The Golden Scales by Parker Bilal

immediately disappeared in a cloud of smoke and began coughing. He fanned the air and thumped his chest. When he got his breath back, he pushed his spectacles back on top of his head and peered at Makana.
    ‘Has anyone tried to contact you?’
    ‘Like who?’
    ‘Someone from the old days?’ The lawyer gestured. ‘Anyone.’
    ‘What have you heard?’
    ‘It may be nothing.’
    Which told Makana there definitely was something. Amir Medani was secretive to the point of paranoia. He wouldn’t tell you something unless he was pretty sure he needed to.
    ‘You heard about Sanhouri?’ Amir put down his cigarette and leaned back, hands folded behind his head, the chair creaking under the strain.
    ‘What about him?’
    ‘He fell from the balcony of his apartment. You didn’t know?’
    ‘I haven’t really been in touch with a lot of people recently.’ Makana idly turned the handle of the pencil sharpener on the desk. ‘You’re saying it wasn’t suicide?’
    ‘That’s just it, nobody knows. His family is distraught, as you can imagine.’
    Makana recalled that he had never known Sanhouri well; that he belonged more to Amir Medani’s political circle. Its members spent all their time talking about returning home, about forcing the current regime to yield power, but nothing ever seemed to come of all their talk, and Makana preferred to stay away from it. He would go home when the time came. Until then, all he cared about was surviving here and now.
    ‘Didn’t he have police protection?’
    ‘That’s just the thing.’ Amir sat forward suddenly, the chair protesting so vigorously it threatened to disintegrate into matchwood. ‘The Egyptians cancelled his protection.’
    ‘They cancelled it? Why?’
    ‘You know how it is. Every time they have a crisis, the Egyptians blame us.’
    When it was discovered that Sudanese Islamist radicals were behind an attempt on President Mubarak’s life in the Ethiopian capital three years before, he’d turned against them. The open border agreement between the two countries was ended and Sudanese were reduced to the status of any other foreigner.
    ‘Is it possible they let Sanhouri be killed?’
    Amir Medani’s eyes swivelled towards the walls, as if expecting to see the answer to the question written there.
    ‘The thing I like about you, is your devious mind. It almost matches mine. Officially, the Egyptians are against the regime in Khartoum, especially since Addis, but there are elements within the SSI who are friendly to the Islamist cause.’
    ‘I take it there were no witnesses?’
    ‘No witnesses. Eight floors down.’ Amir gave a single nod of the head as if seeing it happen right in front of him. ‘He landed under a passing minibus. It was a terrible mess.’
    ‘So I should stay away from balconies?’
    Amir sighed. ‘It is possible that you may be in danger.’
    Makana had been fiddling with the paper clips that clung to a magnetic Eiffel Tower – a reminder that Amir had spent a number of years living in Europe after getting out of prison back home. There had been a woman involved, Makana recalled, even a couple of children.
    ‘But I’m not a politician like Sanhouri. I have nothing to do with any of that. You know I keep away from politics.’
    ‘You have enemies. People who might want to see you dead.’
    ‘You mean Mek Nimr?’
    ‘He’s a big man nowadays, or so I hear.’
    Makana reached for the cigarettes in his shirt pocket. A memory from the street outside Lulu Hamra’s building came back to him. The man in the beige chequered shirt he had been convinced was following him. Had he been sent by Mek Nimr?
    Outside in the hallway an argument was starting up between a woman with a strident voice and a meek-sounding fellow who was doing a bad job of defending himself.
    ‘You think the Egyptians allowed Sanhouri to be killed?’
    ‘All I am saying is, you should be careful.’ Amir studied the tip of his cigarette. ‘State Security were supposed to