Dogstar Rising (6 page)

One line in the Sura kept turning over in his head:
Does he know, and can he see, what is hidden?

Chapter Four

Arwa was wearing a gold lamé hijab covered in palm trees in shimmering Islamic green. Otherwise the Blue Ibis offices looked pretty much the same. The same air of dysfunctional chaos reigned as on the previous day. Telephones rang unanswered; queries were yelled across the room to no response; people appeared at the door and then eventually left when no one attended to them. It was hard to comprehend that the Blue Ibis actually managed to function at all.

‘Your people in Quseir,’ Arwa cupped the mouthpiece of the telephone as she called across to Wael. ‘What happened to them?’

‘What people?’ Wael didn’t even bother to lift his feet down from the desk in front of him.

‘There was supposed to be a bus to pick them up yesterday.’

‘Who is that on the phone?’

‘The hotel.’ The receiver was dropped on the desk as she went back to typing a letter. ‘They want to know what happened to them.’

‘How should I know?’ Wael held his hands up in the air.

‘Just speak to them, will you?’

‘Is it always like this?’ Makana asked as Meera went by on her way to the filing cabinet next to him. She lifted her shoulders. It was more like a gesture of resignation than an answer. She pointed out a table in the corner.

‘That’s your desk.’

No sooner had he sat down than a thickening cloud of cloying scent settled over him and he looked up to see Arwa approaching with an armful of files.

‘Here we were expecting you to be setting an example for us, and you sit there waiting for work to be brought to you?’ She dumped the heap of folders in front of him and flipped the first one open to reveal a sheet of accounts. ‘What matters is the final figure at the bottom. Understand? The boss never looks any further. As long as the final tally shows a profit you don’t have to worry.’

Makana raised his eyebrows. ‘Even if it doesn’t match the receipts?’

The crown of palms shook. ‘Don’t even think about trying to straighten it out. The last person who tried is buried under the pyramids. All that matters,’ she went on, enunciating every word slowly, as if addressing an idiot, ‘is that the two figures match. That is all you have to do. A small child could manage it.’ She swivelled on her heels and was about to march away when a thought occurred. ‘I know nothing about improving efficiency, or management, but if the boss sees you lazing around you’ll be fired before you even have time to settle in.’ Arwa clucked at her own humour. ‘Now that might improve our situation.’ She marched off before he had time to respond.

‘I got the same lecture when I first started here,’ Meera said. ‘The mess goes back as far as you can imagine and many of the figures are inaccurate or illegible.’

Intrigued, Makana went through the heap of files trying to get an idea of how this firm managed to operate. The problem was that nothing really matched. Even the names of places seemed to vary. Makana didn’t need to be a trained accountant to understand that the Blue Ibis administrative system was in such disarray it was hard to understand how a company could manage to function in such a state of disorder. Money was seeping out of the company like a leaky boat. Nobody really had any idea how much came in or went out. There was a trail of unfamiliar names too, the mention of which elicited only blank looks, or remarks like ‘Oh, she doesn’t work here any more’ or ‘He left years ago!’ The high turnover of employees might also have explained the variety of filing methods. Each new person appeared to have brought their own system with them which would then be abandoned when it came time for them to leave. Some were alphabetical, others numerical, some by year, others by month, one was even based on country of origin. And someone had come up with an innovative method of classifying tourists according to their dietary requests. Makana’s head was spinning when he looked up to find Yousef standing in front of him wearing a thin, cunning smile.

‘So, how are you getting on?’

‘Well, you know. It takes time to get the measure of things.’

‘Yeah, I’ll bet it does.’ Perching himself on the corner of Makana’s desk, Yousef produced a green-and-white packet of LM menthol cigarettes from his breast pocket and shook one out. Makana declined, preferring his own Cleopatras. Yousef then lit both of them with a gold lighter.

‘So you’re here to clean things up for us, eh?’

‘Sayyid Faragalla thought I might be able to help.’

‘I’m sure he did.’

Yousef wore a gold chain around his neck that matched the watch on his wrist. There was something about him that was hard and cheap. It made you want to count your fingers after shaking hands. But he was also at ease. Makana had met his type before. He was used to giving orders, to being in charge.

‘Maybe you want to take a break from all that?’

‘I could do, I suppose.’ Makana stretched his arms above his head.

‘I have an errand to run. I thought maybe you could help me. Get some fresh air.’

‘Why not?’

Nobody in the room seemed to pay any notice. On the reception desk, Meera’s attention was focussed firmly on the typewriter in front of her. As they started to descend the stairs, Yousef turned to him.

‘You don’t have to play games with me. Faragalla told me you just got out of prison.’

‘It was a misunderstanding,’ Makana improvised, wondering what else Faragalla might have dreamed up.

‘It always is,’ Yousef said knowingly. ‘I understand you are distantly related to him?’

‘A distant cousin, on his mother’s side.’

‘I didn’t know he had relatives abroad.’ Yousef paused, then dismissed the matter. ‘Still, you learn something new every day.’ He drew on his cigarette, examining Makana carefully. ‘You can drive, right? I need someone who can take me around.’

‘I thought Faragalla wanted me to work here?’

‘You’ll find out that Faragalla leaves most decisions to me. Come on.’

Yousef led the way downstairs and out into a side street where an Opel Rekord, the brown colour of rotting bananas, was parked. The cars were all tightly packed in a row, nose to tail all the way down the street. A couple of street boys, no more than twelve years old, ran up and started rolling the cars back to allow them to get out. Yousef called them over and handed them each a few crumpled notes.

‘You were in the army?’

‘I did my military service,’ Makana replied, which was true. He omitted the part about going from the army into the police.

‘I did fifteen years in the Military Police. It does something to a man, don’t you think?’ Yousef tossed the car keys across to Makana. ‘You drive.’

