by Finn Óg
Waleed looked at Sam with narrowed eyes, confused. Sam tried again.
“He and his boss, they took over the business? The people trafficking business?”
Waleed nodded and put this to Big Suit.
“This is what his boss is want. He want take over rat’s business to make money. But this man,” he gestured at Big Suit, “he is arrested by my men out here. He is not knowing what happen-ed afterwards.”
“He failed at the first attempt.”
“Yes,” said Waleed, not bothering to put it to Big Suit. “I tell you, his is not genius.”
“Ask him what his boss looks like.”
Waleed and the prisoner exchanged gestures and words before Waleed turned again to Sam.
“He is liking nice clothe-es. He is normal size, and he is bad man.”
Sam’s lips tightened. “Ask him what sort of shoes his boss wears, please.”
Waleed looked at Sam and wondered if he’d had too much sun but turned and posed the question. The hand gestures said it all: Big Suit used his thumb and forefinger to demonstrate something small, as if he was brushing his nail through hair.
“These are strange shoes,” said Waleed. “Not laces.”
“Fuck,” said Sam.
“Is problem?” asked Waleed utterly perplexed.
“I saw him. I think I saw him. At Nuweiba. Picking up boats wrapped in carpet.”
Waleed looked bemused. “I think we need to talk, Meester Sam,” and gestured to the door.
The confusion was continental. In the heart of Libya’s new intelligence agency information was filtering in from multiple sources. Contacts in America confirmed that they’d been monitoring unusual activity related to a phone in Egypt. Their interest seemed legitimate given it had been sparked by an attempt to track the phone made by an employee of a US social media company. The Americans wanted to know what was going on. They were further confused that their employee was trying to locate the phone from her workstation in Dublin, Ireland.
This made next to no sense to the Libyan analyst who was pulling together a briefing paper for his boss.
Then from Britain came a communiqué suggesting that a former British naval officer had landed in Egypt. On the face of it there appeared to be no connection until the analyst took it upon himself to look at the officer’s phone activity. It seemed he’d been in contact with a number in Dublin, Ireland.
Curious, thought the analyst, but why draw this to the attention of Libya if this man and the tracked phone are actually in Egypt?
The British appeared to be getting their information from the Egyptians because they were also able to establish that the former British officer had been arrested and that the phone he’d used was being transported to a military intelligence outpost in the eastern Sinai Desert.
So far, so unclear.
Then came the most confusing element of all: the Americans had issued information for the eyes of senior staff only. The analyst had to request a code and clearance to access the file in preparation for the briefing. That document stated that an Egyptian military intelligence chief seemed to have the former naval officer in his personal custody; at least their phones appeared to be travelling together. Further to that, and of interest to the analyst at least, was that the Egyptian military intelligence chief had entered coordinates into his phone – and those coordinates pinpointed a position in the middle of the northern Libyan desert.
And so, finally, there was a connection. Sort of.
The analyst compiled the report and sent it up the chain.
“What do you mean?”
“What part?” asked Sam.
Waleed stared at him as if he was being deliberately obtuse. “The part where you see this man with strange shoes in Nuweiba!”
“Well, I can’t be sure, but when I was nicking a car—”
“What is nicking a car?”
“When I was stealing a car at the port to get me to the hotel in Taba—”
“I see, I see, I see,” Waleed whisked the story on.
“I saw a van and a lorry. The lorry had come off the ferry from Jordan, I think, and there was a man in the van who fits the description of the boss of the big cop.”
“Coincidence,” tutted Waleed. “Nothing more.”
“Normally I would agree with you, but he was definitely shifting boats – rubber dinghies. I saw them. I know boats, Waleed.”
The Egyptian thought for a while, his arms stretching out his spine against the back of a chair. He gradually lowered his head between his arms and spoke to the floor.
“I wish for him to be gone.”
Sam wasn’t sure exactly who he was referring to.
“The man with the tassels?”
“No. Yes, him also. I wish for him,” he raised his head, “big fool here in cell – to be gone. Vanished. He is trouble for me.”
“Is there something else going on here, Waleed?”
There was a long stare, a kind of silent assessment, and then Waleed answered.
“Meester Sam, please take out your phone and passport and empty your pockets. Please place everything on this table.”
For a moment Sam thought he was about to be arrested again until Waleed also emptied his pockets and dumped two phones and even his handgun on the table.
“Is all?”
“Nothing else.” Sam held his hands up a little.
“Come with me.”
The two men strolled out into the ferocious white sun. Waleed kept his head lowered and strode towards the perimeter of the compound. At the gate he nodded to the sentry to open the huge steel-shuttered doors and then led Sam round a corner. One glance confirmed to Waleed he was in a blind spot from the cameras and to all intents and purposes the men were in open desert.
“Are you believe-ed in God, Meester Sam?” he asked.
That wasn’t really a question Sam was expecting. “Probably not the same way you do,” said Sam, “but, yes, I have a faith. It’s not … conventional though.”
