Empire State

by Henry Porter

  ‘She can lip-read English, and as long as she gets a good line of sight on Gibbons, we shouldn’t have any problem finding out what’s going on.’

  ‘That’s excellent,’ said Foyzi in the perfect intonation of a middle-class Englishman.

  Herrick and her father turned round to see him lying on a pile of rugs with his tea precariously balanced on his chest.

  ‘Mr Foyzi is not what he appears to be,’ said Guthrie. ‘In fact Mr Foyzi is not even Egyptian.’

  Foyzi gave him a demure nod.

  ‘So between Isis and Foyzi we should be in business. Now communications. The first call will be made by Isis on her mobile phone. That will go to me in the control van, positioned halfway between the police HQ and the cemetery. Thereafter we should use the radios, earpieces and clip-on mikes which you all have. But chatter should be kept to a minimum. Specific details of the truck and any escort should be phoned to me and I’ll pass them on in suitably obscure terms. Right, Foyzi will take you two back to the Devon and Harland can collect the medical bag. We should aim to be in place by 10.00 a.m. and let’s hope we get a hint of movement sooner rather than later.’ He gathered up the photos and map and stood up.

  Later at the hotel Herrick told her father, ‘This is just about the daftest plan I’ve heard. Practically everything can go wrong.’

  ‘Well, there’s an awful lot of room for manoeuvre. And that’s no bad thing.’

  ‘That doesn’t make me feel any better.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Khan knew neither night nor day. He was fed once with a plate of slop and given water, which the guards snatched away after he had drunk only a little. And he did not sleep. When the Egyptian and The Doctor were out of the cell he was let down to a sitting position on the floor with his arms still held above him by the rope. Except for an intermittent prickling sensation caused by the lack of circulation, he had lost the feeling in his hands. When he nodded off, or simply fainted during moments when the pain became extreme, the guards kicked him or banged the door with a truncheon.

  Time had ceased to exist. Thoughts came in snatches of telegraphese. He knew he could not manipulate the situation to save himself from The Doctor because he had already begun to tell him what drugs he would use. He said they would paralyse him for hours, turn him mad, set rats loose in his mind, make his skin burn, cause his eyes to flinch at the light of a candle and give his body such discomfort he would neither be able to rest nor sleep.

  Khan thought, I did this… I brought myself here… a journey of my devising… God have pity on me… The Prophet (peace be upon him) please stop these men… Stop these men, please… this is not your way… I beg you, stop these men… I am… I am hurting… I don’t know myself… Let me die.

  Prayers and self-recrimination circulated in his head for hours, or just seconds, he could not be certain. He had the strange idea that his mind was somehow becoming detached from his body, yet he knew this was not true because he had never been more aware of his physical self. They had locked his mind in a cage with a beast and the beast was his pain. Why? He had no answer to that question. The question no longer existed because there could not be an answer.

  Perhaps he should have told the truth instead of all these fabrications about terrorist training and targets. But he had told them the truth. That’s what he had done when he had first seen The Doctor, and it hadn’t worked because the man had begun to hurt him.

  It was cooler now and he guessed it was night. One of the two guards had propped himself against the door and hung his head in sleep. Khan’s mind rambled and he thought of the now unbearable sweetness of his early life. Was it really his, or had he imagined it?

  Then the cell door opened, sending the sleeping guard into the centre of the cell. When he recovered himself he struck Khan twice with his truncheon as though punishing him for a violation that had just taken place. In the light from the corridor, Khan glimpsed the guard’s guilty, moronic face turn obsequiously to the Egyptian and The Doctor as they walked in. Then he caught sight of the trolley being wheeled behind them.

  It was about the size of a cocktail trolley, although like everything in the prison it had been knocked together from scrap - an artless contraption with wires coiled on the top, a box and a wooden board on which there was a switch and a lever. One of the guards unravelled the flex and ran it to a power point outside the cell. The other uncoiled the wires lying on top. At the end of these were a couple of metal crocodile clamps such as might be used to charge a car battery.

