Chasing Paper

by Graham Hamer

  “My dear Ian, I knew bugger-all about building, but made a considerable profit out of it. Anyway, TLM's a good company and I needed something to spend my money on.”

  “Your father's money, you mean.”

  Tweedle glared at Ian and spoke with the coldness of a hanging-judge. “The source of my wealth is of no concern to you, old chap. Suffice it to say that I am very wealthy and you're very jobless. If you'd like to collect your few possessions, you may leave this premises now.”

  “And that applies to my house too,” Mohammed added, stepping forward again. “You're no longer welcome there.”

  Ian felt the hairs on the back of his neck bristle. “So where do I go to get a bloody exit visa from this shit heap of a country?”

  Khalid snapped back, “Find yourself some accommodation for a few days, and we'll try to arrange it for you.”

  “Accommodation where?”

  “In the bloody desert for all I care,” Richard growled. “It looks as though you'll be sleeping with the snakes for a few nights. You'll have no use for sharpened screwdrivers out there, will you, old boy.”

  “Balls to you, Tweedle!” Ian shouted. “Is that what this is all about, a scratched car?”

  “Certainly.”

  “You moronic cretin. Well, in that case, you'll be delighted to know that I also pissed in your bloody ice tea. Pity it didn't choke you.”

  Tweedle froze. “You did what?”

  “I pissed in your ice tea, you scumbag. In the site office at Headland View. Hope you enjoyed it.”

  “You filthy bastard,” he groaned, clutching his throat. “You really pissed in my ice tea?”

  “Sure I did. And one day I'll stand and piss on your grave, you moron.”

  Tweedle lunged forward, swinging a clenched fist towards Ian's head, but the solid wooden desk bit into his thigh and threw him off balance. Though Ian dodged the grasping hands, his temper finally snapped and he hammered his own fist into the seething face just inches away. He had the advantage of height and it was too easy a target to miss - a slower man, off balance. His blow landed on the side of Tweedle's face, snapping his head sideways and down, towards the top of the desk.

  Ian pushed back the chair and grabbed his jacket as the adrenaline kicked in. In one movement he rounded the desk and sent a well-aimed blow towards Mohammed's engorged belly. The Kuwaiti groaned, rocked backwards, and fell hard against the wall, sliding to the floor and clutching his stomach. Tweedle, whose upper body lay across the desk, lifted his head and turned with a dazed look towards Ian. Ian swept his legs from under him causing him to drop again to the surface of the desk. He grabbed the older man's hair, raised his head six inches from the solid timber below then slammed it back down with a sickening thud.

  As he turned to the part-open door, Khalid slumped against the side of the filing cabinet, which double up as a doorstop.

  “No, Ian! It wasn't me. It wasn't me.”

  Ian grabbed the heavy door and swung it back hard. Khalid's flailing arms were too slow to prevent it grinding into the exposed toes that protruded from his open sandals.

  Ian gave the office door a kick for good measure, causing Khalid to scream again. He stormed across the showroom, where heads appeared around doorways. He strode to the wide glazed entrance at the centre of the building, grabbed the handle and swung the first door hard against the adjacent brick pier, shattering the toughened glass, which fell to the floor in thousands of tiny fragments. Pleased with the result, he stopped long enough to repeat the process to the second door, with similar consequences.

  He ignored the abrupt heat as he stepped onto the sandy forecourt, his mind racing to decide his next course of action. The answer stood in front of him in the shape of a bright red Chevrolet. The men on the other side of the road who normally chatted and shouted amongst themselves, stood back, watching him in near silence while he opened the car door and leaned his head and shoulders inside to check that there was a key in the ignition. Satisfied, he threw his jacket onto the passenger seat, jumped into the driving seat and turned the key. The car awoke with a roar that sounded as angry as he felt then powered its way out of the forecourt, throwing sand high into the air like a swarm of mosquitoes.

