by Tony Park
As he walked out of the hotel, shopkeepers were opening their doors and shutters in the narrow winding lanes of Stone Town as the old quarter came alive again in the comparative cool of evening.
A young boy on a bicycle rang his bell and chicaned his way around a couple of blonde German backpacker girls. Luke, for one, wasn’t culturally offended by their cutoff denim shorts and he turned to give the pair a second glance, nearly walking into an Arab merchant in a long white cotton robe carrying a silver antique tea service.
‘Excuse me,’ Luke said to the man.
‘Not at all. Would you care to look inside?’ The man gestured to an antiques shop.
‘Why not?’ Luke said. He had to start asking questions somewhere. His eyes wandered over shelves crammed with brass and silver knick-knacks. Some, he supposed, were antiques, though he expected most were modern replicas. ‘How’s business?’
The Arab shrugged his shoulders. ‘A little bit quiet now. Iraq, SARS, bombs …’
Luke inspected a brass telescope, raising it to his eye and looking out into the street, unable to focus on anything.
‘Are you looking for anything in particular, my friend?’ the shopkeeper asked.
‘Actually, I’m looking for a telephone book.’
‘A telephone book? An antique?’
Luke smiled. ‘No, actually, I’m looking for a person, by the name of bin Zayid.’
‘Interesting. A name that has appeared in the newspaper recently.’
‘Iqbal bin Zayid.’ Luke set down the telescope.
‘Do not believe everything you hear from the Americans, young man. What are you, a journalist?’
‘Yes.’
‘I have no problem with journalists – they are only as good as the information they are given. People who say Iqbal bin Zayid was a terrorist do not know him or his family. His father, Hassan, God bless him, was a good man. He was married to an English woman. A nonbeliever! How could a boy who was the son of a western woman, a Christian woman, be a terrorist?’
‘You knew the family?’
‘A little. They own some hotels here and on the mainland, and Hassan the elder would sometimes buy antiques from me to decorate the reception rooms and so forth.’
‘Hassan the elder?’
‘He is dead now, may God keep him, but his son helps keep me in business.’
‘Can you tell me where I can find the family?’ The old man looked wary, Luke thought, perhaps wondering if he had given away too much already.
‘As I said, Hassan is dead, and his wife ran off with another man, back to England, many years ago, when the boys were both small. I heard she died. Iqbal is gone, killed by the Americans, and young Hassan is rarely here. He travels a lot to the mainland, looking after the family’s business.’
‘I only want to talk to someone to get the other side of the story. If Iqbal was innocent, then the world deserves to hear that.’ It was one of the oldest lines in the reporter’s book of half-truths. Iqbal the Innocent had tried to kill him with an AK-47.
The antique dealer scratched his chin. In his other hand he fingered a set of ivory worry beads.
‘Very well. I will give you the business address of the bin Zayid offices. Hassan may not be there, but you will be able to leave a message for him, I am sure.’
‘Thanks. How much for the telescope?’
The directions the Arab shopkeeper gave led him deeper into Stone Town. As he wound his way through the maze of lanes, the sights, sounds and smells of the ancient precinct assaulted his senses.
Every breath he drew of cloves and other aromatic spices was countered by the odour of rotting garbage or an overflowing sewer. For each ornately carved and studded door, there was another devoured by damp and termites. Each giggled ‘jambo’, Swahili for hello, from a shyly smiling child was matched by a cold stare or sneer from a surly youth.
‘Osama bin Laden,’ a young African man in an LA Lakers basketball shirt murmured as Luke walked past a shop selling gaudily painted Zambians and women’s clothing. Luke didn’t know whether the man had mentioned the name as part of a conversation with the youth standing beside him, or if it was some form of veiled threat directed at him. Either way, he did not stop to quiz the boy. He felt eyes boring into his back as he strode on down the lane.
Modern politics, religion and prejudices aside, there was no denying the appeal of the claustrophobic old town. In some quieter stretches of alleyway, where he passed men in flowing robes and black-veiled women, the only reminders he was in the twenty-first century were the signs directing him to yet another internet cafe.
Luke found the offices of Zayid Enterprises in a three-storey renovated stone building at the eastern end of town, not far from the Africa House, a rowdy pub inhabited most hours of the day by young backpackers.
A brass plaque beside an ornate wooden door decorated with pointed brass studs confirmed he had found his quarry. Luke knew from his guidebook that the door of a Zanzibari building said a lot about the occupants. This portal was dark and formidable, steeped in history, and almost impregnable. It was flanked by an intercom system with a built-in camera. When he pressed the buzzer, someone inside released an electronic lock. For all its old-world charm, the building was protected by the most modern of security systems. Luke wondered if the surviving bin Zayid had anything to hide.
He pushed open the door and walked up a short flight of stone stairs. At the top he found himself in a tastefully decorated reception area. In contrast with the exterior, the building’s interior was ultramodern, lots of chrome and glass, whitewashed walls and cubist prints. An attractive young African woman in a short-sleeved white blouse said good afternoon to him from behind a large white desk.
‘Hello, I was wondering if I could speak with Mr Hassan bin Zayid, please?’
