The Ghost Runner (46 page)

‘Lieutenant Sharqi,’ said Makana. ‘This is the man you want. Sergeant Hamama has been running a smuggling ring in this area. He and his men are bringing in illicit alcohol, cigarettes, along with a range of electical appliances.’

‘Nice try, Makana,’ grunted Sharqi, turning to Hamama. ‘You were told to bring him to us down in the gully on the other side. What happened?’

‘That’s what I was doing,’ protested the sergeant. ‘He’s devious, this one. You want to keep a close eye on him.’

‘Don’t worry, he’s not going to try anything with me.’ Sharqi gave the signal for them to move on.

Murky shadows swelled up from beyond, dancing on the walls in the moving flame from scattered fires, writhing hypnotically. Then the light and noise faded, giving way to the silence of the vast landscape as the cliffs rose on either side of them. A few pockets of men still congregated here and there, consulting in low voices, away from the lighted spaces. The sound of banknotes being counted deciding the fate of far-off places. Conversations snaked over the sand with barely a whisper. Ahead of them a gap opened up in the wall of rock as the land dipped and a stony path dropped into the unbroken darkness that stretched out below. Makana concentrated on not stumbling. The sound of stones rolling underfoot carried on, echoing back from the walls. There was so little light that he could barely see where he was going. There were voices coming from below. As his eyes adjusted he could make out the small convoy of SUVs he had seen on Jebel Mawtah. Around them a group of shadows stood loosely placed. They looked up as the new arrivals stepped onto the track. Sharqi strode ahead.

‘We’ve got our liaison man,’ he said in English. Makana recognised the woman and man he had seen previously. The Americans.

‘Well good for you, Sharqi,’ laughed the woman.

‘You might just pull this one off, buddy,’ said the man.

‘Just you wait and see.’

Another newcomer was waiting for them, seated inside an old Lada that Makana recognised. A sullen, puffy-faced man. Makana guessed this was Musab Khayr. As he opened the car door the interior light came on summoning a curse from Sharqi.

‘Get that light off, you idiot. I told you, no lights showing!’

The light went off. There were no doubts who was running this show.

Sharqi turned to Makana and smiled. ‘We’ve been keeping tabs on you since Cairo.’

Makana recalled the two men he thought had been following him in the Ghuriyya market. It seemed like a lifetime ago but was barely a week.

‘Since you are now an integral part of this operation, I shall explain.’ Sharqi put his hand on Makana’s shoulder and led him to one side. He waved back the men who had escorted him. It was a formality. There was nowhere to run and Makana was in no doubt that Sharqi would shoot him dead on the spot before he had gone ten paces.

‘A few months ago Musab came up on some list of possible terror suspects. You understand, our American friends are all a bit jumpy since 9/11. They started pulling in anyone with the slightest smudge against their name. So, Musab gets pulled off the streets of his comfortable European home and flown back here. You know how it is. They always want us to do their dirty work for them. In this case, to torture Musab and get the information from him. It’s a legality issue. And besides, this is Egypt. We have our ways.’ He might have been talking about the Olympic swimming team, or the triumphs of the national soccer side. Pride ran deep regardless. ‘Makes no difference anyway,’ Sharqi went on. ‘The point is that the information Musab had was low grade and out of date. He was always small-time, never seriously involved in the jihadist movement. He saw it as a way out, as lots of them did. Now the problem is what to do with him. He doesn’t have anything for us. Musab, of course, is terrified. He’s been flown halfway around the world and this is not where he wants to be. So he offers to make a deal. It turns out he was in prison, near here in fact, in Al Wahat, with a certain Daud Bulatt.’

It was four years since Makana had come face-to-face with Bulatt for the first time. Bulatt had a history. Before he turned himself into a jihadi, he had been running a violent gang in Cairo. He was tied in to a case Makana was working on and when he caught up with him Bulatt had just blown up a holiday resort on the Red Sea.

‘The last I heard Bulatt had fled across the border into Sudan.’

