by Peter Beck
The guard kept chatting away, expressing his astonishment at how large the Arab families were, something particularly apparent now at this improvised picnic. He knew that they’d travelled with kith and kin, but in the wake of the bomb scare he could actually see them all together. He’d read that in Norway the average family was only 3.2 people. And if it went on like that the Western countries would sooner or later die out. Half listening to him, Winter drank his water and then he had an idea.
JULY 30 –10:20
Al-Bader was the head of a large family. It was perfectly possible, therefore, that in spite of the funeral back home, a distant cousin was holding the fort here in Norway to represent the family’s interests. Winter gave the security guard a grateful clap on the shoulder and took his leave.
The hotel had set up a temporary reception by the rose-covered entrance gate at the edge of the park. Beside the large granite that bore in metal letters the hotel’s name and a welcome in three languages, stood a table, behind which two slightly lost-looking receptionists sat. Winter ran his hand through his hair and asked, ‘Excuse me, have you seen Mr Al-Bader anywhere?’
The two uniformed women smiled their receptionist’s smile, said in stereo, ‘Just a moment, please,’ and leafed through some pieces of paper. These were computer printouts of the bookings, marked with green and yellow highlighters. The provisional reception had to make do without computers.
‘We’ve got two Al-Baders. The others left a few days ago. Which one would you like to leave a message for?’
Winter had no idea. He smiled sheepishly. ‘I can never remember the Arab names. He’s a bit older.’ There was always an older one. And throughout the world it was usually the case that the older you were, the more influence you had.
The receptionists consulted in Norwegian and the elder of the two said, ‘It’s probably this one.’ The younger woman said with a smile, ‘He must be seventy at least.’ Realising her indiscretion, she quickly added, ‘Mr Al-Bader is a very spritely man. What message can we pass on to him?’ Winter glanced at the finger on the computer printout. Suite 31 was booked for the entire week.
‘Nothing right at the moment. You don’t happen to know where I might find Mr Al-Bader now, do you?’ He looked around. Unfortunately the two women were unable to be of any further assistance. Winter thanked them and embarked on his search for the elder Al-Bader.
He walked back around the main building to the park. Fatima was sitting in the rotunda with the women. They were having a lively discussion, gesticulating fervently. Her back was turned to Winter. In the rose garden, a few Arab men were sitting in a circle of garden chairs, engaged in a vocal conversation.
He strolled through the park, looking out for a spritely looking old man. Hansen was panting his way up from the bay and Winter asked him where the elder Al-Bader was. The money manager, glad to be able to take a breather, pointed into the distance and gasped, ‘Over there. The one with the stick.’ At the far end of the park, where the cultivated area turned into woodland, was a herb garden with white stones and light gravel paths.
On a park bench at the edge of the herb garden sat an elderly man with white hair, looking out at the fjord. His stick was leaning on the bench. Winter walked through the herb garden, took in the different aromas and felt the sun reflected on the light stones. His shoes crunched on the gravel. Winter couldn’t read the dark, weather-beaten features of the old man’s face. Was he impassive, relaxed, tired?
‘Please excuse me for disturbing you. Are you Mr Al-Bader?’
The old man looked at Winter with watery, but clear eyes. His face was deeply furrowed. The man had spent much of his life outside and looked more like a Bedouin than a businessman. When he rocked his head Winter couldn’t be sure whether it signalled a Yes or a No. In very old-fashioned English and with a strong accent, the man said, ‘Good day. With whom do I have the pleasure of speaking?’
‘I’m a friend of Muhammed Al-Bader.’ And after a pause, ‘I work for a Swiss bank and we met a few times. We were in the mountains together.’ The ‘friend’ bit was a slight exaggeration. Relations between him and Al-Bader had been purely professional. But Winter had always tried to get to know him as a person too.
‘The last time we met a few months ago he told me about his falcons.’ The normally reserved Al-Bader had once raved to Winter about his passion for falcons. The old man looked out at the fjord. High above them a bird of prey was circling.
