Dogstar Rising

Chapter Forty




Mo Damazeen was waiting in the lobby of the Gezira Sheraton when Makana walked in the following afternoon. Sombrely dressed, in a sharply cut black linen suit and a crisp white shirt, he paced nervously, fidgeting with his cuffs as Makana watched him from across the wide room. Beyond, large windows looked out on a wide view of the river looking south towards Manial Island. Scruffy palm trees poked at the sky, their crowns waving madly in the dusty breeze.

Makana himself had seen better days. Along with the aches and pains from the previous night’s exertions, he had only managed to get a couple of hours’ sleep. Okasha had arrived with enough reinforcements to put down a small coup, but they had proved unnecessary. Somehow the deaths of Antun and Rocky had brought a certain calm to the situation. It was almost as if their sacrifices had cleansed the world in some strange way. In Rocky’s flat they had discovered an Aladdin’s cave of stolen goods comprising everything from televisions and video players to statuettes of Nefertiti, gold and silver amulets, along with a rich haul of various foreign currencies and a handful of passports and other stolen documents. Rocky’s boys had been busy. In return they recounted their abuse. They had been bullied and beaten, starved, locked up in the cage on the roof. Now that he was dead it seemed there was no limit to the number of people willing to come forward and testify to his brutality. Okasha was in supreme form, almost crowing with delight, confident that he would find enough forensic evidence to link Rocky to the murders and put Sharqi in his place in the process.

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?’

‘It’s not that,’ Damazeen swallowed nervously. ‘I just don’t want to drink this early in the day.’

‘Comme vous voulez,’ shrugged Assani. He sat down on the sofa and stretched out to rest his long legs on the coffee table. ‘Myself, I fly to Paris tonight. My friends keep telling me to move to Dubai, but I can’t stand the Arabs. All of them are two-faced, even you who should be African.’ He chuckled to himself as he sipped his drink. ‘At least in Paris you can get a decent meal.’

It took forty minutes for the call to come through. Assani was dozing on the sofa by then. Neither Damazeen nor Makana had moved a muscle. They remained under the vigilant eye of Bruin and Fitch. Rubbing his eyes, Assani sat up and pressed the phone to his ear. He listened for a few moments and then nodded. Getting to his feet he gave a signal and the mercenaries pulled on jackets and headed for the door. One was out in the corridor while the second held the door.

‘Now, gentlemen, I am afraid I must leave you.’ Turning to the attaché case, Assani spun the tumblers once more and plucked out the bag of diamonds and handed them over. Damazeen’s eyes lit up as he opened the bag and dug his hand inside to let the glittering reward trickle through his fingers.

‘Do not attempt to leave this room for the next half an hour,’ Assani warned, ‘or one of my associates will shoot you. It has been a pleasure doing business. I suggest you lighten up and have a drink. À la prochaine.’ With a slight bow he headed for the door, briefcase in hand. ‘Oh, I almost forgot.’ He turned and revealed the silenced pistol he must have taken from the case after extracting the diamonds. ‘Your friend, Mek Nimr? He sends his regards.’ He fired twice and Damazeen collapsed backwards into the chair he had been sitting on. Two, star-shaped tears appeared in the otherwise pristine white shirt. Assani leaned over and picked up the bag of diamonds from Damazeen’s lap. The barrel of the gun swung towards Makana. There was a moment’s hesitation and then the pistol sailed from his hand forcing Makana to catch it. With a smile, Assani was gone.

Makana heard the door to the suite click shut and stood for a moment. He stooped over Damazeen and confirmed that he was certainly dead. A diamond fell from his hand as it dropped lifelessly to his side. As Makana went through his pockets quickly to see if there was anything connecting the two of them there came a knock at the door. He went over and carefully turned the bolt to lock it from the inside. As he stepped back he heard Sharqi call out:

‘Open up, Makana!’

Makana glanced at his watch. The ever eager Sharqi had arrived earlier than agreed, which Makana now realised he should have taken into his calculations when making his plans. He considered his options. He was locked in a room with a dead man and he was holding the murder weapon. Leaving by any route other than the door was going to be difficult considering this was the twelfth floor. He went over to the window and considered the long drop. Death no longer held the same appeal it once had, now that he knew Nasra might be alive.

‘What are you playing at Makana? Open the door before we break it down!’

