The Burning Gates by Parker Bilal Page B

to the end of the street before a taxi turned in, blocking their way.
    ‘Go around him.’
    Sindbad swung the wheel and they lurched up onto a patch of broken pavement and rubble before lumbering by.
    ‘This is no way to treat a car like this, ya basha .’
    ‘Just go after him.’
    With Sindbad muttering to himself, they rolled out of the square in time to see the Yamaha turning at the far end of the street.
    ‘Stay with him, but don’t get too close.’
    Sindbad put his foot down and smiled as the big car surged forwards.
    ‘ Wallahi , this isn’t a car, it’s an F-16.’
    The yellow motorcycle had reached an intersection and was already swinging round onto the opposite side of the dual carriageway. Sindbad spun the wheel and cut across three lanes of traffic. The lights were coming on in the shops on Ahmed Abdel Aziz Street. A plume of black smoke from the Yamaha’s tailpipe sailed over the cars ahead of them like a banner. It felt as though following its movement was more a matter of faith than observation. Makana wanted to know more about the rider and his relationship to Dalia Habashi. Her dilated eyes suggested she was taking drugs of some kind, which added to the picture of her difficulties. This man, with his rough manners and motorcycle, seemed at odds with the kind of high-class environment in which Dalia Habashi’s clientele moved.
    The burr of the engine was audible as the Yamaha accelerated up the ramp.
    ‘He’s turning onto the bridge,’ Makana warned, but Sindbad was already turning, forcing a small scooter bearing a family of four to weave erratically out of their way. They thumped over a pothole and the Thunderbird rocked like a boat as they curved up the ramp and onto the 6th October Bridge. They were lucky. The traffic was light and it was easy to keep the target in sight. ‘Don’t get too close,’ Makana warned. In the distance green strip lights fluttered in the dusk, announcing mosques like flagships dotted on a sea of ochre. Towards the end of the bridge the vehicles began to coagulate, slowing to a halt. The rider flicked the Yamaha through the cars and veered right. He was taking the Gezira exit before they crossed to the east bank of the river.
    ‘He’s going towards the Qasr al-Nil Bridge,’ Sindbad said.
    The light was almost gone as they dropped off the bridge onto the Corniche. The single rear light of the motorcycle led them into Maadi, where finally they lost him. For a time they drove in circles, turning left and right, widening the net in the hope they would catch a glimpse of him.
    ‘ Maalish, ya basha , I’m sorry. It was my fault.’
    ‘Not at all. We’ll do one more circle.’
    ‘But we can hardly see anything in this darkness.’
    ‘Just once more round the block.’
    They did one circuit and then another. Then Makana thought of something. He reached into his pocket and produced the piece of paper Marwan had given him.
    ‘See if you can find this address.’
    They drove round some more and finally turned into a quiet street, only to find, leaning up against a high white wall that surrounded a large villa, the Yamaha.
    ‘Who said you can’t believe in coincidence?’

Chapter Eight
    Sindbad snoozed contentedly behind the wheel while Makana observed the building on the opposite side of the road. Over the high walls that fenced off the grounds from the street the crowns of a row of palm trees rose majestically. The languorous fronds dipped gently in the night air, a cool breeze wafting from the river. Beyond the trees he could see lights and his ears caught the faint sound of music. There was something not quite right about the gateway, which was made of stone and did not match the rest of the perimeter wall or the modern building behind it.
    Makana sat and watched as people came and went. As the evening progressed more cars arrived, most of them expensive and chauffeur-driven. They pulled up and unloaded their passengers before driving off. The vast majority of