After a while the old man said, ‘Muhammed was a good man. He had no fear of the future. He was interested in new things and travelled all around the world. He was in China and America.’
‘May I sit down?’ Al-Bader nodded, gestured to the space beside him and Winter sat on the bench. They stared at the fjord together. To the left were the bay and the cliffs, to the right the fjord opened out to the sea. Small, colourful boats bobbed up and down on the water. The old man was quiet. At his age you had plenty of time. Or none at all. Or a different sense of time. Perhaps the old man simply had more patience than Winter.
‘I’d like to find out exactly what happened.’
Winter adjusted to Al-Bader’s rhythm and after a while was rewarded. ‘I’m a cousin of his father who died three years ago. May Allah have mercy on his soul. After his death Muhammed became another of my sons.’
Winter said nothing.
‘And now Muhammed is dead too. I really ought to have gone back to Riyadh for his funeral, but his younger brother asked me to stay here.’ He sighed.
‘I’ve spoken to Mr Hansen from Galaxy. He told me that your family and other wealthy ones from the Middle East are investing money in the West with Galaxy’s help.’ Winter stated this as fact rather than putting it as a question. All the same he hoped to get confirmation from the uncle. Years ago his law professor had impressed on him the importance of cross-checking. Assumptions only became facts when they were checked from different angles.
‘When I was a child,’ Al-Bader said, ‘I lived in the desert. My grandfather bred camels. He was a well-travelled man with friends in distant countries. Once he took me with him to Rabat. He told me that a good businessman always had to be a friend, too. Please do not misunderstand me. My grandfather was a tough character who wanted to earn money. Wealth means a large harem.’
A throaty laugh rose from the smoker’s lungs of the elderly man. ‘But even if he was able to buy a camel cheaply he always made sure that he showed respect to the seller. That took time. You need patience in the desert. We often talked all day and drank tea, then talked more. As long as it took for us to understand each other.’
A long pause. ‘These days everything has to happen so quickly. Muhammed had his own aeroplane and would race off to Paris, London or Hong Kong to shop.’ The old man shook his head.
After more silence Winter asked, ‘Did Muhammed command the respect of the whole family?’ He couldn’t think of a politer way to enquire about possible private quarrels within the Al-Bader clan.
‘Did we argue, do you mean?’
Winter nodded.
‘Yes, there were always arguments. But that’s all part of it. Muhammed was the head of the family. He and his younger brother believed it was our holy duty to help build up the Saudi kingdom. The oil will not flow forever. For this reason we need friends around the world. Other family members don’t think it’s right that we’re building roads and ports in Europe and America.’
‘What’s your opinion?’
‘I’m just an old man. I have always tried to mediate. During the Second World War my family lost almost everything. So I could understand Muhammed when he said it was better to invest money across the globe. But my home is the Arabian Peninsula and there is nothing I wish more dearly for my brothers than peace and prosperity.’ After another pause he repeated, ‘I’m an old man who only partly understands the world of today.’
If the murderer came from within the family it would be difficult. Winter didn’t understand the language, had no clue about the
culture and no contacts. But wouldn’t a family member have had better opportunities to strike? Brutus had slain Caesar in the Roman Senate. Why in Switzerland? Was the place intended as a big red herring? Or perhaps it was another clan?
‘May I ask you another question? I’m not familiar with the traditions of the Middle East. Could this be a vendetta? Did Muhammed have enemies in Riyadh or anywhere else on the Arabian Peninsula who might go so far as to kill him?’
‘Young man,’ Al-Bader began didactically, ‘I advise you not to believe everything you see on television and read in the newspapers. We are not gangs of murderers. We are a civilised people. We were creating great things when Europe was still in nappies.’ Another smoky laugh.
‘Please excuse me, but I am a prisoner of my history.’
‘That’s alright. I forgive you your youthful presumption.’
