by Nick Louth
Taseena turned to the doorway. A figure was standing there. In her room, closing the door behind him. With black gloves. For the second time that day she dropped the phone. One second after it hit the floor, so did she. A neat, silenced bullet hole through her beautiful forehead. She hadn’t even had the chance to greet her son before he killed her.
* * *
A military jet screamed low over the roof of the hotel, and Wyrecliffe instinctively ducked. It was escorting a Russian airliner which was just coming in to land at Sharm’s now-restricted airport.
‘Is that Putin?’ cameraman Alistair Williams asked.
‘Probably,’ said Wyrecliffe, training his binoculars towards the airport. ‘Blair’s already here for the Quartet, and the Palestinians. No idea when we’re getting the Israelis. Hillary Clinton was supposed to have flown in last night, but I think she’s late.’
‘Glad we’re finished here then,’ Williams said. They had just finished wrapping up the package for the Gulf lunchtime news. Now it was a rush to the bus for the dreaded security clearance. Buses left at five minute intervals. The third of ten was idling outside, with reporters milling around. Wyrecliffe needed to be in early. With five hundred journalists, only those near the front would stand a chance of getting a question in.
Taseena should be ready by now. He had tried both her phones but got no answer. On the way down to his own room, he stopped at hers. A sign on her room door. Do not disturb. He laughed. Someone’s idea of a joke, probably hers. He knocked, and then banged. No reply. She must have caught an earlier bus.
The bus was about to go. Waiting to board it, he ran into BBC Middle East Editor and friend Gerald Monaghan, talking to Jim Moore, Wyrecliffe’s old boss from Beirut days. Cairo-based fixer Nimr Mustapha was there too, as was the French freelancer Christian Leroux, who Kat Quinlan had taken a fancy to.
‘Is Taseena already at the Tutankhamun?’ Monaghan asked.
‘I hope so. I haven’t seen her since, um, yesterday evening,’ Wyrecliffe said.
‘She was at breakfast,’ Christian said absent-mindedly, while texting. ‘Got into some terrible fight with a local woman.’
‘A fight? In the hotel?’ Wyrecliffe said.
‘Yeah! I couldn’t follow the Arabic, but Taseena seemed real upset about something. The woman slapped her, and exposed herself…’
‘Exposed herself?’ Monaghan said.
‘Yeah, just lifted up her abaya and exposed everything before the cops took her away. A complete fruitcake, seemingly. Thank God she didn’t have a knife.’
‘Christ almighty,’ Wyrecliffe said. That explains the ‘do not disturb’ sign, he thought. She’s probably in shock. Still, she wouldn’t want to miss this, would she? Shrugging, he boarded the bus, once again tried ringing both her phones, and then sent her an e-mail.
* * *
The solitary cell in the police station was cold and damp. Grey concrete walls, a solid metal door. A filthy enamel bucket for a toilet. There was no daylight, just a dim light recessed in the roof, behind a grille. Cantara’s stomach had started to hurt. A stitch had torn when she was struggling to avoid arrest. Blood seeped from it.
The two young policemen who arrested her hadn’t believed who she was, and had demanded identity papers she didn’t have. In her bag they had found a policeman’s wallet, with his identity card still in it, and some Jordanian documents identifying the woman whose luggage she took. A sergeant arrived and said the prosecuting magistrate wouldn’t even have time to look at her case for a few weeks, but a psychiatrist may visit her later in the day. While the police could hardly deny the fact she spoke fluent English, they suspected she may just be an illegal immigrant from Gaza. Little more than a thief, and a crazy one. The more she warned about bombings at the peace conference, the more they laughed.
Finally, she sat down alone and wept. In the distance she heard the sounds of other prisoners arriving or leaving, the banging of doors, the rattling of keys. After her months in the cell in Sinai, to be captive again was a bitter blow. A while later she heard someone being brought to an adjacent cell, so she pressed her face to the inspection hole and yelled for attention. Five minutes later, a fat-bellied and brutal-looking sergeant came to her cell. He unlocked it, and stood glaring at her with a folded leather strap in his hands.
