The Burning Gates (29 page)

‘When it’s finished, there will be windows all the way up to the sky. When you sit down to eat it will feel like you’re flying over the course. We’re bringing in a chef from Italy. One of the best.’ Zafrani chuckled to himself. The golf club swung loosely in his hand. They stood for a moment and contemplated the building. ‘I’ll let you into a secret. I have a dream that one day presidents and heads of state will be seated in there, discussing great plans, signing treaties that will change the world.’

‘Everyone’s entitled to dream,’ said Makana. And perhaps it wasn’t such an unlikely prospect. The Zafrani brothers had their sights set on increasing their political influence. ‘And I suppose it helps to have business partners like Qasim to help turn a plot of land designated for an eye hospital into a golf course.’

‘It all depends on how you look at things.’ Zafrani pressed a hand to his chest, the picture of honesty. ‘I myself don’t believe a clinic would ever have been built here. It’s all about keeping the wheels turning.’ He circled a finger in the air to illustrate his theory. ‘Someone wins a contract to build a hospital but then decides that it’s too much of an expense anyway, so they sit on the land until someone else comes along to take it off their hands.’

‘And everyone makes a profit.’

‘Naturally,’ Zafrani smiled.

‘I expected to see you at the memorial service for Kasabian.’

‘Not my thing, funerals.’ He pulled a face. ‘I’m a very private man, as you know. I knew there would be a lot of people there. The press. It’s not good for me to be too much of a presence.’

‘Sure, that must be a worry.’

Zafrani wasn’t listening. He stepped up onto the ground floor of the clubhouse. A chill wind blew through the open frame of the unfinished shell. He pointed out the details as they would materialise. A bar here, a television screen there, showing live golf from around the world, naturally. It was a marvel to Makana that there were people who had the time for such pursuits. Wasn’t there a Roman emperor who played his fiddle while the city burned around him?

On the far side of the open space, Zafrani gestured for him to go through a doorway. A staircase led down into the basement. There wasn’t much light and Makana edged his way down, one hand on the wall, acutely aware that Didi and Bobo were a few paces behind him. He stepped into what Zafrani explained would eventually become the kitchens. The latest technology. All the gadgets needed to produce world-class cuisine. It was hard to see. In the faint glimmer of light that filtered through a row of narrow slits high up in the outside wall, Makana could make out something moving at the far end.

‘Why
have
you brought me here?’

‘Call it an invitation to the truth.’ Zafrani was still swinging the club as if it were a walking cane. ‘You see, I’m not sure how involved you are in all that’s going on, and I need to know how much I can trust you.’

‘What is it you’re worried about?’

‘What I’m worried about?’ Zafrani gave a meaty laugh. ‘You’re the one who should be worried, and yet you ask me. I like that. It shows character.’ He tightened the straps on his gloves and grasped the golf club with both hands. He took several steps into the gloom. ‘Now, this one understands, or at least he is beginning to.’ There was a whistling sound as the club flew through the air and a thud as it struck something heavy and soft, like a human body. Makana glanced back at Didi and Bobo and was relieved to see they hadn’t moved. He stepped forward.

Hanging from some kind of hook in the ceiling was a man. His torso was naked and covered in blood. He spun lightly in a circle, revealing long weals and bruising on his back and sides. Makana could not see his face clearly. Zafrani grasped him by the hair and lifted.

‘Remember this one?’ It took a few moments for Makana to recognise Na’il. ‘He doesn’t look like much, but take my word, he’s a slippery one. Selling drugs where he shouldn’t be selling, and telling stories to the police. Now, if there is one thing I cannot abide, it is dishonesty. A man you cannot trust.’

A gangster with principles, thought Makana. If a moment ago he had been wondering where this was all leading, now he had his answer, and it wasn’t one he liked. How long had Na’il been here? What had Ayad Zafrani done to him in that time? By the smell and the state of his clothes, Na’il had been tied up here for several days. He wondered if Dalia Habashi had managed to get out of the country. He sincerely hoped she had.

‘You brought me here to see this?’

‘I want you to realise how seriously I take my work.’

‘Believe me, I don’t need any more convincing.’

