With the money Samira bought a bag of chickpea flour, a bottle of canola oil and four oranges. She wet the flour and rolled it into falafel, which she cooked in the hot oil. The smell was wonderful and the taste better than any I have enjoyed before. We ate in silence, even the children, all focused on this delicacy. After, we all shared an orange, two succulent sections each. Samira put her children to bed and blew out the candle and we sat in the half-lit city darkness and had tea.
That some people are so wealthy they can afford to throw away such things, she said, shaking her head. Of course, I did not tell her that until very recently, I too had regularly disposed of perfectly good mattresses and shoes, and occasionally phones and televisions, and every other kind of implement and device, to make room for newer, more functional, more exciting models. We threw away perfectly edible food, disposed of once-worn clothes, and even – I gasp now, thinking of it – books. And the worst part of it is that I never even thought about it. And yet, because of such profligacy, Samira and her children and I eat. Is this the real definition of trickle-down economics? Tomorrow night I will claim a similar windfall, and I will treat Samira and her children to a feast.
This afternoon, I met Mehmet.
I was very careful this time. I am sure no one followed me, or was watching me. He gave me his address over the phone – I used a public telephone – and then I watched his building for more than six hours before entering. I picked through the rubbish in the vacant lot opposite and along the flanks of the alleys, just another poor, homeless wretch, invisible, all the time watching for any signs of surveillance. I entered the building by the back stairway and climbed the four flights to his flat.
It was quite a humble place for the second pharaoh of the eighteenth dynasty, and I told him so, unable to help myself. He looked me up and down, at my filthy hands and unkempt hair and already ragged clothes – it is amazing how quickly one can descend. And then he pointed out that he had taken the name Amenhotep out of respect, and in actuality, he was only a grand vizier of the lawful descendants of the last Egyptian pharaoh, Nectanebo the Second, who died in 343 BC, before the corruptions of the Persian rule of Egypt.
He certainly looked the part. He had a long, flowing beard and was dressed in a floor-length white robe. In his right hand, he held an ankh ♀ – the symbol for life and the unity of matter and spirit, he told me. We sat on cushions in the middle of the floor. Shutters dimmed the afternoon light. He offered me tea. I asked if I could use his bathroom. It had been three days since I had used a proper toilet or washed myself in clean water.
Please, he said, standing. Feel free to shower, if you like. He led me to the bathroom and opened the door. There are towels, soap and hot water, he said.
I thanked him and closed the door behind me, searched for a lock but could not find one. Any hesitation I had disappeared as the shower beckoned. I could not resist. I turned on the hot water, stripped off my filthy clothes and jumped in. Allah forgive me, but this must be what heaven is like. I stayed under the water for far too long, knowing he would be listening, wondering what he would be thinking. I soaped myself raw, used his shampoo, washed my hair out twice, bundled myself into clean towels. At that point, there was a knock on the door.
I froze, remembering where I was – in a strange man’s house, naked but for a towel. His voice came through the door, asking me if I would like clean clothes. Perhaps he was married? I had seen no signs of a feminine presence.
What do you have? I asked him, staring at my stinking rags piled on the floor. A moment later he handed me in a clean dress. It was very plain with a high neck and low hem. It hung off me like a sack, but it was clean and smelled as if it had been freshly laundered. Had he anticipated the state I would be in?
Almost half an hour after entering the bathroom, I emerged, realising how badly I must have smelled when I had first arrived. To his credit, he said nothing, just smiled, poured me tea and offered me a plate of sweets, which I devoured.
Thank you, I said.
He nodded, smiled. It is my great pleasure, lady, he said.
Please, tell me about Yusuf Al-Gambal, I said. Why are the police watching him?
He is a very dangerous man, Amenhotep said.
He does not look dangerous, I said.
No. It is always thus, said Mehmet. He spoke a very formal, traditional Arabic, quite unlike the street, slang-ridden dialect I have already begun to emulate. Clearly he is an educated man.
Tell me, please.
His danger comes from what he knows. And to your second question, madame, the police simply enforce the will of those in power.
