Samira went to work today, and, as agreed, I looked after her children.
But today Eleana was worse. Much worse. Not long after Samira left, her breathing became laboured. Then she started coughing, a deep, violent, insistent hack that grew worse and worse. I tried everything I could – heating water and adding sugar and juice from the last orange, giving her two of my remaining aspirin, turning her on her side and sitting her up – but nothing would quell it. By midday, she started coughing up blood, flecks of it in the thick green mucus. Sweat covered her body. She was burning to the touch, feverish, muttering nonsense.
I knew that without antibiotics, the infection in Eleana’s lungs could be fatal. I had no choice. I went to my shelter, dug up my money and identification, and wrote a note for Samira. I tidied myself up as best I could, threw on my burqa, and went next door (next door!) for the children.
Soon we were standing on the road, Eleana in my arms, almost too heavy for me to carry, and the little one holding on to a fold of my burqa. The traffic, as usual, was horrendous – a honking, crawling, fuming mass. It took me almost half an hour to wave down a taxi. Finally a driver took pity on us and stopped. I asked him to take us to a good private medical clinic. He asked if I had money. I threw a hundred-pound note on the seat next to him. After that he was very helpful and friendly. We carved through the backstreets, and when we arrived at the clinic he even opened the door for us.
Inside the clinic we were treated no differently to how we are treated on the street. We looked as if we could not pay, and so they ignored us, shunted us to the back of the queue. Eleana was getting worse, and by then lay listless in my arms, rasping shallow breaths. It did not take long for me to lose my patience. I stormed to the front and laid down three fifty-euro notes and demanded to see a doctor.
Eleana is still at the clinic, resting now. The doctor told me that if I had waited much longer to bring her in for treatment, she may well have died. She has severe pneumonia in both lungs and is now on a powerful cocktail of intravenous antibiotics. I was forced to give the clinic my name and passport details – Veronique’s – and the only telephone number I possess: the Kemetic’s. This is not the way to disappear.
When I returned to the shelter with Ghada, the little one, Samira was beside herself. She had had a fruitless day, and the Copts weren’t much interested in anything her subcontracting efforts had yielded. She had seen my note and feared the worst. And now, of course, she knows that I am not who I appeared to be. I am not a fellow outcast, a penniless refugee from society, as she is. I am an impostor, hiding from the law.
We spoke long into the night, until just now in fact. I told her everything.
I had a choice, of course. I did not need to tell her anything. I could simply have paid for her daughter’s care and then moved on, found some other dark corner of this crumbling city of alleys and doorways and rubbish-choked streets in which to hide. But I need a friend. She had shared her story with me, and so I told her mine.
I did not tell her about my life before marrying Hamid, though, and I did not tell her about you, Claymore. But of everything that has happened since, I was as complete as I could be. And as we spoke, I could see the warmth and kindness in her face, and the gratitude she felt for my help. We are both in need of an ally, a friend, and as she told me, we are stronger together.
But now, lying here, unable to sleep, I realise that I have been selfish. I succumbed to the need for friendship, the need to share my fears and travails, and now I have endangered Samira and her daughters. Whoever killed Eugène and Hamid, whoever is watching Yusuf and ensuring his silence, is protecting a powerful secret. If the Kemetic is right, and it is this group he will only refer to as ‘the Consortium’, the danger could be closer than I would like to believe.
Tomorrow I will take Samira to the clinic and we will check on Eleana’s progress. I will pay for whatever additional treatment is required – I still have plenty of cash – and then I will try again to see the Kemetic. Whatever is required, I must know what he knows.
The Debased and the Faithful
For a long time he had thought of time as a destroyer. Of lives and hopes, of civilisations and suns. That was what he’d seen during the war, and since. A person you cared for, loved even, alive one moment, all of the future before them, and then dead in a moment’s glance. Gone. Ended. The decomposition already begun. And then, later, when he came to understand more about the laws of physics, he began to see time’s companion, entropy, as the unmaker of all.