‘Do you have an appointment, sir?’ the woman asked, checking a large desk diary.
‘No, my name’s Luke Scarborough. I’m a journalist from the International Press news agency. I’ve been told your company runs a few hotels in the region and I’d like to speak to Mr bin Zayid about visitor trends in East Africa.’ His story was close enough to the truth to allow him to sound convincing.
‘I’m sorry, sir, but Mr bin Zayid is not here.’
‘Do you expect him back today?’ He watched her face carefully and noticed her eyes flick towards an antique brass clock on the wall.
‘I can’t say, sir. Mr bin Zayid sees no one without an appointment. If I can take your name and number I will call you back if he can fit you into his schedule.’
Luke looked around the office. On the walls were half-a-dozen large glossy colour photographs in polished brass frames. The same man was in each shot. He was youngish, maybe thirty, with dark wavy hair, immaculately dressed and with a face that was not quite European and not quite Arabic.
The pictures showed the man in a variety of situations, mostly standing side by side with people who looked to be of some importance. He was with an Arab sheikh in flowing robes; an elderly African man in a suit, perhaps a politician; cutting the ribbon at the opening of a new building, presumably one of the family’s hotels. The odd photo out showed the man standing at the stern of a luxury cabin cruiser. The name of the vessel was clearly visible on the back, written in English – Faith. There was Arabic script underneath, probably the same word.
‘Thanks,’ Luke said to the receptionist. He took out a business card and pen from his pocket and underlined his mobile phone number. ‘I’ve also written the name of the hotel where I’m staying on the back of this card. I’ll be there for a couple more nights. Mr bin Zayid can contact me at any hour of the day or leave a message at my hotel. I really am very keen to talk to him.’
‘Of course, sir. I will be sure to pass on the message.’
‘And may I please have your telephone number in case I need to check back with you later?’
‘Certainly, sir.’ She recited the office telephone number and Luke wrote it in his notebook.
Piercing blue eyes stared back at him from the broad handsome face. The last time he had seen those eyes was the second before Jed Banks shot the life from them. This man was not only the brother of Iqbal bin Zayid; he was his identical twin.
Luke waggled the fingers of both his hands as he walked out onto the narrow street, a gesture that came to him involuntarily when he knew he was on the verge of a sensational story. This was one of those yarns that would write itself, if only he could make contact with Hassan bin Zayid.
He decided to take a walk down to the harbour, to see if he could find out where bin Zayid moored his boat. There was an off-chance the man might even be lounging aboard the luxury vessel. The odds were slim, but he was at that early stage of an investigation when he would pursue any lead at all.
Luck played a part in investigative journalism, but luck wouldn’t find you if you sat in a bar or office all day.
As he strode along the foreshore that skirted the Ras Shangani district he pondered the bin Zayid lineage, mentally composing a few background paragraphs for the article he would write. He’d brushed up on the island’s history from a guidebook on the ferry trip from the mainland. Arabs from Oman had rounded the Horn of Africa and ventured down the continent’s east coast as early as the eighth century, beginning a trade in spices, cloves, hides, rhino horn, ivory and humans that would last for centuries. How long ago, he wondered, had the bin Zayid family arrived? What events in Zanzibar’s rich history had shaped the family’s political and religious views? The British had progressively ended the slave trade from the early nineteenth century, but Zanzibar continued to thrive, with cloves replacing men, women and children as the island’s main commodity.
Luke presumed from their appearance that Hassan and Iqbal bin Zayid came from Omani stock, as these original merchants rarely intermarried with the local African population. Not so the Shirazis, the other dominant Arabic influence in East Africa, who had migrated from Persia in the tenth century.
The Shirazis mixed with local Africans and created the coastal people known as Swahili, whose language and culture spread inland along the routes of the infamous slave caravans. The antique dealer had spoken of Hassan and Iqbal’s father marrying a western woman, a nonbeliever, and that was something else Luke wanted to look into. Even if Iqbal had been a lone zealot in the family, the bin Zayid family tree would make an interesting background for his feature.
Luke slowed down as he neared the sprawling Old Fort, built by the Omanis in 1700 to withstand attacks by the Portuguese. By the nineteenth century Zanzibar had become a British protectorate, with a constitutional monarchy in the form of an Arab sultan. The sultan’s descendants had stayed in power until a coup by Africans in 1964, following several years of increasing discontent by the local majority, and the deaths of dozens of Arabs. The new, independent Zanzibar did not stay so for long, and soon merged with the independent mainland nation of Tanzania.
That was the trouble with Zanzibar, Luke mused. So much history it was hard to encapsulate in a news story and relate it to the modern world. Did the bin Zayid brothers feel some resentment at the waning of Arab influence in East Africa? Were they offended by the growing numbers of western tourists in their homeland, who seemed, even in Luke’s opinion, to get younger, wear less, drink more and use more drugs with every passing year? There had been terrorist-sponsored backlashes against westerners in other Islamic tourist destinations. Was Iqbal bin Zayid’s transformation from the heir to a prosperous tourist business to Islamic holy warrior a by-product of the industry his family had helped to create? Great angle, Luke thought, if only he could get someone to say it.
