The Rift

by Rachel Lynch

  Abdul approached the reception desk at the Marriott Hotel in Algiers and peered upwards. The vast atrium overwhelmed him; he’d never been inside such a building before. The ceiling must have been three storeys above his head and the light spilling in around the golden bannisters, bouncing off glass and flower vases, made him heady with excitement, as if he were a child again. It reminded him of his mother’s baking dishes, warm out of the stone oven, full of couscous and lamb. The sweat, which had accumulated under his armpits from days on the road, and at his temples caused by nervous energy and doubt over whether the booking was a reality, dried in the air-conditioned foyer. Guests of all ages, creeds and nationalities milled about leisurely in their effortlessness and chic.

  He felt a fraud.

  The young woman behind the desk was beautiful, like his sister: dark eyes and with a silken scarf tight around her throat. She smiled, and he relaxed a little. He gave his name, and she looked at her keyboard, tapping on the keys and reducing his world to her hair and perfume. He stared at her and she was obviously used to the attention, because she did not blush or turn away. She caught his eye and smiled again. Repulsion at her brazenness and awe at her courage engulfed him, and he swallowed hard, trying to concentrate on her face, and if it would give anything away. Was it all a joke? Had he made some monumental error and he was in fact booked into a tiny hovel alongside the city’s vast slums?

  ‘Mr Mansouri?’ she asked.

  He didn’t reply straight away. Her demeanour captivated him still, and she repeated her question.

  ‘Sorry, yes, that’s me. Abdul Mansouri,’ he said quickly, smiling nervously.

  ‘Long journey?’ she asked.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Is this your first time staying with us, sir?’ She moved on.

  ‘Yes, why?’ His nerves got the better of him once more, and tiny beads of sweat defied the cool interior air.

  ‘My apologies, sir. I was just wondering if you knew where you were going. If not, it’s not a problem at all, I’ll get the porter to take you.’

  ‘I don’t need that, thank you – I’ll find my way. Do I have a room or not?’ He was abrupt, but the situation was quickly threatening to force him to flee. He could feel adrenalin pouring into his abdomen and he thought his bowels might betray him. Four days without home cooked food, and his system was shutting down. They’d eaten pastries, tinned food and chocolate (the bitter type with a special ingredient to prevent it from melting).

  The young woman frowned for the first time, and he felt a twinge of regret. She was only doing her job, but why did she continue to stare at him? He was weary and grimy and desperately needed a bath. His hold on his bag was becoming greasy, and he longed to find himself in a situation that was familiar to him, and one that he could control.

  ‘Yes, Sir, here we are, Room 521. I’ll set up your keys now.’ She walked away to a machine behind her and came back with two credit cards. He looked baffled.

  ‘You slip them in the door of your room and it works like a key.’ Her voice dropped, and he was grateful. He took the cards and went to leave.

  ‘Your luggage, sir?’

  ‘It’s mine,’ he asserted.

  ‘I know, sir, would you like it taken to your room?’

  ‘No, thank you. I will carry it.’

  ‘Of course, sir. The lift to the fifth floor is around the corner over there,’ she said.

  He thanked her and walked towards the direction she’d pointed. There were five lifts and all were empty. He stepped into the first and pressed the number five. The doors closed, and he gripped his key cards tightly. He peered into the long mirror covering the whole back panel of the lift and felt uncomfortable. He looked how he felt: unclean and inferior. The lines around his eyes were packed with tiny grains of sand, and he cursed himself for not cleaning his face to a better standard in the MacDonald’s bathroom. He licked his hand and wiped away the worst of it. His dark brown eyes were unfathomable, as they had been since he was fifteen years old and the news of the death of his father, killed in a mine deep in the heart of the Saharan desert, where his body still lay. Nightmares about whether his father had remained alive for days if not weeks in the dark shaft, alone and terrified, slowly starving to death, had plagued him ever since.