What is it that he knows? I asked. Is it something about the Consortium, the ones you spoke of before? I was sure he could hear the desperation in my voice.
This Hamid Al-Farouk must have been very important to you, he said, piercing me with his gaze.
I looked away. Yes, I said. He was.
I understand, he said, watching me very carefully.
Then please help me.
He considered this for what felt like a long time. I sat and watched the candle flame burn on its wick, the wax drip slowly to its base.
Then you will also know that Yusuf Al-Gambal and Mr Al-Farouk were very close. But something happened. At some point during the trial, there was an argument. Threats were exchanged. I do not know what precipitated it or what it concerned. I was not present. But whatever happened, they never spoke again.
What is your relationship with Yusuf Al-Gambal? I sounded like the analyst I was, the reporter I am.
We are… He hesitated …Allies.
Fighting a common enemy? The Consortium? The ones you said were violating the Ma’at, destroying the Two Kingdoms, Upper and Lower Egypt?
He nodded.
Who are they, this Consortium?
They are the godless ones. Those whose souls Set has poisoned.
Please, I said. I know he could sense my impatience.
I do not know who they are, madame. Only what they are. Then he stood and offered me his hand. I took it. He looked at me. Perhaps, madame, we too can become allies, in time?
I smiled. I know its power. Inshallah, I said, pulling away from him.
He stood looking me up and down, and then said: If Isis wills it.
Of course.
He placed his hand on the small of my back, escorted me to the door, something a Muslim gentleman would never do – touch a woman not his wife without permission. He clasped the door knob, started turning. But then he stopped. He leaned in close to me. His lips brushed my ear. I could feel his hot breath on my neck.
We can help each other, he whispered, sliding his hand lower.
I pushed him away, pulled open the door.
Call me in two days, he said. Perhaps I will have more information for you then.
I stopped, stared at him.
But I will need something in return, he said.
I have money, I said.
He laughed at this. Money is not for allies, good lady. He leaned close again. You must understand, he whispered. Your enemy is our enemy.
I looked into his eyes, my pulse doing hummingbird wings. Who is my enemy? I said.
Those who murdered your husband and son, my dear lady.
And upon You, Peace
With the sun low in the sky, they set down on a deserted stretch of road about ten kilometres north-east of Al Dabbah, a small town on the wide green sweep of the Blue Nile. The country here was very dry. Since leaving the green and fertile highlands of Ethiopia, the land had become increasingly barren and featureless and there were few signs of human habitation. The big herds, so clearly visible from the air in Kenya, were long since gone, and now, for as far as they could see, there was desolation.
This was a country at war with itself. The signs of the long descent into chaos were everywhere. Villages raised, charred, empty. Shot-up tanks and columns of burned-out vehicles shimmering in the heat. Sometimes Crowbar would descend to get a closer
look, and they could make out the close-spaced hummocks of shallow graves, rows of them, as if planted in the hope that crops might grow instead of hate. Not far from Khartoum they overflew a refugee camp, a city of white plastic and canvas that seemed to go on forever. It was like seeing London from the air for the first time, and then realising that every building was a makeshift shelter, every monument a tent, each street an open sewer.
They had agreed that Clay would set out immediately, find transport and try to reach Dongola, about 180 kilometres north, that night. Crowbar would aim to land at the Dongola airfield at seven the next morning. He wasn’t sure who was going to show up to meet them, or when. He’d dangled the lure. They would just have to wait and see if anyone bit. And if they did, they would have to play it as it came.
Crowbar reached into the plane’s rear storage compartment, pulled out one of the bags he’d been toting around since Zanzibar and handed it to Clay. ‘You may need this,’ he said.
Clay opened the bag, looked inside, caught a breath. ‘Jesus, Koevoet.’ It was a scoped Galil MAR assault rifle with a folding stock – a smaller, lightweight version of the R4 he’d used in Angola. It was a beautiful weapon.
