Guy Fawkes Day
Page 41
Chapter 25: Madinat Al-Aasima, Ramliyya: October 23, 5:30 p.m.
Sophie was among the first to step out of the first class cabin of Ramli Airlines flight 235 from Cairo. Behind her jostled a collection of white-robed Arabs and their black-veiled wives. The young English girl, a rare sight in the sequestered Sultanate, had also covered her hair and western dress with a black abaya, which had been waiting together with connecting ticket at the Ramli Air counter in Cairo airport.
At first the warm and humid early-evening air of Ramliyya felt exotic and invigorating; but as she descended the gangway and walked across the tarmac towards the terminal building, Sophie was already respectful of its all-stifling power.
Hasan was waiting for her inside, a sandal step ahead of a phalanx of police and customs officers. Sophie was glad of Hasan’s presence, for the Egyptian woman at the Cairo check-in desk had warned her about the unmitigated severity of Ramli customs and immigration.
Hasan gabbled several quick commands in Arabic; in no time Sophie’s passport was stamped, luggage retrieved, and she was whisked unchecked through long-faced, cheated customs officers.
Hasan led her through the terminal to the back-seat comfort of a black Mercedes. He muttered something to the chauffeur; the driver flicked a button on the dashboard, blowing icy jets of air from the AC vents that cut into the moist skin of Sophie’s forehead. Then they sped off silently into the dusk.
From every direction mosques started to wail the plaintive summons for maghreb prayer. Glass-fronted officer towers glinted pale colours of thankful relief in the orange aftermath of the sun’s setting. Madinat Al-Aasima was a city of whitewashed buildings, large, beetle-shelled American cars, few pedestrians and fewer women.
They took a five-lane motorway leading out of the city and into the bare rocky hills behind.
Sophie asked for news of Omar; Hasan, as ever, was monosyllabic with his replies.
After a half-hour drive they arrived in front of a pair of black metal gates inlaid into a high stone wall. The driver pressed a key on his mobile and the gates drew back automatically. Behind the gates two uniformed, armed guards watched sullenly as the Mercedes purred up the raised drive to stop in front of a flight of white marble steps.
Sophie waited for the chauffeur to open her door and gasped in amazement when Hasan walked round to join her on the steps leading up to the entrance.
There were no walls. The mansion was quite simply carved backwards into the rock of the hillside, the sort of fantastical, reclusive retreat favoured by all the corniest of Hollywood megalomaniacs. The luxury of the front lobby was uncompromising. Carpets of similar texture and design to those in the Oxford mansion adorned the marbled floor and bare rock walls. The lighting, as ever with Al-Ajnabi, was dim and discreet.
Hasan ushered her through several rooms that pierced through the heart of the hillside before opening onto a wide, marbled terrace overlooking a sheer drop into the dark valley below.
Omar was sitting there. He was wearing casual western clothes; the habitual crystal of whisky glinted in the candlelight, cupped in his right hand.
‘What can I offer you, Sophie?’ he asked without averting his gaze from the dark drop below. ‘You will find that my drinks cabinet pays no attention to the restrictions imposed upon my compatriots.’
Hasan summoned an Indian servant and Sophie ordered a beer. When they were alone, Omar asked his young guest for the details of her flights, but seemed little interested in listening to her replies. Sophie noted the stilted formality that had returned to his voice. That was always a bad sign.
It didn’t take long to exhaust trivial conversation; in any case, Sophie soon lost all appetite for frivolity when she sensed his restlessness. Omar stayed silent for some time, peering intently into the valley below before moving to the far end of the terrace, where he started to pace back and forth. From high up on the darkness an eerie screeching cry pierced the void, a bird of prey, perhaps?
‘I will be leaving for the city early tomorrow morning,’ Omar announced abruptly. ‘And you will not see me before evening. However, Hasan will be here to attend to your needs. He will show you the swimming pool, and anything else you may require. At midday he will bring you to a TV lounge, where I would like you to watch very carefully an event that will be screened live on our local TV station. Promise me that you will watch it through to its conclusion, whatever feelings it may inspire in you.’
‘You’re asking me to make another false commitment, Omar. Shouldn’t you at least tell me what it is I’m going to see before you make me stick to a promise?’
He glared at her for some time, the whites of his eyes now and then catching a flicker of candlelight, like ship wreckers’ lanterns on a rocky promontory. ‘No,’ he replied emphatically. ‘Explanations will come later. Tomorrow evening you will know why.’
‘So you’re not going to tell me anything about this ‘event’?’
‘It will explain itself easily enough. Just remember one thing, Sophie: however shocking or repulsive you may find what you will see, I urge you to watch carefully to the very end. Try as hard as you can to become a detached observer; look beyond the specific circumstances to the greater issues involved. I assure you, you will learn more from this one spectacle than from reading any of the university texts you may have brought with you.’
She shrugged with confusion. ‘If this ‘event’ is really so important, why won’t you be watching it with me, Omar?’
Sarcasm had crept back into her tone. The tenderness of the night before in Oxford seemed further away than the sum of all the miles she had flown.
‘Oh, I will be watching,’ he smiled bitterly. ‘But not here. Now, dinner is ready, I think. Will you follow me?’
He said it with all the curt hostility in which he usually dropped cumbersome conversations. Sophie knew she would get no more from him for now.
The dining room, or dining cave, was the heart of the lair. More than ever, Sophie had the impression that she was sitting at the epicentre of a magical domain. There were no windows, apertures or decorations in the bare rock. Rugs and cushions were strewn in casual abandon over the floor; torches had now replaced the ubiquitous candles to wrestle with the fidgeting darkness.
They both ate little, talked even less. Sophie picked at the superb food, appetite killed by Omar’s return to sullen malevolence. He was scheming again. They were back to the cool hostility of the early meetings.
She stood up while he was still eating and asked to be shown to her room. He rang a bell, muttering the briefest goodnight when the Indian servant appeared.