Dogstar Rising (29 page)

Makana turned to find a small woman in a dark suit clutching a clipboard. The very image of efficiency. Pinned to the breast of her nylon jacket was a silver badge with the name Dena on it.

‘I’m looking for Ramy.’

‘And you are?’

‘Makana. Faragalla was supposed to inform you of my arrival.’

‘Well,’ she frowned, ‘we’ve heard nothing.’

‘That’s very strange. He gave me his word he would arrange everything.’

‘I would have sent a car to the airport.’

‘I came by train,’ Makana said, although it didn’t seem important.

Dena held up a finger as a herd of tourists swept through. They seemed a very mixed bag. Some Asians. The majority being middle-aged Europeans suitably clad for an expedition into deepest, darkest Africa. Their outfits resembled military fatigues, with heavy boots, belts and straps everywhere. Each carried a small rucksack and several had water bottles clipped to their swelling waists. Faces broke into smiles when they caught sight of Dena. They waved and smiled and bowed. For her part she managed to flit effortlessly between half-a-dozen languages. Makana picked up French, Spanish and English.

‘
Arigato, arigato. Hai.
’

Four small women bobbed their heads in return as they marched off up the gangway towards the Corniche and the waiting tour buses.

‘Full ship?’

‘Not exactly. We are carrying about thirty per cent of our full capacity. For some of them this is the trip of a lifetime. They spend years dreaming of coming here. Imagine their disappointment.’ The way she studied his rumpled appearance and creased clothes suggested they were not the only ones to be disappointed. ‘It’s odd that Mr Faragalla didn’t tell me about you.’

‘He has a lot on his mind these days.’

‘Yes, of course, the shooting. That poor woman. I think I might even have met her once.’

‘I’d like to see Ramy as soon as possible.’

‘Oh,’ Dena’s face fell. ‘I thought Mr Faragalla would have explained.’

‘Explained?’

‘Ramy is not here. He had to inspect our Aswan offices.’

‘When was this?’

‘Oh, late last night.’ Her teeth gleamed impossibly white as she smiled. ‘Can I ask what this is regarding?’

‘It’s confidential, and rather urgent.’

‘I understand. Well, I can only offer to give you a cabin. The
Nile Star
will be sailing tonight. We shall be in Aswan the day after tomorrow.’

‘Can’t we get there any faster?’

Dena laughed. ‘The whole idea is for the tourists to relax and see a bit of the country. Maybe you could do with a bit of a rest yourself.’

Makana was reminded that he was not at his best. Dena led the way down a narrow staircase to a corridor running the length of the vessel. Halfway along she produced a key to unlock a cabin door, which turned out to be a rather cramped office with a bank of grey filing cabinets and shelves along one side and a desk that was almost as wide as the cabin. Compared to Faragalla’s office in Cairo this was a model of efficiency – everything was neatly set in place. She cleared the surface of the desk of everything save a telephone and some pencils. Motioning him towards a chair she went behind the desk and sat down. Clasping her hands together on top of the blotter she studied him for a moment.

‘Do you mind if I smoke?’ she asked, reaching into a drawer for a packet of cigarettes and an ashtray before he could answer.

‘Not at all,’ he replied.

‘We’re not supposed to smoke in front of the customers. It gives a bad impression.’ She struck a match and lit hers and then leaned across to light his. ‘Some cultures frown on women smoking almost as much as ours.’

‘We can take some comfort in that, I suppose,’ he smiled. ‘How long have you worked for the company?’

‘Oh, only six months. But I really like it.’ She nodded enthusiastically. She was in her twenties he reckoned. This was probably her first job after finishing her studies.

‘And how is it working out with Ramy down here all the time?’

Dena regarded him cautiously. ‘Is that why you’re here? To assess his work?’

‘I can’t really discuss that.’

‘What exactly do you do for Mr Faragalla, if you don’t mind me asking?’

‘Management consultancy. I look for ways of improving the company.’

