the middle of July in sunny Spain. It had seemed such a good idea at the time: get away from London, with all its weary habits and old accomplices. A chance to get clean, to start a new life. But what did she know about him, really? When she first met Alice’s father he was just another of those listless young men hanging round the bazaar shops selling trinkets, or so it seemed. He and his friend had trailed behind them, her and Sylvia, calling out to them. It was irritating at first, and then it became a game, a challenge. Sylvia was always up for a challenge. And where was she now? Gone. Swept away in the urgent blue clamour of an ambulance that led to the dead end of a cold, impersonal corridor in the Accident and Emergency unit. Liz knew she didn’t want to end like that.

  He had been so charming, so confident. For three weeks they had been inseparable. That should have been the end of it, only it wasn’t. Liz had been careless. When had she not been? The entire course of her life was marked by reckless impulses. She remembered how he had led her round the city and doors fell open before them. She liked that. As if she was somebody, as if they were important. They walked into a crowded café or restaurant and a table would be cleared for them in an instant. People bobbed their heads in respect. He had drugs too, in easy supply, and in those days that was something to consider. It wasn’t meant to last. That was five years ago. It wasn’t meant to change her life, but it did.

  When she got back to England and discovered she was pregnant, Liz had straightened herself out for the first time in years. No booze, no smack. Clean living. She had seen enough horrors – children born without fingers – to know that she didn’t want to run the risk. It didn’t last, but it was something. A start, proof that she could do it if she wanted to. Alice was the best thing that had happened to her. Liz knew that it was worth it, that despite the difficulties of taking care of a small child – the tantrums, the constant demands – despite all of that, Alice made her mother want to be a better person. But she couldn’t manage it in London. Too many temptations, too many open doors. Then it came to her, like a window opening in the darkness. Cairo. A new life. Why not? ‘Any time you need anything, Liz, you come to me,’ he had told her.

  All around her the little figures spun. Monkey kings and gods shaped like dogs, baboons, crocodiles and birds, all carved from green stone, or obsidian. A window stuffed with jewellery, silver crosses – ankh, the symbol of life. Miniature pyramids; some so big you couldn’t lift them with both hands and others small enough to dangle from your ears. Turquoise scarabs. A window full of chessboards. Silvery blue mother-of-pearl, shooting arrows of sparkling light. A mad funfair.

  ‘Alice!’

  Liz rushed on, her mind reeling. She turned, crashing into the arms of a woman balancing a tower of tin jugs on her head. Liz wheeled round. Nothing was as she recalled it. The streets, the noise, the leering men. It felt like a different country. Had she been so blind five years ago? So off her head that it didn’t register? The bazaar she had recalled as an Aladdin’s cave of glittering wonders. Now all she saw was row after row of cheap trinkets, clumsily fashioned artefacts designed to seduce the eye. To dupe rather than to satisfy the soul. The place made her sick, literally. At first she’d thought she must have eaten something that disagreed with her because she’d spent the first night crouched over the toilet bowl. Only it wasn’t the food, of course, it was the drugs, or lack of them. Withdrawal symptoms. This was the first time she had really been clean since Alice was born. She’d lain in bed, feverish and weak but determined to carry on, the child tugging at her arm.

  The only kindness she’d experienced here was in the warm reception given to her little girl. It was as if they recognised something in her, as if they knew Alice belonged here. Everywhere they went people smiled at the little golden-haired girl. Women, old and young, clucked and pinched her cheeks, tugged her pigtails. Men made swooping motions with their hands like birds darting around her head, making her squeal with delight. She was something of a novelty. Those were the moments when Liz had told herself everything was going to be all right. But there were other moments: when anxiety made her pace the room sleeplessly, scratching her arms, clawing at her throat, struggling to breathe in the oppressive air as the wail of yet another call to prayer echoed over the square. Moments when she thought her mission hopeless. She would never find him, or even if she did, what then? Liz was beginning to get the feeling that there was a limit to how long she could keep this up. Alice was impatient with her. As if she sensed her mother was out on a limb. Always asking questions, refusing to move, asking to be carried, clinging to her, dragging her down like a dead weight.