  But an enormous mobile crane, with the words 'HIRE ME' painted on the side, blocked the road ahead. Realizing instinctively that it was too late to try to turn round, Ian threw the steering wheel to the right, bouncing the massive car onto the wide stretch of hard sand where the mechanics and paint sprayers stood, open-mouthed. The front wing clipped a waste skip, sending a shower of broken glass onto the windscreen as the headlight disintegrated.

  He wrestled with the steering in an attempt to regain control, but it was too late to stop the rear wing from smashing into an upright wooden pole that supported a tangle of electrical cables. The jolt threw him sideways against the door, but Ian spun the wheel to the left and held it tight as the car bounced back onto the road behind the mobile crane. He accelerated hard, leaving scorched rubber across the hot, concrete potholes. The electric pole crashed to the ground behind him, causing the mechanics to dive for cover behind the nearest vehicles.

  Within minutes, the Chevrolet was racing south along the almost deserted King Faisal Motorway. Ian's view of the receding city was visible only in the rear view mirror. He kicked down hard for several miles, checking the mirror every few seconds until, fifteen minutes beyond the city limits, he took a deep breath and slowed the vehicle to a more sedate sixty miles an hour. Either side of him, a vast expanse of flat, featureless desert stretched to the far horizon, the only signs of human presence being the road itself and the endless tall chain-link fences that had been erected to keep straying camels off the highway. He checked behind him once more to make sure that he wasn't being followed then, satisfied that he had the road to himself, slowed to a halt.

  Ian switched off the engine and allowed his body to fold into the driver's seat like a punctured balloon. He closed his eyes, took deep gulps of air and fought to steady his trembling legs. What a shambles. What in the name of God was Tweedle doing stepping into his life again? The Snaefell Homes episode was a closed chapter - unpleasant maybe, but closed nonetheless. So what was Tweedle doing hunting him down again? He surely hadn't bought Three Leggs just to get his revenge for a scratched car? That was just too ridiculous.

  With his head throbbing and his heart pounding, he tried to think about his next move, but he felt disengaged from reality, like a man who doesn't know where he is and has no clear idea of how he got there. He reached across for his jacket and felt in the inside pocket for his passport and wallet, grateful when he felt their reassuring touch.

  What now, the options? The Al-Sabahs were bound to alert the authorities, but his choices were very limited. Either he could head south and try to cross the well-guarded Saudi border into thousands of miles of empty desert, or he could make straight for the airport and hope to be able to bluff out the fact that he didn't have the obligatory exit visa. There was no real contest and in moments he had fired up the engine again, bounced the car over the dusty central divide between the carriageways of the highway, snapping the exhaust as he did so, and headed back in the direction from which he'd come.

  * * *

  Khalid replaced the receiver. “That was Mohammed,” he said. “Gidman's girlfriend has been trying to contact him for the last two days, and now Gidman's son has been ringing the office.”

  “Balls to them. I hope he never sees either of them again.”

  “He won't once we catch him. They'll put him away for ever.”

  Richard took a long, hard look in the mirror, which occupied the whole of one wall of Khalid's sitting room. “I hope they bloody castrate him,” he said. “Look at the goddamn mess he's made of my face.”

  “My feet as well,” Khalid said, groaning as he lowered his bandaged foot from the low stool to the floor. “But we'll have the last laugh. Al-Kirimi has put all his men on alert at the airport, the controller at the visa d
epartment has had pictures of the vicious little thug pasted to all the desks and computers in the customs department, and the Chief of Police, Captain Faisel, has assured me that they will soon catch him. Kuwait's a tiny country, Richard, and the frontiers are well guarded, particularly since the Iraqi Invasion. He won't get far, I assure you.”

  “And then what?” Richard asked.

  “A very long spell in our prison out at Sulaibiya. We're a lot less tolerant of criminals out here than you are in your own country. Your Embassy will no doubt have to be involved, but they know the score. There's not much they can do to help someone guilty of assault and theft.”

  Richard gave a satisfied grunt. “And damaging property.” he added.

  “And government property,” Khalid said. “There were electric cables all over the road. Apparently they've not been able to find his passport amongst his belongings. If he's got it with him, it's more than likely that, sooner or later, he'll head for the airport. So they've posted extra men there to help at the customs.”

