The Golden Scales (33 page)

‘Lies, all of it. Stories to cheer us up while we rot down here like rats. Everyone round here hates him. They watch him up there on the screen, thinking that it should be them up there. What a great dream . . . but that’s all it is, a dream. And
they
,’ he wagged his finger again, ‘
they
own all the dreams.’

‘Adil was born here, though.’

‘Sure, he was born here, just like we were. He kicked a ball around these streets. But he isn’t like us. He never was. How could he be?’

‘You knew him?’

‘Look, I’ll tell you a story and you can go away and do what you want with it.’ He paused to drop his cigarette butt on the floor. Makana held out his packet and offered him a fresh one. The man was overtaken for a time by a fit of coughing. He went to the door and ejected a long brown stream of phlegm before returning to his place at the counter.

‘There was this young man, and like most young men he was itching to make it big. So he went to Cairo to seek his fortune. He didn’t have much luck at first. He fell in with the wrong crowd, let’s say. But then he came to the attention of a powerful man who helped him, gave him a chance. And the young man was grateful and became his loyal servant. One day he turned up here, driving a big car, wearing fancy clothes, handing out gifts to everyone. He brought with him his benefactor, a big, fat man, and they strolled around the village like King Farouk and his dog.’

‘The big man was Hanafi?’

‘I knew you were smarter than you made out.’ The bony finger wagged in Makana’s face again.

‘What happened next?’

‘The same old story they’ve been writing since
Sayidna
Musa first heard the Word of God. Hanafi’s eyes fell on the picture of innocence that was the boy’s young sister and he lost his head. Pretty soon that fancy car was coming round here on a regular basis.’

‘What did the brother do?’

‘Well, of course, he didn’t find out until it got too obvious to hide any more.’ The man curved a hand over his belly. ‘We all know who Adil’s father really is, but we don’t talk about it.’

‘You’re sure about all this?’

‘Why would a man like me make up a story like that?’

‘People make up stories for lots of reasons.’

‘The girl was fourteen. That’s how those dogs are.’ There was a pause, as if his own words had dredged up something he thought long since extinguished.

‘You didn’t say anything either, did you?’

The bloodshot eyes avoided Makana’s. The voice dropped to a hoarse whisper.

‘I was one of the lucky ones – Hanafi bought up land here. He put local people to work on it. Many families depend on him. We can’t turn against him.’

‘And the brother, what did he do when he found out?’

‘He went mad. He swore vengeance.’

‘He killed Hanafi’s wife and child?’

The bony finger again jabbed the air in front of Makana’s face. ‘He would have killed more but they caught him and threw him in Tora, and that was the end of that. We never saw him again. Nobody wanted to talk about it after that. Now Hanafi owns all this land and we all love him. The thing about a lie is that if you repeat it often enough, people mistake it for the truth.’

With that he pushed Makana aside and staggered towards the exit.

‘One last thing,’ Makana called after him, ‘Adil’s family name is Mohammed Adly. Is that the name of the brother?’

‘No.’ The man turned back to answer him. ‘That was on the mother’s side. Adil took his mother’s name, since officially there was no father. The brother used the family name: Bulatt. Daud Bulatt.’ Then the gaunt shadow shifted and the doorway cleared.

Makana heaved a deep breath and turned to find himself facing the proprietor, who stared up at him from where he sat behind the counter.

‘You don’t want to pay too much attention to what that one says. He’s as mad as they come.’

Chapter Thirty

Aswani’s was crowded by the time Makana got there. He decided he couldn’t be bothered to wait for a table and eased himself into a free space at the counter. He wasn’t really even hungry, he decided, examining the trays of raw meat in the cold cabinet.

‘Just bring me some salad and things. Pickles. Maybe some
taamiya
.’

Aswani wagged his head disapprovingly. ‘You’ve lost your appetite? What’s the matter? Are you in love? Who’s the lucky girl?’