  The lift halted and the doors opened, and he stepped out into the cool corridor. He breathed deeply but still dared not believe that a room was waiting for him in this palace. He found the correct door and stared at the card in his hand. There was a small card-shaped receptacle attached to the door above the handle, and he slipped the card in, like it indicated: stripe to the left. The light above the handle turned green, and he heard a click. He turned the handle and went inside.

  The room was vast and overlooked the sea. He approached the huge window and stared out beyond to where he imagined Europe. He dropped his bag and explored. An envelope sat on the colossal bed and he took it and tore it open, absorbing the luxury around him. Everything was white and clean. He wandered into the bathroom as he pulled out a mobile phone from the envelope, as well as a USB stick. His eyes darted about and he spotted a laptop set up on a table by the bed. He quickly peered around the bathroom door and stood mesmerised by the opulence. The shower was big enough for four men, the bath could hold ten children, and a tiny strange sink was positioned next to the toilet.

  He was torn between filling the tub and smelling the range of products lined up neatly on the side, and plugging in the USB. He decided that he could do both: a bath that size would take an hour to fill, he thought. He placed the items back on his bed and went back to the bathroom to choose what to put in the warm running water. He poured everything under its stream and went back to the bedroom. Logging on to the computer was easy, and he soon opened the USB file and read further instructions left by Fawaz. He was to meet somebody at the port tonight and supervise the loading of the cargo. He was to take the phone with him, which was loaded with one number only. He was told which cab company to use and which route to take, how long to stay there, what to confirm as loading was underway and instructions on calling the number when he could see the ship depart.

  He nodded to himself and was thankful for such simple instructions.

  Leaving the phone on the bed and the laptop open, he checked the bath, which to his amazement, was nearly full. The water steamed, and he sat on the edge, circling his hands in the soapy mixture. It smelled like a type of heaven: the heaven where he imagined going to. He undressed quickly and checked the temperature, before stepping in and submerging his whole body beneath the water. He closed his eyes and allowed the soap to begin its work on the dust and muck clinging to his body. He moved about in the water and rubbed his skin, feeling the grainy desert sand wash off. Emerging from the water, he lay there, steaming. He stuck his foot out of the water and examined his toenails, picking out dirt and doing the same with his fingernails. Had the woman at reception noticed them?

  After twenty minutes or so, he was ready to get out, and he pulled out the plug, reaching for the shower head to rinse the bath of grime; the bottom was now covered in brown sludge and he washed it down the plughole. He reached for a towel and pushed his face into the softness, rubbing his fatigued limbs. He realised that he was extremely tired, and he looked at his watch: he had time for a nap. He got into bed, dry, clean and thankful, and wrapped the covers over him. The bedside clock had an alarm setting, and he quickly worked out how to use it and closed his eyes, sinking his head into the soft pillow.

  * * *

  When he awoke to the piercing sound of the alarm, he took a minute to remember where he was. His body was rested, and he sat upright, stretching, wondering if he lived like this all the time, what it might be like. Would it make him lazy and godless? Suddenly, the awe with which he’d approached the grandeur of the place left him, and he realised that he was hungry, and ready to complete the final leg of his mission. One afternoon asleep in such surroundings was enough to make a man soft. Now, he was alert and w
ary of falling for the lure of the trappings of the rich. He dressed quickly into the only other outfit he had with him and stuffed the soiled clothes into the empty bag. He ignored the cologne on offer, but only after removing the cap and smelling it. Why had Fawaz given him this room? What was he trying to achieve? Fawaz left nothing to chance. Why show him this place when he was to return to his village tonight or tomorrow? Then, he realised that it was a small reward for his efforts. Fawaz was bestowing his gratitude, and inside his head, it made him feel better about accepting to stay in such a place.

  He was ready quickly and called the cab number. They would be outside in five minutes. He took the elevator back downstairs and noticed that the woman on reception was still there; she smiled at him. He did not smile back.

  The journey to the port was quick, and he was dropped off at Gate 302. The car sped away; he was to use a different company on his return to the hotel. He waited in the shadows, close to the huge metal entrance that was big enough to fit an aeroplane through. A car arrived, and its door opened. Abdul got in the back and, apart from the driver, there was only one other man inside. He spoke Darija, and Abdul conversed with him comfortably in his native vernacular. They were to oversee the loading of the consignment, and Abdul was given papers to give to the customs official who would inspect the transit bound for Marseilles.