  The Doctor picked his teeth while the Egyptian bent down and dipped a rag in a pail of water, then handed it to the guard so it could be wrung out.

  Herrick slipped out of the hotel early and went with Foyzi to buy a hijab, the head scarf that covers the hair, ears, shoulders and part of the face. Foyzi, himself wearing a long white jellaba and a red and white cloth on his head, assured her that once she was wearing a hijab, no one would look at her, particularly if they were together. She bought a black one with a severe cut.

  Already the air was thick with pollution and the roads were teeming with every form of motor vehicle, hand-cart and wagon. They reached Bur Said by 9.00 a.m. and took a turn round the traffic system, cruising past the court and police buildings, then the museum where Munroe Herrick and Christine Selvey were to be kept on ice amongst the collections of incense burners and weaponry. They parked a little distance from the café near the police headquarters and waited for Gibbons to show. On the previous day one of Foyzi’s men had observed him arrive at 10.30 a.m., but an hour and a half passed without sign of him. Guthrie called Herrick twice on the mobile to tell her to get out of the heat and into the café so she’d be sure to have a place by the time either of them arrived. She insisted that she must wait until she knew which table they were at.

  The day dragged on, and although the density and noise of the traffic did not subside, there were fewer people walking on the streets. The women who had improvised a vegetable market on the other side of the road suddenly packed up and vanished in swirls of brightly patterned cloth. The men who had been listlessly hoeing and watering a narrow flower border separating the two streams of traffic had sunk to their haunches in the shade of a tree to watch three hooded crows fight over the seepage from their hose.

  Just past midday a hot wind blew up, whipping eddies of dust along the road and tearing at the flags outside the court. The crows took to the wing and flapped in the air above the traffic. Herrick and Foyzi slipped down in their seats and took sips from a bottle of mineral water. They moved the car several times to keep in the shade and at two o’clock saw a convoy of three police trucks making its way up the side street. The back of each vehicle was open, and as they swung into Bur Said, Herrick saw past the guards to the tiny steel cubicles which held the prisoners.

  ‘They must roast in those things,’ she said.

  Foyzi nodded sadly then straightened in his seat. ‘Here’s the American. Look! Look! In the mirror!’

  Herrick glanced in the right wing mirror and saw Gibbons stepping out of a taxi. She pulled down the sunshade to check the hijab and the Jackie O dark glasses and then plugged in her telephone earpiece and the microphone that ran up her right sleeve. He passed quite close to them and made straight for the café. After some indecision, he settled at an outside table in the breeze. They watched him while he ordered, then got out and walked together, rowing in Arabic about Foyzi’s driving, and sat down just inside the door where there was both shade and a breeze. Foyzi had his back to Gibbons which meant that she could observe quite easily over his shoulder while talking. They ordered tea. Twenty minutes passed during which Gibbons made two short calls on his cell phone, allowing Herrick to test her skill on him. He was speaking to The Doctor, asking where the fuck he was. A few moments later she saw The Doctor lumbering up the side street in a pale green robe. He was with another Arab, a much smaller man who wore a jacket over his shoulders that flapped in the wind and revealed a pale blue lining. This
man had a rather fussy manner and brushed the chair before sitting down with his back to Foyzi and Herrick, then plucked at the crease in his trousers. The Doctor let himself down heavily in profile to them and produced a bag of sunflower seeds which he proceeded to eat.

  Once they’d given their orders, Gibbons leaned forward and began to speak. Herrick dialled Guthrie, raised her right hand to her face and murmured into her sleeve, looking away slightly but never letting her eyes move from Gibbons’ lips. She gave Guthrie a verbatim account, only sometimes pausing to say which of the men he was addressing. ‘What have you got for me?’ Gibbons asked the Egyptian. He replied at great length. Gibbons examined him closely. ‘Do you have definite dates? What about names? Did you get the names of his contacts?’

  The man shook his head and The Doctor interrupted, slicing the air with his hand.

