Yousef winked. ‘You drive me here, you keep your mouth shut. That’s something. Call it an advance. Later, I might want you to do a bit more.’
‘I don’t take money for something I haven’t done.’
‘An honest man, eh? Well, fine, I’ll hold onto it for you until you are ready. Just don’t wait too long. I’m not known for being a patient man. Next time I’ll introduce you to the old man. Now let’s get out of here, this place stinks worse than my mother-in-law.’
There was a knock on the window. The boy who had been watching the car stood there rubbing his fingers together. Makana wound down the glass and handed out a note. When he turned back he saw a look of disgust on Yousef’s face.
‘Keep giving it away like that and you’ll need more money than I can give you.’
Chapter Eight
The mosque was within walking distance of the awama. On Friday morning traffic along Al Nil Street was a fraction of what it was on a working day. The riverbank recovered some of its natural state. It took him fifteen minutes, first he walked along the river towards Midan Kit Kat and then turned west and walked inland. The relaxed mood extended through the narrow streets. Proud men strolled along leading their young children. Onlookers gathered around a minibus that had been stripped to a skeleton and observed one man hammering it mercilessly. Finding the mosque became a matter of following the crowd. It was a large construction that looked as though it had not been finished. A basic rectangle of grey breeze blocks fenced out the area. Inside, a structure of newly set raw concrete rose up out of the ground topped by a wide dome. Alongside it the minaret seemed out of proportion and uneven as it climbed crookedly towards the sky. Wooden scaffolding was still in place on one side and jagged metal spikes stuck out of the sides, presumably to hold the final outer layer of cladding, when someone got around to finishing off the building. Along the front, metal poles supported a strip of corrugated plastic sheets that provided some shade. Beneath this was a row of simple taps and a drainage gutter where the faithful could perform their ritual ablutions before entering. Around the sides a skirt of scuffed bare ground divided the mosque from the surrounding wall and the road. The street and grounds were packed with people milling about. He looked around for Sami, but without luck. They should perhaps have arranged to meet elsewhere beforehand. To one side of the entrance he spotted a group of what looked like Central Security Forces heavyweights surveying the crowd. Pushing through, Makana made it as far as the shelter where he had a view of the interior through a barred window.
Fans revolved overhead while on a raised dais at the far end of the room, resplendent in white robes, sat the compelling figure of Sheikh Waheed. In his mid-fifties, he wore a wispy beard. His head was covered by a simple turban. An enormous leather-bound Quran rested on a sandalwood stand before him.
‘He is the Lord of the heavens and the earth and all that is in between them. Worship Him, then, and be patient in his service.’ Sheikh Waheed paused and raised his eyes above his reading glasses to look out at the crowd. Speakers attached to the outside walls made sure his words were carried to those standing in the grounds and the street beyond.
‘What greater suffering to inflict upon a parent but the bloody slaughter of a child? Is there one among you who cannot feel the pain of losing a son? Imagine the torment they must endure!’
There was a collective sigh of sympathy from the crowd. Around him Makana could hear people muttering angrily. A scuffle broke out to his right. The heavies from the front entrance moved in to drag the troublemakers away. Everyone fell silent as the sheikh began to speak again.
‘A ruthless murderer is amongst us. Is it any wonder, I ask myself, that people speak of these murders as an evil ritual? Who would dare, in this day and age, to sacrifice children? I ask myself, have we gone back to the Jahiliyya, the days of ignorance before the light of Islam touched mankind?’ A murmur of dissent passed through the audience like a restless pulse. ‘The bodies of innocent creatures, slaughtered like wild