Authors: Parker Bilal
‘Stirring up animosity towards Christians, for example?’
‘A distraction. We are not interested in distractions. We want people to wake up, to see how badly this country is being run.’
‘And then what, they rise up and take to the streets?’
Zayed Zafrani lifted his shoulders in a careless shrug. ‘The details are not important. The point is that change is inevitable. You cannot suppress seventy million people forever. We started this bank in order to bring people back to the idea that Islam can be used to run the state.’
‘Because you believe Islam is the solution to this country’s problems.’
‘The people, the
shaab
, have been cast into a long sleep for many decades. But one day soon,
inshallah
, they will awaken.’
‘Shall I tell you what I think?’ asked Makana, lighting a cigarette. ‘I think some part of your masterplan has gone awry. You’ve lost control. In a word, one key piece is out of your hands, or to put it another way, somebody you trust has betrayed you.’
‘Go on,’ said Zayed Zafrani quietly.
‘This person is playing both sides to his own advantage. You expected to get the information you needed in Ismailia. It wasn’t there. You thought Hikmet’s mother had it, but Rania beat you to it. Now you say you don’t know where she is, and perhaps I’m wrong, but I just might believe you. Maybe somebody else has her, the same person who set up Meera’s killing without your asking. He made it look spectacular, which was exactly what you don’t need. The case passed from the police to a special counter-terrorist unit and Lieutenant Sharqi, who is going to come knocking at your door one of these days.’
‘And you think you can help us to take care of this person?’ murmured Zayed Zafrani.
‘I think I might be able to.’
‘And what do you get in return for doing us this favour?’
‘Well, there is one matter of great importance to me that I think you can help me with.’
‘Please, speak freely.’
‘I need to know about your business with Mohammed Damazeen.’
Zayed Zafrani was silent. Ayad muttered something to himself and stared at his feet.
‘I was right about you,’ said Zayed Zafrani after a time. ‘You are an interesting man.’
On the way across town, Makana stopped to call the hospital. By some miracle he managed to get through to the right nurse who told him that no, Mrs Barakat was not with her husband. He insisted that he needed to speak to Sami, that it was a matter of life and death. Eventually, after much complaining, a line was connected and somebody presumably held the receiver to Sami’s ear. He was desperate and had heard nothing from Rania. Makana hung up and made more phone calls. He was trying to eliminate possibilities. Eventually, only one would remain, the one he feared the most. He called their apartment where there was no reply, then her office and finally her parents. Nobody had seen her.
The police presence had been reduced to one dark-blue pick-up which slumped under shot suspension parked on the corner of the street. Two uniformed men sitting in the back watched Makana with a mixture of indifference and sullen resentment. The acned face of the young man who stepped up to block his path was unfamiliar. Like the others he wore a shirt emblazoned with the image of the many-winged angel on it: the Seraph. He smelled of hair oil and was carrying a short iron bar. He clearly knew who Makana was.
‘Our hero returns,’ he sneered.
‘Where’s Ishaq?’
‘He’s not here,’ he replied helpfully. The others began to crowd round, breathing in quick, shallow gasps, like fighters gearing themselves up before plunging into the ring. ‘He’s at the gym.’
‘Tell him I need to speak to him,’ Makana said, pushing his way through. There was resistance, but no one seriously tried to stop him going inside. They might not have liked him but they weren’t going to assault him in front of the police. They would have to wait.
As he walked up the stairs into the building he heard a television playing somewhere. A chirpy jingle selling something nauseating and completely lacking in nutritional value. It seemed to sum up the age. The door to the apartment was opened by Meera’s sister, Maysoun, who looked him over with the same mixture of distrust and resentment as the boys on guard duty outside. She lifted a hand to stop him, but Makana pushed her aside.
‘Where is he?’
Maysoun shook her head speechlessly. She wore a plain black dress with a high neck and long sleeves. She examined her nails.
‘He’s not good. He drinks too much and gets depressed. Then he doesn’t sleep. His nerves have never been good.’
‘Is he asleep now?’
‘The doctor gave him a sedative. He needs rest.’ She stared down the hall, gloomy and dark even in daytime. ‘My sister married him. This is still her home. Out of respect for her I cannot abandon him in his hour of need.’
‘It’s an admirable attitude. A lot of people would not go to such lengths.’
Her eyes pinned themselves sharply on him. ‘Did you find out who murdered her?’
‘That’s why I’m here. I need to ask the doctor a few more questions.’
‘I don’t like to disturb him.’
‘It’s too late for that.’
Maysoun again glanced down the hall in the direction of Hilal’s study. She turned back to find Makana watching her and finally decided to step aside. She gestured towards the salon.
‘Please, wait. I will go and tell him you are here.’
The salon was defended by a couple of old aunts. Dressed in black they sat side by side, perched on a sofa covered with white lace like a pair of tidy crows. They stared at him in silence. A clock ticked loudly somewhere.
After a time Maysoun reappeared and led the way back down the hall to the big study. Ridwan Hilal looked worse. He was dressed in a shirt with stain marks in the armpits and he appeared to be growing a scruffy beard. He sat slumped behind the desk, his head resting on his right hand. The eyes opened and he made an effort to sit up as Makana entered.
‘Please, don’t hurt him any more,’ Maysoun whispered as she went by on her way out.
‘So, our investigator returns. And . . . have you found out who killed my wife?’
‘I’ve found out a number of things we need to talk about.’
Hilal waved a weary hand towards a chair. ‘Very well. Please speak your mind.’
Makana glanced at the open doorway as he sat down across the desk from Hilal.
‘Feel free,’ Hilal smiled. ‘There are no secrets in this house.’
‘As you wish. Do you know why Meera went to work at the Blue Ibis company?’