“You are Christian, yes? Catholic? Ireland is Catholic?”
“No, well, yes, Ireland is a Catholic country, but I’m not a Catholic. I’m not really a Protestant either. My wife, she was a Catholic. My daughter, she’s a Catholic. I was brought up Protestant, I suppose, but I’d say I’m a bit more ecumenical than that.”
“Ecumenical,” said Waleed slowly, as if working out what it tasted like.
“Look, Waleed, I’m on shaky ground here. I believe in God, yes, but not in everything the Bible says – which I know makes me someone who thinks he can pick and choose, but there are bits I have problems with.”
“What problems you have?”
“Well, some people use the Old Testament to justify the death penalty. I have no problem with knocking the odd person off when it is justified, but that doesn’t mean I think the state should be strapping people into electric chairs and frying them or hanging them.”
Waleed nodded.
“And I don’t think God is going to punish gay people. But that’s just me.”
“Your wife, she is dead?”
Waleed was nothing if not disarming.
“How do you know that?”
“You say was, not is.”
“Fuck, Waleed, you haven’t got a tense correct since I met you and that’s what you pick up on?”
“Tense?”
Sam looked at him in wonder for a moment then gave up.
“Yes, she died.”
“How she is dead?”
“She was murdered.”
“And you do not believe killer should hang?”
“He did worse than hang, Waleed. I imagine he died roaring but that was not the job of my government to do that.”
“You did this?”
Sam just looked at him.
“What’s this all about? Are you trying to convert me?”
“Convert?”
“To Islam?”
Waleed chuckled.
“This is problem, Meester S
am. I am not Muslim. I am Christian. Like you.”
“Right,” said Sam, yet still none of this was making sense.
“Fat cop inside interrogation suite,” he nodded to the compound wall, “he knows secret.”
“So it is a secret?”
“Yes, is secret! Christians, they not pier-mitted to be intelligence in Egypt. They not allowed to be in position like this.”
“I see. So how does he know? Did you tell him?”
“He is knowing me long time. When I arrest him out here I find out what he is doing in Sinai. I press him too hard. He is thinking, why my friend has turn-ed on me. Then he is thinking to time in academy. Then he is thinking why I never go to mosque or pray.”
“So he guessed?”
“Yes. For years is secret – no problem. Then most stupid man in whole of Egypt, he guess. Then – is problem.”
“Fuck.”
“Yes. Fuck.”
“At least you’re not gay. I hear the government here really doesn’t like gay people.”
Waleed just stared at Sam, not appreciating his attempt at levity, and Sam began to wonder if he was gay.
“So I have problem,” Waleed repeated after a moment.
“What would happen if your bosses found out you’re a Christian?”
“Discipline. Jail, maybe. Not in job, for sure.”
“So what are you going to do?”
“I help keep-ed you out of jail. Pier-haps you hel-ep me keep out of jail. You hel-ep me with big cop, maybe.”
And suddenly for Sam things became a little clearer.
The Libyan intelligence analyst waited nervously for his boss, a tall, thin man in traditional garb, to finish reading his summary.
“What is at these coordinates in the desert?”
“I do not know, sir.”
“What do the satellite images show?”
“Nothing, sir. Just a kind of rock formation.”
“Is there any water there – any oasis?”
“Not that I can see.”
The analyst pondered. Perhaps the Egyptian military chief had simply been testing his phone or its GPS. Perhaps the coordinates had been random, but that seemed unlikely. Random numbers could land anywhere in the world and these had plotted the country next door.
“I cannot take this upstairs. There is not enough information. Ask the Americans for more. Ask the British too.”
Sam and Waleed sat back down inside the compound. Sam had thought through his next moves on their return walk.
“I assume you can monitor phone signals?”
“Of course,” said Waleed.
“Well, if we want to find this Libyan people trafficker, we would do well to track calls made by the big cop’s boss with the funny shoes. If he has struck up an arrangement with the trafficker, that could be a quick way of finding him.”
Waleed nodded.
The doctor seized the phone greedily from the guard.
“Five minutes, this is all. More time, more euros. Understand?”
“Yes,” said the doctor. He dialled his cousin’s number from memory.
The analyst opened the new file from the Americans. There was no need to summarise the contents – it was brief:
Egyptian military chief has requested monitoring of phone of mid-ranking police officer in Alexandria, Egypt. Police officer has received a call from an unregistered phone located at a refugee detention centre in Libya.
The analyst copied, pasted and hit send.
Waleed sat up with excitement.
“He’s had call.”
“The cop with the tassels? That was quick,” Sam said.
Waleed read from his phone. “It’s from a refugee detention centre in Tobruk, Libya.”
“I’m familiar with Tobruk,” Sam said.
“Really?” said Waleed.
“Long story,” Sam replied.
“Well, you have plenty of time. Is fifteen-hour drive from here.”
“I don’t have much time, actually,” Sam faltered.