‘This is because he hasn’t been back to Cairo, isn’t it?’

‘I’m not sure what you mean?’

‘I tried to persuade him to go back, just for a bit, but he refused.’ Dena stubbed out her cigarette in the glass ashtray with hard stabs. ‘I knew this would happen.’

‘It sounds like you and he are quite close.’

Her eyes flicked up, quick and sharp. ‘We work together, that’s all.’

‘Still, you must have been happy to hear that he was moving down here full-time.’

‘Well, naturally, it makes my job a lot easier.’ Everything was already neatly in place on the desk but still, she shifted a pencil as if it held some deep significance.

‘Really? Because it looks like you have things pretty much under control,’ Makana smiled. ‘You must have been used to taking care of everything before. How often did he come down here?’

‘Once a fortnight. Sometimes more often.’ She got to her feet abruptly and smoothed down her jacket, suddenly bored with his company. ‘You must be tired. It’s a long journey by train. I’m surprised you didn’t fly down.’

‘I’m not here to create problems for you,’ he said as he stood up. ‘All I want to do is talk to him.’

It was plain that she didn’t trust him. She had made up her mind that he was a threat and she would do everything she could, he was sure, to prevent him speaking to Ramy.

‘As I explained, there was business in Aswan for him to attend to.’ Dena stopped short and glanced at her watch. ‘I have to get back to work.’ She ushered him out of the office, locking the door carefully behind her. ‘I shall arrange for a cabin to be made up for you. You can wait upstairs. Have you eaten breakfast?’

‘No.’ Breakfast sounded appealing. If he was going to be stranded on this vessel for days he might as well make himself comfortable.

The dining room had just been vacated by the tourists. A couple of waiters were trying to tidy up. The buffet table formed an island of white cloth in the middle of the room out of which popped outcrops of plastic flowers and steel food dispensers. As he helped himself to what the tourists had not managed to finish, Makana wondered idly how much it cost to fly halfway around the globe to get here. It seemed like a long way to come for such unremarkable food.

After eating he walked around the deck, breathing in the clear air, listening to the cars honking along the riverbank, the clatter of a horse-drawn
hantour
going by, harness and bells ringing. As the caleche disappeared along the Corniche, a thumping noise to his left brought his attention back to the boat. In the prow a plank of wood and a pot of paint stood alongside a coil of rope. A heavily built man climbed over the railings with the slow, deliberate pace of someone who has learned from painful experience that accidents are caused by sudden movements.

‘Your work is never finished on these old ships, I imagine?’

‘Oh, they’re not too bad.’ The man had large, doleful eyes, weighed down by weary pouches. He patted the railings with affection. ‘There is nothing you can’t do to them.’ At first he had taken him for an old man, but on closer inspection he realised that he was younger, perhaps not much more than Makana himself, although he carried himself like someone many years his senior. His skin was darkened from long hours spent in the sun. His chin resembled an iron brush, thick with grey bristles. ‘Are you the one they sent from Cairo?’

‘And you are . . . ?’

‘Adam. Everyone knows me.’ A bead of sweat ran down his chest and disappeared into the open neck of the overalls he wore. His hands were gnarled paws that seemed permanently curled into claws. He squinted at Makana. ‘You don’t look like you belong in Cairo.’

‘Actually, my family are originally from the village of Shallal.’

‘Shallal? I know the place. It’s gone now, of course. They drowned it when they raised the first dam.’

‘The price of progress.’

‘The people who lived there saw it differently.’ Adam took the cigarette Makana offered. The tips of his fingers were dried and cracked.

‘Can I ask you a couple of questions?’

‘That’s what you came here for, isn’t it?’ The beady eyes held his.

‘Yes.’

‘Then you’d better ask what you want. Of course, I don’t really know anything.’

‘It’s about Mr Ramy.’

‘An unlucky man.’

‘Why do you say that?’