Relieved, Winter moved away from the controversial topic. Resisting the desire to dig deeper he posed a simpler question. ‘Was Muhammed Al-Bader happy with Galaxy?’
‘The stargazer helped us in Europe. Because of the oil they got on well. All this palaver here helped us invest the money in the right place. My grandfather’s camels were famous for their big feet. Some people called them “flatfoot camels”. Broad feet are important to stop sinking in the sand. The less a camel sinks, the less water it needs, and the less thirsty it is, the further it can walk. The stargazer is like a breeder; he brings the best camels together. But although he looks like an Englishman he doesn’t have a clue about America.’
‘America?’
‘Yes, Muhammed always said that he wanted to go to the United States. He studied at Harvard.’
‘I didn’t know that.’
‘It was Muhammed’s conviction that so long as countries were doing business they wouldn’t wage war against each other.’
‘At least not with weapons.’ The words slipped out of Winter’s mouth.
‘The Americans believe in the market. We believe in the market. We can build on this foundation. It’s much better than people bashing each other’s skulls in Palestine. That costs the lives of many innocent people.’
‘Are there controversial projects in America then?’
‘America isn’t Riyadh. There’s a lot of mistrust in this world. And you must learn to listen.’ At this the elderly man stood up, grabbed his stick made of burr wood and took his leave with the words, ‘Many thanks for your company and your time. It was a great pleasure to talk to you. I learned a lot from your questions.’ With astonishingly lithe movements he left the herb garden and went back across the grass to the hotel.
Winter stayed sitting on the bench. What had he missed? He replayed the conversation in his head again. The old man had talked in metaphors. But what did his grandfather’s camels have to do with the nuclear power station in Cairo? Talking of which, the scar from Cairo was itchy. Winter had to stop himself from scratching it till it bled. He heard soft footsteps in the gravel and turned around. Fatima.
‘Hello. Did you have a nice tea party?’ he asked her.
Sitting down in the camel-dealer’s place, she gave him a reproachful look and said, ‘We got all worked up about the fact that Afghanistan only lets its female athletes compete if they’re covered from head to toe. Just imagine that. Sprinters with veils.
‘Yes, I can’t really picture beach volleyball in Afghanistan either.’
‘That’s different.’
There was a right time for every topic and this was not it, so Winter changed the subject. ‘Did you talk about Al-Bader as well?’
‘Yes. They’re all very shocked by his death. They blame it on the American project.’
‘The American project?’ Winter echoed.
‘Yes, Al-Bader started up a bank in Boston.’
‘Starting up a bank is a bigger crime than robbing one.’ Not recognising the quote, Fatima hesitated, so Winter added, ‘Not my words, but Brecht’s.’
JULY 30 – 21:10
On the drive back to Bergen airport, Winter put the Jaguar through its paces. He’d charge the fines from the Automatisk Trafikkontrol to expenses. Winter was determined to be at Anne’s funeral the following day. Bergen had only one flight to Oslo late that afternoon, which they had to hurry to catch.
They couldn’t talk on the plane, nor did they want to. Winter used the time in the air to think. He felt as if he were poking around in the dark. They flew through gigantic banks of cloud, their form constantly changing. The flows of air and money were invisible; only the effects were palpable.
Due to turbulence the captain asked the passengers to keep their seat belts on. Airline advertising would have you believe that flying was having your every need attended to as you glided smoothly above the clouds. In truth, like livestock on an industrial sheep farm, you were herded through airports, then wedged on board to save maximum space. Winter had caught himself envying Al-Bader’s private jet. But Al-Bader was dead. Perhaps a scheduled flight was better after all.
What were the invisible currents that had led to the murders? Winter could only guess at Al-Bader’s cash flow, his capital streams. Känzig, Schütz, Kaddour, Fatima, Hansen and this morning Al-Bader’s uncle all had their own interests, their own perspectives. Al-Bader’s investments were controversial. Were the currents political? Was there a clash of national interests, or was it a conflict between the traditional and the modern? Al-Bader had been a modern Arab with mercenaries around the world.
