by Paul Sussman
'This is what you're shitting your pants over? One fucking policeman out here on his own? Jesus! We send out a patrol, we shoot him, end of story. It's not like there's anywhere he can hide.'
'We go tomorrow.'
'There's not time, I tell you! We need at least two more days to get everything ready. If we don't do this properly the stuff we've got won't be worth shit. Do you understand that? It won't be worth shit!'
Sayf al-Tha'r looked up, eyes steely. 'We go tomorrow. There is no more to be said.'
Dravic opened his mouth to argue, but realized it was futile. Instead he hawked up a glob of tobaccoey mucus, spat it a centimetre from Sayf al-Tha'r's foot and, turning, set off back down the dune.
A generator chugged into life and the arc lamps flared on, flooding the excavations with a wash of icy light. Sayf al-Tha'r took no notice, just stared back down at the photo in his hand.
'Ali,' he whispered to himself, grimacing slightly, as though the words tasted bitter on his tongue. 'Ali Khalifa.'
He was still for a moment and then suddenly, violently, he tore the picture apart and threw the pieces into the wind. They scattered across the top of the dune, fragments of face lying confusedly at his feet like the shards of a broken mirror.
It was dark when Khalifa finally crawled out from beneath the overhang. Or at least as dark as it gets in the desert, which never sees an absolute blackness, merely a ghostly half-light as if a soft gauze has been draped across the landscape. He stood for a moment gazing out across the dunes, the moon, as he had hoped, not too bright, and then brought his attention back to his immediate surroundings. He had a long walk ahead of him and no time to waste. Beneath him a precipitous, thirty-metre slide of hard-packed sand dropped sharply downwards. He looked to left and right along the ridge, casting around for a gentler place to descend, but the gradient was just as acute in both directions and so, mumbling a swift prayer, he threw his holdall down, sat at the top of the slope and, machine-gun cradled in his lap, lay back and slid.
He picked up speed immediately. He tried to brake himself with his feet, but it didn't have any effect other than to fill his shoes with sand. Faster and faster he went, the wind hissing in his ears, the bottom of his shirt rucking up so that the sand scraped viciously against the bare flesh of his lower back. Halfway down he hit a heavy ripple and went into a roll, bouncing downwards in a flurry of dislodged sand and whirling limbs, the machine-gun slamming painfully against his chest and chin. He hit the bottom shoulder-first and was slammed round onto his face, tasting sand on his lips and tongue.
'Ibn sharmoota,' he mumbled. 'Son of a bitch.' He lay still for a moment and then, spitting, came shakily to his feet and looked back up the slope. It appeared even steeper from the bottom than it had from the top, a near-vertical wall of sand, with a deep, swerving groove marking the line of his descent. He whispered another brief prayer, this one of thanks for still being alive, and, brushing sand out of his hair, retrieved his bag and set out across the desert.
He walked throughout the night, the world around him silent aside from the soft crunch of his footfall and the rasp of his breath. He knew he was leaving a trail that would be easy to follow, even in the dark, but there was nothing he could do about it and so he just ploughed forward as best he could. He kept the GPS unit in his hand and referred to it occasionally to check how far he still had to go. For his bearings, however, he had no need of it, for the pyramid rock was clearly visible, glowing mysteriously in the darkness. He guessed they must have lights rigged around its base.
Gradually his feet settled into a rhythm. Slowly up each dune, faster down the far side, and then an even stride across the flattish desert floor to the bottom of the next slope. Up, down, across; up, down, across; up, down, across.
He had twenty-eight kilometres to cover and for the first half of the journey he managed to stay focused on his surroundings, keeping his ears and eyes sharp for any sign he was being pursued. As the hours passed, however, and the kilometres slipped away, so his mind began to wander.
He found himself thinking of Zenab, of the first time they'd met shortly after he'd started at university. A group of them had gone to the zoo for the afternoon and Zenab had been one of them, a friend of a friend of a friend. They'd wandered around gazing at the animals, Khalifa far too shy to talk to her, until eventually they'd stopped in front of a cage with a polar bear inside, swimming sadly round in its pool of milky water.
'Poor thing,' Khalifa had said with a sigh. 'He wants to go home to the Antarctic'
'The Arctic, I think.' She had been beside him. 'Polar bears come from the Arctic. You don't get them in the Antarctic. Penguins, yes, but not polar bears.'
He had blushed a deep shade of magenta, overwhelmed by her long hair and huge eyes.
'Oh,' was all he had managed to say. 'I see.'
And that had been it. He hadn't spoken to her for the rest of the afternoon, too tongue-tied with shyness. He smiled at the memory. Who would have thought that from such unpromising beginnings . . .