‘I don’t know. It just came to me.’ Adam smoked slowly, savouring the taste, staring off at somewhere over Makana’s shoulder. ‘I don’t know anything about anything. Doors get stuck, pipes are blocked. Then they call Adam.’

‘But you hear things.’

‘Yes, I do.’ There was a black mark on his cheek where some mishap had left a scar.

‘Mr Makana?’ Dena was waving from the rear deck. ‘Your cabin is ready.’

As Makana turned, Adam moved silently away.

‘I have spoken to Mr Ramy,’ Dena said when he reached her. ‘He informed me that I am to co-operate fully with you.’ She looked him over carefully. ‘In fact he insisted that you might be more comfortable staying in his cabin.’

‘What happens when he gets back?’

‘We will find a solution.’ She smiled as though this wasn’t going to be a problem.

‘When do I get to see him?’ Makana called as she crossed the lobby in long strides. She couldn’t wait to get away from him.

‘Tomorrow,’ she called over her shoulder. ‘He’ll be there when we arrive in Kom Ombo. You’ll have time to talk there.’

A nameless man, whose teeth were stained brown from tobacco, led him along the downstairs corridor to a cabin in the bow of the boat. It was quieter there, away from the engines, the man explained. He wore a waiter’s uniform of black trousers, short jacket, white shirt, green tie and cummerbund. He led the way into the room and stood waiting for a tip, tossing the key in his hand. Makana handed him a crumpled note which he unfolded carefully before sniffing in disappointment and leaving, dropping the key unceremoniously onto the bedside table as he went.

Whoever had cleaned up the cabin had certainly done a thorough job. The bed was made, the bathroom bare. A tomb robber would have left more. In the wardrobe a pair of shoes had been overlooked on a top shelf. Other than that there was no trace of Ramy. The chair squeaked unhappily as Makana settled into it and turned his attention to the table against the wall. A large map of the country was spread over it. Pins and stickers marked where Blue Ibis was operating. Felt-tip lines in red, green and blue marked various routes on their little mystery tours through the land of the pharaohs. Alongside the map was a simple chart. Across the top was a calendar of dates and for each week there were figures and names marked in squares. These appeared to correspond to the number of people and which company they belonged to. Blue Ibis worked with firms in Europe, North America and Asia which sent them visitors. To someone to whom the idea of taking a holiday seemed quite alien, Makana thought it remarkable how extensive the tourist business really was.

Makana unscrewed the window hatch to let some air into the fetid room. As if set there by the Ministry of Tourism, a fisherman floated into view, poised barefoot on the prow of his felucca to cast a net out over the water. The loop widened in the air, spreading gently before it settled, just kissing the surface. Ripples spread out as the net sank, then he started hauling the line in, arm over arm, with the steady, even rhythm of a man who has been making the same movements all his life. From somewhere close by Makana could hear the click of camera shutters accompanied by cooing sounds of amazement in a variety of languages from the passengers on the deck above him.

Alongside the desk was a shelf of books. Makana ran an eye over the titles. He thumbed through the index of an English guide book, finding references to Dengue fever and advice for lesbian travellers. There were books on Egyptian history, ancient and modern, on the pharaohs, and the exploits of various European explorers. One title leapt out at him:
The Winged Seraph
. On the cover a subtitle was added:
The History of Wadi Nikeiba Monastery
, by Father G. Macarius. It was a fairly humble production, the paper rough and spattered with stray ink from the printing press, held together with thick staples. A younger version of the pugilist priest stared moodily back from a scarred photograph on the back cover. The monastery had been originally constructed in the ninth century but had been abandoned after an outbreak of cholera in the early eighteenth century. The book told the story of how the monastery was rebuilt by a small group of dedicated monks, among them Father Macarius. Makana lay on the bed and closed his eyes and in moments had fallen into the deepest, most profound sleep he had had for months.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

When he opened his eyes the room was dark and he was completely disoriented. He thought he was dead, floating in the darkness under the earth.