‘You don’t really expect an honest answer to a question like that, do you?’
‘I was just wondering why you are the only person who seems to be working.’
‘Oh, the others usually turn up just before it’s time for them to go for breakfast.’
‘You talk as if you were responsible. Are you Faragalla’s assistant?’
She laughed aloud at that. ‘Oh, no. I don’t know what made you think that.’
There was something about her which didn’t quite fit into this environment. In her late thirties, he guessed. She had a narrow face and eyebrows whose arch betrayed a keen intelligence. Her clothes had been selected with practicality in mind and not towards enhancing her slim figure. Indeed, the long skirt and jacket made her look somewhat drab, and certainly older than her years. She chose to blend in, not to stand out. The ring told him she was a married woman. The tips of her collar and cuffs showed slight wear. A woman who lived frugally and was careful with her money. Whatever Faragalla was paying her it obviously wasn’t enough to refresh her wardrobe too often. Either that or she was unconcerned about her appearance, except that she was not a mess. Her long dark hair was clean and neatly tied back with a simple black ribbon. She wore little make-up and on the inside of her wrist she had a pale-blue tattoo of a cross.
The building’s bawab, a grey-haired man with a hunched back, limped in carrying a tray in one hand. He saluted Makana like an old soldier as he set down cups of coffee and glasses of water with trembling hands, managing not to spill too much.
‘Ya Madame, you work harder than all the others put together. Give your fingers a rest and drink some coffee to give you strength.’ He winked at Makana.
The woman laughed, which made her look about ten years younger. Then the light faded from her eyes and her normal reserve returned.
‘Abu Salem is quite a character,’ she said when he had gone. ‘I think he keeps us all going.’
She might have been about to say more when the glass door flew open and the first of the day’s arrivals finally made an appearance. A young man in his twenties entered. Wearing a brown suit and a white shirt with pleats down the front. His hair was slicked back heavily with oil and he trailed an overpowering scent of aftershave behind him.
‘Ah, there she is, the light of my eye,’ he breezed as he swept by, the heavy bag slung over his arm thumping into the door as it swung back. A young man heading firmly towards an overweight life, he had the plump, well-fed look of a proud mother’s pampered son. The suit bulged tightly around midriff and thighs.
‘Good morning, Wael.’
‘What’s new, ya habibti? Any pyramids fall down overnight?’
‘Not that I’ve heard of, but then I’ve been so busy working . . .’
‘Yeah,’ he said, slipping into English. ‘Always the busy bee. Well, all that gonna change now, darling.’ He broke off as he noticed Makana and reverted back to Arabic to address him formally. ‘Are you waiting for someone?’
‘He has an appointment with Mr Faragalla.’
‘Marhaba, welcome, bienvenue. Is he not here yet?’
‘Not yet,’ the woman said. As she caught Makana’s eye a brief look of complicity passed between them. The others began arriving soon after that. There were six in all, including the woman behind the front desk, whose name Makana gathered was Meera. There was a general assistant with a club foot who shuttled around between the desks running errands and carrying papers back and forth from the photocopier. The three main players were the plump young man, Wael, then Yousef and Arwa. Yousef was a small wiry man in a leather jacket. His eyes were cold chips of stone deeply sunk into their sockets. He muttered a brief greeting as he entered and then hurried across to his desk on the far side of the room where he threw himself down into his chair, spun towards the window and reached for the telephone. He smoked incessantly with his back to the room, glancing round from time to time to keep an eye on things. The vain and energetic Wael seemed to have boundless energy. He spoke to clients on the phone in a confused babble of English, Arabic and French, with a word of Spanish or German thrown in here and there for good measure, though by the sound of