Dogstar Rising (42 page)

As for Antun, his passing was mourned above all by Father Macarius. The body was laid out in the church, among the debris and ashes, the smoke-charred walls. The structure wasn’t too badly damaged, all things considered. The scaffolding had collapsed into a heap of carbonised struts which resembled gigantic burnt-out matches. The floor was soaked in water. A space was cleared for Antun to have a moment’s rest. ‘He never asked for anything,’ Father Macarius said, his voice choked with emotion, ‘except a place in the world.’ At the end of his quest, Antun’s face glowed with a kind of graceful serenity.

As for Rania, they found no trace. Rocky’s death had brought that line of investigation to an abrupt stop. Yousef had disappeared. Makana spent what was left of the night trying to track him down, but he appeared to have vanished without trace. Nobody knew or was willing to share what they knew.

And so Makana stumbled into the Sheraton in a state of near exhaustion. The hotel lobby was largely filled with tourists from every corner of the earth. Indian families looked around them, plump with contentment. Japanese men in floppy hats studied their surroundings like anthropologists in uncharted jungle. Stout German women in trousers composed almost entirely of pockets yodelled loudly to one another across the room.

Damazeen was his usual immaculate self, fumbling with a mobile phone so he did not notice Makana’s arrival. It was only when Makana sat down opposite him that he looked up and pulled a face.

‘Couldn’t you at least have made an effort? You look as if you haven’t slept in a week.’

‘That’s about how I feel,’ muttered Makana.

Damazeen reached into his pocket for his Dunhills. ‘I was beginning to wonder if you were going to turn up at all.’ He puffed away gently, regarding Makana. ‘You won’t regret this, you know. Once Mek Nimr is out of the way you will have a chance to put your case. I told you before, we live in a new age of pragmatism. You could come home, resume your life again instead of living here like a homeless mongrel.’

At the next table an old Chinese man with cameras and bags strapped across his chest like a commando lay slumped back staring at the river, puffing on a cigarette as if he had been starved of tobacco for months.

‘I’m not like you. Not many people are. I couldn’t live in obscurity like an outcast,’ Damazeen continued. ‘When I arrived home I was hailed as a returning hero. I became a symbol of the progressive nature of the regime.’

‘Doesn’t it get tiring being a national hero?’

‘We all need a place where we belong. Even you. I don’t understand how a man can cut off his roots and make a new life for himself in a foreign land.’ A shudder seemed to go through Damazeen. Then he glanced at his watch and got to his feet. ‘Let’s go. Our guests are already waiting in the suite I am paying for. The sooner this is over the better.’

The Chinese man at the next table had been watching them. Now his attention was distracted by half a dozen of his compatriots, all of them young females who appeared to be talking at the same time. The older man now resembled a kindly emperor surrounded by his concubines. Makana sat back and wished he knew what he was doing here.

‘How can I be sure that you are telling the truth? I have no proof that Nasra is alive.’

‘You must have faith,’ smiled Damazeen. ‘You have no choice but to trust me. Shall we?’

The chattering concubines were giggling and pulling their emperor to his feet before leading him away. Reluctantly, Makana followed Damazeen through the lobby. While they were waiting for a lift to arrive he patted down his pockets.

‘I think I forgot my cigarettes on the table.’

‘We can get more cigarettes,’ Damazeen snapped.

‘I won’t be a moment.’

Damazeen looked at his watch again. ‘Be quick!’

Making his way quickly back in the direction of where they had been sitting, Makana stopped by the reception desk.

‘I need to make a phone call. Can you charge it to my room?’

‘Of course, sir. Your name is?’ The receptionist eyed Makana cautiously.

‘Mohammed Damazeen, I booked some business associates into suite . . .’ He clicked his fingers absently.

The receptionist consulted his screen. ‘Suite
1202
.’

‘Exactly,’ Makana smiled. ‘Now, where can I make that call?’