  “You think they will get him?”

  “You can be sure of that. Captain Faisel may be Egyptian, but he's a good man.”

  “What difference does being Egyptian make?” Richard asked.

  “We Kuwaitis control this country, but we let others do the manual work. After all, there's no point having money if you can't buy yourself someone to do your fetching and carrying for you.”

  “Sounds like a bloody good system to me, old boy. So what's the programme now, then?”

  Khalid tapped the leather briefcase on the settee next to him and grinned. “I thought perhaps you and I could have a couple of hours to get the business side of things out of the way. All this sterling is weighing me down.”

  Richard smiled instinctively, then clasped his face as the bruised muscles spasmed. “Fine by me, old chap. What about Mohammed? Is he coming?”

  “No, forget him, he's just a vacuum with a penis. You and I can deal with the business then, later this afternoon, we can go across to the beach club and give you a chance to catch a bit of sun. Michele has lined up a couple of little Lebanese girls for us.”

  “I'm not sure the young ladies will take much of a fancy to me with my face like this.”

  “They don't have to like you,” Khalid said, his smile like the silver fittings on coffin. “They only have to give us value for money.”

  * * *

  Joos van Pelt was a tall, aristocratic man with an uneven smile and the weight of the world on his shoulders. He had the air of a man who didn't suffer fools gladly - a man who always had to think for other people. But those who knew him swore to his dependability and his determination. He was a man they could trust and, it seemed, a quick-thinking man with a wickedly sharp sense of humour. When Marijke, the Regal Dutch Airlines senior cabin crew member, had brought Ian to him in the company's staff room just before midnight, van Pelt had thanked her and asked her to brief the other cabin crew prior to take-off.

  “What's going on?” Ian asked. “Why have your staff brought me here?”

  “You're here for your own safety Mr Gidman,” van Pelt said. “Half the Kuwait police force is out looking for you. How you got as far as our ticket desk, I'll never know, but just be grateful to Marijke that she had her wits about her because if the Kuwaiti justice system gets hold of you, you'll be unlikely to enjoy your freedom for very many years.”

  “I don't understand,” Ian said, without conviction. “What am I supposed to have done wrong?'

  “I'm sure you do understand, and I'm not about to waste my breath telling you something you already know. Let's just say that you must have made friends somewhere because we received a call only half an hour after you went missing this morning, pleading with us to get you out of the country.”

  Ian was silent for a moment. “And is that what you plan to do, Captain? Get me out of the country?”

  “What trouble are you in?”

  “Quite a lot. I thumped a couple of Kuwaitis and borrowed their car.”

  “Was it justified?”

  “Totally.”

  “Then you have my sympathy. I'm on this flight on a regular basis and I know what some of the locals are like. They're not all the same, but for many of them, their country's wealth has gone to their heads.”

  “You can say that again. It's the way they treat their servants that riles me.”

  “Your loyalty appears to have been repaid,” van Pelt said, allowing himself a one-sided smile. “I think you should thank a certain Ibrahim when you get a chance. It was him, it seems, who appears to have telephoned almost every airline in the building asking them to help you get away.”

  Ian felt humbled. “Thanks Captain,” he said.

  “Call me Joos, all my flight crew do, and that's what you are now, a cabin steward. Though I must say you don't look or smell much like one. Where have you been to get in that state?”

  Ian looked down at his shirt and trousers. “I dumped the car in the city this morning and I've been walking the streets ever since, just trying to stay unnoticed till this evening.”

  “Smells more like you've been walking in the sewers,” van Pelt said, pointing to a door in one corner of the room. “There are showers and toilets through there. I suggest you go and clean up. You'll find towels, soap and shaving gear, so you should be able to make yourself presentable.” He eyed Ian up. “There are steward's clothes on the chair through there. They should fit you okay, so start thinking and acting like a member of the staff. I want you looking, and smelling, as inconspicuous as possible before we go to the 'plane. Now, if you'll excuse me, I must go and file my flight plan with the authorities. As soon as you're finished, Marijke will brief you.”

  “You know, I don't have an exit visa.”

