by Peter Corris
'What's wrong?' I asked.
'I do not think it wise for my uncle to speak to you. Others in the family think the same. But my uncle insists and we must give way to him.'
'Why are you against it, Ali?'
'We do not want trouble.'
'Neither do I. What kind of trouble?'
He didn't answer. The carriage drew up in front of a building which was a bit grander than most in the quarter—wider, set back from the street with a small tiled courtyard in front. There was an imposing metal-banded wooden door and a second storey at the back of the house. I could see lights in a couple of Moorish windows on the top level. We went into a tiled corridor, down some steps and through a couple of bare rooms with thick carpets on the floor. As we moved towards the staircase at the back I could hear a voice raised in anger.
'Maybe we should wait,' I said.
Ali shook his head. 'They will shout but my uncle will tell them to be silent when you arrive. This is his house.'
That's the way it worked out. We went up the curving staircase, past some pretty nauseating paintings to a mezzanine with several doors leading off it. Ali knocked at the one where all the noise was coming from and opened it. He pushed aside a heavy drapery at the end of a short passageway. Abdullah Hamil was seated in the middle of the room. Three men, two middle-aged, one younger, were standing around him letting off steam.
Ali spoke, Hamil replied and the other men fell silent.
Hamil beckoned me forward. 'Mr Bright, I'd like you to meet my two sons, Samuel and Hassan, and my grandson Benjamin.'
The three men bowed but didn't speak. No hands were offered.
'Hello,' I said. 'Good to see you again, Mr Hamil.'
'Right,' he said. 'Well, my boys, go with God. I'm sorry we can't agree.'
The three filed out of the room. Ali disappeared in his usual fashion. Hamil rubbed his hands. 'Ali'll get us some coffee. I could see what you thought of the tea. Lousy, huh?'
'Coffee'd be good.'
'We make great coffee here. Get yourself a chair and siddown.'
The American accent seemed to get stronger with every sentence. Some of the gravity that had been in his face when his kinsmen were present now fell away. I got a chair from a corner of the room and set it down across from his.
'I seem to be the cause of some disagreement. Sorry.'
He waved the words away. 'Doesn't matter. They're cautious men. Gotta be. Their whole future's at stake as they see it. My future ain't so important, I can afford to have a loose mouth.'
'What about?'
'You're a direct guy. I like to beat around the bush awhile. You went into the desert, you went to Timbuktu? How'd you find it all?'
'I went to Wadi Djoul as well.'
'Good. We'll get to that but, come on, tell me what you thought.'
Despite the mild manner, his black eyes were boring into me and his incredible sloping forehead was deeply wrinkled in lines of concentration. I felt as if I was facing an oral examination from the toughest teacher in the school. I decided to just talk, let whatever came out flow. 'I was pretty scared of the desert,' I said. 'The immensity of it, the way the dunes seemed to move, the bareness of the rocky parts. But it was clean. After a while I felt I was dirty but the desert was clean. It's hard to explain.'
'I understand. Go on.'
I heard Ali enter with the coffee but I didn't take any notice. Something in Hamil's gaze was almost hypnotic and I found the words being sucked out of me, different words from the ones I'd put into the computer. 'I didn't want it to be any different. I didn't want it to flower and come to life. That'd be all wrong. It stands for something, the desert, something good. But I'm not sure what.'
'It's a goddamn mystery,' Hamil said. 'Ali, we'll have the coffee now.'
Ali came across with a tray and poured two small cups. He left the long-handled metal coffee pot sitting on top of a small spirit lamp with the wick turned right down. The coffee was incredibly strong and incredibly sweet. The grounds on my tongue reminded me of the dust in the desert.
'I was scared of the desert, like I said. But I preferred it to the towns.'
'You haven't talked about the people.'
'You asked about the desert. The people are just sort of scampering over the top of it.'
He sipped some coffee and laughed. 'Right. Right. I think you did come by some wisdom, Mr Bright. I guess you've got some questions for me?'
