♦ ♦ ♦
He didn’t really know what he’d expected from the Bedouin camp. Maybe a few canvas tents and some scabby camels with BO? A decent dose of shabby, everyday desert life, just enough to keep the tourists happy? He should have known better. This was the land of excess, after all.
The camp was in a small hollow, about a dozen pavilions all facing into a circle, surrounded by a tall, closely woven fence made of damask or some strawlike material, presumably meant to protect against sandstorms. A number of telegraph poles with floodlights attached to them stuck up from the fence, and strings of colored lamps and streamers hung between these. At the front of the compound the fence was replaced by a tall wall with two watchtowers and an open gate.
The whole thing had been made to look medieval, but to judge by the color and condition of the buildings the camp must have been a fairly recent construction.
They parked the cars outside the wall and as they walked through the gate Arabic pop music began to blare out at them. In the open area at the center of the camp there was a large wooden floor covered with Arabic rugs, and on these stood a number of low tables with cushions to sit on, with space for something like a hundred guests. The buildings he had seen as they were approaching turned out to be missing their fourth wall, and were open where they faced the center of the camp. They contained even more seating areas, as well as a kitchen, a souvenir shop, and a pavilion with water pipes.
To put it mildly, the whole thing seemed rather absurd in the middle of the desert, almost like a mirage.
“Salaam Aleikum, welcome, welcome, my friends!” a fat little man in Bedouin dress exclaimed as he jogged over to meet them.
“You’re early, dinner won’t be for another hour or so, but you can spend the time buying souvenirs, riding quad bikes, sand surfing, riding camels, or smoking shisha. If none of that appeals, then of course the bar is open for those of you who aren’t Muslim.”
The man grinned and paused long enough for the laughter to die down.
“And if you’d like to freshen up, the bathrooms are over there.”
He gestured toward a barracklike building at the edge of the camp, then gave HP a pointed look.
“The belly-dancing show starts at ten o’clock. I look forward to seeing you again and I hope you enjoy your stay with us!”
Even though HP just felt like slumping down on the cushions with a pipe of weed, he reluctantly decided to heed the man’s advice and clean himself up.
As luck would have it, the toilet happened to have a hose with a showerhead attached, and, after plenty of acrobatic maneuvering and a great deal of hand wash, he managed to tidy himself up fairly reasonably.
He ditched his shirt in the nearest trash can. It may have been tailor-made from Thai silk, but he was happy to sacrifice it if it meant he could regain a few crumbs of self-respect. In the souvenir shop he picked up a pink tourist T-shirt with a psychedelic Arabic pattern on it, then abdicated all responsibility and allowed the salesman to complete the look by winding a towel around his head.
When all this was done he went and sat on the cushions by one of the low tables, ordered a beer, and waited for the others to finish playing outside in the sandbox.
Vincent and Anna didn’t return until it was getting dark. They were walking close together, their bodies bumping and nudging together as they chatted confidentially in French.
He really shouldn’t care. It wasn’t like he was in love with her or anything—definitely not. But there were still some rules. Anna was his companion; he was the one who’d brought her along.
He could hardly avoid the looks of the others in the group. But his options were strictly limited. He was stuck out here in the desert, and, even if the stinging feeling of humiliation was turning more and more into a white-hot fury, there wasn’t much he could do about it. Vincent was roughly the same height as him, but he was considerably more sinewy, and he definitely looked like he could take care of himself if he had to. Besides, the Frenchman had backup from his entire posse, so inviting him to take part in a bit of Fight Club wasn’t really a good idea.
Anyway, he himself was much more of a lover than a fighter . . .
No, all that remained was to pretend that he didn’t care, try to get stoned and/or drunk as quickly as possible, and then get a ride on the first camel caravan out of here.
He decided to devote all his energy to these tasks.
♦ ♦ ♦
The belly-dancing show did little to improve his evening. Once the scantily clad dancer had snaked about for a while, she invited the audience to join in, and soon the dance floor was filled with close to seventy tourists. He would rather have stayed in the corner with Miss Mary Jane, but instead he was dragged up by one of the French girls who was far too attractive to turn down.
Even though he was drunk, he felt unbelievably stupid. With a towel on his head, a tourist T-shirt, and a fake smile, dancing the white man’s overbite in a fake camp in a fake country. He probably looked even more ridiculous than he felt, if that was actually possible.
Anna and Vincent were dry-humping each other a couple of meters away. His thigh was stuck between hers, and she had her hands twined around the back of his neck as their hips rolled in time to the Arabic pop music.
The attractive French girl—whom he was obviously too drunk, too high, and too ridiculous-looking to stand any chance with—danced off with her friends, so he made up his mind to weave back to the table and lubricate his self-pity with yet another beer.
The table was empty, they all seemed to be up on the dance floor, but in among the glasses and plates he caught sight of something gold.
Vincent’s blingy cigarette lighter.
Sweet!
He looked around, pretended to reach for a can of beer, then quickly snapped up the treasure. It felt cool and heavy in his hand, considerably more solid than his own trusty old Zippo.
It had to be solid gold, and just as surely the careless little frog-eater was bound to miss his golden trinket.