‘If you make another sound, I am going to thrash you,’ he said, flexing the strap. I’m busy now, but rest assured, when the shrink gets here he will send you to Cairo’s worst madhouse. Know of it? Every Egyptian does. They call it the Pit of Hell. No one ever comes out except in a coffin.’
Cantara said nothing for a moment, and then asked. ‘Please. Can you tell me the time?’
‘It is a quarter to twelve.’
‘Have you passed on my warnings to the conference security people? There is still time before the press conference.’
He stared at her and folded his arms. ‘What do you think they would say to me, if I bothered these busy people and said. “Hello, we have a crazy thief here who attacked a member of the press in a hotel and exposed her modesty to all the guests. She says that journalists are being stuffed with explosives by Al Qaeda and sent in to your conference to destroy world peace. So please cut open all members of the press and search through their entrails looking for bombs.” What do you think they would say?’
‘That isn’t what I said! What I said was…’
‘What you said were the ravings of a madwoman,’ he said. The closing of the door, and the rattling of keys as he left marked the end of the conversation.
* * *
Sharm el-Sheikh, Egypt, 12.30pm
Wyrecliffe had been through accreditation. Now he was at reception. His interim security pass and lanyard was swapped with one bearing a hologram and a microchip which would open doors within the conference. Still ahead was the airport-style baggage scanner, a walk-through metal detector, the laptop examination, the explosives swab, and then finally the brand new AIT body scanners. With truculent Western journalists and Egyptian officials short on English, it was always going to be fraught.
Wyrecliffe was worried about Taseena. Having heard about the fight in the restaurant, and her upset, he wanted to know what had happened. She was resilient and tough. Anybody with her track record of freelance work during the Lebanese civil war had nerves of steel. For her, going sick, without calling in, would be unprecedented. He checked his phone for messages. Thirty-six missed calls since last night, an average total for this kind of event. Most were from various nervous nellies at the editor’s desk in Dubai, but he’d spoken to them since. But there was one from Taseena, 9.48am. Almost three hours ago.
Chris. Need to speak to you right away. You’ll never guess who is standing right next to me. Bye.
The next message was from Finn Finlay.
Chris, heads up. I’m waiting at Sharm central police HQ. Taseena wanted me to let you know that there is a woman claiming to be Cantara al-Mansoor held there. Same name as the dead EgyptAir bomber, as you know. Taseena probably already briefed you on the details, but I just wanted you to know that she insisted that I get the woman bail. She wants to speak to you apparently. Taseena’s not answering her phone so I’ve no idea what is going on, so if you can call me back and let me know why I’m being asked to do this instead of covering a global news event, I’d appreciate it.’
Cantara here in Egypt! How? Wyrecliffe could hardly believe it possible. As he stared at the screen, a security official asked him to turn off the phone and put it and his laptop, his shoes and belt through the airport-style scanner. Wyrecliffe looked at the impatient queue behind him. He didn’t want to lose his place, or God forbid, start again at the beginning. Following up the call would have to wait until the end of the security process, when he could use the phone again. As he stepped towards the metal detector frame, a security guard approached.
‘Good afternoon. Sir. Any artificial hip, knee?’
‘No, but I’ve got a pacemaker.’ The man looked unsure. ‘
For my heart, a pacemaker.’ Wyrecliffe fumbled with his wallet and produced the pacemaker identity card.
The official nodded and smiled. ‘Of course. Go to cubicle please, for hand search.’
He stepped around the metal detector and into a curtained booth where a moustachioed man in crisp white uniform, white gloves and beret asked him to raise his hands in the air. Wyrecliffe pointed out where his pacemaker was, as the white-gloved hands slid up underneath the shoulders of his jacket, into his armpits, and up along each thigh, inside and out.
‘Drop trousers please.’
‘Oh for Christ’s sake, is this really necessary?’
‘Security of one is security for all, Sir. That is our mantra.’
‘Okay, okay, he said, and slid his trousers down. The official patted him on the buttocks, then said. ‘You must excuse me Sir.’ He then pressed the edge of his hand into the cleft of Wyrecliffe’s underwear. It was quickly and efficiently done. ‘Now lift testicles please.’