It wasn't the most ethical thing I've ever done but I felt I didn't have any choice. I was in a foreign environment where the other players were making the rules and unless I made a few of my own I could lose the game. I put my hands in the pocket of the light jacket I was wearing and rummaged for a tissue. In fact I was switching on the miniature tape-recorder. I took the tissue out and blew my nose. 'Desert dust,' I said.
Hamil nodded. 'I'm glad you don't clear it like a desert Arab. Not on this carpet. It's a coupla hundred years old. A masterpiece.'
He meant the habit of covering one nostril and expressing the other onto the sand. I glanced down respectfully at the carpet before I spoke, while I thought about what to say. A carpet is a carpet to me. 'I discovered that Basil Craft made a side expedition on his own.' I said slowly. 'Seems to have taken a few camels and branched off for a while. Probably to Wadi Djoul.'
Hamil nodded. 'That's right.'
'Why? What did he do there? The place's an oil and gas field now and very likely something else—chemical weapons, I don't know.'
'Me neither, and I don't wanna know. You must've nutted part of it out. Basil Craft wasn't just an explorer, no sir. He was a field man for Equator Oil, which was a very big outfit in those days. It was French-American and it played very rough.'
'How d'you mean?'
Hamil shrugged. 'They had an in with the government of the French Sudan—got exploration rights for peanuts, paid damn-all for leases, got convict labour, that sort of thing. Then they made sure any competition got the reverse deal. Government screw-ups, sabotage of equipment, hostility from the locals. Get the picture?'
'I think so.'
'Craft made a number of these . . . detours, you might call 'em. I saw him writing up his notes and cooking the books like an accountant. He thought I was just a wog Arab, didn't know nothing. But I could see what he was doing. Anyway, Wadi Djoul was the jackpot. He got drunk back here one night and talked about it. The place was right for oil and gas and he hinted at other stuff, minerals for one thing.'
'And for another?'
'Historical relics. He found some kinda tomb there, looted it and brought the stuff back here. Said it was worth a bundle. He mighta just been shooting his mouth off but I don't think so.'
Grave robber, despoiler of the past, I thought. Basil Craft, you're coming into focus.
'Craft made a lot of dough out of that expedition, make no mistake. And a hell of a lot of money's come out of that wadi. Doesn't matter what political changes've gone on. The fix was in there good and proper. It's been kept quiet and lots of people have had their cut. I just stumbled onto it because Craft thought I didn't know what he was talking about when he was drunk and that I couldn't read a geological report. But I could.'
I wondered if he had ever used the information to his own advantage, but I sensed that this was something I would never know.
'Anyway, I haven't kept track of it. Got other fish to fry. Equator Oil got absorbed by one of the biggies some time back. I forget which one. But the deal's held.'
'Is this why your sons and grandson didn't want you to talk to me? Are they afraid I'll expose this deal?'
'That's partly it. I tell them you won't reveal your sources of information and that you won't name me . . .'
'That's true.'
'Sure. I believe that. But there's more. You haven't drunk your coffee.'
I was almost under the spell of his story by now. I picked up the cup and drained it. 'More?' I said.
'I can't tell you what an asshole this Craft guy was. He helped
to castrate some boys here, can you believe it?'
'What do you mean?'
'It still went on back then. Eunuchs had a value. Craft watched and helped. He told me about it. They cauterised the wounds.'
The old man was getting worked up. Veins stood out in his forehead and he had to pull a handkerchief from his robe to mop at sweat beads in his bristly white moustache.
'Craft's dead, you tell me?' Hamil suddenly snapped.
'Yes. In the Australian desert. Thirst and starvation most likely.'
'Good. Not speared by your blackfellows?'
I shook my head. 'Unlikely.'
'That's a pity. That's what he deserved. Let me tell you about Wadi Djoul. Let me tell you what my sons don't want me to tell you.'
I nodded, praying the tape was picking up his voice. It was clear and angry enough. Hamil sniffed and cleared his throat and for a second I thought he was going to spit but he didn't. He sat back in his chair and clasped his hands together. The old, thin brown fingers interlocked and he became very still.