Maybe it was even an heirloom from his rich grandfather, something like that?
With a grin he slipped the lighter into his trouser pocket before standing up and heading off toward the toilet block.
Payback is a bitch, mothafucker!
♦ ♦ ♦
The journey home was painless and they landed at Bromma just before four o’clock.
They were met by another security team who took over responsibility for the minister for international development, and shortly after that a minibus arrived to pick up her group. Ludvig Runeberg was sitting in the passenger seat in the front.
“Good to see you all back in one piece,” he said. “Get your things in quickly, then we’ll get back to headquarters for you to hand in your equipment and have a debriefing. Doctor Anderberg is waiting . . .”
♦ ♦ ♦
There was an opening in the fence at the back of the camp and HP stood for a moment at the bottom of the concrete steps leading to the toilets, gazing curiously out into the darkness.
It was actually a bit unnerving, making the comparison . . .
To one side of him he had the illuminated camp, with its flashing lights, music, food, drink, and excess. On the other side—only a few meters away—darkness sprawled away from him. Mile after mile of sand and desert.
How long had they driven to get here?
It was hard to tell, the driver hadn’t exactly taken the direct route, but he guessed at least two hours. How many hours would that be on foot? Six, eight? If you went in the right direction, of course. In fifty-degree heat with snakes and scorpions as your only company, it would be pretty easy to get it wrong. He wondered what it would feel like to be abandoned out there.
He couldn’t help taking a few tentative steps out into the darkness.
The camp was in a slight hollow, but the light from all the lamps was enough for him to make out the top of the dune some way in front of him. He could see a lone shadow up there that he took to be a telegrap
h pole, and after a couple of seconds’ hesitation he set off toward it.
As he got closer he discovered that there was a bird sitting on top of the pole—presumably one of the black ones he had glimpsed earlier that day. The bird was sitting completely still, and didn’t seem the least bit bothered by his presence. It looked more like a big, skinny crow, but unlike its European cousins the bird’s powerful beak was gently hooked—almost like a scimitar.
As HP approached, the bird jerked its head and looked straight at him.
There was something about the look in those peppercorn eyes that made him feel uneasy, and he stopped just a meter or so from his target.
The bird went on staring at him in silence, and for some reason HP couldn’t tear his eyes from it. He was holding his breath.
Suddenly the coarse beak opened a centimeter or so, and for a moment HP almost imagined that the bird was trying to tell him something.
He could feel the hairs on his arms stand up.
This was totally fucking . . .
“Ghourab Al-Bain!”
HP jumped.
It was Emir, their driver, who had appeared right behind him.
Fuck, he scared the shit out of him!
“W-what?”
“Ghourab Al-Bain.” The man pointed at the bird.
“A desert raven. They bring bad luck, bad things—you understand?”
And then the raven cried out—a low, rolling sound that vibrated off HP’s chest.
Then it tilted its head and gave HP a last glance before setting off from its lookout post with a couple of heavy wing beats.
Seconds later the bird had been swallowed up by the desert night.
“You shouldn’t wander off like this, boss. It’s easy to get lost out there. Easy to disappear, you understand?”
Oh yes, HP was pretty sure he understood.
“Bad things,” he mumbled, peering out into the darkness.
5
BAD THINGS
Pillars of Society forum
Posted: 7 November, 21:28
By: MayBey
The worst thing a police officer can experience is not being able to trust his or her colleagues . . .
This post has 29 comments
WHEN HE CAME out of the toilets he almost ran straight into Anna Argos.
She had her back to him, and he guessed she was waiting for someone.
Presumably Frankie Frog-Eater was laying a little croissant before they snuck out to the cars for a bit of sexytime.
Damned idiots!
Then he saw the shiny cell against her ear and his stomach did a little somersault of recognition. The flames of resentment that had almost died down suddenly flared up again and he took a couple of angry steps forward.
“No, no one followed me; everything’s fine. I’m on the other side of the world,” he heard her say quickly in English just before he grabbed her arm.
The look in her eyes was exactly as terrified as he had imagined up in the hotel lounge, and, just like in his fantasy, all the fury drained away from him in an instant. It only took her a second or so to pull herself together and angrily shake herself free from his grasp—but he still had time to realize.
Whoever Anna Argos was, however fucking cool and savvy she pretended to be, there was still something—or more likely someone—who scared the shit out of her, even from the other side of the world.
“Let me go, you disgusting little idiot!”
“Sorry,” he muttered, taking a couple of shaky steps back as he held his hands up in front of him. “I think I’ve had a bit too much . . . Peace!”
She gave him an angry stare and then turned her back on him again.
“You know, my sister used to go out with one of those . . . wife beaters,” he added when she seemed to be ignoring him.
She turned her head and looked at him suspiciously. When she opened her mouth to speak a couple of seconds later, her tone wasn’t quite as unfriendly.
“So?”
“I killed the bastard.” He grinned, then walked away unsteadily into the camp.
♦ ♦ ♦
They had hung up their radios and bulletproof vests, locked their weapons away in the gun cabinet, and changed into civilian clothing. Anderberg had booked a conference room for the obligatory debriefing, and now everyone was waiting impatiently to get going.
