The vehicles pulled up side by side, just short of the Cessna – a white Toyota Hilux and what looked to be a retired taxi. The Toyota’s passenger door opened. A tall Nubian in a white jelabia emerged from the vehicle and stepped forwards. He appeared unarmed. Clay tracked the man as he walked towards the plane, cross hairs set between his shoulder blades.
Crowbar jumped to the ground, set the nozzle down and wiped his hands on his trousers. He and the Nubian faced each other a few metres apart. Words were exchanged. After a moment, the two men closed the distance and shook hands.
It made sense. Crowbar wouldn’t have leaked information about a rendezvous to the AB without having ensured that someone was actually coming to meet them. He knew the AB would seek to confirm the story. This was the Sudanese contact Crowbar had spoken of. Whether he, too, had been compromised by the AB, and was here to finish what Manheim had started, there was no way of telling. Not yet. Clay exhaled, moved his head away from the scope a moment, rolled his neck, stretched his shoulders, went back to it.
Crowbar walked to the plane, opened the rear cargo compartment, reached inside. Clay scanned the Nubian’s loose-fitting jelabia through the scope, looking for any sign of a concealed weapon, but saw none. He shifted left and scoped the Hilux. The driver was sitting with both hands on the wheel. There were two other black men in the taxi. The one in the front passenger seat was holding something. Clay increased magnification. The distinctive muzzle and foresight of an AK-47 came into focus. Despite the weapon’s ubiquity here, Clay’s pulse jumped.
Crowbar closed the Cessna’s rear storage door and started back towards the Nubian. He was carrying something, a package about the size of a shoe box. He handed it to the Nubian. The African opened the top, looked inside, closed it again, nodded and walked back to the Hilux.
Just then, another vehicle appeared on the access road. It was coming in fast, riding a tornado of dust. The Nubian stood and watched it come. Crowbar reached for his gun. Clay brought the Galil around, cross haired the windscreen of the approaching vehicle. The taxi’s doors opened and two Sudanese jumped out and swung their AK-47s around towards the approaching vehicle, which seemed to have gained speed. It was big, black, some kind of four-wheel-drive truck – a Ford; the kind of thing the American government liked to use abroad. The vehicle sped past the empty guard shack and careened to halt in a shower of gravel a few metres from the other two vehicles.
Dust billowed and for a moment Clay’s view was obscured. He heard car doors open, and then, almost immediately, the sound of automatic weapons firing, rounds crashing into metal, shattering glass, puncturing flesh. Then the screams of men, an AK barking in reply and falling silent. Clay looked on, unable to distinguish a target.
Slowly the dust cleared. The Hilux and the taxi had been reduced to smoking wrecks. The two Sudanese lay sprawled in the dust, leaking blood. Crowbar and the Nubian were nowhere to be seen.
Three men emerged from the Ford, two black, one white. One of the black men was carrying a belt-fed machine gun, the other an Uzi. Clay trained the Galil’s scope on the white man. He was facing away, giving orders, waving a pistol in one hand, pointing with the other. The two black men started moving towards the plane, weapons at the ready. They had just cleared the taxi’s smoking hulk when Clay heard the pop-pop of Crowbar’s .45 Jericho. One of the black men spun to the ground, his Uzi pitching into the dust. The other dove behind the Hilux.
Clay set the Galil’s cross hairs in the middle of the white man’s back, flipped the fire selector switch to R – semi-automatic – and placed the palp of his finger on the trigger. It could only be one man. Clay filled his lungs, began a slow exhale.
‘Pull that trigger and you’re a dead man.’
Adrenaline arced through Clay’s brain, crashed through the wall of dopamine that had already begun building within him in anticipation of the kill – this revenge to which he had set himself. The voice had come from behind. Clay moved his finger away from the trigger, pushed it trembling onto the Galil’s receiver cover.
‘Now let go of the weapon and stand up. Put your hands on you head.’ The voice was familiar, the accent distinctive. From the airfield, more firing, the hammering of the machine gun, Crowbar’s Jericho answering.
Clay stood, raised his hands.