  Gibbons ignored him. ‘You say this was going to happen in Paris and London simultaneously. What about the States? Did you get anything about the postcards?’ He nodded as the Egyptian replied. Again The Doctor interrupted, but Gibbons’ eyes remained fixed on the other man. ‘So he admits they were coded messages? Right, what about the Empire State? Is he saying the attacks will be coordinated in the States as well as Europe?’ As they both attempted to answer, Gibbons began shaking his head. ‘You guys gotta realise that’s what we’re all here for. We need to know. Right now, all I’m hearing is maybe this, maybe that, maybe now, maybe later. We have a ticking bomb here. My people need accurate information.’ He stubbed his index finger on the surface of the table then slumped back in his chair and looked away in frustration. The Doctor also turned his gaze elsewhere, leaving the ball in the other man’s court.

  He made a long speech that seemed not to impress Gibbons, who ordered another drink and then dialled a number on his phone.

  ‘No information… no real details of the plan… right… okay... sure… I’ll tell him… that’s right… yeah, yeah. Leave it to me.’ He lowered the phone and spoke to the Egyptian. ‘Okay, so my people think we should pursue the second option. I’m sorry Mr Abdullah, but that’s what they say. It’s out of my hands. You got to see I’m in a bind here. We’re very grateful for what you have already done and the US Embassy will make a formal recognition of your service to us with a letter of thanks. Here is something to be going on with. A kind of personal thanks.’ He reached for the top pocket of the man’s jacket and stuffed a roll of money into it.

  Herrick now gave the first piece of commentary. ‘He’s paying off the Egyptian security officer. The interrogation is going to be handed over to The Doctor.’

  ‘Tell Foyzi to activate his sources and find out when Khan’s going to be transferred,’ rasped Guthrie. ‘We want to know which bloody vehicle he’s in.’

  Foyzi didn’t need telling and gave Herrick a nod to say he understood.

  Gibbons looked at his watch and said something she couldn’t read, because he had raised a glass to his lips and held it there for some time without drinking. The Doctor felt in his robes for something and pulled out a set of black worry beads which he handled like a rosary, then repeatedly flipped over his index finger.

  Gibbons lowered the glass and said, ‘We need something tonight or tomorrow. The work has got to be finished by Monday.’

  All this she communicated to Guthrie. Occasionally she heard him speaking on other lines to her father and Colonel B.

  She hung up and started to speak to Foyzi in Arabic. Had he checked the car? Didn’t he think he ought to be leaving? Foyzi allowed himself to smile at Herrick’s portrayal of a nagging wife and made as though to grumble. He paid and left the café saying that he would see her in twenty minutes.

  Herrick planned to return to the car the moment The Doctor left. From behind the sunglasses she looked ahead of her without acknowledging their presence or bothering to see what they were saying. Gibbons lit a cigarette and threw occasional interested glances in her direction, but she was certain he wouldn’t recognise her and sat with what she hoped was the unapproachable poise of a young middle-class Arab woman.

  After a desultory exchange The Doctor got up. Gibbons did not rise or offer a hand. Herrick thought she saw a fleeting look of distaste sweep across his expression. ‘We’ll speak soon.’

  Herrick decided to leave, but just as she stood up, her phone began to vibrate. The momentary distraction meant that she did not pay attention to the wind, as the Arab women on the street do, and a gust took hold of the hijab, revealing her hair, neck and some of her face. She pulled it down swiftly and made for the car. As she opened the door she saw Gibbons rise, sling some money onto the table and start purposefully towards her. In a matter of seconds he had reached the car and shouted through the window. ‘I’ll be damned if that isn’t Isis Herrick.’ He bent down to her level. ‘Shit! That is you, isn’t it?’

  She looked ahead of her without moving, realising that she couldn’t just sit there - one call from Gibbons and the whole operation would be blown. She got out, pushed him away and shouted in Arabic to the passers-by that the American was bothering her.

  ‘Well, what do you know,’ he said, leering down at her. ‘The cold-assed British spook has followed me all the way to Cairo for a little loving.’ He felt in one of the pockets of his photographer’s vest and pulled out a phone. She knocked it from his hands and spun round, cursing him in Arabic. The filthy American was making indecent suggestions - wouldn’t someone help a virtuous woman?