It would take at least an hour to go through the whole chain of events, then another before they were allowed to go home to their families.
But even if she was at least as tired as the others, she wasn’t in any rush to get home.
“We’re waiting for Runeberg,” Anderberg said when he noticed how impatient they were.
“Ah, here he is.”
Runeberg walked into the room.
“Change of plan,” he said abruptly. “Normén, you’ll do your debriefing alone once the others are finished. You can write up your report of what happened in the meantime.”
She jerked and opened her mouth to protest. This wasn’t usual procedure, and she had absolutely no desire to be forced from the room in front of her own team.
But before she had time to say anything, Runeberg cut her off.
“Off you go, Normén. The sooner we get this done, the sooner we can all go home . . .”
Seconds later the door of the conference room closed behind her.
♦ ♦ ♦
At last!
He was lying among the silk cushions of the shisha pavilion, inhaling deep, relaxing mouthfuls of smoke. The water pipe in front of him was bubbling nicely as the cool, damp smoke spread down his throat, curling down his airways, and into his greedy lungs.
Sweet!
One of the Frenchmen—he couldn’t remember which one—had sorted out the blend. A bit of grass at the bottom, just enough tobacco on top, before the foil and the charcoal. Whoever he was, he clearly knew what he was doing. The trip was almost perfectly balanced.
My compliments to the chef!
He felt calmer now, considerably more relaxed.
He couldn’t help glancing down at his tourist T-shirt and suddenly burst out laughing.
Hell, it looked ridiculous, and he must look ridiculous wearing it, as well as buying one of those lousy tablecloths to wrap around his head.
He was chuckling with laughter and his good mood seemed to spread out to the others in the pavilion.
“Hey, Thomas. What’s so funny?”
“Nothing special, mate, nothing special.” He giggled, unable to stop. “Just this whole fucking country, you know? So fucking fake, yeah?”
He took another deep drag of the bubbling smoke, held it in for a few seconds, then fell back among the cushions.
“Sure, we get it, Tommy,” another of the Frenchmen muttered. “Everything’s fake, nothing’s real, d’accord?”
He said something in French and they all started laughing.
“Exactly . . .” HP mumbled at the ceiling as secret Stasi agent 007 Sleep finally showed up, loosening the muscles around his eyelids and slowly rolling down the shutters.
“Nothing’s real. It’s all just . . .”
“A game?”
He opened his eyes. The whisper came from the right of him, somewhere near the entrance, but in the weak light his clouded gaze could only make out dark silhouettes.
“What? Wh-who said something about . . . ?”
No answer, just more giggling. Had he heard wrong, was it just the little lads’ choir of the withdrawal section piping up again?
He blinked a few times and tried to clear his gaze, but the veils of fog in his head wouldn’t ease up. Maybe that pipe blend had been a bit too strong after all . . .
“Have you ever done anything real, Thomas?”
This time it was the Frenchman next to him.
“What do you mean?” HP slurred, scratching his neck.
“Something that made your whole being, your body and soul, feel absolutely present in the moment? As if the whole world had stopped just to look
at you?”
More laughter, including from him, even if he wasn’t entirely sure why he was laughing.
He was gradually beginning to suspect that the Frenchmen might be laughing at him—that they were making fun of him, but his doped-up brain couldn’t quite work out how.
“You’ve got no idea, mate,” he muttered, then suddenly realized that he was talking Swedish.
He repeated what he had just said in English. If these guys only knew who they were sharing a pipe with . . . A total damn legend, that’s what he was!
The thin white drapes at the entrance to the pavilion were swaying gently to and fro in the light desert breeze.
To . . .
. . . aaaand . . .
. . . fro.
“So what have you done, Tom? Tell us!”
One of the girls this time, maybe the pretty one he’d been dancing with?
He shook his head slowly and it took a while before he realized that none of them could see his movements in the gloom.
“Nope—I never talk to anyone about that. I stick to rule number . . .”
“One!”
This time it wasn’t his imagination, he was certain of that. The same low whisper somewhere off to the right, and he sat up unsteadily. The world was swaying and he was having trouble focusing.
“How are you doing, Tommy, old friend? Aren’t you feeling well?”
This voice was familiar—it was Vincent. But what the hell was he doing in here? Why wasn’t he outside by the cars, practicing his precision parking with Anna Argos?
The Frenchman landed on the cushions with a bounce, and put his arm around him.
“Look, my friend, have some more and it will all feel better.”
He passed the mouthpiece of the shisha pipe to HP, who took it after a moment’s hesitation.
The bubbling sound of the water pipe helped calm him down, as he slowly let the smoke out through his nose.
He heard Vincent say something, followed by more laughter, but by the time the man’s hands gently lowered him down onto the cushions HP was already fast asleep.
♦ ♦ ♦
The shadow was approaching quickly and she knew almost immediately who it was. She put her hand to her belt, but in the dream she had no gun, and felt panic rising. Then the man burst through the cloud of dust.
Buzz: A Thriller Page 5