The Ghost Runner by Parker Bilal Page A

can come over and show you some stories.’
    ‘Fine. I’m going out for an hour or so, but just wait for me.’
    Night had fallen as Makana caught a taxi up on the main road which swung round and delivered him to the rather elegant old building by Heliopolis station where Ragab had his offices. Makana and Sindbad had followed Ragab to and from the place numerous times the previous week. Now it felt strange to be walking through the door. On the ninth floor a broad window revealed the city laid out below as a dark, glittering map. Ragab was expecting him. He came round the large desk to shake his hand. ‘I have informed my staff that you are working for me on a private matter, beyond that they know nothing. I would like to keep it that way.’
    Makana nodded his agreement and Ragab indicated a plush leather chair for Makana to take as he went back to his own place behind the desk. The comfort made him feel like a lamb being pampered and fed, all in anticipation of the slaughter that was to come.
    ‘It seems that Musab may be back in the country.’
    ‘What?’ Ragab looked stunned. ‘But that’s impossible. You know this for certain?’
    ‘Somebody who talked to Karima before the fire said she had seen her father.’
    Ragab slumped back in his big chair. ‘Well, I must say, that would explain a lot.’
    ‘Tell me a little more about Musab. You said he had become a devout Muslim in prison, that he had joined a certain jihadist group, and that it was his involvement with this group which led to his seeking asylum abroad.’
    ‘That is correct.’
    ‘You also described Musab as a delinquent, someone who was always looking for the easy way out. So which is it? The devoted fanatic, hell-bent on bringing down this regime, or the small-time criminal?’
    ‘Musab is the type of fellow who doesn’t really have much in the way of a conscience. As a young man he was involved in criminal activities. He associated with people who encouraged him that it was possible to get what you want in this world without too much hard work. He followed that line until it landed him in prison. I’m not even certain his conversion to Islam was sincere. He saw it as giving him a chance, and maybe I am reading too much into it, but I think he saw himself as a bit of a hero, a martyr even.’
    ‘Was he actually involved in activities against the government?’
    ‘Oh, yes. Nagat came to me shortly after he was released. She was worried about his behaviour. He made no attempt to find work, but spent all his time at the mosque or attending secret meetings about which she knew nothing. She was afraid. Remember, this was nineteen eighty-nine, at the height of the troubles in this country with militants. The police could knock down the door in the middle of the night and shoot everyone, justifying it with the claim that armed radicals were hiding there.’
    Makana remembered the time in question as being a difficult one. When he first arrived in this country, two years later, he had found himself in the curious position of being suspected of harbouring sympathies for the radicals. The irony being that he had fled to this country to escape precisely the same thing: militant Islamism.
    ‘Can you be more specific about what he was actually doing?’
    Ragab spoke with the confident air of a man who was comfortable with his position. He regarded Makana with an amused, somewhat condescending look. He cast around the room as if looking for something that wasn’t there. ‘The usual. Circulating leaflets, recruiting new members, attending meetings, that kind of thing. Then he went away, as I told you.’
    ‘You said you weren’t sure where he went exactly.’
    ‘No. But I believe it must have been some kind of training camp, with the idea of returning here to fight against the government.’
    ‘But you must have believed he was innocent of being involved in that assassination plot?’
    Ragab lifted his chin. ‘Musab is a country boy at heart and in