But now he knew that time was not the enemy. It was the gift – the great and only commodity in life. Watching that barren, ancient land sweeping past the window of this north-bound freight truck, he realised that this short treasure of time that each of us is provided can only be used in the present. For it is the present that converts the infinite possibility and potential of the future into a single, definitive past. Eben had taught him that part, about the past always being there. But he’d never told him that the present feeds on the potential of the future, consumes it and fixes it for ever. Every moment, every breath, every ∞ converted into a 1 – this was the only reality.
They reached Aswan a few hours later.
There had been no more roadblocks, and Clay had dozed in the seat with his head rattling against the doorframe as the miles sped by, fragments of dreams folding into reality until one became indistinguishable from the other. Now, as they trundled through the dusty outskirts of the city, the pain in Clay’s side had blown out into a near and shining star.
Mahmoud geared down, turned the big truck off the main road and started down into the river valley, the dark Nile water flowing smooth and calm through the once churning cataracts downstream of the dam. ‘We will stop here. I must unload this cargo,’ he said in Arabic, the first words he’d spoken since the roadblock.
‘I need to find a telephone,’ said Clay.
‘I do not have my own mobile phone. Not yet. But there is a PTT office in the town.’
Clay nodded.
‘I will take you there now,’ said Mahmoud, swinging the rig around a sharp bend, heading towards a cluster of whitewashed buildings near the river. Sandstone bluffs towered in the background.
‘You do not look well,’ said Mahmoud, rolling the truck to a stop. ‘You need a doctor.’
‘I’ll be okay,’ Clay said, wincing as he swung open the door. ‘Where shall I meet you?’
‘Here.’ Mahmoud checked his watch. ‘In an hour and a half. Luxor is four and a half hours away.’
‘See you then,’ said Clay, reaching for his pack. As he did, a spike of pain drove through his side. He groaned involuntarily.
‘Are you sure you do not need a doctor?’ said Mahmoud, staring at Clay. ‘Perhaps it is not wise to enter the PTT as you are. There may be police. There is a phone at my house. Perhaps better to call from there.’
Clay looked down at his side. Blood had soaked through the bandage and had stained his shirt and jacket. Mahmoud was right. He wasn’t thinking straight.
Mahmoud reached behind him and pulled out a dark jacket. ‘Take this,’ he said. Clay nodded and threaded on the jacket.
‘And leave your bag.’
Clay replaced the bag containing his gold, Crowbar’s Jericho, three extra clips for the G21, and two M27 fragmentation grenades on the floor of the rear compartment. He was taking a big chance, leaving all of this with a stranger, going into this highly public, official place. Perhaps he should wait, telephone from Luxor, from the security and privacy of Mahmoud’s home. Clay trusted the guy, but you never could tell. Sometimes the ones you thought would stick hard were gone at the first sign of trouble, and the guys you’d swear would run ended up staying until the end. Four and a half hours away, that was all. He’d waited days already, months. A few hours more was nothing, a twitch. But then again, maybe Mahmoud would take the opportunity to call ahead, have the police waiting for him in Luxor. Here and now though, with the anvil sky pressing in on him, the thoug
ht of even a minute longer without hearing her voice was impossible to bear.
‘See you here in an hour and a half,’ said Clay. ‘And thanks, Mahmoud. Shukran.’
The driver smiled and nodded.
Clay clambered to the ground, pushed the door closed. The truck pulled away. Clay pulled his cap low over his eyes, thrust his stump into the jacket’s pocket, hunched to make himself smaller and trudged towards the post-office entrance. The adhan rose above the town, echoing back from a dozen minarets along the valley, calling the debased and the faithful alike to come to God and repent.
Twenty minutes later, he stood in the telephone cabinet and picked up the receiver. Soon he might create a different past from the one that so far had been set out for him. And it would start here, now. With Rania.
The line clicked, connected.
‘Merhaba?’ a man’s voice.
Clay said nothing, held his breath.
‘Merhaba?’