To the west a shooting star flared brilliantly for a moment and disappeared. Up, down, across. Up, down, across.
Now he was thinking of his children. Batah, Ali, baby Yusuf. He remembered each of their births as if it had happened only yesterday. Batah, their first, had taken almost nineteen hours to arrive.
'Never again,' Zenab had muttered afterwards. 'I'm never going through that again.'
But she had gone through it again, and a few years later Ali had arrived, and then baby Yusuf, and who knows, maybe there would be more. He hoped so. He imagined a whole crowd of children playing around the fountain he was building in his hall, floating their toys in its water, their laughter echoing around the flat.
A slight breeze came up, making the dunes around him whisper, as if they were talking about him. Up, down, across. Up, down, across. He lit a cigarette.
Now his children too were drifting away and he was thinking of his father and mother. How his father used to pick him up and swing him round by his feet, how his mother would sit cross-legged on the roof of their house shelling termous beans. He stayed with them for a while and then moved on again, thinking of Professor al-Habibi and Fat Abdul, of the Cairo Museum and the camel yard, cases he'd dealt with, cases he'd solved. Image after image drifted through his mind, as if he was sitting in a cinema watching the narrative of his own life slowly unfolding in front of him.
And of course inevitably, inexorably, his thoughts came round to his brother.
Good things at first: the games they had played, the adventures they had had, an old derelict river cruiser from whose upper deck they used to dive into the Nile. Then how Ali had started to change, growing harder, more distant, getting in trouble, doing bad things. Finally, unavoidably, the day his brother had died. The day Khalifa's own life had fallen apart. It had all happened so quickly, so unexpectedly. The fundamentalists had come to their village one afternoon looking for foreigners, bent on killing. There had been shooting, seven people had died, including three terrorists. Khalifa had been at university at the time and had only heard about it on the radio. He had rushed home immediately, knowing instinctively that Ali had been caught up in it. His mother had been sitting alone in a chair staring at the wall.
'Your brother is dead,' she had said simply, face blank. 'My Ali is dead. Oh God, my poor heart is broken.'
Later Khalifa had gone out and wandered the streets. The bodies of the fundamentalists had not yet been removed and had been lying in a row on the pavement, blankets thrown over their faces, policemen standing by, chatting and smoking. He had gazed down at them, trying to connect them with the brother he had loved, and then turned away. He had walked up onto the Giza plateau, up to the pyramids, and then further up, climbing block over block to the very summit of the great Pyramid of Cheops, to the place where he and Ali had sat as children, the world spread out below like a map. And there, at what felt like the apex of the world, he had slumped down and wept, overwhelmed with sha
me and horror, unable to believe what had happened, unable to understand it, the late afternoon sun hovering above his head like a vast thought bubble, full of fire and pain and confusion.
Ali, his brother. The brother who had become a father. Who had made him what he was, who had inspired him in all things. So much strength. So much goodness. Dead for fourteen years now, but still it weighed him down. And always would, until he stood face to face with the man responsible for that loss. Until he stood face to face with Sayf al-Tha'r. That was why he had come out here. To look Sayf al-Tha'r in the eyes. Even if he had to die to do it. To confront the man who had destroyed his family.
Khalifa stumbled up to the top of a dune and realized with a shock that he had almost reached his destination. Ahead, less than two kilometres away, the great pyramidal rock loomed vast and menacing, a patina of brilliant light pulsing all around it. Vague black smudges spaced regularly along the surrounding dune-tops were presumably lookouts, and he dropped down immediately, fearful of being seen. He glanced at his watch. Half an hour till dawn.
He slipped back from the summit of the dune and, laying aside the machine-gun, pulled his pistol from his holdall and tucked it into his belt. He took out the black robes and dragged them over his head, wrapping the dead man's scarf around his forehead and his face, the dried blood giving the material an unpleasant, crusty feel. He then stuffed the mobile phone and GPS unit into his pockets, cast the bag aside and, picking up the machine-gun again, climbed back up to the top of the dune and started down the far side, making straight towards his enemies.
'For Ali,' he whispered.
Tara weaved her way through the camp, the guard walking slightly behind her, his gun slung across his arm. It was cold and she hugged her arms around herself, her body still stiff and painful from Dravic's assault. There was shouting and hammering and, from somewhere away to the right, a raucous braying sound, like a symphony of discordant trumpets. She gulped in the air, glad to be out of the cloying interior of the tent where she and Daniel were being held.
How many days had they been captive now? She tried to focus her mind. Two? Three? She searched for landmarks, events against which she could measure the passing of time. Sayf al-Tha'r had come the previous night. Dravic had attacked her the one before that. And that had been, what? Their second night in the desert? No, only their first. They had arrived that morning. So, three days in total. It seemed longer than that. Much longer.