It wouldn’t take long, he knew, for Sharqi to get hold of a pass key or decide to simply forget about the expense and give his men the satisfaction of kicking the door in. Makana wasn’t sure how far he could trust Sharqi, but he guessed that expecting him to forgive the murder of his prime source of information was probably too much to ask. Their agreement was that Sharqi would get Assani and Damazeen, after Makana had a chance to talk to Damazeen in private, maybe offer him some clemency in return for Nasra’s whereabouts. He looked down at the gun in his hand. Escape seemed out of the question.

Out of the corner of his eye a movement made him look left as a man floated up before him through the air. A miracle, or was his mind playing tricks? The windows facing him looked out over the river and were covered by balconies. The window to the left in the dining area was flat. The face on the other side of this window was one he had seen before. Not exactly pretty, nor what you might expect of an angel or performer of miracles. The last time he had seen this particular face had been in the alleyway behind Yunis’ house of birds. Before that it had been riding a motorcycle with a television set strapped behind him. Slightly overweight, his flabby features blurred by grey stubble, the man came to a halt when he was level with the room. Makana went over and opened the window.

‘There isn’t much time,’ the man said calmly. He held out a hand. Tucking the gun into the small of his back, Makana climbed out. The platform started to rise.

‘Sorry about last time,’ said the man apologetically, as he pulled the window closed.

‘Never mind,’ said Makana, peering down at the ground and thinking it looked a long way.

‘They use these things for cleaning the glass.’

The electric winch whined as it lifted them slowly. High above a metal arm jutted off the roof over which the cables ran. A rubber wheel on either side squeaked along against the side of the building as they rose. Without warning it came to an abrupt stop and for a few moments they hung there, suspended in the air. The man sniffed and fiddled with the buttons on the control panel. Neither of them said anything. Then there was a click and the maintenance platform began to rise again. A couple of floors up the man pulled another lever and they began to move sideways. There was a good deal of swaying as the platform changed direction. In a few moments, however, they had reached the corner of the building. The man pulled a lever back for them to descend and they soon came to a halt outside another window. The man lifted the safety bar and gestured for Makana to step inside. Then he disappeared upwards again towards the roof. Makana pushed through the billowing net curtains into the room to find the slim figure of Zayed Zafrani waiting for him.

‘So, Mr Makana, we meet again,’ he said, holding out his hand.

‘So it appears.’

‘I believe you have something for me?’

‘If you mean diamonds, I am afraid that Assani took them with him.’

‘Ah,’ Zafrani took the loss of two million dollars with a philosophical shrug. ‘That is unfortunate. This means that they are in the hands of Mr Sharqi and his boss, Colonel Serrag.’

‘It looks that way.’

‘Well, that can’t be helped.’ Zafrani gestured towards the room. ‘Please, make yourself comfortable. I suggest we wait an hour or so for the excitement to settle down before attempting to leave the hotel. Can I offer you tea?’

‘Tea would be nice.’

‘And Mr Damazeen?’

‘I’m afraid he won’t be joining us.’

Zayed nodded as if he expected this. ‘Mr Damazeen was playing a dangerous game. What I don’t understand is that you were prepared to take such a risk. What was there in it for you?’

‘I was trying to get my life back.’

‘Ah,’ Zayed Zafrani frowned and then smiled as if this was the kind of answer he expected.

Makana felt sick. He felt as though a cold door had been shut in his face and Nasra had once more been condemned to the grave.

‘There is a matter we still haven’t settled yet,’ Makana said, bringing himself back to the present. ‘The details of the Eastern Star story are going to have to come out after all this.’

Zayed Zafrani tilted his head to one side. ‘Perhaps there is a way in which they could emphasize the role played by Sheikh Waheed?’

‘Would you be satisfied with that?’

‘It would be a sacrifice,’ said Zayed Zafrani, ‘but it would be something.’

By the time he got back to the awama it was after sunset. His mind was in turmoil, preoccupied with all that had happened, and with what had not. Distracted, he did not register the fact that as he came down the path Umm Ali’s little shack was silent and dark. It was only as he came aboard that he realised something was amiss. As he reached the foot of the stairs a voice spoke out of the shadows behind him:

‘A man could get tired of waiting for you.’

Makana had half-turned before the blow hit him.