might pass on the street and not think twice about except for the way their eyes followed you. He looked at the faces and tried to imagine them as schoolchildren. When had they discovered they possessed a natural affinity for deception? Inevitably Mek Nimr sprang to mind. Who better to epitomise that combination of envy, hatred, and the desire to inflict pain? Was he being fair, or was he taking liberties with the facts? Since the moment when Damazeen had told him his daughter was alive, Makana had felt something come undone inside him. Where would it lead, this unravelling thread?
The hallway was lined with rooms now converted into offices, interrogation cells, archives full of personal information about the lives of countless men and women, most of whom were blissfully ignorant of the fact they had a file in here. Makana wondered if somewhere in this maze there was a file with his name on it. He saw desks and heavy typewriters, telephones, metal filing cabinets and fax machines. A man came out of a storeroom carrying a tape recorder under one arm. He nodded a greeting to Sharqi as he shut the door behind him and locked it. They arrived at an open-plan area of desks, many of them empty. The few that weren’t were occupied by bored-looking men staring at computer screens. They barely looked up as the little procession filed through.
Lieutenant Sharqi’s office was small and windowless. On the top of a row of grey cabinets rested a blue baseball cap with the letters FBI stitched onto it in yellow. Behind this on the wall was a framed photograph showing a proud Sharqi wearing a T-shirt bearing the same letters. He was flanked by two men, presumably Americans, dressed similarly. They all wore broad smiles.
‘FBI summer training camp,’ said Sharqi as he slipped off his jacket and placed it on a wire hanger that hung from a hook on the wall. ‘One of the best experiences of my life.’
Makana looked for an ashtray and saw none.
‘My brothers all run car franchises, clothes outlets, quality products. My father was appalled when I told him I was staying in the army after doing my military service.’ Sharqi went behind the desk and sat down. ‘I was good at it. I knew that. I joined the paratroops and scored the highest of any trainee in the last ten years. It took me a long time to persuade my father to accept my choice, but now he says he is proud of me.’
‘Patriotism is overrated.’
‘How would you know? You’re a stateless person. You go back home and they will bury you in a dark hole.’
‘I take it there is a point to this touching story of yours?’
Sharqi inclined his head in the direction of the picture of him and the FBI boys. ‘When you go to America, you see how things work. The way they think. They love their country, just like we love Egypt. But it’s more than that. They believe in the idea of America.’
‘What idea is that?’
‘The idea of freedom and equality, that all men are born equal.’
‘And you’re worried that it might catch on in this country?’
Sharqi rocked back in his chair. ‘You think you’re clever, don’t you? I know your type. You don’t believe in anything.’
‘And you do?’
‘The point is,’ Sharqi said slowly, as if speaking to an idiot, ‘that this country is not ready for democracy yet. If elections were held tomorrow who do you think would win?’ As he spoke he reached down to unlock a drawer in his desk and produced a clear plastic bag. A strong one, probably standard issue in the FBI, here it was probably reused. It contained an automatic pistol. He set it down on the table between them.
‘Our bearded brothers. And what would they do? Overnight, they would take us back to the Middle Ages. I don’t need to tell you this because you came here to get away from exactly that in your country. We’re on the same side, you and me.’
‘And which side is that exactly?’
Sharqi tapped the pistol in front of him. ‘Do you know what this is?’
‘The gun that murdered Meera Hilal.’
‘Very good. Now, try to be a bit more specific.’
Makana took a closer look. It was a Marra. A version of the Czech CZ75 semi-automatic handgun. It was manufactured exclusively at the Military Industry Corporation’s centre at the Al-Shagara Industrial Complex, about an hour’s drive from Makana’s old home in Khartoum. They made