‘Turn around.’
The Uzi’s barrel gaped. Manheim sneered. It pushed his nose even further across his face.
‘Sloppy, Straker,’ he said, shaking his head as he raised the Uzi.
7th November 1997. Cairo, Egypt. 06:40 hrs
I awoke this morning from a nightmare, and realised I was in another.
No matter how bizarre, I can always trace the genesis of my dreams. A few nights ago, I dreamt I was back in the Algeria of my childhood. It was a place I have been before, but only in recurring dreams in the years since my father was killed. The place is not real. I know that now. Nonetheless it retains elements of the real: the sweep of the terrain, the stony ground, the olive grove and rows of cypress trees, the quality of the light. But the route I take, which is always the same and passes houses that exist only in my dreams, leads to a place I have never seen with my eyes. My father was there. He was alive. He had grown old. His hair was grey. I wanted to ask him how it was that he was still alive, but dared not, lest it not be true. And then they came, the men with guns. I woke, as always, breathless and sweating, before the past could catapult into the present.
Last night it was different. The place was real, recognisable in every detail. Our flat in Paris. My favourite print on the back of the bathroom door. Hamid’s study, usually so tidy, strewn with papers as if it had been ransacked by burglars. Hamid and Eugène are there, sitting at the breakfast table. They look at me as if I am a crazy woman. There is a pile of old computers stacked on the floor, Eugène is sitting among the screens, peeling open motherboards, playing with live wires and glass.
I shriek, run to my son, pick him up. His fingers are bleeding. I start to scream at Hamid for his irresponsibility, but he has vanished and I am standing ankle deep in sewage and my son lies cold in my arms.
I shudder at the dark violence of my own psyche. How can my subconscious conjure such things? Are these the kinds of nightmares you have so often, my love? How terrible they are. My own wickedness assails me, makes me double over in pain. I vomit up my meagre breakfast. I am getting sick. My body is not used to the germs, the insufficiency and poor quality of food, the unsanitary conditions, the cold at night, the dense, sulphurous air. To think how many people live their entire lives like this, Claymore.
I shudder to think how close I came yesterday to whoring myself.
I need to find Yusuf, to speak with him. If that lecherous Kemetic knows who I am, then I can only assume that Yusuf does also. But how could they know? And do they really know who killed Hamid and Eugène?
Just writing their names sends me into a paroxysm of grief. How could I have thought that I did not love Hamid? I am sorry, Claymore, but I did love him. I do love him. I am his wife, his widow. He is – was – the father of my son. Nothing can change that. I must do it for them. I must learn the truth. Justice, or vengeance, must be satisfied.
I do not trust the Kemetic, but I do trust Yusuf. There was something vulnerable and tragic about him that I cannot place. And yet he seems to trust the Kemetic. What is the basis of their relationship, I wonder? Is Yusuf also a member of that dead religion? Are they related somehow? Or, as he claims, are they simply allies in the fight against a common enemy, this group they call the Consortium?
Did the Consortium, whatever and whoever it is, kill my husband and son?
I have no choice. I realise this now. I must use every weapon available to me. Not to do so would be to put my own honour above the memory of my son and husband. To keep faith with them, I must debase myself even further than I already have. Only then might I find redemption.
In this that I am about to do, may Allah protect and guide me.
12:30 hrs<
br />
This morning, I went to the main post and telegraph office in the city. I placed a call to France, to my friend in the Directorate. I called him at his house. We followed our protocol. He called me back a few minutes later.
Any news? I asked.
He was silent a moment, then said: I am running facial recognition algorithms on all the airport CCTV records. I could hear the stress in his voice. We’re looking for you, he said.
It was not a surprise really. But I still felt myself go cold.
Where can I reach you? he said.
I will check in.
You must be careful, he said. The Egyptian police have asked for the Directorate’s assistance in finding you. It is very unusual.
Will the Directorate cooperate?
I don’t know. It’s a political decision.
Of course. Are you sure the enquiry came from the police?
No one knows for certain. It came through the embassy.
It could be anyone.
As always.
I thanked him and he wished me good luck.