A dhow glided through the Zanzibar channel off to his left, its two African crewmen singing as they pulled on the lines of the lateen sail in order to catch the dying gasps of the day’s breeze. Ahead, Luke could see the mooring it was headed for, a small floating dock overcrowded with dhows and tourist boats. Half-a-dozen teenage touts raced towards him from the dock.
‘Dhow, mister? You want go to Dar tomorrow? Pemba? Mombasa maybe?’
‘You want somewhere to stay, mister?’
‘Marijuana, my friend. You want dope?’
Luke smiled and said no to all, but walked along the waterfront inspecting the various vessels moored off a wedge of yellow sand.
‘Hey, you kids, scram now!’ a voice called from a long wooden boat with a big outboard on the back. A European man about Luke’s age jumped onto the sand in front of him. The man wore loud board shorts and a ragged tank top. His bare skin was tanned the colour of walnuts and his shaggy blond hair was stiff with salt. ‘Don’t worry about the kids, hey, they don’t mean you any harm. Just ignore them and they’ll leave you alone, eventually.’
‘Thanks, I’ve learned that the hard way You’re a fair way from home?’ Luke picked the man’s accent as South African.
‘From Durban. But not so far as you. Aussie?’
‘Yeah, just here for a few days. I work out of Johannesburg.’
The man laughed. ‘Hey, you can rest easy here, man. Don’t need to carry a gun, like back in Jo’burg. Do you dive?’
‘Who’s touting for business now?’
The South African laughed again. ‘Sorry, you got me. But watch out who you go out with. There are some scaly operators up here, man.’
‘I’ll bet.’
‘Still can’t beat this place, though.’ He looked out towards the huge orange ball falling rapidly towards the distant mainland. ‘Hey, check that cruiser. That’s the kind of tub I want one day That’s Destiny. Owned by one of my countrymen. A gun-runner, no less.’
‘You been working here long?’
‘Couple of years. Beats working behind a desk back home.’
‘You got that right. Do you recognise all the regular big boats by sight?’
‘Most.’
‘Do you know a boat called Faith?’
‘Sure, that’s Hassan bin Zayid’s. Owns a couple of hotels here and a lekker backpacker joint on the mainland. Also tied up in a game farm somewhere. I run dive tours as a package from his hotels here. Hell of a nice guy. You looking for him?’
‘Yeah. I’m a journalist. A contact told me he’d be a good person to talk to. I’m doing a story on how the terrorist stuff around the world is affecting the tourist business here.’
‘He’d be a good guy to talk to about that stuff, being Arabic and all. He’s not a fundamentalist, though. I’ve had a beer with him on the dock before, and he likes the western chicks, if you know what I mean.’
Luke shared a laugh with the South African. ‘So, have you seen Hassan’s boat lately?’
‘Matter of fact, I saw him pull in this afternoon.’
Luke scanned the waterfront, but saw no sign of the luxury vessel. ‘Where does he moor his cruiser?’
‘Just up there.’ The South African pointed along the waterfront to the stone and concrete pier that marked the start of the main harbour. A high-speed ferry boat was pulling away from the dock. ‘I’m heading into the harbour myself. It’s where our office is. I’ve got to lock up all this stuff.’ He gestured to the air tanks, wetsuits, fins and dive masks that littered the bottom of his boat. ‘I don’t know if Hassan will be there, but I can take you up there now if you like.’
‘That’d be great. Can I pay you something?’
‘There’s an Indian restaurant across the road there. Go grab us some cold beers, man. Tell the oke running the place Piet will bring the empties back tomorrow. I’ll be ten minutes paying off my touts and then we’re off.’
Luke walked across the road to the restaurant and returned with a plastic shopping bag clanking with six bottles of Safari Lager. He marvelled at how often things fell into place once you did a bit of legwork and got talking to the locals. Even if Hassan bin Zayid was not on his boat, Luke would at least get some extra colour and more of an insight into the ma
n’s life.
He introduced himself to Piet and handed the cargo of beer aboard. Piet started the outboard motor, jumped onto the beach again, untied his mooring line and tossed it to Luke as he pushed the boat away from shore. Piet navigated them between an elegant dhow and a Taiwanese container ship, its deck stacked five-high with steel boxes. Luke opened two bottles of beer, using the lid of a third bottle, held upside down, to prise the caps off the first two. He handed one to Piet and said, ‘Does anyone else use Hassan’s boat?’
‘Not that I know of. Haven’t seen him around for some time, but he definitely came in today.’
The sun was setting and it cast a warm, golden glow on the whitewashed fort and the pale coralbrick buildings ashore. Soon the muezzin would be calling the faithful to prayer from the minarets of the island’s mosques. Piet hugged the waterfront and swung the dive boat around to starboard, past concrete wharves lined with cargo ships, more dhows, and an assortment of commercial motor boats similar to his. Long, low warehouses, painted pale-green with orange rusted roofs, fringed the harbour foreshore. Ahead, Luke could see some luxury cruisers.
‘Ah, shit, man.’
‘What is it?’ Luke asked.
‘There he goes, see?’
Luke looked where Piet was pointing and saw a long, sleek cruiser coming towards them on their left.