During their transfer in Oslo, Fatima had downloaded her emails onto her laptop and was now typing away industriously. Out of the corner of his eye Winter could only see her long, black hair, screening her face like a curtain. She hadn’t eaten much and had offered Winter her dessert. He loved sweet things, but this felt to him like a parting token.
They landed punctually in Zürich and Fatima had no reason to miss her connecting flight. The two of them stood there, lost in the flow of the business travellers heading home. To the left was another endlessly long walkway to the gate for Cairo, to the right lay the exit. The lighting was harsh, and a buzzing, cleaning machine was heading in their direction. For the last two hundred metres Winter had studied the advertisements for watches and banks, still at a loss as to what to say.
Fatima had a better grip on the situation. ‘Right, this is where I think we part company.’
‘Indeed, many thanks for your help.’ Winter stroked the encrusted scar on his temple. ‘It’s a shame that we met under such circumstances.’
‘Under other circumstances we wouldn’t have met at all,’ Fatima retorted with clinical logic. When she smiled her teeth shone in the neon light. ‘It’s better for me to be in Egypt. I just got an invitation from the owner of Orafin. He’s asked me to come to his house, his palace, to discuss Kaddour’s successor.’
‘Does this mean congratulations are in order?’
‘No. And keep it under your hat. I haven’t got a concrete offer and I don’t know if I could accept it anyway. I mean, Kaddour was blown up.’
They didn’t say anything for a while until Winter broke the silence. ‘It would definitely be a great challenge and I’m sure you’d do it very well. In any case you would be a role model for the younger generation, especially Egyptian women.’
‘We’ll see.’ She held out her hand formally. ‘I’ll be in touch if something turns up in Egypt.’ As soon as Winter took her hand he moved to embrace. They made do with three awkward kisses on the cheeks. ‘I’ll keep you up to date my end. All the best and I wish you success.’
As he watched Fatima walk off, he felt a twinge in his heart and wondered whether he’d ever see her again. He was surrounded by a horde of Japanese travellers with a flag at the front. When he had room to breathe again, Fatima had disappeared. All of a sudden Winter was terribly tired. Perhaps this was the after-effect of the concussion, the fruitless search for a killer or killers, their parting or simply the flying.
Winter wondered how Tiger was. His cat probably hadn’t even missed
him. Tiger was self-sufficient and would schmooze anybody who came past, particularly warm car tyres. Passing through the green customs channel, Winter was apprehended.
Keen to see Winter, Ben had set a flag in the electronic data flows to let him know when he was there. Ben looked tired, but shook Winter’s hand far more firmly than Fatima had just done. ‘Winter? How were the holidays? You look old somehow.’
‘Thanks. Same to you. The water was pleasantly warm.’
‘Coffee?’
‘Have you been spending time with mind-readers?’
‘No, but habits make up half a personality, whether you’re a terrorist or a banker.’
‘Is there any difference between them?’
‘Sometimes I’m not sure.’
When they arrived at the coffee machine Ben silently filled two cups. They went into a multifunctional office with no decoration or windows.
Ben kept it short. ‘My plate’s full with a strike at Heathrow. To prevent the baggage-handling from going completely tits-up they’re using staff who’ve only been subject to minimal security checks. All they need to do is fill out a form and present a photocopy of their passport. It makes your hair stand on end. But that’s not your worry. How was Bergen?’
Winter gave Ben an outline of his visit to Norway, concluding with the contradiction that although Al-Bader was on the CIA terrorist list he’d also been starting up a bank in America.
‘Maybe he’s got a split personality,’ Ben said. ‘Or the various American agencies aren’t working in tandem. It wouldn’t be the first time that the left hand was unaware what the right hand was doing. I don’t know what you need exactly to start up a bank, but I can imagine that Al-Bader was doing it via a firm or front man, rather than directly.’