by John Ling
‘We are,’ Maya said. ‘But even the best has its limits. Take this hotel for example. We’ve checked every corner, every cabinet, every air duct. We’ve vetted all the staff. We’ve assigned good people to guard you twenty hours a day. Anyone not authorised to be here is kept out of the building. Those are your layers of protection. If one layer is penetrated, another is there to pick up the slack. But all it takes is one guy determined enough, crazy enough, to hijack an aircraft and crash it into this hotel, and it’s all over. All those layers will count for nothing.’
Noah nodded. ‘It’s a little far-fetched, yeah. But we have to consider every possibility. If someone truly wants to get to you, they will find a way. And if you’re out there in the open, you’re doubly exposed. Your enemies need to get lucky just once, and you could end up crippled or dead.’
‘I see.’ Abraham swallowed, shifting in his seat. ‘Yes, I understand your concerns, and I appreciate you telling me all this. But I have to push ahead. The country—the world—is watching me. Do you understand? Now is the time. Now is the best time.’
Maya looked over Abraham’s shoulder and eyed the bathroom door. It was ajar, trembling ever so slightly. Belinda was apparently listening in on their conversation. Maya wondered if she should say something. Perhaps invite Belinda to come out, to join in. But, no, being a protector was all about practising discretion. Never ever expose a principal to embarrassment. Not even in front of family. Still, Maya wanted to involve Belinda in their conversation. If only on an unofficial level.
Maya looked back to Abraham. ‘Sir, I admire your beliefs. I honestly do. I respect your resolve to carry out what you feel is just and right. But I have to ask, have you considered your wife in all this? How does she feel about you taking such a big risk?’
Abraham raised his eyebrows. ‘She wants us to go into hiding. Permanently. And, indeed, we could. We certainly have the money.’
‘It’s a realistic option, sir,’ Noah said. ‘One well worth considering.’
‘We’re not here to pressure you to make one decision or another,’ Maya said. ‘But your message is already out there. You’ve done enough.’
‘Hmm.’ Abraham touched his fingers together, forming a steeple. ‘Tell me, are you in the mood for a story?’
‘A story, sir?’ Noah asked.
‘A story from my childhood. Do you mind?’
‘Um…’ Noah looked at Maya, who nodded. ‘Not at all, I guess.
CHAPTER 15
Abraham leaned back against his chair, rubbing his fingertips. His eyes took on a wistful look. The look of someone trawling through a jigsaw of memories, one piece at a time. The moment stretched. The only thing splitting the silence was the purr of the white-noise generator and the tick-tock of the clock on the wall.
Maya waited.
Sure, she already knew the broad strokes of Abraham’s life. But reading information off a dossier wasn’t the same as hearing it direct from your principal. She had to admit, there were gaps in her knowledge that needed filling.
So much of Abraham’s life was like swirling vapour. A shifting mirage. Yes, she knew he had been born in a village way out in the frontier. Yes, she knew he had gotten his start in student activism at university. But the years in between? A blank. An enigma. And no amount of probing and needling by the press had ever swayed Abraham into baring his soul. Which was odd considering how outspoken he seemed to be when it came to politics and religion.
Why was he so guarded?
What was he afraid of?
Maya couldn’t pin it down. Yet she could sense a change sweeping over him. A restless desire to open up. To let down his defences. To allow her to peek into his heart of his hearts. Maybe, just maybe, everything had been leading up to this point. If so, she saw this as her chance to measure him. To get intimate with his struggles, his heartbreaks, his traumas.
How much would Abraham reveal?
Only he could decide.
So Maya waited.
A full minute passed.
Finally, Abraham spoke, ‘I was born under the shadow of the Hindu-Kush mountains. Into a land of extremes. During winter, it’s so cold that you can barely step away from your stove without coming down with frostbite. And during summer, it’s so hot that exposing yourself to the sun for mere minutes is enough to strike you down with heatstroke. The air is exceedingly dry, exceedingly cruel. It saps and dehydrates you without you knowing it. So, yes, the climate, the terrain, the locale—everything is harsh. Difficult to farm. Difficult to survive. That’s why communities out there are so small and so scattered. My own village has a population of only three hundred. So remote that it doesn’t even appear on any map.’
Maya noticed that Abraham spoke in the present tense. Describing things as they are, not as they were. The emotional link between him and his homeland was vivid. Almost as if he had never left.
Maya also picked up certain keywords—cold, hot, dry. They hinted to her that Abraham leaned more towards touch rather than sight or sound. Yes, he felt and tasted his memories more than he saw them or heard them. Reality for him was made out of sensations and feelings, most of it subjective and internal.