The corners of Crowbar’s mouth flipped up into a grin. ‘Nice scope on it, too, seun, but a shorter barrel. You get there early, find a good place, close enough in, and cover me. I’m depending on you, ja. Use that spirit of yours one more time.’
Clay stood a moment, weighing the Galil in his hand. ‘I’m sorry, oom, I…’
Crowbar put his hand on Clay’s shoulder. ‘Who knows,’ he said. ‘That old juju man may just have been right.’
Clay replaced the weapon, zipped the bag closed and stashed it in his backpack, along with three extra thirty-five-round magazines. Crowbar also handed him two M27 frags and one smoke cannister.
‘Got enough cash?’ said Crowbar.
‘Plenty.’
‘Then get going. See you tomorrow morning.’
They shook hands and Clay started off towards town, the last of the day’s light throwing long shadows across the sand.
Soon it was dark. And with the darkness came the cold. Stars appeared: Aldebaran, blood red, lost as an equinoctial marker here almost five thousand years ago; Sirius, destined to burn on as the brightest star in the sky long after our own sun was gone; so many others he could not name.
Trudging through this ruined country he could feel the uncertainty burning away his patience, and he knew that these killings – those done and yet to come – were just parts of a whole, a seemingly endless firmament of death. And in this detachment, he began to see a possibility that perhaps, one day, he might exorcise the murderous spirit that had taken hold inside him and live in peace. One day. If he could get to Cairo. If he could find Rania. If he could convince her to leave with him. If they could escape. If they could find a place where they might be free of the past. If.
Hope was a dangerous thing.
After two hours of walking, Clay reached Al-Dabbah. He found the main road through town and struck north. Time was running on. He needed to find transport to have any hope of reaching the airfield in time. It wasn’t until he was nearing the outskirts of town that he came upon what appeared to be a garage. Vehicles in various states of disrepair hulked in the sand, their punctured bodies painted orange by the flamelight from a glowing brazier. The owner of the place, a dark-skinned and suspicious local, showed him an old Enfield motorbike. It was banged up, but the engine ran and the tyres looked reasonable. Clay haggled a price, paid cash and started north, the way lit only by stars and the wavering yellow cone of light from the bike’s headlamp. The road was unpaved, shot through with potholes, cut by ruts and washouts. After a while, the moon rose, a shimmering, waning half.
His progress was slow. By midnight, he was still some forty kilometres from Dongola. He continued north, the bike rattling over the dusty washboard, the Blue Nile warm and fragrant on his right. Stars beckoned, the town’s far-off glow staining the horizon. Not long after, he hit the first roadblock.
Clay slowed and cut his lights as the barrier came into view. It had been placed where the road skirted the river’s narrow floodplain of fertile ground. Old car wheel rims had been arranged across the tarmac to stop traffic. Two soldiers stood warming themselves beside a steel drum set back on the shoulder. Orange flame jumped from the mouth of the drum and lit the faces of the men, glinted on the barrels of their rifles. Clay could smell the smoke, hear the men’s voices. He could try to talk or bribe his way through. But given what he had come here to do and what he was carrying, the risks were too great. He would have to detour around, approach the airfield from the west. He turned the bike around and started back the way he’d come.
After about five kilometres he left the main road and followed a small dirt track that led west towards the hills. Fifteen minutes in he turned north again, Polaris showing the way. Cross-country, in the near-dark, the going was slow. Riding with one hand was hard enough on a half-decent road, but now the bike bumped and lurched over the hard, uneven ground, powered out in swales of soft sand. The inside of his left forearm was bruised and sore from working the clutch lever. Twice he went over the handlebars, picked himself up, righted the bike and kept going. He was running out of time.
Then, with the sky lightening in the east, the rear tyre blew.
He stopped and inspected the damage. The sidewall had ruptured, spilling a big flap of fibre belting and rubber. He tried to continue, but with each revolution the tyre disintegrated further, tearing itself to pieces. Soon there was nothing left, and the bike was churning along on an almost bare rim. There was no point in going on.
