Makana. ‘That doesn’t mean he can’t arrange things from there.’
Okasha spluttered into his coffee. ‘You’re not serious, are you?’ He mopped his moustache carefully with a pristine white handkerchief he produced from his tunic. ‘Why? What motive could he possibly have to kill his daughter?’
‘Maybe she wasn’t his daughter.’
‘This is why you won’t tell me the name of your client. Now I get it.’ Okasha studied Makana for a moment. ‘Do you think perhaps you’re taking this thing too personally?’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Well, it sounds to me like your client has a conflict of interests here. Either he does truly believe the girl’s father did it, or . . .’
‘Or what?’
‘Or he’s covering up his own indiscretions. Maybe that’s where you should be looking,’ said Okasha. ‘If you want motives then start with the most obvious. Who would gain from her death? A father who lives in a foreign country, or a wealthy man seeking to protect his reputation? I assume your client is a wealthy man.’
Makana lit a cigarette and stared out at the street. He had difficulty imagining Ragab being capable of murdering anyone. He struck him as the kind who lacked courage in the final instance. Ragab was the kind who was smart enough to always find an easy way out for himself. He didn’t like getting his hands dirty. Everything about him, his elevated view of himself, was a strategy to avoid conflict.
‘If twenty-two years in this job have taught me anything,’ Okasha was saying, ‘it is that people never do anything purely for benevolent reasons. Believe me.’
Makana did believe him, everything pointed to it. Yet there was still an element of doubt that he could not cast aside. Perhaps he wanted to believe that Ragab was acting out of selfless reasons.
‘In any case,’ Okasha went on, ‘honour killings,’ he pursed his lips in distaste, ‘these are not matters to involve yourself in.’
‘The girl had eighty per cent burns. Can you imagine how painful that is? Even if she had survived she would never have lived a normal life.’
‘I understand.’ Okasha ground his teeth together. ‘But that doesn’t change the facts.’
‘You’re not saying you condone it?’ Makana raised his eyebrows.
‘I’m saying this country has some old ways and nothing you and I can do will change that.’
By now they were drawing looks from other people. Okasha glared around the ahwa just long enough to make everyone else go back to minding their own business, then he reached for his cup and took a leisurely sip. Holding the cup between thumb and forefinger to sip delicately, managing not to dampen the ends of his moustache. ‘There was a woman at the scene yesterday, talking about the same thing.’
‘What woman?’ Makana recalled the woman who had appeared at the clinic.
‘You know, one of those . . . activist types, works for an organisation, no doubt funded by some well-meaning people in Europe who feel they have a duty to enlighten us with their civilisation and whatever else they can think of.’ Okasha finished his tea. ‘Take the advice of an old friend and walk away from this case. You’re taking it too seriously. It’s affecting your judgement.’
‘There’s nothing wrong with my judgement.’
‘This is a bad case. It’s not for you. Not now, not so soon after all this with your daughter.’
Okasha sat back, having said his piece. Makana stubbed out his cigarette and got to his feet. Suddenly he wanted to be away from here, this place, this coffee shop with its noise and chatter, the street with all the chaos and confusion.
‘You know that if there is anything I can do to help, anything at all . . .’ Okasha stood and held out his hand. ‘And no need to thank me for this morning. It makes a change from all of this hysteria about catching Al Qaida operatives. Now we are all part of the War on Terror. What do they think we were doing before?’ Okasha patted Makana on
Okasha spluttered into his coffee. ‘You’re not serious, are you?’ He mopped his moustache carefully with a pristine white handkerchief he produced from his tunic. ‘Why? What motive could he possibly have to kill his daughter?’
‘Maybe she wasn’t his daughter.’
‘This is why you won’t tell me the name of your client. Now I get it.’ Okasha studied Makana for a moment. ‘Do you think perhaps you’re taking this thing too personally?’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Well, it sounds to me like your client has a conflict of interests here. Either he does truly believe the girl’s father did it, or . . .’
‘Or what?’
‘Or he’s covering up his own indiscretions. Maybe that’s where you should be looking,’ said Okasha. ‘If you want motives then start with the most obvious. Who would gain from her death? A father who lives in a foreign country, or a wealthy man seeking to protect his reputation? I assume your client is a wealthy man.’
Makana lit a cigarette and stared out at the street. He had difficulty imagining Ragab being capable of murdering anyone. He struck him as the kind who lacked courage in the final instance. Ragab was the kind who was smart enough to always find an easy way out for himself. He didn’t like getting his hands dirty. Everything about him, his elevated view of himself, was a strategy to avoid conflict.
‘If twenty-two years in this job have taught me anything,’ Okasha was saying, ‘it is that people never do anything purely for benevolent reasons. Believe me.’
Makana did believe him, everything pointed to it. Yet there was still an element of doubt that he could not cast aside. Perhaps he wanted to believe that Ragab was acting out of selfless reasons.
‘In any case,’ Okasha went on, ‘honour killings,’ he pursed his lips in distaste, ‘these are not matters to involve yourself in.’
‘The girl had eighty per cent burns. Can you imagine how painful that is? Even if she had survived she would never have lived a normal life.’
‘I understand.’ Okasha ground his teeth together. ‘But that doesn’t change the facts.’
‘You’re not saying you condone it?’ Makana raised his eyebrows.
‘I’m saying this country has some old ways and nothing you and I can do will change that.’
By now they were drawing looks from other people. Okasha glared around the ahwa just long enough to make everyone else go back to minding their own business, then he reached for his cup and took a leisurely sip. Holding the cup between thumb and forefinger to sip delicately, managing not to dampen the ends of his moustache. ‘There was a woman at the scene yesterday, talking about the same thing.’
‘What woman?’ Makana recalled the woman who had appeared at the clinic.
‘You know, one of those . . . activist types, works for an organisation, no doubt funded by some well-meaning people in Europe who feel they have a duty to enlighten us with their civilisation and whatever else they can think of.’ Okasha finished his tea. ‘Take the advice of an old friend and walk away from this case. You’re taking it too seriously. It’s affecting your judgement.’
‘There’s nothing wrong with my judgement.’
‘This is a bad case. It’s not for you. Not now, not so soon after all this with your daughter.’
Okasha sat back, having said his piece. Makana stubbed out his cigarette and got to his feet. Suddenly he wanted to be away from here, this place, this coffee shop with its noise and chatter, the street with all the chaos and confusion.
‘You know that if there is anything I can do to help, anything at all . . .’ Okasha stood and held out his hand. ‘And no need to thank me for this morning. It makes a change from all of this hysteria about catching Al Qaida operatives. Now we are all part of the War on Terror. What do they think we were doing before?’ Okasha patted Makana on
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