Wyrecliffe looked heavenward and cupped his balls as the officer knelt and tapped at his perineum. The underpants bomber certainly had a lot to answer for.
‘All done, Sir. Have a nice day!’
As Wyrecliffe emerged from the booth, he saw a shoeless and very unhappy Gerald Monaghan, with his laptop on a table being examined by a woman with a swab on a stick. Catching his eye, they exchanged sighs of exasperation. Wyrecliffe shuffled onwards, still shoeless, and was directed by a woman army officer towards the millimetre wave scanner, which looked like a space age phone booth.
‘I’ve got a pacemaker,’ he said. ‘Is it okay?’
She shouted to a technician, one of several at a console behind the machine. Worryingly, they were poring over what looked like the user manual.
‘Okay,’ said one of them, with a thumbs up.
‘I hope so,’ Wyrecliffe said. The clock on the wall said 12.40pm.
Five minutes later he was through, and turned the phone back on. It rang immediately.
* * *
Rifat sat in his hotel room, watching TV. It was showing an Egyptian Air Force band playing as Hillary Clinton walked down a red carpet from a helicopter. The voiceover said that the VIPs, also including ministers from France, Germany and Russia, had arrived for a photoshoot on the steps at the back of the hotel, and would then be taken inside for a press conference. A news anchor in the studio switched to a correspondent, who was already inside the press auditorium, where behind her a number of speakers’ podia, including one with the US State Department eagle-winged seal of office, were being checked over by technicians. None of the podia had wooden bodies, just a metal pole up to the waist-height superstructure. Good, thought Rifat, not only can the correspondents get really close, the targets will not be shielded. This will be carnage!
The laptop, open beside him, showed the Google map of the hotel and its surroundings, and for clarity he opted to switch to the aerial photograph. Wyrecliffe’s red dot was flashing at the front of the hotel, and had moved only very slowly. The conference auditorium he assumed was in the middle, but he would only know for certain when the conference began, and Wyrecliffe was in it. He flicked channels to ABS, but they were covering other news. He surfed through Al Jazeera, Al Arabiya and a dozen other channels. He learned nothing extra about the layout of the building.
He flicked up his own phone, and looked at the pre-formatted text, to be sent to the device within Wyrecliffe: ‘Feel the revenge of the Caliphate.’
It was ready to go.
* * *
Cantara was surprised to find the cell door opened, and the grizzled sergeant stood before her. ‘It seems even lunatics have friends. Come with me.’
She followed him out of the cell, and into a reception area where a tall sandy-haired man, in his late thirties and wearing a light blue suit, was smiling at her. It was the first kind smile she had seen in months, and it melted her fears.
‘Hello Cantara, I’m Finn Finley, from Arab Satellite Broadcasting. Taseena Christodopoulos sent me to arrange bail for you.’ He put out a hand, which she took in both of hers.
‘Thank you so much. Oh my God. This is such a relief,’ she said. ‘Will I have to return here?’ With a dismissive hand movement she indicated the dirt, the noise and the loneliness of incarceration.
‘In theory, yes. In practice, I don’t think so. Not for what we paid.’
‘I am very grateful, to you and to Mrs Christodopoulos.’ She looked up at the clock. 12.50pm. ‘So you have spoken to Chris Wyrecliffe, and to conference security? To tell them about the bomb?’
‘Don’t worry. Taseena has done all that. I spoke to her a couple of hours ago. It should all be in hand.’
She gasped. He doesn’t believe me. They still think I’m making all this up. ‘Finn, listen to me, it is vitally important that I speak to Chris. Does he know I’m here? I know that everyone thinks I’m crazy, but you have got to believe me.
‘I’ve left him a message. And I’m sure Taseena has told him already.’ Finn said, getting up and leading her out to a taxi. ‘First, let’s get you out of here. We’re going to take you to a hotel where you can clean up. We’ll cover the cost of the hotel doctor too and any medicines you might need.’
‘Thank you, but first I need a phone!’