'When Basil Craft came back to Marrakech he had three women with him, girls, really. Two Tuaregs and a Naga. The Naga girl had been a slave to the leader of a Tuareg band who'd been camped in Wadi Djoul. It was a fertile place that season—plenty of water, lots of feed for the camels. There was even some small game in the hills around. A great season. The Tuareg must have been off their guard. Maybe the leader was old or sick, I don't know.
'Craft and Omar Oufkir and a couple of other bastards slaughtered the lot of them. Men, women and children, all except these three. Sixty or seventy people. What they didn't steal they burned and buried. They raped the women and some of the boys before killing them and after, if you take my meaning.'
'Jesus god,' I said. 'How do you know this?'
'One of the Tuareg women told me. She had a bit of difficulty doing it because Craft had cut her tongue off, same with the other two. But he hadn't done such a good job with this one and I managed to understand what she was saying. This was not long before she killed herself. Islam disapproves of suicide except under special circumstances but you got to admit this girl had good reason and I don't just mean the mutilation.'
'What, then?'
'She was pregnant. Craft had got all three of them pregnant. This girl wasn't going to bear his child no matter what.' Hamil unclasped his hand and made two fists. He prodded his belly with them and made a sideways sweeping motion. 'She made a good job of it. Killed the baby as well.'
I couldn't speak. The room was utterly silent and I thought he might hear the faint sound from the tape recorder. But he clasped his hands again and went on.
'Craft went nuts, really nuts. He got drunk more than usual and beat the shit out of more people than usual. When he calmed down, know what he said?'
I shook my head.
'He said, "Lucky it was her and not the nigger. I only got one of her breed."
I let out a slow, shallow breath and tried to switch off the horror and switch on my mind. I'd heard sensational stories before, some true some not. It can be hard to tell but you have to try. 'Forgive me, Mr Hamil, but I find this hard to believe.'
'I reckon you would. You'd be a fool if you just swallowed it down and my guess is a fool you ain't. It's true, though. Every word.'
'I assume Craft killed all the Tuaregs and cut the women's tongues out to prevent them talking about the massacre?'
'Sure. And other things.'
'What about Omar Oufkir and the others in the party?'
'Omar'd do anything Craft told him to do and the others were shit scared of Youssef ben Adra, terrified of him. They were safe.'
'What about you, Mr Hamil? You had this knowledge . . .'
'Did I tell you what I was doing back then?'
'No. You said you were working for the Americans.'
'That was just about finished. I was scraping around—a bit of interpreting, a bit of pimping, some black-market stuff. I was looking for a stake to set up in the carpet business.'
I looked at him. His head was tilted to one side as if he'd suddenly become too tired to hold it straight. His whole body looked less firm and sure. 'You blackmailed Craft?' I said.
He nodded. 'Not proud of it. Rotten way to start but things were rough back then. Nothing was going to change for the better and poor in Morocco has always meant dirt poor, shit poor. I took Craft's money and watched my back. Remember I told you the French hanged Omar Oufkir?'
'Yes.'
'I got that done. I wouldn't have known a day of peace, let alone a night, if that bastard was still alive. I been wanting to tell someone about this for one hell of a long time. How's your story looking now, Mr Bright?'
His voice was almost mocking, as if giving me the information also gave me a share of his guilt. I believed the story now and was almost overwhelemed by the enormity of it. Would I be able to tell it all? I didn't know. I took refuge in professionalism. 'Is there any evidence of what you've told me? Any . . .'
He shook his head. 'What would there be? No documents, no photographs. Everyone's dead. Well now, we don't exactly know that, do we. I guess the Tuareg girl and the Naga wouldn't be so old—not seventy. And the two kids'd be what? Fifty-something. Find them and you'll get your evidence.'
'Craft took the women away with him?'
He nodded. He was looking very old and tired now. Drained by the effort of telling the story and confessing. I could hear sounds coming from outside the room. Any minute Ali and the others might come back and quite reasonably argue that I'd had enough time with the old man. There was another question, though. 'Mr Hamil,' I said, 'why didn't your sons want you to talk to me?'