“Why?” Waleed was suddenly suspicious.
“I need to be back in Ireland by the end of the week,” he said, thinking about Isla’s return.
“Then we better leaving now.”
The doctor pressed the red button – it was nearly as red as his face. He’d never been so angry. Never.
His cousin had actually laughed aloud. Not just a chuckle, but a belly laugh that went on and on.
“What can you do for me?” he’d asked when the guffaw had subsided.
“Do for you?” Tassels had asked. “I’ll say a prayer, how’s that?”
“Will you not help me?” asked the doctor.
“Help you!” laughed Tassels.
“Remember, cousin, I’ve information about what you’ve done – your corruption, your beatings and torture.”
“The information you have is nothing compared to the information I have! This is the best news I’ve heard in months. You are in a refugee system that will keep you in Libya for years. Help you? Ha. I will give you advice, though, be careful in the showers – if there are any showers!”
Tassels had laughed and laughed until the doctor cut the call.
“You think-ed you would complete jobs in one week?” asked Waleed, sceptical.
It was three hours into the journey and the first time Waleed had spoken. Sam was driving and Big Suit was trussed up in the back.
“Well, I got half of it done in two days.”
The ship, thought Waleed, who pouted his lips. I suppose you did. “Is possible to go Alexandria first,” said Waleed, musing. “Deal with big fool’s boss, then with traffick man.”
Big Suit remained oblivious to their conversation. Even if it had been conducted in Arabic, his ability to follow it might have had its limitations.
“I’ve been thinking about that,” said Sam, “but, ideally, I was thinking you might like to leave your friend in another country.”
Waleed’s eyes made the slightest move towards Big Suit before a small smile cracked across his face. “Yes, I think yes.”
“So provided we don’t get stopped or detained or held up, let’s just keep going for Tobruk.”
“We will not be stopped,” said Waleed smiling. “This is my authority. I cannot be stopped in my own desert in my own country.”
“Libya could be a different story,” Sam said, half questioning his new colleague.
“I am thinking about Libya,” said Waleed. “There is way I can contact person same as me in Libya. We can pier-haps make way clear to Tobruk, but highway is dangerous for every pier-son on road. Libya is very, very dangerous.”
“So we deal with the bent copper later?”
“What is this?”
“The cop in Alexandria – we will do that after?”
“Yes, you leave to me. I will arrange-ed that.”
Waleed smiled his crooked smile again and they barrelled west.
The Libyan analyst referred the encrypted file to his boss. His boss read the contents with wide eyes before lifting the phone to his own superior.
“One of our allies wants to know what is at the location of the coordinates.”
There was silence while the boss listened to his orders and then relayed them to the analyst.
“Get one of the long-range units to take a look. Tell them to hurry up.”
Chapter 24
The road was relentless but at least the car was nice, a relatively modern saloon with air conditioning. Big Suit was crumpled sideways in the back. How his position was conducive to sleep was a mystery but his snoring endured for hours. Waleed and Sam found themselves talking as people on a long haul often do when there’s nothing else to distract. Some of Sam’s deepest discussions had taken place like this – on the rail of a racing boat while crossing a sea or ocean, or in the bunk of a troop carrier on the way to or from an operation. Perhaps it was to do with the lack of eye contact.
Waleed had talked a little about his family and its dispers
al from a town not far from Alexandria.
“We were one of the last,” he mused. “Last Copt families in my area. Coptic Christians.”
“Were there many? Copts, like, before?”
“Yes, very many. Christians are oldest in Alexandria. Coptic – it is meaning Egypt. Egyptian Christians.”
“So what changed?”
“Many years, we are left alone. Even under Mubarak – he is not for religion, not really. Later things change-ed. Churches with bombing and attack at homes.”
“Were you affected?”
“When I was in army. Far away from my family.”
“What happened?”
“Joining army was accident really. I mean to be a police. I not telling any pier-son at academy I am Christian. I pretend I am Muslim, but I do not pray and I do not go to mosque. Under Mubarak is acceptable. Nobody care very strong.”
“Why did you cover it up, though, if joining the army was just an accident?”
“Is making life easy. This is only reason.”
Sam could understand that. He’d always been an outsider in the British military where most claimed to find him barely comprehensible. So to make the going smoother he’d adopted an accent just for being in England and only reverted back when at home. It was purely functional even if it felt like a tiny betrayal, but when you’re in your late teens and early twenties small things make a big difference and standing out from the crowd isn’t always the best way to get along. Sam learned early that sticking in the middle of the pack made falls shorter and rises quicker. He’d stood out at Lympstone nonetheless, for being quieter than most, for being capable and for having reserves in his character that eventually drew him into even bigger things.
“So how did you go from the police to the military?”
“I never join-ed police,” said Waleed. “At end of academy, military approach-ed me and say we wish for you to come with us. Then they train me again.”
“In intelligence?”
“Later intelligence. First they train-ed me in military. Unit is name-ed 777. Is antiterrorist unit.”