‘I have no idea.’
‘Perhaps it will be easier,’ Makana smiled, ‘if I explain what I think happened and you correct me?’
‘Very well.’
‘Nasser Hikmet came to you. He said he was working on a story about the Eastern Star Investment Bank. Since you had some expertise on the subject of Islamic banking he thought you might be able to help. He was looking into a number of small companies that he believed were siphoning funds away from the bank into the accounts of private individuals, some quite high-up officials. It was a huge story and not without risk.’
‘I thought you were trying to find out who killed my wife?’
Makana ignored this. ‘I imagine you dismissed Hikmet as a dabbler. What could a poor journalist understand about the theoretics of Islamic banking? But Meera saw it differently. She persuaded you that this was an opportunity to restore your reputation. She contacted Hikmet and went around the list of companies he had until she found work, at Blue Ibis Tours.’
Hilal stared at Makana in silence, then he got up and went over to close the door.
‘Inside the company, Meera made friends with Ramy, Faragalla’s unwanted bastard. For his own reasons Ramy decided to help Meera and led her to the documents which demonstrated how money was being re-routed from the bank. And that brings us to the letters.’
‘What about the letters?’
‘The letters were meant as a personal warning, to you, from an old friend, Professor Serhan. He overheard Hikmet’s name mentioned in connection with Meera. When Hikmet fell out of a hotel window Serhan suspected she was in danger. For sentimental reasons perhaps, he decided to warn her, to warn both of you, in fact. But there was a problem, he couldn’t contact Meera directly. He was on the side of respectability now, and she was your wife. He would have died of shame if the story had come out and besides, he was probably still a little bit in love with her. Being a professor he came up with an obscure and roundabout way of trying to warn you. He sent the Dogstar letters to her anonymously. He thought you would understand.’
‘How would I know they were a warning?’
‘I think you did. When I spoke to Professor Serhan I asked him why he had sent three letters. Surely one would have been sufficient? He thought so too. He couldn’t understand why you didn’t respond to the first one. He was counting on you recognising the Sura, since as students the two of you had been young poets, part of a movement that revered those texts. The ambiguous Suras, as you explained to me. The first time I showed you the letters I asked if you had seen them before. You said no. You lied to me. Why?’
‘None of what you are saying makes any sense,’ said Hilal.
‘Let’s go on. When Meera found out why Faragalla was hiring me she decided she had to talk to me. She told me about the other letters. Faragalla had only seen one. She was worried I might discover what she had found in the office records and that her plan would be exposed. Meera was a cautious person. You had told her not to worry about the letters, but she wasn’t convinced.’
‘This is all pure speculation.’
‘I think it was pride that stopped you from responding to Serhan’s warning, but there was another reason you lied to me about the letters. You told Meera there was nothing to worry about. You didn’t want anything to deflect her from her task. This was your chance to be vindicated, to expose the people who destroyed you as charlatans prepared to subvert the law to make some money. You would have a chance to make your case again. You might even be reinstated.’
‘You are simply making this up. You have no evidence for any of this.’
‘I don’t need evidence, because all I’m doing is telling a story.’ Makana tossed onto the table the business card he had found underneath Mrs Hikmet’s sink. Hilal reached over to pick it up.
‘Where did you get this?’
‘I found it in Hikmet’s flat. It’s identical to the one you gave me, remember? It has your name on it and your private line.’ Makana pointed at the telephone sitting on the desk. ‘Despite your assurances, the letters still managed to scare her. Meera knew that the information she had would blow the roof off the Eastern Star Bank and take a number of prominent people with it. But she also knew she was dealing with dangerous people. Army officers, State Security officials. Going after them would be like kicking over a basket full of snakes. She decided it was too dangerous to proceed.’ Makana got to his feet and moved over to the window. ‘That’s when you decided to take matters into your own hands. The chance of getting your name back was too strong. You called Hikmet and arranged to meet. You gave him the information he was looking for. Your pride and vanity was more important than your wife’s safety.’
Ridwan Hilal groaned and bowed his head.
‘You asked me who killed Meera,’ said Makana. ‘Whoever killed Hikmet found evidence of where the information had come from. They put two and two together and came up with her name.’
Ridwan Hilal pressed his balled fists into his eyes and let out a sob. ‘I didn’t want to hurt her. I just wanted my life back. I wanted to be let out of this prison. Is that such a crime? To show the world that I was right and they were wrong?’ And then, almost as fast as it had started, his fury ebbed away. ‘Oh, God,’ he sobbed and dropped his face into his hands.
As he made his way out, Makana paused by the open door to the salon and looked in. The two crows stared back impassively. They didn’t even blink. Maysoun was waiting by the front door, one hand clutched to her throat. In her other she held a handkerchief; the neck of white cloth twisted like a strangled bird as her fist tightened around it. Neither of them said anything. The sound of Ridwan Hilal’s sobs echoed down the lonely hall.
There was only one person whose name kept surfacing in Makana’s thoughts. One man who was always there in the background, just out of focus. Someone who fitted all the requirements. A man who was everywhere and nowhere. Yousef had been running the passport scam if not for the Zafranis then with their blessing. As an ex-Military Police officer he still had contacts inside the security services. He was placed inside the Blue Ibis by the same officials who had turned the Eastern Star Bank to their own purposes. Yousef was everybody’s friend and nobody’s. He took care of business for himself, first and foremost.
Father Macarius was waiting for him in the big gloomy hall that served as a dormitory and dining room. He was sitting at the far end of the long table, his head resting against the wall. On the table in front of him lay a string of rosary beads and a wooden cross. He looked asleep and it wasn’t until Makana was standing over him that he opened his eyes.