  Gibbons seemed to find this funny. ‘Oh, you’re good,’ he said, unhurriedly bending down to retrieve his phone. ‘You’re very good, Isis. But I just gotta tell my people you’ve gate-crashed the donkey roast.’ He stood up and placed a hand on her shoulder, dialling a number with the thumb of his other hand. Suddenly Foyzi appeared from nowhere and pulled Herrick away from him.

  ‘Who’s this? Omar Sharif?’

  Foyzi smiled up at him. ‘I have gun aimed at your heart, sir. Get into the car.’

  ‘Yeah, and I’m King Farouk,’ said Gibbons. ‘Step aside, buster. This lady and I have business.’

  Foyzi manoeuvred so he could show Gibbons the gun without displaying it to the rest of the street. ‘I will kill you unless you get in the car, sir.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Gibbons, trying to maintain his dignity. ‘So you’re going to kidnap an American citizen. You can’t get away with this, Isis - you and your little towel-head friend.’

  ‘Such company we have to keep,’ said Foyzi despairingly. He opened the back door and prodded Gibbons. ‘Get in.’

  Gibbons obeyed, but with a thunderous look that said he would soon have the upper hand. ‘I’ll see you on the fucking rack for this.’

  She climbed behind the wheel. ‘What now?’

  ‘No problem,’ said Foyzi, pointing ahead of them. ‘No problem at all. Drive!’

  She edged the Fiat into the traffic.

  ‘Oh, I get it. You’re going to try to spring Khan!’ said Gibbons, laughing. ‘Jesus, I’m gonna be ringside on fucking amateur night.’

  ‘Last thing I heard, you said he was Faisal, not Khan,’ said Isis over her shoulder.

  ‘Right,’ said Gibbons sourly.

  They passed the police HQ and courts, then turned left to travel in the opposite direction. Foyzi wrested Gibbons’ phone from him and crushed it underfoot on the floor of the car. Then he called someone on his own phone and spoke rapidly.

  Gibbons talked over him, affecting not to mind the silencer lodged in his armpit. ‘You understand what you’re doing, Isis? You’re interfering with the legitimate investigation of a terrorist suspect by the United States. If an attack should result from your actions you and your friend will be named as accessories. They’ll come after you, wherever the fuck you are.’

  ‘I understand just one thing about your activities,’ she said calmly. ‘You’ve instigated the torture of a man who hasn’t been found guilty of a crime and—’

  ‘That’s the trouble with you fucking Europeans,’ interrupted Gibbons. ‘Y
ou want all the benefits of American power but you don’t want to get your hands dirty.’ He paused. ‘Let me tell you, this is the big new game, and it’s played with a whole new set of rules. Frankly, you don’t cut it. You don’t even come near. ’

  ‘There’s nothing new about your big new game,’ she said. ‘You told me that yourself. You were right. Torture was used by the regimes in South America, all of them endorsed by the US government. Torture is actually a very old, very desperate game and it doesn’t work. You don’t get results by tearing a person’s body apart.’

  This gave Gibbons some pause. ‘We’re against the clock. There’s no other way now.’

  ‘There is,’ said Isis. ‘There always is.’

  They were alongside the museum and Foyzi told her to drive two hundred yards further and take the first turning right. She negotiated a hand-cart loaded with crates of vegetables and swerved right into a shaded street where huge pieces of awning and cloth hung vertically from wires overhead. Foyzi was on the phone. They turned right again into a yard where there was a white Nissan van. Four men in jellabas rushed towards them. One opened the door on Gibbons’ side and rammed a needle into his arm. Almost immediately the American’s eyes closed and his body went slack. He was dragged from the car, carried off to the van and lifted into the back. Two of the men jumped in with him and the van moved off in a cloud of dust. Foyzi got out, ran round to take the wheel from Herrick and reversed out of the yard at a furious speed, span 180 degrees and rushed to rejoin Bur Said.