‘You can use the hotel phone. Taseena said that Chris will probably want to talk to you. He’s frantically busy today, of course, but as soon as he’s free, I promise I’ll get him to sit down for a good long talk with you. Then you can tell us all about what happened.’ He handed her an envelope. ‘This is enough money for some clean clothes.’
As they got into the taxi, Cantara took Finn’s hands in both of hers and looked straight into his eyes. ‘Finn. I can clearly see you don’t believe a word I’ve said.’
He smiled reassuringly at her. ‘Well, Taseena must do, or she wouldn’t have sent for me to get you out. So I’m sure that all your warnings have been heeded. You’ve got to understand. The security at the conference is incredible, so I’m pretty sure that everything is in hand. In fact, if it wasn’t I’m sure Chris wouldn’t be risking his life in covering it. He’s had enough health scares recently.’
‘Health scares?’ Cantara said, then looked intently at Finn. ‘Has he had an operation?’
Finn turned and gave her a quizzical look. ‘Well, I’m not sure I should say. But, yes, I believe he recently had a heart pacemaker fitted. It gets a lot of us middle-aged…’
‘A pacemaker? Where was it fitted!’ Cantara shouted.
‘Somewhere in Egypt, I believe…’ Finn said, recoiling.
‘No, where on his body! Was it down here?’ she indicated her abdomen.
‘I really haven’t the faintest.’
‘OK, I don’t have time to change your mind.’ Cantara leaned forward to the driver and said to him in Arabic. ‘Get us to the peace conference hotel as fast as you can.’ She took a twenty Egyptian pound note out of the envelope and gave it to him.
‘Now look here!’ Finn said, as the car accelerated. ‘You can’t just drive in to the bloody peace conference. There’s not a cat in hell’s chance of you getting anywhere near the place. It’s hard enough for us.’
‘Okay, then ring conference security!’
‘Okay, okay,’ he said. ‘Anything for a bit of bloody peace. I know the head of security for the State Department.’
Finn rang a number and explained who he was. ‘Is Vonda there? Yes, I’m sorry, I know what the time is. Look, I’ve got a member of the public here with a potentially significant security information. You’ve probably heard it already, but can you speak to her please. Thank you.’ He handed the phone to Cantara. ‘Over to you.’
She grabbed it. ‘Now listen carefully. No, never mind who I am. You wouldn’t believe me anyway. Al Qaeda has a bomb at the conference, almost certainly surgically planted inside the body of a journalist. I don’t know for sure who, but it could be a BBC journalist, or Chris Wyrecliffe from Arab Satellite Broadcasting. No!
Not a suicide bomber. Listen. They won’t know they are carrying a bomb, it will have been implanted in an operation. It is not far-fetched! I know because it happened to me. I removed the bomb myself. Yes. Cut it out with a knife. It would have been triggered by a mobile phone signal.’
Cantara turned to Finn. ‘They’ve told me to stay on the line. They don’t believe me, but they are finally listening. And the conference is starting right now. It is exactly one o’clock.’
‘Look, there is nothing more you can do,’ Finn said.
‘Yes there is. I can make people listen and I can make people believe. I’m going to start with you.’
* * *
Having finally escaped the clutches of security, Wyrecliffe walked through into the auditorium. He rang Finn, but the call diverted to voicemail. He took a seat on the third row, between the State Department podium and that of the Middle East Quartet. As seats filled up around him, and while waiting for his own laptop to power up, he re-read Finn’s message. Cantara was somewhere in Sharm. He couldn’t believe it. Could she really be alive, and out here? Taseena had thought so, to send Finn to the police station to get her out on bail. But from what charge? He tried to ring Taseena again. Still no reply. Her voicemail box was now full. This was really worrying. Finn’s phone was still busy, so he left a message. Everything would have to wait now. It was one o’clock.
Head of Security Vonda Watson walked out onto the stage. ‘Ladies and gentlemen I’m afraid there’s a slight delay. So bear with us. The conference will start shortly.’ Someone was clearly talking to her in an earpiece and she was frowning. She nodded and started to walk off stage, but Wyrecliffe could still hear her. ‘That’s crazy. We can’t confiscate all their phones,’ she whispered. ‘There’ll be a riot.’