  “Flight crew don't need them.”

  “Thanks Joos. I appreciate the risk you're taking.”

  “You can thank me when we're out of Kuwaiti airspace,” Van Pelt said, with a twisted smile and a twinkle in his eyes. He picked up a thick, black briefcase, and left the room.

  Ian breathed a more relaxed sigh, sniffed his armpits, and crossed to the shower room.

  The hot water and purging soap lifted his spirits. Van Pelt seemed so positive and confident that it was difficult to imagine what problems there might be, but the thought of walking past the armed customs officers still caused spiders to dance in his stomach. Big spiders, with long hairy legs.

  The steward's clothes fitted him well. With crisply-pressed grey trousers, and a short-sleeved, pale green shirt under a darker green jacket, the ensemble had the air of a uniform - the company's corporate colours making him part of a team. He wiped the condensation off the mirror over the hand basin with his used towel, and checked his appearance. Not bad, he thought, as he fastened the grey tie. More coffee, Madam?

  Marijke came into the rest room at the same time that he was leaving the shower room. Her startling green eyes twinkled as she indicated with a twist of her finger that he should pirouette, like a model on a catwalk.

  “You'll do,” she said. “What have you done with your clothes?”

  “They're still in the shower room.”

  She pointed to a pile of complimentary flight bags in the corner of the room. “Grab one of those, and put your old clothes inside. We'll need the uniform back when we get to Amsterdam. It belongs to a sick colleague.”

  Ian reached down for one of the flattened nylon bags with the Regal Dutch Airlines logo printed on the side. As he did so, his eyes latched onto the long slender legs of the airhostess. She was built like a graceful gazelle - tall, composed and in complete control of every gesture. “So what do you want me to do?” he asked as he straightened. “Teas, coffees, plastic meals - stuff like that?”

  “You're joking,” she said, flashing her perfect white teeth. “Once we're aboard, you just sit where I tell you and enjoy the flight.”

  “But I thought I was going to stand in for your sick steward?”

  “Only as
far as the door of the plane, after that you're just another passenger. There's more to pouring coffee on a bouncing airplane than you might imagine. We can soon cover for a man short.”

  “So I'm not even going to earn my flight?”

  “No. And we're certainly not going to issue a ticket in your name. Customs are monitoring all the bookings, so the ride's on us. Just don't go shouting about it when you get back home. Where is home by the way?”

  He thought for a moment. “France, I guess. I'm British but my fiancé lives in Paris.”

  “How will you get from Amsterdam to Paris?”

  “Regal Dutch Airlines?”

  “You've got money?”

  Ian nodded. “I managed to rescue my wallet and passport before I disappeared.”

  “Fair enough,” she said, smiling. “Now, for the time being, I want you to wait here while we sort you out a lapel badge, then it will be about time for the rest of us to board the plane and see the passengers in. Is there anything you need - tea, coffee, cigarettes?”

  “I'd love a coffee - black with one sugar please - I've had nothing to eat or drink since this morning so right now, I could murder for one.”

  “Save that for your enemies, not your friends,” she said, as she left the room.

  Twenty minutes later, Joos Van Pelt and the other members of the crew looked anxious as the Captain finished his pre-flight briefing.

  “Remember,” he repeated, “if anything goes wrong at customs, leave it to me. Do not get involved yourselves; just go about your normal duties. Jan, are you ready?”

  “As much as I'll ever be,” Ian said, clipping on the name badge that Marijke had just given him.

  “Okay, act like the other stewards and stay next to me. They don't usually check air crew passports but, if they do, just stay calm.”

  Ian stayed close to Captain Van Pelt's heels as the uniformed crew marched in diamond formation past the carousels of check-in desks, towards the row of glazed customs booths that formed a barrier between the departure hall and the bright lights of the duty free perfume shops beyond. As they approached the chrome and glass boxes, each one staffed by a humourless uniformed guard, Ian's heart began to increase the tempo. Standing in the queue behind Van Pelt, he found it difficult to control the involuntary trembling in his legs. The spiders in his stomach were bigger now.