Zafrani nodded. ‘You understand, I’m a civilised man. I’m trying to do this in the most civilised way I can think of.’

Makana refrained from comment. He lit a cigarette.

‘You’re mixed up in something,’ Zafrani went on. ‘I’m not sure you know how big it is.’

‘Why don’t you tell me?’

‘Big, small, what’s the difference? It’s all about cooperation. Nothing gets done in this country without that.’ Zafrani’s face twisted into something resembling a smile gone wrong as he stepped back and swung the club again. This time the sound was different, sickening, as if something inside the body had snapped. A rib or two. It sounded like hitting a sack filled with fruit.

‘He’s not going to tell you anything he hasn’t already told you.’

‘That’s right, I’d forgotten. You’re something of an expert in this field, aren’t you?’ Zafrani held out the club. ‘Care to have a go?’

Makana ignored the offer. ‘What is it you think he knows?’

‘He’s been hanging around my club, selling his drugs, asking questions.’ Zafrani cocked an eye. ‘A little like you.’

‘I told you what I was doing. Kasabian asked me to find someone for him, an Iraqi.’

‘Yes, yes. An Iraqi colonel. Everyone wants to find this Samari, and they all come to me.’

‘He was seen at your club.’

‘Did you ever ask yourself how, in this wonderful city of ours, someone like that, a foreigner, would find his way to my club?’ Zafrani reached down and grabbed a handful of Na’il’s hair and jerked his head up. ‘He doesn’t look too good, does he?’ Na’il was barely conscious. He opened one good eye and stared at Makana. Zafrani let his head drop, and rubbed his hand on his trousers. Na’il groaned and spluttered blood through broken teeth.

‘You see how hard it is to get cooperation these days?’ Zafrani changed his grip and brought the club down hard on Na’il’s shoulder. There was a snap of breaking bone and a wild scream that echoed through the empty rooms around them.

‘You want me to ask. All right, who brought Samari to your club?’

‘Who do you think? Go ahead, take a wild guess.’ Zafrani produced a cigar from his pocket and stuck it in his mouth.

‘Your partner?’ asked Makana. ‘Qasim Abdel Qasim?’

‘You see.’ A broad grin broke across Zafrani’s face. ‘You do know more than you let on. One of Qasim’s early victories was as a broker in a big arms deal in the 1980s when we were supplying weapons to Iraq. He’s known Samari since then.’

‘And when Samari found himself in trouble he called on his old friend to give him shelter.’

‘One good turn deserves another.’ Zafrani leaned down to address Na’il again. ‘Do you know what happens when I break both your knees? You’ll never walk like a man again. You will be crawling the streets begging for scraps for the rest of your life. Is that what you want?’ Na’il moaned and cried some more.

‘So you’re all working together,’ said Makana.

‘What?’ Zafrani was breathing heavily.

‘You’re working together. I don’t see why one small-time drug peddlar should be a threat to that. You’re all much bigger than him.’

‘That’s what I’m trying to explain to you.’ Zafrani took a moment. He loomed over Makana in the dark. ‘It’s about cooperation. We all have to protect our interests. Now, if there is a breach of that trust in either of our separate houses, we are obliged to clean it up. Understand?’

‘You’re saying Na’il has broken some kind of bond between you.’

‘Your American friend. Remember him? Somebody talked to him, and by doing so he put our partner in danger.’

‘That’s what this is about?’

‘That and other things.’

‘Like what? He’s a small-time hustler who makes money selling drugs to high-class party people.’

‘Exactly my point. Now where would a small-time rat like this get his hands on all those drugs? I supply the drugs. I know where they come from.’ Zafrani surveyed his handiwork and sighed. ‘I really didn’t expect this much resistance from such a little shit.’ Tucking the cigar carefully into his shirt pocket, he turned and began swinging the club, again and again, slamming it into Na’il’s already battered body. Makana glanced over at Bobo and Didi. Even they seemed to be wincing.

‘That’s enough,’ Makana said quietly.

‘What?’ Zafrani turned on him. He was breathing heavily. Sweat was pouring down his high forehead in glistening beads. He put a hand to his ear. ‘What did you say?’

‘There’s no point in killing him. It’s not going to change the facts.’

