The Burning Gates (13 page)

‘You don’t trust Kasabian?’

‘Kasabian has made himself a rich man by convincing people that what he is selling is of great value. He’s a smooth talker.’

‘You didn’t have to take the job.’

‘You always think you choose the case, but sometimes it’s the other way around.’

‘The case chooses you?’

‘Something like that.’

It had started as a favour to a friend, but the truth was he had become intrigued by the story Kasabian had told him. Somewhere out there an Iraqi colonel who specialised in torturing people was selling fine art to collectors from New York. Something about that combination seemed to sum up what was wrong with the world. Maybe he thought he was trying to put the world right, and maybe that was the biggest mistake he had made. And then there was Bilquis. Makana wasn’t sure he could explain what it was that drew him to her. He wasn’t sure he understood it himself.

‘Did Ubay come up with anything?’

‘Let’s ask him.’ Sami put his fingers in his mouth and whistled. ‘Your turn Ubay. Come and show him what you found.’

The youth gambolled over on legs as long and thin as the proverbial giraffe’s. He was trembling with excitement as he carried his laptop over.

‘This man is very, very dangerous,’ he said gravely. The afro bobbed up and down like some exotic tree that had come to life as he sat and flipped open his computer. ‘They call him the Samurai.’ Ubay glanced at Sami, who nodded for him to continue. ‘It appears to derive from his name – al-Samari, al Samurai – but actually it’s a reference to his preferred method of torture. Several human rights sites carry the same story.’

‘You mean he uses some sort of Japanese torture?’ asked Makana.

‘A knife. He makes a large number of cuts all over the body. None of them is fatal in itself, but as they add up the pain increases, causing the victim to die of blood loss or shock.’

‘Sounds like the Chinese thing where you drip water on someone’s forehead,’ said Sami.

‘It is a very slow and painful death.’ Behind the large spectacles, Ubay’s eyes were wide.

‘Go on,’ Makana urged gently.

‘He is also accused of mass murder, of running death squads under Saddam. He is ranked lower than Chemical Ali, but is definitely linked to the Anfal genocide of 1988.’ Ubay’s knee was bouncing up and down like a sprinter itching to take off. ‘Kurdish villages were wiped out with poison gas. Tens of thousands of civilians were killed, men, women and children.’

‘What do we know about his background?’ asked Makana.

‘Colonel al-Samari made a name for himself during the Iran–Iraq war of Eighty-one to Eighty-eight, and later during the invasion of Kuwait in 1990. Originally he comes from the Sunni heartland around Falluja, so he was close to Saddam and the Baath Party. That is also where he was last based.’

‘How much is the reward on that wanted card?’ asked Sami.

Ubay squinted at the blue screen he cradled in his arms. ‘Three million US dollars reward for information leading to his capture.’

‘Is there any word of where he might be right now?’

Ubay rubbed his chin. ‘He disappeared when the Americans arrived.’

‘Three million for information. That’s a lot of money,’ said Sami.

‘If I was looking for this man,’ said Ubay quietly, ‘I think I would be very careful.’

He could have been reading Makana’s mind.

A commotion by the door announced the arrival of food.

‘We’d better get over there before it’s all gone,’ said Sami.

Makana wasn’t particularly hungry. Ubay got to his feet and stood there clutching the laptop to his chest. He was staring into space.

‘Are you going to bring him to justice?’

Makana looked up. ‘We’ll see.’

Ubay remained where he was. ‘Men like this,’ he said finally, ‘the world always finds a way of letting them off the hook.’

Makana watched him walk away.

Chapter Eleven

Makana knew about torture. He knew the helplessness that came over you after days of sustained suffering, about trying to hang onto your humanity. He recalled the humiliation, the loss of dignity, the desolation of the soul. For years he had told himself that he was over it, that the memory of that time had healed the way the physical scars had been absorbed into his body. He realised now that he was wrong. It never left you.

