The Burning Gates Read Free Page A

afraid Ali is a little nervous this evening. I came to lend support.’
    That made her laugh. ‘Well, at least you’re honest about it.’ She leaned over to whisper. ‘Which is more than most people here are.’ Her eyes lit up when Makana produced his cigarettes. ‘You’re a mind reader, but they won’t allow it in here, I’m afraid. Let’s go outside.’
    The veranda was lit by the soft glow that came from a huge copper lamp with glass sides, hanging from the ceiling above the stairs.
    ‘It used to belong to King Farouk,’ whispered Dalia Habashi.
    ‘He left it behind as a parting gift?’ queried Makana, lighting both of their cigarettes. Dalia Habashi leaned back and exhaled at the stars.
    ‘Not at all. How it came into Aram’s possession is a mystery.’ She cocked an eyebrow. ‘But then you know all about that.’
    ‘Lamps?’
    ‘Aram’s mysteries. I understand you are here to help Mr Kasabian.’
    ‘Then you know more than I do,’ said Makana.
    ‘You’re discreet. I like that. Sounds like an interesting life, investigating people. Is it?’
    ‘It has its moments.’
    Dalia Habashi smiled. Her accent was Lebanese and she had that olive complexion that spoke of being bathed in money for generations.
    ‘What did Ali tell you about me?’ A mischievous gleam twinkled in her eyes.
    ‘I’m afraid he isn’t making much sense tonight.’
    ‘You’re being diplomatic, or evasive.’
    ‘I’ve never really thought of this city as being a place for art collectors.’
    ‘Oh, you’d be surprised. The Cairenes, the wealthy ones at least, like to think of themselves as closer to Rome or Paris than to, say, Khartoum.’
    Mention of his hometown prompted a stab of anguish in Makana. ‘I don’t need convincing of that.’
    ‘There is a market for artworks, certainly, but it tends to be less about quality than about who you know.’
    ‘Who would have thought?’
    Makana saw her eyes pass over his shoulder and turned to see a broad-shouldered man in a blue-striped suit. From newspapers and television appearances Makana recognised him as Deputy Minister Qasim Abdel Qasim. People were falling over themselves to shake his hand. In itself this wasn’t all that surprising. Qasim had a lot of influence nowadays. He was part of the inner circle of the ruling National Democratic Party and a close personal friend of the president’s son. You couldn’t get much better connected.
    This was what these events were really about – being seen with the right people. And it seemed that Makana was about to become one of the chosen ones, since Qasim was headed straight towards them. The deputy minister was clearly interested in speaking to Dalia Habashi, who in turn seemed reluctant. There was a slightly awkward moment, which Makana’s presence did nothing to alleviate. When introduced, Qasim ran his eyes over Makana and dismissed him as insignificant in the general scheme of things, but then a frown crossed his face.
    ‘Makana? That name rings a bell. What business are you in?’
    ‘Mr Makana is an investigator, so watch what you say.’
    ‘An investigator? Really? I must be mistaken. I thought you were someone else.’ Qasim apologised as sincerely as any politician was capable of doing and turned to start chatting to Dalia Habashi about things such as mutual acquaintances, perhaps in the hope that Makana would take himself away, which he might have done, except that he objected to having to move for a man like Qasim. And besides, Dalia Habashi had not asked him to leave. Instead she turned and handed him a card with her name and the address of the Zerzura Gallery.
    ‘You must come and have a look. You never know, you might decide to become a collector.’
    ‘I’m sure an investigator hardly has the time to take an interest in art,’ said Qasim. He didn’t exactly sneer, but it came close. Makana wondered if the deputy minister had somehow mistaken him as a rival for Dalia Habashi’s affections. ‘Now I