Then I tried Yusuf’s number. Despite his warnings, I felt compelled to try. I need to convince him to talk to me, to open up. I had decided to be honest with him, to tell him that I am Hamid’s wife, despite the danger. It is the only way. I need to offer him my vulnerability to inspire his confidence.
I waited as the line engaged, practising my speech. I was connected. A recorded voice played, different from the one before. His number had been cut off.
Now I have no choice.
The First and Only Certainty
Death is prescribed the day you are born. It is the first and only certainty.
Of it he had learned much. Random in its dispensation, mortally cruel in method, it was, in his experience, by turns callously just and brutally unfair. It came to him in nightmares, sometimes as drowning, but more often by instruments blunt and bladed, a mindless butchering that left him gasping. And in each cold aftermath, he would contemplate his own end, by whose hand it might be accomplished, and why, after so many years and opportunities, it had not yet come.
The sounds and smells of the fight came to him now, more as vague impressions than any specific punctuation: the buzz of the rapid-fire Uzi and the industrial crack of the last AK shifting on the cordite breeze, and then, suddenly, the clean metallic tang of blood.
Time slowed, then stalled.
Cadence and interval stretched.
Time measured now in the spaces between detonations, those frozen eternities.
He thought of Rania, alone and frightened, far away. Of Grace and little Joseph, rotting on the seabed. He closed his eyes. Other faces came to him, moments that filled time to bursting: His best friend, Eben, striding towards the C-130, his face lit red by the flares, determined to do what was right; Abdulkader at the wheel of the Landcruiser, hurtling through the Masila night towards the Omani border; Vivian dying in his arms as he fled to Mozambique. He stifled a groan, let it all echo through the empty space inside him.
He opened his eyes. He had to try.
Manheim was only three long steps away, his Uzi levelled at Clay’s chest. It would come at any time. He was surprised Manheim hadn’t done it already.
Manheim checked the Uzi. ‘Before I kill you,’ he said, ‘tell me something.’
Clay opened his arms. His G21 was in his front jacket pocket, loaded, ready to fire. ‘I’m just the bait, remember?’ Keep him talking.
Manheim twisted his mouth into what might have been a smile. ‘Maybe, Straker. But you were a traitor then, and you’re still one now.’
Crowbar’s handgun cracked again in the distance, followed by the clatter of an Uzi.
Manheim’s eyes widened. ‘Crowbar,’ he said. ‘Did he tell you?’
‘Tell me what?’
‘About why…’ Manheim paused, seemed to reconsider whatever it was he was going to ask.
‘He’s down there,’ said Clay. ‘Why don’t you ask him yourself?’
But before Manheim could answer, a loud explosion ripped the air – one of Crowbar’s grenades. Manheim’s eyes snapped towards the sound.
It was the moment Clay had been waiting for. He charged.
He’d closed most of the distance separating them, had rotated his torso to make himself a smaller target and had just begun to parry the Uzi aside with his forearm, when Manheim fired.
Something slammed into Clay’s side. It felt as if he’d been hit with a bat. The force of the blow wrenched him around so that his forward momentum sent the point of his shoulder smashing into Manheim’s groin. The Uzi spun away as Clay wrapped his arms around Manheim’s legs and drove him to the ground. They landed hard, Clay on top. Manheim twisted, pushed a knee into Clay’s ribs and exploded back, kicking out with his other foot. Manheim’s boot caught Clay in the chest, sent him reeling back, blinded by pain.
Then Manheim was up, scrambling across the sand towards the Uzi. He’d reached the weapon and had dropped to all fours, was about to swing himself around for a shot when Clay reached into his pocket, pulled out the Glock and fired. The .45 calibre bullet hit Manheim in the side of the face. He toppled back and slid headfirst down the slope.
The sound of the battle raged in the distance. Clay looked down at his right side. His jacket was torn, high up, under his arm. Blood oozed from the frayed opening. He steadied himself, crawled back to where the Galil lay, dropped to the prone position, scoped the ramp.