Clay steadied himself. ‘I am looking for Veronique,’ he said in Arabic.
‘Ah, yes. Madame Veronique.’
‘Is she there?’
‘At the moment, no.’ The voice was deep, resonant.
‘How can I reach her?’
‘That depends.’
Clay clenched his jaw, pushed the end of his stump into the wood panelling. ‘On what?’
‘That depends on who you are, sir, and what your business is.’
‘Look, I am a friend. It’s important.’
‘Yes. She mentioned to me that someone might call.’
‘Are you expecting her anytime soon?’ Clay held back, not wanting to sound desperate.
‘She was supposed to meet me yesterday evening, but she did not come. I am worried that something has happened to her.’
‘Is she in danger?’
‘The Consortium…’ he began, but did not finish.
‘The Consortium? Is that who is threatening her?’
‘I am sorry. I cannot say more.’
Clay swallowed down the fear pushing up through his chest. ‘Can you pass a message to her, if you see her?’
‘Of course.’
‘Tell her I will be in Cairo the day after tomorrow. Tuesday. Tell her to meet me at the Groppi Cafe, on Talaat Harb Square. I’ll be waiting for her there at noon.’
The sound of scribbling, a pencil on paper.
‘Tell her it’s Declan.’ The name he’d used as an alias for a while in Cyprus when they were together for those few days, more than two years ago now.
‘It is better if you come here first,’ said the man. ‘We can meet. Then we can come to an arrangement.’
‘Arrangement.’
‘Yes. That’s right.’
Clay swallowed. ‘What do you want?’
‘I only wish to keep Madame Veronique safe. She is very vulnerable.’
Vulnerable. Jesus Christ. ‘How much do you want?’
A pause, and then: ‘A thousand dollars would do well. American. Cash.’
Clay could already see the guy, on the ground, whimpering from a broken jaw. ‘No worries at all, bru,’ he said, working hard to keep the venom out of his voice. ‘Tell you what. Let’s make it two thousand. How about that? Where can I find you?’
The man hesitated. ‘Come to fourteen Othman Road, apartment sixty-one. Just south of the Ring Road in Giza.’
‘See you Tuesday.’
‘Bring cash.’
‘Definitely.’ Clay set down the receiver, his hand shaking. The receiver was wet. Sweat soaked his shirt, covered his forearms and face. The bastard, whoever he was, was holding Rania to ransom. That was clear. Was he part of this ‘consortium’ Rania had mentioned when they last spoke? Had the AB already got to her? Were they using her as bait, trying to lure him in, to finish what they’d started in Zanzibar and fucked up in Somalia? His mind spun through the possibilities, each darker than the next. Was she even still alive?
Clay emerged blinking into the afternoon sun and drifted towards the place where he’d agreed to meet Mahmoud. The ground shifted beneath his feet, the horizon acute, unstable. He stopped, bent at the waist, tried to breathe. Then he dropped to one knee, reached out for the ground, felt his hand sink through the void, the hard surface he knew was there as yet unreached. And then it was as if he was tumbling in a dark well where gravity acted only on the undeserving, and the righteous flew unperturbed in the clear sky above.
‘My friend.’
Clay opened his eyes, looked up towards the voice.
A hand reached behind his head. ‘My friend, come, please.’
Clay’s vision cleared. It was the truck driver, Mahmoud.
‘Come my friend. People will be watching. I must get you to a doctor.’
9th November 1997. Cairo, Egypt. 12:15 hrs
Samira and I and little Ghada went to the clinic this morning, and despite the disapproving looks of the stern woman at reception, were taken through to see the doctor who is attending Eleana. He was a nice man, mid-sixties or so, with grey hair and a fatherly demeanour. His Arabic was beautiful, and he complimented me on mine.
Eleana is out of danger and should make a complete recovery. Allah be praised. She will need at least two more days in hospital, he said, before taking us in to see her. She was sleeping when we arrived. She is still very weak and is fighting the infection. After a moment, she opened her eyes. And then she smiled. Samira wept at her bedside.