Abraham began to smile. It was a genuine smile. Not the sad veneer he had shown earlier. ‘In this place, my father was the village headman and a Muslim cleric—a mullah. Well respected. Everyone deferred to him. No, he wasn’t terribly educated. But he could do some basic reading and arithmetic, and he knew the Qur’an better than anyone. For this, he was accorded the title of mullah. However, to give you an idea of how dubious this title really is—well, most urban Muslims from the cities don’t consider mullahs to be true clerics at all. By and large, they dismiss them as half-baked heretics. This outlook is not entirely unfair. Mullahs are somewhat inferior compared to proper imams who study Islam on a tertiary and professional level. But when you happen to live in the wilderness, you cannot afford to be picky. You accept what you are given. Well, what’s that old saying you have here in the West? Let me think. Hmm, I remember now—in the land of the blind, the one-eyed man is king. So, yes, that was my father. A mullah. A one-eyed man among the blind.’
Maya observed true respect there. She saw it in the way Abraham held his shoulders straighter and tighter when he spoke of his father. However, his respect came with a tragic awareness. Among the uneducated, his father may have been the master of his realm. But in the grand scheme of things, his father was a nobody.
Was there affection for his father?
Maybe.
Maybe not.
Maya couldn’t be sure.
Abraham’s smile faded as he twisted his lips. ‘Which brings me to my story. When I was about four years of age, an event occurred that was to change our lives forever. It happened in the spring, when the weather was at its most serene. A man and a woman stumbled into our village, bruised and bloodied. They were Westerners with nothing on them but the clothes on their backs and even those were ripped and torn. This caused much confusion and excitement in our community. Who were they? Where were they from? Why had they come to us in such a state? You have to understand, prior to this, many of us had never seen a living and breathing Westerner, let alone two.’
Maya noticed that Abraham was more animated now. Leaning forward. Moving his hands. Raising his voice. He seemed to be reliving the event. Identifying closely with his village. Using words like us and we.
Abraham shook his head. ‘The man and the woman were weak and delirious. They did not speak our language, and we did not speak theirs. So we couldn’t understand their ramblings. We didn’t know what nationality they were. No matter, we provided them with food and drink, treated their wounds and gave them new clothes. While they rested, my father called a meeting with the elders of our village. To decide what to do. We had no telephone or vehicles, so he suggested dispatching a rider into the closest city, which was a day-and-a-half away. The logical thing would be to seek help from a Western embassy. Any Western embassy. The elders agreed. So th
e best and strongest rider in our village saddled up on his horse, and we gathered to see him off. Unfortunately, that’s when they showed up...’
Abraham paused, his eyes dropping.
Maya could see he was troubled. Like a man balancing on a precipice. This wasn’t about happy or even neutral memories anymore. He was venturing into darker territory.
Noah cocked his head to one side. ‘They?’
Abraham sighed. ‘A mob from a neighbouring village downhill from us. They were armed with Kalashnikovs and old hunting rifles. And they were angry. Really angry. They asked—no, they demanded—that we hand the Western couple over to them.’
‘Why?’ Maya asked.
‘Apparently, they were criminals. The man and the woman had snuck into their village, and a herder had surprised them while they were stealing one of his goats. A scuffle broke out, and the man stabbed the herder in the neck with a knife, puncturing his carotid artery. The herder bled out and died. Then the couple fled before the mob could catch up with them.’
‘Pretty dramatic,’ Noah said.
‘Indeed. But my father found the story incredulous. It simply did not add up. Why would the Western couple need to steal a goat for? Goats were valuable only to those living on the frontier. My father expressed his doubts, but this only served to fuel the mob’s fury. Tribal tradition decreed that the matter be settled in blood—an eye for an eye. However, tribal tradition also decreed that because the couple had sought refuge in our village, they were our guests. For better or for worse, we were responsible for their protection. This being the case, my father refused to hand them over. The quarrel deteriorated into a standoff—their guns against ours. It was an incredibly tense moment. All it would have took was one nervous fool pulling his trigger, and it would have been a massacre. The leader of the mob stared my father down, imploring him to end this madness. My father returned the stare and told him the same. Fortunately, the odds were on our side. We outnumbered them. The mob had little choice but to back down. But before they departed, they revealed that the couple was British. To prove it, they tossed their passports on the ground. They also promised they would be back very soon with more men.’
Maya noticed that Abraham was wound up. Shifting back and forth in his seat. Face flushed. Pupils dilated. One foot twitching and jackhammering against the floor. Maya recognised them as classic signs of the fight-or-flight response.