Clay dismounted and scanned the horizon with the binoculars. He could just make out the low mud-brick and concrete jumble of Dongola town, and beyond, the darker thread of vegetation along the river. The airfield was still at least ten kilometres away. Less than an hour until Crowbar was scheduled to land. Clay filled his lungs, hefted his pack, secured the chest and waist straps, tightened it all down and started to run.
As the sun broke the horizon, he reached a rise and looked down across the sweep of desert towards the Nile. The airstrip cut a grey scar on the outskirts of the dawn-lit town. At four minutes per kilometre he would arrive at the airstrip just as Crowbar was landing. He upped his pace, pushing hard, watching the sun’s fiery rebirth, his feet skimming across the rocky ground.
As he neared the airstrip, he began searching the sky. The sun was up and the heat was coming. He wasn’t going to make it in time. Crowbar would land, expecting him to be there, expecting cover. He would be walking into an ambush. Clay bit down, kept going. Sweat poured from his temples, soaked his shirt. Less than a kilometre to go and still he hadn’t seen or heard a plane approaching.
Clay glanced at his watch. Just gone seven. Not like Crowbar to be late. Could he have arrived early?
As he neared the airstrip he could make out a cluster of small buildings on the town side, an elevated fuel bowser, the wind sock hanging limp from its post. No sign of people, no aircraft on the ground that he could see. Relief poured through him. He plotted a course around the far end of the strip and towards a sandy ridge that ran parallel to the landing strip, just beyond the apron.
Twenty-five minutes later, Clay lay tucked behind the crest of the ridge on the eastern edge of the airfield, watching the sky. It was now almost an hour since the agreed arrival time had come and gone, and still no sign of Crowbar’s little Cessna.
And whoever Crowbar was expecting, there was no sign of them, either. Where were the people that ran this place, dishevelled though it was? Why was it unattended? When he’d first arrived, he’d assumed that guards or attendants might be sleeping in one of the buildings, or would arrive at daybreak. But he’d seen no movement, no indication of occupation. Now, as the sun rose in the sky, he knew something was wrong.
Clay checked his watch again. Crowbar was more than an hour late. Had there been engine trouble? They had plenty of fue
l, so it couldn’t be that. Had he perhaps run foul of local militia? Had Crowbar abandoned him, even – set him up, left him to die? No, that was crazy thinking. The heat was getting to him, he was dehydrated. Anything could have delayed Crowbar. There was no point speculating. None of it was in his control anyway. He was here. He would wait. He shut it all away, focused on the job.
From where he lay, Clay had a commanding view of the buildings and the access road that led to the main road and town. He arranged some brush to provide himself a bit of camouflage, dialled in the scope, and, using the ragged windsock that now fluttered near the hut, estimated windage. He scanned the airstrip through the scope, focused on the fuel bowser, picked a target at the base of the elevated platform. At two hundred metres, with the MAR’s shorter barrel, it would probably take him a few shots to hit centre.
And then he heard it. A faint hum at first, coming on the breeze. He lifted his head, scanned the horizon. There it was: a small plane approaching from the south, descending towards the field. Clay watched the aircraft parallel the runway, then turn and line up for final approach. It was Crowbar.
Clay watched the Cessna float in over the runway, touch down with a puff of dust and then taxi to the ramp and stop beside the fuel bowser. Crowbar shut down the engine and jumped to the ground, wiping the sweat from his forehead with the back of his arm. He stood a moment, surveying the deserted airstrip. Then he walked to the fuel dispenser and unhooked the nozzle. A moment later he clambered up the steel frame to the single rusting tank and rapped on the side. Bone rang on hollow steel. But there was depth to the sound, the sway of fuel. Crowbar jumped down, grabbed the nozzle, clambered up onto the wing strut and started to fill the tanks.
That was when they came.
Two vehicles, speeding towards the airfield, red dust spiralling into the by-now blue morning sky. Crowbar had seen them, too. Clay watched him reach for his .45, work the action, replace it in its concealed shoulder holster and continue pumping. Clay filled his lungs, steadied himself, tracked the lead vehicle with the Galil’s scope.
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