The Golden Scales by Parker Bilal Read Free Book Online Page A

for missing people before, but never one as well known as this. Usually you were given a blurred snapshot, or an out-of-date passport picture, but here he had dozens of promotional shots. There was also a thick stack of newspaper clippings charting Adil Romario’s rise to fame, from skinny teenager to muscular athlete. The early articles praised his skills, calling him a natural genius. Alongside many such articles were sheafs of adverts featuring endorsements by Adil Romario. It made Makana wonder just how much Hanafi Enterprises depended on him.
    Soon Aswani began arriving bearing plates of sliced flat bread and tahini dip, along with a salad of fat green girgir leaves. Skewers of kofta were already sizzling on the grill. It was a while since Makana had allowed himself the luxury of coming here. Over the last few months he had simply been unable to afford it; though he knew Aswani was always happy to put it on his tab, Makana was wary of running up debts. Today was different and even Aswani noticed that, holding back as he approached, plates in hand, and cocking his head to scrutinise his customer.
    ‘Are you working again?’
    ‘I might even be able to pay you some of what I owe you.’
    ‘I’ll call the radio and television stations,’ said Aswani with a weary sigh, setting down the dishes. ‘They might be interested in the news.’
    ‘You know I always settle up when I have money.’
    ‘Maybe you’re right,’ said the other man, leaning back with his hands on his broad hips and staring up at the ceiling for a moment before shaking his head. ‘No. It’s been so long, I can’t remember.’
    ‘Just fetch your accounts book and we’ll take care of it.’
    ‘I swear I’ll say the Mahgrib prayer twice today in your honour,’ muttered Aswani as he turned to waddle away. Makana continued reading as he ate. The food here was simple but good. The place didn’t look like much but the cook claimed he never served anything that he wouldn’t be happy to eat himself. His broad girth was his best advertisement. ‘I only eat here to keep up appearances,’ he would say, whenever he was caught with his mouth full, which was often. ‘Who would trust a cook as thin as a stick anyway?’
    Makana turned back to the matter of Hanafi. A number of things had struck him as odd about this morning’s meeting. First, there was the question of how they had managed to find him. Makana was under no illusions that his reputation was so good that he had been the obvious choice. Gaber had mentioned that Makana had been recommended. He hadn’t said by whom. Then there was the fear he had seen in Hanafi’s eyes. Did that have more to do with protecting himself than any concern about Adil, no matter how much he professed to care for him? Hanafi had hinted that he could trust no one in his inner circle. This implied that he suspected there was more to Adil’s disappearance than a young man simply wanting to get away from it all. Had Adil become involved with someone, or rather the wife of someone? A business rival, say, or the wife of a diplomat or politician? Then there was the matter of their argument. Hanafi said that Adil had wanted him to take a holiday. Was that significant?
    Makana looked up as Aswani returned, dismayed to see that he wasn’t carrying any delicious skewers of kebab, and no sign either of the grubby piece of string threaded through countless strips of paper which he called his accounts book.
    ‘Do you mind if I sit for a moment?’ Aswani asked, gesturing at the chair opposite and then sitting down before waiting for an answer. Makana sat back and waited. Ali pushed the little round skullcap back on his head. ‘This is something that has been troubling me.’ His fat fingers twirled the ends of his moustache. He resembled a Turkish general mulling over which strategy to apply on the battlefield. ‘You see the afranji woman who is sitting over there in the corner?’
    Almost the only other customer in the