Crowbar was pinned down behind the taxi. The white man was behind the Ford, sending short bursts from his Uzi over the hood as he hunched behind the front wheel. The black guy was trying to flank Crowbar, work his way around the Hilux to Crowbar’s left. Clay shuddered the cross hairs onto the white man’s back, high up, on the spine. His hand was shaking from the adrenaline, from the pain exploding in his side. He took a deep breath, let it go, squeezed the trigger. That familiar bark, so much like the R4 he’d carried for over a year through Angola, and then the little puff to the man’s right as the bullet snapped into the car’s door. He watched the man flinch, hunch lower. Clay adjusted right, fired again. The round clipped the man’s shoulder, pitched him over. The man scrambled in the dirt, looked behind him, realising now what was happening. He was bringing his weapon around when Clay fired again. This time the 5.56 mm high-velocity bullet hit him in the sternum, blew apart his chest. He slumped to the ground. Clay scanned right. The black man had heard the shots being fired from behind and rolled away under the Hilux.
Clay switched the selector to B, sent a three-round burst into the Hilux. Crowbar was up now, limping towards the truck. His left arm was clutched around his midriff. Clay sent another burst into the Hilux. The guy underneath would be pissing himself. Crowbar was closing in. Clay flicked to auto, put out a burst of ten rounds, shredding the Hilux. The guy underneath, if he wasn’t already hit, wouldn’t be paying any attention to Crowbar. Crowbar was close now, alongside the taxi. Clay watched him kneel, go prone, take aim. Clay emptied the rest of the magazine into the vehicle as Crowbar fired. It was over.
7th November, 1997. Cairo, Egypt. 13:30 hrs
Samira’s eldest daughter, Eleana, has developed a bad cold and has been running a fever. Her chest shudders out deep, bronchial hacks. The mucus she brings up is thick and green, the colour of the scum on our canal, tinged with flecks of carbon. Nursing her has curtailed Samira’s garbage picking, and she has made almost nothing over the last few days. I have offered to look after Eleana tomorrow, at least until early afternoon, so that Samira can work. Work! This is what we call it. Samira gratefully accepted.
Some days, Samira takes the children with her, and they pick through the garbage together. A few days a week, however, she goes alone and Eleana looks after her younger sibling. The girls clean the shelter, collect wood for the fire and scavenge whatever else that they might find that may be of use. Then Eleana teaches her sister to read and write.
At first, I found the idea of two young girls alone in such a place
profoundly disturbing. Now I simply marvel at the courage and resilience of these children. Perspective is everything.
This morning I called the Kemetic. We agreed that I will go to his apartment tomorrow evening.
And yet I am no nearer my goal. Every day that passes buries the truth just a little deeper, as if in a boy-king’s tomb lost to the ages. Tuthenkhamun’s golden death mask haunts me. I saw it for the first time when I visited the Egyptian Museum a few days ago. It was only a glance, so distracted was I, but ever since a vision of that perfect face has held on in a little corner of my mind. He was only nineteen when he died.
In all that has happened, there is one clear thread that can be traced. The more I consider it, the more convinced I have become. Yusuf Al-Gambal was accused of treason and brought to trial by the attorney general. The police have been watching him ever since the acquittal – if that is what it can be called – and now they are following me. And now I learn that the Egyptian embassy has asked the Directorate for assistance in finding me. What is the thread? There can only be one answer: the Egyptian government, or someone very powerful within it, wants me, and everyone else connected with this case, silenced.
A Distant and Erratic Echo
By the time Clay reached the vehicles, Crowbar had already started the Cessna and had taxied it away.
The plane now stood, engine running, at the edge of the runway. Clay could see Crowbar waving to him from the cockpit. Fuel vapours hung thick in the air, spilling from shot-up cars and the holed avgas bowser. Torn bodies hulked in the dust among scattered weapons and empty shell casings. The Nubian was there too, leaning up against the side of the main building, the front of his white jelabia stained with blood. Clay walked to the base of the bowser, pushed his boot into the fuel-soaked sand. Then he reached into his pocket, pulled out his lighter, took three steps back, sparked the flame and dropped it to the ground.
Absolution Page 14