‘Exactly, under the protective wing of your old friend, Mek Nimr.’

Bulatt
had been hiding in Sudan for years and he knew he would find shelter there again. Mek Nimr had asked Bulatt to kill Makana and on that occasion he could have done so easily. For his own reasons he had chosen not to.

There was one piece that still puzzled Makana, but for the moment he would have to let that go. Sharqi was calling the tune.

‘So Musab offers to bring Bulatt to you?’

‘You catch on quickly,’ Sharqi smiled. He was overdoing the friendliness. Trying too hard to put Makana at ease, which made him worried all over again. ‘It seems that our friend Bulatt has become something of an embarrassment. In the post 9/11 world everyone wants to wash their hands of the Islamist threat. It’s too dangerous. Someone has stirred the sleeping giant and everyone knows somebody is going to get hurt. Today Afghanistan, tomorrow, who knows? Maybe the Americans decide you’ve killed enough Southerners and intervene in your civil war?’

‘So Mek Nimr is eager to play along.’

‘Your friend Mek Nimr has come a long way. He’s a big fish now. Years of rubbing shoulders with terrorists have turned him into a valuable asset. So he’s co-operating. He will give us what we want.’

‘What has any of this to do with me?’

‘In return for helping us so generously, Mek Nimr has asked for a certain amount of money to be placed in a bank account of his own choosing, and for you to be returned to him.’ Sharqi went on quietly. ‘He must miss you.’

‘Why me?’

‘You’ll have a chance to ask him that yourself before too long. He’s just across the border waiting for you.’

Makana glanced over his shoulder at the darkness. ‘How is the exchange to take place?’

‘Musab has the details. Between the two of us he’s a pompous pain in the ass, insists that he is in charge. I suppose he wants to impress the Americans.’

‘What happens once I’m handed over?’

‘Nothing. We wish you a safe life and good prospects, or whatever. I don’t think we’ll be seeing you again anytime soon.’

‘You know that he’ll kill me.’

‘We don’t know that. Not for certain.’ Sharqi paused. ‘Maybe he’s had a change of heart now that he’s such a big star.’

‘Is he really that big?’

‘They fly him to Washington DC on their Gulfstream jets.’

‘That’s good is it?’ Makana managed to reach into his pocket for his cigarettes. Almost a whole packet. He wondered if he would get a chance to smoke them.

‘A private jet from here to Washington? I don’t get treated like that.’

‘It’ll come,’ nodded Makana. ‘You obviously know how to make an impression.’ He tilted his head towards the American couple who stood off to one side talking in low voices.

‘To be honest with you, I don’t know what all the fuss is about. Daud Bulatt was our problem. He’s not a terrorist mastermind.’

‘Maybe you’re underestimating him.’

‘Yeah, and maybe you have too much time on your hands.’ Sharqi snatched the cigarette from Makana’s mouth and ground it out under his heel. Then he whistled and made a signal with his hand in the air. The men began moving towards the vehicles. ‘You ride with our friend and the fat policeman.’

Sergeant Hamama and Musab were waiting by the Lada.

‘We will be three minutes behind you. When you reach the meeting point don’t hang around. Make the exchange and move on.’

‘Are you sure they won’t see you?’ asked Musab.

‘Don’t worry about it. We’re professionals.’

Just the kind of reassurance that made you feel worse, thought Makana as he climbed into the back seat of the Lada. Sergeant Hamama leaned in and clipped the handcuffs through the handrail over the door.

‘That’ll keep you from getting any ideas,’ he said. Then he went round and climbed into the passenger seat. ‘Are you sure you remember the way?’ he asked.

‘I remember,’ muttered Musab as he turned the ignition. They rolled up the stony track and came up into the open plain. It was pitch black. Musab must have meant what he said. He paused and leaned forward from time to time to look at the sky. He was navigating by the stars. Small-time crook he may have been but someone had taught him about travelling in the desert. Makana had seen guides like this before. It was impressive to see them work, especially at the speed of a moving vehicle.

‘What exactly are you getting in return for me?’