They continued through the tents, skirting a wall of crates and emerging from the southern end of the encampment. To the right a herd of camels was standing, the source of the braying. A crowd of men jostled around them, loading and unloading crates.
Fifty metres further on they stopped and, pulling down her jeans, Tara squatted and began to urinate. A few days ago she wouldn't have contemplated doing such a thing in front of a complete stranger. Now she no longer cared.
The guard watched for a moment and then averted his eyes. He was young, no more than a boy. She hadn't seen him before tonight.
'You like Manchester United?' he asked suddenly.
His voice was a shock. It was the first time one of their captors had spoken to her.
'Football team,' he added.
She looked up at him, urine pattering between her feet, and despite herself started to laugh. Could the situation possibly be more absurd, pissing in the middle of a desert beside a gun-toting religious fanatic who wanted to discuss football? It was crazy. Her laughter redoubled, ratcheting towards hysteria.
'What?' said the guard, turning, confused. 'What is funny?'
'This,' said Tara, waving her arm around her, 'all of this. It's fucking hilarious.'
'You no like Manchester United?'
She came to her feet, pulling up her jeans and stepping forward so that her face was just a few centimetres from his.
'I don't care about fucking Manchester United,' she hissed. 'Do you understand? I don't give a shit. I've been kidnapped, beaten and soon I'm going to be killed. Fuck Manchester United. Fuck you.'
The guard's eyes dropped. Although it was he who was holding the gun, he seemed scared of her.
'Manchester United good,' he muttered.
His face was young, frighteningly young. She wondered how old he was. Fourteen, fifteen? She felt a sudden, inexplicable twinge of pity for him.
'What's your name?' she asked, her voice more gentle.
He mumbled inaudibly.
'What?'
'Mehmet.'
'And why are you here, Mehmet?'
The boy seemed confused by the question.
'Sayf al-Tha'r say,' he replied.
'And if Sayf al-Tha'r said kill me, would you?'
The boy's feet shifted uncomfortably. His head was still bowed.
'Look at me,' she said. 'Look at me.'
Reluctantly he lifted his eyes.
'If Sayf al-Tha'r said kill me, would you?'
'Sayf al-Tha'r good man,' he mumbled. 'He care me.'
'But would you kill me? If Sayf al-Tha'r said, would you?'
The boy's eyes flicked nervously from side to side, blinking.
'We go back now,' he said.
'Not till you answer me.'
'We go back,' he repeated.
'Answer me!'
'Yes!' he cried, lifting the gun and shaking it in her face. 'Yes, I kill you. I kill you! For Allah, I kill you! OK? OK? You want me kill you now?'
His breath was fast and uneven, his hands trembling. She knew better than to push him further.
'OK,' she said quietly, 'OK. We go back now.'
She turned and began walking towards the camp. After a few seconds she heard the boy coming up behind her. They walked in silence until they had reached the edge of the tents.
'I sorry,' whispered the boy. 'I very sorry.'
She slowed and turned. What could she say? He was a child. In a way they were all children, simple, innocent, despite the acts they committed. Children who had realized they were more powerful than the adults.
'Chelsea,' she said. 'I support Chelsea.'
The boy's face broke into a broad smile.
'Chelsea no good!' He chuckled. 'No as good as Manchester. Manchester United very good.'
They continued on into the camp.
Khalifa lay gazing at the black-robed figures ahead of him and below. There was now only one ridge between him and the army, and the air echoed to the chug of generators and the distant thud of hammering.
He could go no further without being seen. A string of guards was lined across the summit opposite and in the valley beneath, positioned at regular intervals, so there was no way he'd be able to slip through unnoticed. He could try to outflank them, but that would take time and a tinge of grey was already weeping into the western sky. Whatever else happened he had to be inside the ring by sunrise, or he'd almost certainly be picked up by the helicopter patrols that were bound to start again at dawn. He slipped down from the dune-top and rolled onto his back, lighting a cigarette and wondering what to do.
It was Ali who decided his course of action. Or rather a piece of advice Ali had once given him, the first time they'd visited the Cairo museum together. As they approached the front gates, his brother had stopped to brief him on how they would get in without paying.
'We're going to pretend we're with a school party,' he had explained. 'Go in right through the front door.'
Khalifa had asked whether it wouldn't be better to try and slip in through a side entrance, but Ali had shaken his head.
'If they see you sneaking around the side they're bound to stop you,' he had said. 'Always go through the front. Always look confident, like you belong there. It never fails.'