Habashi?’
‘She’s in a lot of trouble, I heard,’ said Nefissa.
‘What kind of trouble?’
‘The financial kind. Basically, her gallery has been losing money for years. She can’t afford to run it. She survives on bank loans, and the story is they’re taking her to court. She’s notorious for not paying artists when their work is sold.’
‘Awful woman.’ Rania screwed up her nose. ‘Exploiting hard-working artists.’
‘You can’t say that,’ Sami objected, ‘just because you don’t like her.’
‘She’s a snob. She flirts with men when she thinks she can get something out of them.’
‘Don’t look at me.’ Sami held up his hands defensively.
‘I am looking at you.’
‘That was once.’ Sami sighed. ‘One time. Years ago. I’m amazed you still remember.’
‘You mean, you were hoping I’d forgotten.’
‘I’m not getting involved in this.’ Nefissa raised two protective hands and retreated across the room.
‘Nothing happened,’ Sami sighed, appealing to Makana for sympathy. ‘I was doing a piece on how cultural life in this country tends towards supporting the regime. We kid ourselves into thinking we’re this great cultural reference point in the region but we have no critical faculties. We’re world champions in the art of sycophancy. Kissing ass, as our American friends would say.’
‘She’s a manipulative bitch,’ Rania threw back as she disappeared behind her desk. She glared at Makana. ‘You notice how he changed the subject? She was born rich. Her father was some kind of businessman and politician. He was killed in Beirut. Some said it was political, others that he had fallen out with his criminal friends. In any case, she married a man twenty years older than her and set herself up here as a grande dame of the art world. Husband walked out on her naturally, when he finally realised what she was really like. Since then she preys on men, old and young, who she entices to buy her awful artworks. She’s rumoured to be having an affair with someone high up in the National Democratic Party.’
‘Qasim Abdel Qasim?’ asked Makana. What he had seen of the two of them together at Kasabian’s didn’t suggest an affair. Perhaps they were good at disguising their feelings, or maybe there was something else between them.
Rania held up her hands ‘You see?’ She looked at Sami. ‘Everybody knows.’
‘It’s unfair to malign the woman because she’s made a success of herself. You of all people.’
‘Actually, she’s not the reason I came here,’ said Makana, wondering what was going on between the couple.
‘Just when it was getting interesting,’ said Rania, then she sat down and started tapping away on her computer.
‘Everything all right?’ Makana asked quietly.
Sami shrugged apologetically. ‘The usual. So, what do you need from me?’
‘An Iraqi colonel by the name of Kadhim al-Samari. Ring any bells?’
Sami sat up and turned to the computer on a table beside him. ‘I think he made it onto the deck of Most Wanted playing cards.’ With a few clicks Sami had more information. ‘There’s a mention of him in a Human Rights Watch report. Looks nasty.’ He reached for a cigarette absently as he read. ‘Death squads. Torture. Not the kind of person you want to be on the wrong side of.’
Makana moved round the desk to take a look at the screen. Each playing card in the deck featured a member of the Iraqi high command, starting with Saddam and working down through his sons and advisers, politicians and military officers. All of them wanted. Most of them featured a photograph of the person in question, but in some cases the image was replaced by a black outline on a white background. The card featuring Colonel Kadhim al-Samari was one such.
‘There’s no picture?’
‘No. I can try and find one somewhere else, but the CIA are pretty thorough.’
Makana perched on the desk and lit a cigarette. ‘You haven’t heard any rumours that he
‘She’s in a lot of trouble, I heard,’ said Nefissa.
‘What kind of trouble?’
‘The financial kind. Basically, her gallery has been losing money for years. She can’t afford to run it. She survives on bank loans, and the story is they’re taking her to court. She’s notorious for not paying artists when their work is sold.’
‘Awful woman.’ Rania screwed up her nose. ‘Exploiting hard-working artists.’
‘You can’t say that,’ Sami objected, ‘just because you don’t like her.’
‘She’s a snob. She flirts with men when she thinks she can get something out of them.’
‘Don’t look at me.’ Sami held up his hands defensively.
‘I am looking at you.’
‘That was once.’ Sami sighed. ‘One time. Years ago. I’m amazed you still remember.’
‘You mean, you were hoping I’d forgotten.’
‘I’m not getting involved in this.’ Nefissa raised two protective hands and retreated across the room.
‘Nothing happened,’ Sami sighed, appealing to Makana for sympathy. ‘I was doing a piece on how cultural life in this country tends towards supporting the regime. We kid ourselves into thinking we’re this great cultural reference point in the region but we have no critical faculties. We’re world champions in the art of sycophancy. Kissing ass, as our American friends would say.’
‘She’s a manipulative bitch,’ Rania threw back as she disappeared behind her desk. She glared at Makana. ‘You notice how he changed the subject? She was born rich. Her father was some kind of businessman and politician. He was killed in Beirut. Some said it was political, others that he had fallen out with his criminal friends. In any case, she married a man twenty years older than her and set herself up here as a grande dame of the art world. Husband walked out on her naturally, when he finally realised what she was really like. Since then she preys on men, old and young, who she entices to buy her awful artworks. She’s rumoured to be having an affair with someone high up in the National Democratic Party.’
‘Qasim Abdel Qasim?’ asked Makana. What he had seen of the two of them together at Kasabian’s didn’t suggest an affair. Perhaps they were good at disguising their feelings, or maybe there was something else between them.
Rania held up her hands ‘You see?’ She looked at Sami. ‘Everybody knows.’
‘It’s unfair to malign the woman because she’s made a success of herself. You of all people.’
‘Actually, she’s not the reason I came here,’ said Makana, wondering what was going on between the couple.
‘Just when it was getting interesting,’ said Rania, then she sat down and started tapping away on her computer.
‘Everything all right?’ Makana asked quietly.
Sami shrugged apologetically. ‘The usual. So, what do you need from me?’
‘An Iraqi colonel by the name of Kadhim al-Samari. Ring any bells?’
Sami sat up and turned to the computer on a table beside him. ‘I think he made it onto the deck of Most Wanted playing cards.’ With a few clicks Sami had more information. ‘There’s a mention of him in a Human Rights Watch report. Looks nasty.’ He reached for a cigarette absently as he read. ‘Death squads. Torture. Not the kind of person you want to be on the wrong side of.’
Makana moved round the desk to take a look at the screen. Each playing card in the deck featured a member of the Iraqi high command, starting with Saddam and working down through his sons and advisers, politicians and military officers. All of them wanted. Most of them featured a photograph of the person in question, but in some cases the image was replaced by a black outline on a white background. The card featuring Colonel Kadhim al-Samari was one such.
‘There’s no picture?’
‘No. I can try and find one somewhere else, but the CIA are pretty thorough.’
Makana perched on the desk and lit a cigarette. ‘You haven’t heard any rumours that he
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