There was a row of telephones on a shelf along the wall to which he was directed. He made two phone calls. Both calls lasted less than a minute. Then he took his cigarettes out of his pocket and lit one before strolling back towards the lifts where Damazeen was pacing impatiently.

‘Hurry up. I don’t want to keep them waiting.’

As they rode up in the lift Makana thought about the decision he had made on the bridge that night ten years ago. A decision that had decided the course of his life from that moment on. If by some miracle he had been able to turn back time, to return to the days when he, Muna and Nasra had been a family, he knew in his heart that he wouldn’t have hesitated for a second. That was life and this was . . . what? He wasn’t sure. Time, of course, didn’t work like that. It was only a continuum in his head, a freely running line that passed back and forth. The truth was much simpler than that. What happened that night on the bridge could not be undone. Or could it? If Nasra was still alive then so much of what he had believed would change. He had lived these last ten years believing it would have been better if he had gone over the side into the river with them, only now to discover there was, perhaps, a reason to go on. Time was the final mystery, the puzzle he would never solve, the door he could never open.

‘Seeing as you have come this far, I feel it only fair that I reward you.’

It was Damazeen’s tone, rather than his words which made Makana look up. He was holding out a thin envelope. Reluctantly, Makana took it. It contained a photograph of a young woman. Makana would have put her age at about sixteen. Instinctively, he felt a door open deep inside him, felt the cold water rushing in.

‘You don’t recognise her?’

It was like a spasm that clenched his heart tightly like a muscle cramping. The girl in the picture was familiar and yet at the same time completely alien. How do we recognise people? By particular features, or some undeniable element of their character? he wondered. She stared straight at the camera with purpose and conviction that seemed to demand a response from him. He slumped back against the side of the lift. After ten years he still wasn’t prepared. How could one ever be prepared for something like this?

‘Is she here?’

‘You are getting ahead of yourself,’ Damazeen laughed lightly. ‘Why would she be here?’

Why indeed? But then again, why not? Makana examined the picture again. Could it be true? Could this young woman be his daughter? Despite himself, despite his racing heart, there remained a tiny flicker of doubt. Was it possible she could have survived? He couldn’t allow himself to believe it, not yet, in case it was false. And yet the story had the kind of strange and twisted logic that made an odd sort of sense. He was trying to stay afloat, trying not to allow his feelings to distract his thinking. Ten years was a long time, but the wounds suddenly felt fresh and raw. He examined the picture again. Was there something in her eyes that reminded him of Muna?

As the lift slowed to a halt and the doors slid open, Damazeen said, ‘Think of it as a second chance at life. Everyone deserves a second chance, don’t you think?’

The white door to Suite
1202
lay at the far end of a discreet corridor. The door opened to reveal a white man in his forties. With broad shoulders and a heavy build, he wore khaki pants and a dark polo shirt. A gun hung in a shoulder holster under his left arm. He didn’t say a word, just looked them both up and down before motioning for them to enter. After a quick glance down the corridor to make sure no one else was around he closed the door and flipped the bolt. As he turned to walk by Makana felt his shoulders seized by two powerful hands. His face struck the wall as his jacket was wrenched down, pinning his arms in place. A pair of hands then patted him down quickly and expertly, finding nothing. Damazeen held his hands up meekly for the same treatment.

‘Go on in,’ said the man in English.

They entered a wide living area. A long sofa and chair arrangement took up one half of the room, facing the windows. Along the rear wall was a long bar of polished black marble, behind which were glass shelves backed by mirrors. The view through the windows was of the river. The baking traffic flowed like molten silver across the bridge far below. To the right, through an archway, was a dining area. To the left another door led elsewhere, probably a bedroom. In front of this door stood another white man, dressed similarly to the first. This would be Mr Henry Bruin of Cape Town, South Africa, the man Sindbad had seen in the lobby of the Ramses Hilton. Older and heavier, his red hair and beard cut to the same short style. Bruin, Makana concluded, was the more dangerous of the two guards.