‘You tell me when you find out.’

‘It’s a bad sign when a man goes off his food. When a man loses his appetite, he is opening the door to invite death in,’ said the cook, stroking his moustache pensively before waddling away to deal with his other customers.

Sami Barakat appeared just as Makana had started to eat.

‘The Hanafi DreemTeem is falling down the league tables like a rat down a sewer,’ he declared, tossing a newspaper on to the counter. Makana glanced at the headlines. Without their leading star it seemed like the team was in serious trouble. The article speculated about what might happen if Adil Romario’s disappearance was in fact linked to his transfer to another club. There was a quote from a new ‘star reporter’ about the continued rumours of Clemenza’s involvement. ‘Is someone trying to bring the DreemTeem down?’ ran the headline.

‘Star reporter? They managed to replace you pretty fast.’

‘Don’t rub salt in the wound.’ Sami dropped his satchel down on the counter as Aswani came up. ‘No, it’s all right. I’m not hungry.’

‘Another one?’ The cook raised his eyes to the heavens. ‘They’re trying to ruin me.’

‘I can’t afford to eat,’ Sami said, lighting a cigarette.

‘So what’s your theory?’ Makana asked, tapping the newspaper.

‘What, you don’t have time to read?’ With his foot Sami hooked himself one of the high stools nearby to perch on. He looked more unruly and unkempt every time Makana set eyes on him. ‘The rot was already visible, even when Adil was still playing. Now their rivals are closing in for the kill. The legend is cracking under the strain.’

‘You must be overjoyed.’

Sami ignored the comment, reaching over into the basket in front of Makana for a piece of bread, still holding his cigarette and spilling ash on the counter. Tearing off a strip, he soaked it in the bowl of tahini dip. Looking thoughtful, he chewed for a while in silence.

‘And there’s another thing. I talked to a couple of people about the Hanafi finances. The company is hanging by a thread. They are overstretched financially. Too much expansion, too quickly. They can’t cover their costs and there is little coming in.’

‘That must leave them very vulnerable?’

‘One source told me that if Hanafi weren’t a personal friend of the President he would have been out of business months ago.’

‘What about rumours of a takeover? Any mention of our Russian friend?’

‘Whenever I brought up his name people got nervous. Nobody wants to talk about him, but the feeling is that he is big,’ said Sami, dabbing his mouth with a napkin and reaching for more bread. ‘One of my contacts at Bank Misr told me that everything is riding on this luxury residential project they have planned.’

‘Hanafi Heavens.’ Makana remembered Soraya Hanafi talking about it. ‘I thought you weren’t hungry,’ he said, observing that Sami looked as if he hadn’t seen food in days.

The reporter’s eyes widened in surprise. ‘I’m not, not really. But these
taamiya
are good.’

Makana slid the plate along the marble counter towards him. ‘Maybe it’s worth going out to take a look at this star project of theirs.’

‘Fine by me. Oh, and I may have located an accountant who was fired three months ago.’

‘So? What did he have to say?’

‘Nothing as yet.’

‘What’s the problem?’

‘He’s scared,’ said Sami, trying to swallow and talk at the same time.

‘Do you want me to come with you?’

Sami frowned. ‘No, no, I can handle it. I think he’s just after more money. You have some sort of inducement to offer, I take it?’

‘I didn’t realise I was going to be sponsoring your efforts too.’

‘This is just to loosen him up a bit.’ Sami rolled his shoulders. ‘Surely Hanafi can spare a bit of cash?’

‘Sure he can, I’m the one who can’t,’ said Makana, thinking about the fact that this case was taking much longer than he had anticipated. He noticed that Sami was looking at him in a strange way.

‘Forget it. I’ll give you some cash, but I want a full account of who you are giving it to.’

‘You’re the boss,’ said Sami, reaching for another
taamiya
. ‘You should really try these, they’re great.’