  ‘Don’t worry, he’s one of us – it’s just a formality.’

  Abdul nodded. They drove in silence and arrived at another gate, but this time, it was busy and bursting with activity. Forklift trucks whizzed around, men in overalls lugged boxes and officials swanned around with clipboards.

  ‘There’s ours,’ the man said. The car stopped, and they got out. An official greeted them and Abdul handed over the paperwork, which the man in high-visibility clothing perused and signed. Abdul recognised the load from what had been separated between the vehicles that had been driven thousands of miles from Morocco. He also spotted the five boxes picked up in Mali.

  ‘All good?’ he asked. The official nodded, and they shook hands. The man then walked away after handing him a docket, containing the shipment number, block and sequence that were to be handed over at Marseilles, and Abdul watched, alongside the man who’d brought him, as a forklift picked up the load and drove it to the side of a quay. It was only now that Abdul realised that a container ship sat there in the water, serene and silent. He looked up, thinking that the metal wall was part of the quay. The ship was enormous and Abdul had never been so close to what he’d only seen on posters. He couldn’t believe that a ship of such size could float.

  ‘Now we wait,’ the man said. They walked back to the car and sat in the back, watching as the ship was fully loaded. It was ready to depart in under an hour and activity on the quayside subsided as the doors were closed and ramps drawn up. At first, Abdul didn’t think it was going to move, but slowly, it drifted away from the quayside and he saw three tugs ahead of it, swirling water as they worked their engines. The great thing moved forward and Abdul sat in awe.

  ‘We go.’

  The ship was about a hundred feet away from the quay, but Abdul still stared at it.

  ‘We will drop you at another quay and you can call a cab from a payphone. Keep the docket safe; that’s the number you need. Scan it in to this phone,’ he said, pointing at the document and handing him a new Nokia. Abdul knew that this was the information he needed to pass on over to the number he’d been given to whoever was waiting in Marseilles to receive the goods.

  His job was done. He was dropped off and saw a row of payphones, from which he called a cab.

  Back at his hotel, the receptionist had gone home, replaced by a man. He strode confidently to the lift and returned to his room to make the call.

  Chapter 29

  Grant made his way across the city on foot. He was heading to the Lyon address he’d retrieved from the phone inside the flat in Paris. His pal Winston had prompted in Madame Bisset a speedy response, and she’d given him a name, but it meant nothing to either him or Khalil. He committed it to memory, hoping it would come up and provide answers. Meanwhile, Madame Bisset was still held at the flat, watched by his old pal, whose real name was Derek.

  Grant slipped through the streets unnoticed and anonymous. He didn’t know what to expect, only that he needed to be fully alert. Always expect the worst and hope for the best, he told himself. He wasn’t familiar with Lyon, but it didn’t matter, anonymity was an art performed anywhere if one knew the tricks. He remembered driving through the city with Helen a couple of times on their way to Les Alps, skiing, during happier times. He pushed her face out of his head. They’d meet soon enough. She must be on to him by now, he thought. The passenger list of Khalil’s jet to Marseilles would give it away if she didn’t already know.

  The streets were busy and hot. The summer weather was particularly humid here further south, and even the breeze from the Alps overshadowing the metropolis was scant. The mood in Le Croix-Rousse was expectedly buoyant. The area, famous for its inclines, enjoyed much tourist trade, and the cobbled alleyways, old churches and ancient markets still selling silks saw a steady stream of trade at night as well as during the day. The old traboules were being slowly gentrified, and Grant found them charming as he wandered past smart pink, white and grey apartments, cute delis, patisseries and the odd street vendor touting for business on the steep slopes of the hill, shaded by century’s old ostrya, serrata and elm trees that offered much-needed shelter during the day. Madame Bisset had kindly helped him choose a short route to the address, after she’d calmed down and he’d assured her that Derek wouldn’t molest her unless it was under his strict say-so. She’d remain in his care until Khalil was satisfied that she’d told the truth.