‘They’re clean,’ said the first.

Bruin turned and rapped on the door behind him. It opened a moment later to reveal a large black man in his fifties. He was taller than anyone else in the room, and moved awkwardly, as if he had back problems. A warlord from somewhere in Central Africa, Makana guessed. He wore a grizzled beard and a pair of reading glasses dangled from a cord that went around his neck, lending him a vaguely academic air.

‘
Bonjour messieurs
.’

‘Mr Assani,’ Damazeen shook the man’s hand. ‘This is my associate, Mr Makana.’

‘Ah, we have many fine names for what we do,’ chuckled Assani. He waved a wrist on which a large gold watch rattled. ‘These are my
executive
associates, Mr Fitch and Mr Bruin.’

Assani gestured towards the dining room. ‘Shall we commence?’

Makana followed Damazeen through and they settled themselves around a lacquered dining table. The walls were painted white and adorned with modern papyrus prints in glass frames. Assani gave one of his chuckles. ‘The Egyptians in my opinion should go back to their old ways and forget all this nonsense about Islam. What do you say, Mr Makana?’

‘You might have a hard time persuading them to give up fifteen hundred years of history.’

‘You sympathise then, with the
integristes
who wish to return to the days of their prophet?’

‘Not exactly.’

‘Ah,’ he nodded sagely, ‘a pragmatist.’

‘You can only hold people against their will for so long.’

‘Well said, and when the talking is done then we must reach for our weapons, which brings us to today’s business.’ Assani laughed. ‘Interesting associates you have, Mr Damazeen.’

‘Mr Makana has his own opinions,’ said Damazeen curtly.

Assani snapped his fingers briskly and Bruin came forward with an attaché case which he set on the table. Setting his glasses on his nose Assani spun the tumblers until the latches clicked open. From within he lifted a small black bag of chamois leather which he opened. He spilt the contents into the lid of the briefcase. It looked as though a layer of crushed ice had been spread out before them. Makana heard Damazeen’s quick intake of breath.

‘We know war, we two,’ Assani said softly, his long fingers fanning out over the table. ‘Many say that the sacrifices we make in war have no compensation. This, gentlemen, at least goes some of the way to making up for what we have lost.’

‘How much is there here?’ Damazeen’s voice was little more than a hoarse croak.

‘Two million US dollars, on today’s market,’ Assani grinned, ‘give or take.’

Makana had never really seen raw, uncut diamonds before. They didn’t look like much. It was hard to imagine that they could be worth so much money. Damazeen’s eyes were unfocussed, lit up by the strange glow that seemed to issue from the centre of those opaque, oddly shaped lumps that looked as if they belonged on another planet far away. Makana wondered how much he actually knew about diamonds. Turning back to the briefcase, Assani extracted a satellite telephone with a large bar antenna which he unfolded before handing it over.

‘Now,’ he said, holding out a scrap of paper, ‘it is your turn. Here are the coordinates.’

Damazeen took the phone and punched in a series of numbers. A moment later he was speaking in Arabic, reading out the coordinates and urging whoever was on the other end to go ahead as planned. Makana glanced at Bruin, who was standing in the doorway behind him. He felt exposed and unarmed. If Assani decided to renege on the deal and murder both of them once the weapons had been delivered, there wasn’t much he or anyone else could do about it.

Assani took back the phone and made his own call, setting his side of the operation in action. Then he set the phone down and glanced at his watch.

‘Now all we have to do is wait.’

The diamonds were replaced in their bag. The bag returned to the briefcase and the tumblers spun. They adjourned to the next room. Placing the case on the counter, Assani went behind the bar. ‘Now, who would like a drink?’

He produced a bottle of Johnnie Walker and an ice bucket. He poured a large tumblerful for himself. When Damazeen declined he wagged a finger.

‘Oh, you people make me laugh. Always playing games.’ Assani nodded at Makana. ‘You are afraid he will disapprove,
n’est pas
?’