‘I’ll take your word for it,’ said Makana, watching his lunch disappear into the other man’s mouth. ‘Remind me not to eat with you when you’re hungry.’

‘What about you? Any thoughts on what this is all about?’

‘Somehow it is all linked to Hanafi’s past. I just don’t see how,’ said Makana as he waved Ali over and handed him some money, trying to remember something. ‘There’s one other thing you can do for me. I need to know everything I can about Vronsky.’

‘Everything? Meaning . . . ?’

‘Well, mostly his military record. Where he was stationed. I think he was in Afghanistan and later in Chechnya. It shouldn’t be too hard for you. These things must be on record.’

‘I’ll do my best,’ Sami said. He nodded at the bundle of notes Makana pressed into Aswani’s hand. ‘Don’t you even count how much you pay?’

‘If you knew how much I owed this man, you wouldn’t ask,’ said Makana.

‘There’s a phone call for you,’ said Aswani, jerking his thumb at the big old black telephone that rested on the counter by the wall. It was a museum piece that dated back to the days when the British were here, or almost. As he crossed the room, Makana recalled what it was that had been nagging at him. Okasha had said that Vronsky was helping them with their fight against terrorism. Vronsky knew Bulatt from Chechnya. But how did Vronsky know that Bulatt was alive and that he was back in this country preparing to create havoc?

Chapter Thirty-one

‘Is that your office? It sounds awfully noisy.’

The caller was Mimi Maliki. Makana glanced around him. ‘It’s a busy day,’ he said. He had included Aswani’s number on his business card because he was generally by at some time on most days and there was as good a chance of catching him here as anywhere. ‘What seems to be the trouble?’ He suspected this was going to be another request for money.

‘I’ve been thinking about what you said.’

‘Which part?’

‘You said that if I remembered anything that might be useful, I should call you.’

‘And did you?’

‘Did I what?’

‘Did you remember something?’

‘I might have done.’ She broke off and Makana was beginning to wonder if she had passed out on him when she spoke again. ‘Do you think you could come over here?’

‘Right now?’

‘As soon as possible, yes.’ She sounded worried.

‘This isn’t about money, is it?’

‘No, unless you’ve got some. I mean, for me?’

Makana fingered the envelope in his jacket pocket. It was already thinning out from what he had given to Sami, and he was beginning to suspect that this might be all he would ever see from Hanafi by the end of it all. The chances of finding Adil alive now seemed to be diminishing by the hour.

‘I’ll see what I can do.’

‘Then you’ll come?’ She sounded relieved, like a gleeful child, though why he couldn’t think.

‘I’ll be there shortly.’

This time a young man in his twenties opened the door when Makana rang the bell on the eighth floor. He was barefoot and wearing a scruffy beard, jeans and a black T-shirt bearing a picture of a long-haired man playing a guitar, which he scratched as he stared sullenly back at Makana.

‘What do you want?’

‘I came to see Mimi.’

He looked Makana up and down before turning abruptly and walking away, calling out over his shoulder as he went.

‘Mimi, your boyfriend is here . . . or maybe it’s your father.’

Makana stepped inside and wandered through to the big living room where the boy threw himself down on the sofa. Ignoring the visitor, he carried on watching television. The room was, if anything, more of a mess than it had been on Makana’s first visit. A good deal of what was strewn about the sofas, the wide coffee table and the floor appeared to belong to the man who had opened the door. A brown sports bag lay cast to one side, with clothes spilling out of it like a ruptured intestine.

‘You live here?’ Makana asked casually, glancing at the screen where a bare-chested man wearing a bandana and covered in bandoliers was spraying bullets at a group of Orientals in a jungle somewhere. There was a lot of high-pitched screaming.

‘What?’

‘I asked if you lived here?’

The young man stared insolently at him but said nothing.

‘Who is this?’ he asked as Mimi came into the room. She had her hair tied back today and looked clean, her pale face almost translucent.