Musab’s eyes never left the road. ‘Weapons, for the Palestinian people.’

‘The Palestinians?’ Even Sergeant Hamama thought that was a little far out. Makana was silent. Something felt very wrong here. Sharqi could not be making a deal allowing weapons for the Palestinians into the country. That could set off a war between Egypt and Israel faster than you could strike a match.

‘It’s all a set-up,’ Musab went on, stifling a yawn. ‘The Israelis kill a few militants in Gaza. The Egyptians arrest a few people on this side of the border and everyone looks like they are doing their bit in this stupid war on terror.’ Musab chuckled to himself. He seemed to have it all worked out. Makana craned his neck to look back to see if he could catch sight of the three Jeeps. Strangely, it would have been a comfort to know that Sharqi was close by. All he saw was blackness. If Sharqi and his team were following close behind they were doing a good job of concealing themselves. He grasped the handrail and used all his weight on it. To his satisfaction he felt it give slightly.

‘One thing I don’t understand,’ said Makana, leaning forward. ‘Why did you kill your own daughter?’

Musab grunted. ‘I didn’t.’

Sergeant Hamama chuckled. ‘Some investigator.’

‘But you went to see Karima, just after you escaped,’ Makana persisted.

‘I had nowhere else to go. I thought it would be a good place to hide.’

‘You set fire to the place. Was it because she wasn’t your daughter?’

‘You seem to know a lot about it.’ Musab looked at Makana in the rear-view mirror. ‘Why so much interest?’

‘He’s working for some rich lawyer in Cairo.’

‘Ragab?’ Musab sneered. ‘Well you can tell him from me I wouldn’t stoop that low, either for her, or that whore of a mother of hers.’

They drove on for half an hour before Musab murmured, ‘There they are.’

Makana followed his finger and could make out two heavy shapes that stood out against the sand. Rigid, square shapes that looked like lorries. The Lada pulled up alongside and Musab got out. ‘You’ll do the driving from here,’ he said to Sergeant Hamama. ‘I’ll direct you.’

Makana thought they looked like the Magirus-Deutz lorries he had seen at the depot on the road out of town. They looked empty. A couple of figures broke away from the shadows to meet Musab as he approached.

Sergeant Hamama climbed in behind the wheel. ‘I don’t like this,’ he murmured.

‘A little out of your depth here, are you, Sergeant?’

‘I don’t know who these people are. This wasn’t what I understood at all.’

‘What were you told?’

‘Like with any shipment, I would guide them into the depot and then check the goods and that would be the end of it. I get my share and the goods go out according to supply.’

‘So you had no idea what they were bringing in?’

‘Certainly not weapons for the Palestinians.’ Sergeant Hamama was chewing gum fiercely. ‘You don’t get involved in politics. That’s the rule. This is a business deal.’

‘That’s what Musab told you.’

‘Between you and me I wasn’t that keen on letting him back in, but he made out that he had money to invest. I figured we do one deal together and see how it goes.’

‘So he played you.’

Sergeant Hamama twisted in his seat. ‘Can you see anything out there?’

Makana looked. ‘Probably Sharqi and his men.’

‘No, they would be coming from over there.’ Hamama pointed a little further to the left. ‘And I can’t see any sign of them either.’

Musab returned and climbed into the passenger seat. ‘All set,’ he said.

‘The sooner the better,’ said Hamama, as he started the engine. ‘You lied to me.’

‘Take it easy. This is a good deal. It pays well and it puts the security forces in our debt. We will have a friend to call on if we ever have trouble in the future. So just relax.’

The big diesel engines broke into life with a sharp series of coughs. They grumbled as the drivers revved them up. Each of them flashed their lights to signal they were ready.

The Lada took off with an awkward lurch and Musab pointed them south again, further into the desert.

‘Did you take care of Wad Nubawi?’ Musab murmured.

‘Yes.’
Hamama had other things on his mind. ‘How do you know we can trust them? They’re State Security. They could turn us in at any moment.’