  Grant wasn’t a fan of torture, but advanced interrogation techniques could be extremely effective. They weren’t about to pull an old woman’s fingernails out, or subject her to any kind of indecent assault, but she didn’t need to know that. One thing that Grant did notice was that Madame Bisset took his threats seriously, which made him think Khalil capable of more than he’d let on. It got him thinking about what Khalil must have witnessed in his childhood; his family hadn’t always been the lords of Algiers. Grant’s thoughts turned to Hakim, and Grant hoped the lad hadn’t been hurt. He’d seen countless tortured corpses in Bosnia and Sierra Leone, as well as Iraq and Afghanistan. He also knew that it needn’t just be physical. But it shouldn’t come to that, he reassured himself, because, so far, Khalil had been completely cooperative with Fawaz’s demands.

  He stopped outside an apartment block and looked around; it was the perfect spot to hide illegal activity, and that’s exactly what the Police Nationale were trying to wage war against by closing off many of the tiny streets. Grant’s training involved close-quarter combat and it was because of precisely these types of circumstances that one needed to be prepared: going into a snake pit might get you bitten. He climbed the stairs on the outside of the building and slipped onto a balcony level that was deserted. He could hear the hustle and bustle from the street below, and the light shining off the buildings was quite stunning. From the hill, he could see virtually the whole of Lyon and beyond to the Alps. Oh, what he would give to be skiing down the Aiguille Rouge at Les Arcs right now. He imagined the crisp blue sky beating down on fresh powder dumped the night before. Maybe when this was all over, he’d make his way up there and trek beneath Mont Blanc’s shadow. Helen’s face taunted him again: her smile when she rolled over in the morning, her laugh when he told her a bad joke, her hand, warm on his.

  He found the flat number he was looking for and checked his phone. This was the one. There were no lights on. He peered through the tiny window at the front, but it afforded him no view decent enough to make an assessment of who might be inside. He checked both ways to see if there was any movement in front of the other flats on the balcony, and there was not. He tried the door: it was locked. He looked up and noticed that an upstairs window was open, and he checked the
street below. It was clear. He held on to a metal ladder that led up towards other flats and hooked his leg over the wall adjacent to the open window. The opening was big enough for him, and he jettisoned himself across to a wide sill, still holding on to the metal rail, which shook. Once he was in front of the window, he checked the street again and peered inside. The room was empty. He swung his legs in and found himself standing in the middle of a hot and stuffy bedroom. It was sparse, with only a bed and cabinet beside it. He trod carefully and made his way out to the hallway. He heard nothing. He took the stone stairs slowly and edged down to the lower floor, where he opened the latch on the door, should he need a speedy alternative escape. There was no one home.

  The rest of the flat was small, also sparsely furnished and bloody hot. He dare not open any lower-level windows, lest he attract attention, so he put the thought of fresh air from his mind and concentrated on searching the few drawers and cabinets. He put gloves on and held a tiny torch between his teeth. It was a mini LED Lenser that gave off minimal ambient light, perfect for searching confined spaces, or shining into someone’s eyes during interrogation.

  He found some evidence of human occupancy, such as crockery and cutlery, as well as cooking pans and the odd packet of food, but in the bedroom, like the flat in Paris, Grant was reminded of something like the hideout of a special observation officer: ready to move on little notice. In other cupboards, he found similar electrical equipment to what he’d found in the other flat. He took photos.

  He prepared to leave and couldn’t help feeling disappointed. A part of him hoped he might find some evidence of a hostage situation, or at least a real live witness to question. He slipped out of the front door and checked that there was no one around before disappearing back into the throng of the bars and restaurants of Le Croix-Rousse and all its squares and hidden corners had to offer. He took out his mobile and made a call to an old Signaller pal of his. They were the guys who made everything work, from radios to satphones, and who, for the most part, stayed in the shadows doing their jobs and getting little praise for it. The British Army couldn’t function without them.