He was late for his meeting at Groppi’s. Dalia Habashi had given up on him and was standing on the kerb trying to hail a taxi. Makana walked faster and managed to make it across the street without being run down. He arrived at her side just as she put her hand on the door of the taxi that had pulled up.

‘
Maalish
.’ He leaned down to address the driver. ‘We won’t be needing you after all.’

‘Where did you spring from?’ the driver demanded.

‘Please, just move on.’

‘Listen to me,
ya basha
. Let the lady make up her own mind. We all need work.’ The driver hung on, hoping she would have a change of heart and climb into his cab anyway. ‘
Yallah, ya madam
, don’t let a man rule your life. A lady should decide for herself.’ It was a spirited try, but when she stepped back up onto the kerb he realised his chances of persuading her otherwise were non-existent. With a grumble the taxi crawled away, to a fanfare of horns from his fellow motorists.

Dalia Habashi pulled off her sunglasses and stared at him.

‘Why must you make this harder than it is?’

‘Perhaps we should just go inside.’

Groppi’s was deserted at this hour. An air of despondency held sway over the gloomy interior. A waiter was busy trying to chat up the girl behind the sweets counter. She looked as if she was about to die of boredom. If she was entertained by his attentions she was doing a good job of hiding it. Neither paid any attention to the two potential customers as they walked by.

Dalia stalked to the far end of the room and settled at a table by the window. She fumbled in her bag for a pack of cigarettes and a lighter and lit one as he sat down.

‘I’m not sure this is such a good idea.’

‘I’m sorry, I was delayed.’

‘You could have called.’ She was staring out of the window but her hand was trembling. ‘I don’t feel safe, meeting you like this, in public.’

Makana realised she was scared. He tried to make light. ‘I won’t tell anyone if you don’t, and besides, we have the place to ourselves.’

The table was scarred and bruised from years of neglect. Once upon a time this had been a handsome place, famous for its confectionary. King Farouk used to dispatch lacquered boxes of chocolates bearing the royal seal as lavish gifts to the princesses of England and France. Difficult to imagine the same thing happening today, just as it was too hard to envisage orchestras playing symphonies, or couples twirling across the mosaic floor in each other’s arms. Another age, another dimension.

They smoked in silence. The waiters took no interest in them.

‘Why did you want to see me?’

Dalia stubbed out her cigarette. ‘I once did something very foolish.’

‘Why don’t you tell me about it?’

‘It’s not easy for a woman, you know.’ Her eyes fixed on his. ‘In this town, I mean, in this business. Men rule everything between them. They see women as a game, a conquest. Not as partners, not as equals.’

‘Does this have something to do with the boy on the motorcycle?’

‘Not exactly a boy. He’s almost forty.’

‘Na’il. You and he are . . .’

‘Does it matter?’ Her eyes narrowed.

‘To me, no. But I think it matters to you a great deal.’

She looked at him for a moment and then reached for another cigarette. Makana leaned over to light it for her.

‘My husband left me for a woman half his age. He gave me some money, but not all that much. I realised that the business would have probably folded a lot sooner if he hadn’t been there to support me. I was naive, I suppose. Anyway, the point is that business hasn’t been all that good.’

‘You have financial problems.’

Her eyes flickered up. ‘People love to talk.’ She exhaled slowly.

‘What happened at Kasabian’s house the other night?’

‘There was an argument. Na’il got into a fight. Well, it wasn’t a fight really. But he said some things he shouldn’t have said to one of the guests.’

‘Qasim Abdel Qasim?’

Dalia nodded quickly. ‘I shouldn’t have told him, I suppose, but I did. When we first met everything seemed so perfect. I thought Na’il was the answer to my prayers. He had money. We lived a glamorous life. All over town, all the best places.’ She sighed. ‘By the time I found out he was as broke as I was, it was too late, I was in love.’ Dalia gave a cold laugh.

‘Where does Qasim come into this?’