After our visit, I paid for two more days of care, and the doctor agreed that we could come to see Eleana every morning. If after two days she is still weak, she may have to stay longer. I told the doctor this would not be a problem. As we left I could see the receptionist whispering with another matronly attendant. It will not be long before the story of a couple of destitute street women, haggard and dirty, paying hard currency for treatment at one of the best clinics in the district, spreads across the city. It is the type of thing people love to gossip about.
I attached my veil and left Samira and Ghada to find their way home. Then I went to the telephone office and called the Kemetic.
He was very excited. He said that he had been worried when I did not keep our appointment yesterday evening. Worried that perhaps the Consortium had taken me. You must be very careful, he said. Do not draw attention to yourself. I did not tell him, of course, about Samira and her daughter and the clinic, that I had violated every rule I had been taught about how to disappear.
Did you think about what we talked about, last time? he asked. His voice was deeper than usual, thickened. I am a good man, he said, almost in a whisper. A lonely man. And you are a beautiful woman. Very beautiful. Your image has burned inside me since we first met.
I let the line run quiet for a long time, my heart beating hard in my chest. I am not an innocent. I know the ways of men, the lust that can consume them. But the thought of that man touching me sends shivers of disgust running through me even now.
Before I could answer, though, he came to the point. I have something you need, he said. We can help each other.
How can you ask such a thing? I asked. Have you no shame?
Please, Madame Veronique. It is not such a great thing that I ask. I will help you. I will tell you what you need to know about your husband and son, about Yusuf. Grant me this one beautiful thing.
I cannot reproduce here the rest of his pitiful pleading. It continued for some time. I resisted. And then:
If you come to me this evening, I will assume that you have agreed to my terms.
And if I do not?
Then I will be unable to help you.
I can be very persuasive.
That is what I am hoping, dear lady. Persuade me, please.
I cannot do what you ask.
Perhaps you will change your mind. I have had a telephone call. Someone asking for you.
I gasped. I know he heard me. I could almost hear his face stretching into a leer.
Who was it?
Tonight, dear lady. Six o’clock. He di
sconnected.
I gave the Kemetic’s number to only one person. If the wretch is not lying to lead me on, it could only have been you, Claymore. You are alive.
Allah, please have it be so.
I know what I must do. I am prepared. Forgive me, my love. And God forgive my soul.
Carry My Fate with Yours
The wound, it turned out, wasn’t that bad. Manheim’s two bullets had glanced off the hard curve of his ribs without damaging the intercostal muscles, leaving two parallel tears. He was in pain, but he could work his arm almost normally.
After finding Clay on the pavement outside the post and telegraph office, Mahmoud had helped him to the truck and taken him immediately to a doctor he knew in Aswan. Clay had been in no shape to argue. The doctor disinfected and sewed his wounds, bandaged him and ran him an IV. He was, the doctor explained, more dehydrated than anything else. Soon they were heading north along the Western Desert Road, the truck’s cargo trailer empty.
Desert air flowed over him, hot and centuries dry. Clay blinked away the dust, felt the truck’s wheels rumbling over the cracked and fraying tarmac beneath him, and looked out across the jagged aeolian horizon, miles and miles of it, the everchanging constancy of sand and wind and sun.
‘Thank you for all you have done,’ said Clay, in Arabic.
Mahmoud grabbed the steering wheel with his gear-shift hand, reached for the bottle, unscrewed the cap, took a swig, smiled wide and passed the bottle across.
Clay drank. ‘I must get to Cairo tomorrow, Mahmoud. The day after is too late. Please drop me in the town and I will hire a car and a driver.’
‘Did you place your telephone call?’
Clay nodded and passed back the bottle.
‘Trouble?’
‘Yes.’
‘It is very important?’
‘Very. A good friend. She in danger.’
Mahmoud thought on this a while, shifting in his seat. ‘Then we will go together,’ he said. ‘Tonight, by car. My brother can drive the truck with the dates.’
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