He sighed and made an effort to straighten his tilted head. He couldn't do it. 'Memories are long in this part of the world, Mr Bright, and a man has no secrets from his sons. They know about Youssef ben Adra and the Tuaregs Craft murdered. Those Tuaregs've got kinfolk who wouldn't think it was too late for some revenge. If this story gets told and it gets traced back to me and what I did . . .' He shook his head and a faint smile appeared on his face, the first I'd seen.
'I see. You can trust me. I won't reveal where the information came from. But why did you tell me, given the danger?'
The smile faded away. 'Basil Craft's been on my conscience too long. I'm going to die soon and I had to let it go. I've thought about those women and the kids for going on fifty years, wondered what happened to them. It couldn't be good. Maybe you can do something for them. That's what I'm asking of you. Okay?'
I nodded.
'I shoulda cut his throat when I had the chance,' he said. 'But I was looking after number one and I didn't have the guts anyway. I tell you, Mr Bright, in a life that hasn't exactly been a quiet walk in the woods, Basil Craft was the most evil man I've ever known, black, white and everything in between.'
14
Andy McKinnon listened to Bright's surreptitious tape in silence. He played it through again and glared at Bright. 'What's this you're turning the story into? A bloody war crimes tribunal?'
Bright shrugged. 'Like it or not, Andy. This's the way it's shaping up.'
'I don't like it. I don't like it at all. You had an unsung hero, now you've got a baby killer. It's certainly no good for business.'
Bright stared at him. 'Business? Business? What're you talking about? We're making a film here, a truthful film.'
McKinnon sighed and wriggled his bony shoulders inside his coat. The day was cold for October and he was wearing a jacket and an overcoat. The Hammersmith office was chilly. 'We are that, laddie. I'm a wee bit tired, what with one thing and another. It's going to be difficult, but you've done a wonderful job there. I haven't seen the Morocco footage yet but—'
'It's being processed by Topshot. I've seen a rough cut. It's great,' Marsha said. 'Worth every penny you paid for it, Andy. That Jean-Luc's a genius.'
'Aye.'
Bright rewound the tape and restored it to its plastic case. He'd made three copies of the recording;
two he carried around on his person, the other was in his gym locker. Stowed away similarly was a copy of the disk he'd written his Morocco journal on, along with his printout and his notes. He had a great feeling of insecurity about the Craft project material and he sensed that McKinnon felt the same. Something about the way the Scot watched him handle the tape. 'What's the matter, Andy? The investors getting toey?'
'No. They're being very docile. The thing is, I had a word with Dorothy Sparkes finally. It was no easy matter getting her calm enough to talk to me. Anyway, she denies having anything to do with the first break-in here. I believe her.'
Marsha looked around the cluttered office. 'The first break-in?'
'Aye. There was another while you were away. Same thing—some photocopying, nothing taken.'
Vic sniffed and concealed the sound quickly with a cough. Marsha had a thing about sniffing and he had influenza as a legacy of air travel and temperature change between London and Morocco. He'd collapsed on arrival in London and had had to dose himself to make it to this meeting with Andy. He still felt light-headed. Marsha's nursing was efficient but brisk. He blew his nose on a disintegrating tissue. Marsha passed him a box. 'What would there have been to photocopy? There was nothing in the new file.'
McKinnon nodded. 'Not much, it's true. Your padded expense sheet. Marsha's outline of the Morocco budget.'
'This is serious,' Marsha said. 'We'll have to go to the police. They'll be after the film next. Christ, what's the security like at Topshot?'
'I've seen to that,' McKinnon said. 'It's good. We can't go to the police for the same reasons as before.'
'Even more reasons now,' Bright said. 'Abdullah Hamil trusted me and I did the dirty on him by making this tape. We can't risk any garbled version of the story getting around yet. Not until we've checked everything over and covered every exposed arse.'
McKinnon said, 'Avenging Arabs coming out of the desert to hunt the old man? Jesus, that's . . .'