Dalia Habashi took a deep breath. ‘Some years ago, when I was at a low point, I asked him for money. Just a short loan, to tide me over. He had been coming to the gallery, paying attention to me. I knew he was married. I knew it wouldn’t come to anything, but it was a distraction. He’s a powerful man.’

‘You had an affair.’

‘Is that the word?’ Dalia examined the tip of her cigarette. ‘I don’t know if that’s what I’d call it. I suppose I went along willingly. I’m a grown woman. I knew what I had to do.’

‘For the loan.’

‘He used me. He used me the way he uses everybody.’ Her face had darkened. She stared at the window and Makana saw her wipe away an angry tear.

A waiter lumbered up with all the enthusiasm of a man who had a date with his executioner.

‘Go away,’ snapped Dalia. ‘We’re talking, can’t you see?’

The waiter was wearing a well-worn waistcoat that was buttoned up unevenly. He tried to straighten his bow tie, which stayed stubbornly lopsided, and turned to Makana, appealing to his masculine sense of order. Makana shook his head. The waiter trudged off dragging his feet, his soles brushing along the floor.

‘You told Na’il about Qasim.’

‘It was foolish, I know. We had a fight and . . . I don’t know. I just said it.’

‘And he confronted Qasim at the party.’

Dalia nodded as she fished in her bag for a packet of tissues to wipe her nose.

‘Why are you telling me all this?’

‘I had to tell someone. I can’t cope with this on my own. You seemed, well, the kind of person who could help.’

‘Help in what way?’

‘Na’il is mixed up in something.’

‘Does this have anything to do with drugs?’

‘No, not like that. This is different.’ Somewhere a door that needed oiling squeaked open and shut again. ‘Na’il used to work for Kasabian. He did odd jobs for him. A little like you. He used to work with the police, you know.’

‘Really? Then why did he come to me instead of going to Na’il?’

Dalia looked away. ‘They had a falling out. Na’il is a little headstrong. He’s a dreamer, really. Still thinks that one day it will all come his way and he’ll never have to work again.’

Across the room, Makana could see the heavy-footed waiter talking to the manager, a nervous man with a moustache who draped one arm over the cash register as if it might just sprout legs and run off. There was some kind of discussion going on. The waiter pointed in their direction.

‘Is that why you’re worried?’

‘He’s always been the same but now he’s mixed up with a different crowd.’

‘What kind of crowd?’

‘I can’t explain. He’s changed.’

‘Changed in what way?’

‘I think he’s out of his depth.’

‘What makes you say that?’

‘I don’t know. It’s the small things.’ She cast around looking for an answer. ‘He started going to the mosque.’

‘He wasn’t religious before?’

‘Not really. I mean, you know, he drinks and takes pills and smokes.’ Dalia shrugged. ‘No, he wasn’t religious.’

‘
Effendim
?’ The waiter had resurfaced. His eyebrows drooped on both sides. He looked like a drowning man who knew he didn’t have much longer. He glanced over his shoulder to where Makana could see the manager grinding his teeth. You had to order something to sit here.

‘Coffee,’ Makana said. ‘For two.’

The waiter wandered off in a happy trance.

‘Which mosque was this?’

‘Does it matter?’

‘Probably not.’

‘The big one on the main road near the gallery.’

‘The Mustafa Mahmoud mosque?’ Makana frowned. It was the second time in as many days that name had come up. ‘You think Na’il is mixed up in something he can’t handle?’

‘I don’t know what he’s involved in, but I’m afraid.’

‘You must care about him a lot.’

‘I’m scared.’ Her eyes were filled with anguish. ‘I’m afraid of what might happen. I don’t know what I’d do without him.’

The rattle of porcelain announced the approach of the waiter. The cups hit the table with all the ceremony of a landslide. The coffee was lukewarm, served European style, a thin, grubby soup. The waiter retired to a chair a few tables away where, exhausted from the effort, he rested his head on his hand and closed his eyes.