the world’s coming to,’ the old porter muttered to Makana. ‘They come and go as if they own the place and not a man between them.’ He raised his voice. ‘If this goes on I shall have to speak to Yousef.’
‘Yousef?’ echoed Makana.
‘He’s a friend of the owner, who has another place he runs across town. Yousef takes care of business for him.’
Yousef appeared to have a hand in everything. He certainly seemed to take an interest in Makana. No sooner had he sat down to work than Yousef turned up. Pushing heaps of folders to one side, he perched himself on the corner of the desk and stretched a rubber band between two fingers.
‘Tell me again why you went to prison.’
Makana glanced round, as if worried about being overheard. ‘I told you. It was a misunderstanding.’
This amused Yousef. He chuckled and slapped Makana on the shoulder.
‘Come on, let’s take a drive and do some real work.’
‘I am supposed to be trying to help the company.’
‘Believe me, that can wait.’
Twenty minutes later they were bumping along Sharia al-Muizz, in the area known as Bayn al-Qasrayn, which once lay between two Fatimid palaces. They passed the tomb of Saliq al-Ayubi, the man who created the Mamluks, a cadre of imported slaves. Slaves were considered reliable because as foreigners they would never aspire to rule the country. Al-Ayubi was wrong. By the time of his death the Mamluks were so powerful that his widow was forced to make a pact with them. Known by the alluring name of Tree of Pearls, Shagarat al-Durr, she tried to keep her husband’s death a secret. The deception didn’t last long and eventually she conceded permission for her son to be murdered so as to remain on the throne herself. Finally, she married the Mamluk leader and so the country passed into the hands of its former slaves, where it remained for three hundred years. Makana wondered if this was where the distrust of foreigners stemmed from.
They came to a halt near the tomb of al-Qalaun. A large pool of muddy water swirled from a burst drain.
‘What a stink,’ Yousef said, screwing up his face. ‘You wait here, I won’t be long.’
Makana watched him disappear into a narrow opening between two buildings. He let a couple of minutes pass before he got out. Nearby, a child squatted on a heap of pebbles.
‘Where did all this water come from?’
‘You didn’t hear?’ the boy replied. ‘The president decided to take a piss. Three days it’s been like this. We’re still waiting for him to finish.’
‘Watch your mouth!’ yelled an old man going by, leading an exhausted donkey.
‘You see that car?’ Makana handed the boy a banknote. ‘You keep an eye on it and you get another of those when I get back.’ The money vanished from sight in the blink of an eye.
Makana crossed the street and descended a few steps. The narrow passage, barely wide enough for two people to squeeze by one another, vanished into the shadows between the buildings. A few minutes later an archway to his right opened onto an irregular square enclosed on three sides by colonnades of stone pillars. In the far corner he glimpsed Yousef disappearing through a doorway. Makana crossed the square. The door carried no name or number, but the heavy wood was decorated by a distinctive pattern of birds fashioned from wrought iron. Makana stepped back and looked up at the big house behind the wall.
‘Looking for someone?’
A passer-by in a grubby gelabiya had stopped to peer at him.
‘I was just wondering who lived here.’
‘So why don’t you knock and ask?’ The man regarded Makana with a sceptical eye. Over his shoulder he carried a dirty white sack out of which pieces of charcoal poked like tiny charred limbs.
‘It’s all right, I’ll come back later.’
The man had obviously decided he didn’t trust Makana and stood his ground until he was sure he was on his way. Retracing his steps, Makana returned to the car and waited. Ten minutes later, Yousef appeared in the narrow cut. He looked left and right before stepping out of the alleyway and crossing the street. As he got in Makana made to start the engine.
‘Hold on a minute.’ Yousef opened the briefcase on his lap and reached inside for a thick manilla envelope. ‘I don’t know why, but I have a good feeling about you.’ Unwrapping a thick wad of dollars wrapped in newspaper he peeled off a handful and held them out.