‘Where are we going?’

‘I’ll tell you on the way.’

The traffic was heavy. When a car cut in front of them Yousef leaned out of the window to hurl insults at the driver before slumping into his seat, overcome by a dark, morose mood.

‘I hate this city. People here are as dumb as shit.’

‘It’s not all that different from anywhere else.’

Yousef snorted and examined Makana with a wary eye. ‘What did you do to get yourself locked up?’

‘I’d rather not talk about it, if it’s all the same.’

‘Sure, I understand.’ Yousef smirked. ‘I don’t like to judge people.’ He directed Makana down Ghamhouria Street to park in front of a small hotel.

‘I’ll get into trouble if I stay here.’

‘Don’t worry,’ Yousef grinned, revealing a gold eye tooth, ‘everyone round here knows me.’

Not only did they know Yousef, they knew his car. Makana sat behind the wheel and watched uniformed policemen walk by as if the Opel were invisible. After that they toured more of the city’s hotels, coming to a close at the Sheraton in Dokki. This time, Makana watched Yousef disappear through the door, waited a moment, and followed him inside.

The lobby was a vast marble hall broken by partitions and thick pillars. There were lounge areas, a restaurant and café. Sinking into a chair behind a screen, Makana picked up a discarded newspaper from the table. For a moment he thought he had lost Yousef completely, and then he reappeared on the other side of the reception area where he was shaking hands with a man in a dull brown suit bearing a name tag in case he forgot who he was.

The paper contained a story by Sami Barakat on the murders in Imbaba. Another body had been found. Makana had known Sami for a number of years now, ever since he had been investigating the disappearance of footballer Adil Romario. Since then they had become friends. Sami was one of a small number of journalists who was openly critical of the government.

Sami’s article gave the impression there was more to the case of the murdered boys than was obvious. The latest victim had been badly disfigured. Sami gave few details, no doubt at the request of the police investigators. A number of factors pointed to the possibility that the young boy had been living rough, one of the thousands of homeless children eking out an existence on the streets. This, Sami suggested, was one reason so few resources were being allocated to the case. The child’s body showed signs of extensive torture over a long period of time. ‘All the evidence points to someone exploiting these children for their own foul purposes,’ Sami concluded. ‘There are those who appear to want to use these killings to spread irresponsible talk of rituals and stir the flames of sectarian hatred.’

‘Makana, isn’t it?’

He looked up to see a tall, uncertain man standing awkwardly before him. His prematurely thinning hair was combed back from his narrow forehead. His clothes while neat were too big for him. The eyes were a shade of grey, clouded with some murkiness that Makana could not quite decipher. In his hand he clutched a paper napkin. A spot of cream dotted the corner of his mouth.

‘It is you, isn’t it?’

The eyes widened and the smile revealed teeth that were yellow and uneven. They stood out against his pale skin like discordant notes on a sheet of music.

‘I said to my wife, I was sure it was you.’

The woman standing behind him hovered uncertainly. She was a rather plain young woman wearing make-up and clutching a shiny plastic handbag adorned with gold buckles big enough to sink a small boat. They made an odd couple, confused and out of tune with their surroundings. Gentle music was playing in the background over the clink and clatter of plates and glasses.

‘You don’t remember me, do you? Ghalib Samsara?’

Makana did remember. A little over a year ago he had been hired by Samsara’s father. A long-time civil servant as honest as the day was long, but struggling to make ends meet. The family had once been wealthy, but over the years they had slipped down the scale and now lived in a building that was not only falling into ruin, but was about to be taken over by an unscrupulous speculator who was bribing local officials. Makana dug around until he found enough evidence to make the speculator back off. It had been a slow case but Makana could not recall having met the son on more than one occasion.

Makana, on his feet now, folded the newspaper and stepped towards the tall man, trying to edge him away. Ghalib Samsara took offence, sensing that Makana was trying to get rid of him. His face reddened and his jaw clamped tightly.

‘How is your father doing?’ Makana enquired, edging around him, until he could see over Samsara’s shoulder.

‘He’s much the same, thank you.’ Samsara’s voice was flat with disappointment. Makana realised he had wanted something from him, recognition perhaps. Was he trying to show off to his wife? Now his voice took on another tone. He regarded Makana stonily.

‘I’ve been abroad,’ he said, ‘studying. In Germany.’

‘That’s nice for you. Where in Germany?’

‘Hamburg. I studied engineering.’

The door through which Yousef had disappeared was now opening.

‘There’s no work here. You know how it is.’ The smile flashed with complicity, quick and far too bright. ‘It all depends on who you know.’

‘It’s not easy,’ Makana conceded.

‘Are you here alone?’ Samsara’s head turned to follow Makana’s gaze.

‘Actually, no, I’m meeting someone.’

The woman was tugging his arm, but Samsara hung on, his eyes widening with realisation.

‘I understand!’ he whispered. ‘You are working on a case.’

‘I really have to be going,’ Makana said. The door yawned open to reveal Yousef and the man in the suit shaking hands.

‘Of course. I just wanted to . . .’ Samsara smiled his crooked smile. What he wanted remained unclear. ‘Perhaps, when it is convenient . . . I am sure there is much for us to talk about.’

‘I’m sure,’ Makana said, without much conviction. He began moving towards the exit. Samsara shadowed him, walking sideways, still talking. If he had waved a flag over his head he couldn’t have looked more conspicuous.

‘Corruption. You must understand what I mean. A man like yourself.’

‘Corruption?’

‘Society,’ Samsara nodded. ‘We have sold our souls to the West, allowed them to turn this country into their playground. They do what they like. They walk through the old bazaar half-naked. Within sight of the mosque of Hussein. There is no respect.’