  Then, yesterday afternoon, a man had walked straight up to Liz. No hesitation. Had he been following her? ‘I help you.’ He led her to a narrow doorway opening into a shadowy interior. Narrow darts of light cut through slits set high in the walls, bouncing off the polished brass and tarnished mirrors. The place was deserted but for a man sitting against the far wall. His thick, lumpy features put her in mind of a bullfrog she had once dissected in the school biology lab years ago. His eyes were like hard black rivets, almost lost in the swollen face. His hair was smoothed straight back with scented oil. His whole body gave off an aromatic air, like an ancient eastern king. On the table in front of him stood a heap of tangerines on a huge round tray of beaten bronze, like the disc of Ra the Sun God as it travels westwards across the sky.

  It couldn’t have been that big a place, but to her mind the distance between the door and the far corner where he sat, waiting, stretched before her into infinity, as if she was shrinking and the room growing longer even as she walked. There was movement flitting through the shadows behind him. A couple of louts hung round by a counter on the left. Nasty-looking, but Liz knew the type and wasn’t particularly afraid. She caught sight of herself in the mirror above his head, and despite the dim light could see that she looked terrible. Her hair was lank and lifeless, her face filmed with sweat and the sooty grime of the streets, which turned the towels in her hotel room black every night. Her eyes were ringed with red and swollen like eggs. He gestured for her to sit and so she did. Alice pressed herself to her side. The man’s ugly face creased in a smile that made her blood churn.

  ‘Hello, little girl,’ he said in English, stretching out a hand towards her daughter, fingers like plump dates. Alice shied away, pulling back, pressing herself in towards her mother. The smile waned. The fingers withdrew. The black eyes turned to Liz.

  ‘Tell me, why do you want to find this man so badly?’

  ‘Do you know him?’

  ‘Yes, of course. He is . . . an associate.’

  His English was not bad. In itself, this was not surprising. Everyone in the Khan al-Khalili had at least one foreign language. It was a veritable Tower of Babel.

  ‘Associate?’ Liz repeated, thinking it an odd word to use.
‘Where can I find him?’

  ‘He works for me. Or rather, he used to. Now he has . . . gone into business for himself.’

  He bared his teeth in what might otherwise have been a smile and Liz felt a cold shiver run through her. Holding her gaze as the smile faded, he plucked a tangerine from the pile in front of him and handed it to the child. As she began to eat, sucking the little lobes of fruit contentedly, Liz felt uncomfortable that her daughter could so easily trust a stranger they had only just met.

  ‘This is not your first time in Egypt?’

  Liz shook her head, feeling his eyes scrutinise her, lingering on her fingernails, bitten to the quick. The raw hunger in her stare, the desperation she was unable to hide. She was reaching the end of her meagre funds. Her patience was running out. She was climbing the walls. And then there was Alice, with her constant demands for attention, for reassurances that Liz couldn’t give her. The only thing that would make sense of any of this was finding him. She didn’t care who helped her find him, so long as somebody did. The dark, sunken eyes met hers.

  ‘Is he the father of this child?’

  Liz hesitated, sensing that any information she gave this man would place her further in his power, but she had no choice. If she wanted to enlist his help, she had to trust him. She nodded.

  ‘Ah.’ He sat back. ‘Then she is a valuable child indeed.’

  ‘Valuable?’ Liz placed an arm protectively around Alice’s shoulders. ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘You don’t trust me,’ he smiled. It wasn’t a question, and she detected the steel underlying his voice.

  ‘I don’t know you.’ She didn’t want to offend him, but by now Liz could hardly breathe. She was beginning to sense that this had been a big mistake.

  ‘What is there to know? I am a man of simple tastes. Ask anyone.’ He reached for another tangerine and broke it into segments. She watched him, helpless to stop him feeding her child; wanting, more than anything, to leave, but finding herself unable to.