‘Facts? Really? Now that I find interesting.’ Zafrani snapped his fingers and Bobo, or was it Didi, hurried forward with a small towel. ‘Now why would you want me to stop? Is it because you’re afraid of what he might tell me?’

‘Why would I be afraid of that?’

‘Okay, let me ask you something.’ Zafrani took the towel and passed the bloodstained golf club over in return. Bobo took it gingerly, holding it at arm’s length, not sure what to do. Something nasty slipped off the end of the club onto the floor. ‘He’s not telling me what I want to know. Now what does that tell you?’

Makana regarded the slumped mass. A spasm went through Na’il’s body, causing his left foot to twitch. He was still alive. Whether that was a good or a bad thing Makana couldn’t decide.

‘It means that he’s more scared of someone else.’

‘Exactly.’ Zafrani dabbed at his face and rubbed his neck. ‘Now don’t you find that interesting? I find it more than interesting. I find it very worrying.’

Na’il was coughing and spluttering. Blood dripped from his battered face to the floor. His jaw hung slackly. He probably couldn’t have talked even if he’d wanted to. Zafrani took back the club and poked him with the end of it for good measure. ‘This is a small fish. Someone else is feeding off him.’

‘Killing him is not going to solve anything.’

‘It’ll send a message.’

‘Try using the post office. Assuming you’re trying to reach someone in the land of the living.’

‘I have a reputation to protect. A man loses his reputation and he is finished. Dogs turn on the weakest in the pack and tear him to pieces, even their own siblings.’

‘There’s something else to consider. The police are looking for him. They like him for Kasabian’s murder.’

‘This one?’ Zafrani snorted. ‘He couldn’t kill a kitten.’

‘Maybe, but the police are still after him.’

‘I don’t see how that solves my problem.’

‘Dump him. Kasabian had a lot of friends in high places. The police are not going to give in until they pin his murder on someone. They’ll find out who Na’il was working for. You have enough ears inside the police to find out what he tells them.’

Zafrani was silent for a moment. ‘Not bad,’ he said. Handing the club back to Bobo, Zafrani took a moment to light his cigar with a fancy gold lighter, squinting out of the corner of his eye at Makana. ‘Not bad. I like it. But what’s in all of this for you?’

‘I have my own interests to protect. I’m supposed to be helping the police catch Kasabian’s killer. The sooner this case is wrapped up the better for everyone.’ Makana counted on Zafrani not knowing that the police were looking for Na’il as a witness, not as their prime suspect. At some stage he might discover the truth but Makana would cross that bridge when he came to it.

Zafrani puffed rings of grey smoke into the air. ‘You must learn not to take these things personally.’

Sound advice coming from a man who had just beaten someone half to death on suspicion of sullying his reputation. Makana lit another cigarette. The basement felt damp and reeked of blood and death. He didn’t like being here, didn’t like feeling he was an accessory to Zafrani’s crimes. The golf club swung lightly between them. Makana wondered what it would take for Zafrani to turn on him.

‘My brother tells me you are interested in the girl at the club. The dark one.’

‘Leave her out of this.’

Zafrani smiled awkwardly. ‘It’s complicated, all of this high-class stuff. I mean, in the old days I just did what I wanted to do. Now, I have partners here, partners there. It’s not easy.’

‘It’s the price for moving up in the world.’

‘I don’t even like this one they call the Samurai. Apparently he’s got plenty of money and he’s eager to invest. But these Iraqis.’ Zafrani was wagging his head in dismay. ‘He comes to the club, likes to gamble, to spend time with the girls. He likes your friend, by the way. While he’s up there in heaven his bodyguards are drinking whisky, the expensive stuff, and throwing money at the roulette wheel like cowboys.’

‘Isn’t that the idea?’

‘Sure, but because they are friends of the house they think they don’t have to pay their debts. I explain this to Qasim and the others, but they look down on me like I’m an idiot. Without me they would have nothing. All of this.’ He gestured expansively. ‘I did this. They just put the money in. They’re hypocrites, the lot of them. They like to have fun at the club, but the next day they’re in parliament vowing to defend Islamic values and all the rest of it. What happened to this country, that we’re in the hands of a bunch of two-faced cowards?’