Abraham continued, ‘Straight after, a debate erupted among several of the village elders. You have to understand, we have always had a thorny relationship with the British. For a century, they were the colonisers, and we were the colonised. Yes, they brought order and progress, but they also brought division and oppression. Some of the elders had actually fought against the British for independence. Their memories were bitter and burned strongly within them. They saw no reason for us to get into conflict with the neighbouring village over the British couple.’
‘And your father...?’ Maya asked.
‘My father belonged to the younger generation. More enlightened. Less cynical. Of course, he had no illusions about the atrocities the British had committed against us. But to him, bygones were bygones. What mattered more was the choice before us. And in father’s mind, there was only one choice. He reminded the elders that our tribal code of protecting guests had been passed down for generations. To even consider breaking it now would be a great shame, a terrible dishonour. If, by upholding it, we had to go into battle with the other village, so be it. No, we did not ask for this fight. But neither would we back down from it.’
‘Brave man,’ Noah said.
Abraham nodded. ‘Yes, my father had made up his mind. He silenced all dissent and entrusted the passports to the rider on horseback, urging him to make haste towards the city. He hoped—no, he prayed—that the passports would help our case. Then he set about fortifying the village for the coming attack. Guns were cleaned and oiled. Barricades were put up. Watchmen were placed on the rooftops. For two days, we waited. Not daring to sleep. Not daring to venture outside the confines of the village. Frightful thoughts drifted through our minds. Was the mob massing just beyond? How many of them were there? Had they gotten others to join their cause? The speculation was wild and endless. You have to understand, being Sufi, we had no allies to call upon. We were most definitely and totally alone, surrounded by thousands of Sunni tribesmen in every direction...’
Abraham touched his nose and exhaled. His foot had stopped jackhammering. His face had returned to its normal colour. He seemed calmer now. More collected. Yet there was something about his demeanour; something Maya couldn’t quite read.Abraham continued, ‘But, shukur Allah, no blood needed to be spilled in the end. On the dawn of the third day, our rider returned. No, not by horse. By helicopter. He had a squad of British Royal Marines with him.’
Noah smiled. ‘The cavalry arrives to save the day.’
‘Yes. The helicopter’s roar and the way it sparkled in the morning light was almost like a malaekah—an angel—descending from heaven. The entire village was overjoyed. My father, most of all.’
‘And the British couple...?’
Abraham rubbed his neck and blinked. ‘One of the marines spoke our dialect, and he was happy to act as a translator between us and the couple. So this was how we uncovered the truth. The man’s name was Joseph, and the woman’s name was Kerry. They were tourists who had ventured out into the frontier on a hiking trip. Foolishly, they had done so without a guide. This proved to be their undoing when they were set upon by a gang of bandits. Joseph and Kerry were roughed up and stripped of their belongings. Fortunately, during the robbery, Joseph had enough sense to conceal a penknife in the palm of his hand. When one of the bandits tried to accost Kerry, he retaliated and stabbed the would-be rapist in the neck. In the scuffle, Joseph and Kerry broke free and made a run for it. They ran and ran, slipping and staggering in the jagged countryside, until they found our village. Quite astounding. It’s not often that you come across outsiders outrunning locals.’
‘So I take it the bandits belonged to the neighbouring village?’ Maya asked.
‘Indeed.’
‘And they didn’t come back because they knew they were in the wrong?’
Abraham touched his nose. His eyes tracked to the left. ‘Yes. But that was not the sole reason. You see, Joseph happened to be the son of the British ambassador. His only son, in fact. My father had not intended it, but he had won the favour and gratitude of a very powerful man. And this... this is how I came to leave my village and receive my education...’
Maya nodded, slowly beginning to understand.
At long last, the fog was lifting.
CHAPTER 16
When the interview was over, Abraham led Maya and Noah to the door. He found himself quietly impressed by their sensitivity, their awareness, their professional aura. Unlike most other people, they hadn’t been quick to judge him nor to sweeten him up. They had simply given him the measured facts and had acted as discerning listeners. And for that, Abraham was grateful.
As he held the door open, Maya said, ‘Thank you, sir, for sharing so much with us. It’s an honour.’
Everything? No, not everything. Far from it. Abraham slipped into a forced smile. ‘The honour is mine. It is not everyday that I get to share old stories.’
Noah grinned. ‘Well, it’s not everyday that we get to hear stories from a man of your stature.’
‘You flatter me. Truly.’
‘We’ll be consulting with our colleagues.’ Maya nodded. ‘We’ll try to accommodate your plans as best we can.’
‘I know you will.’
‘We’ll talk again soon.’
‘Of course. Goodbye for now.’
Abraham closed the door behind them, then sighed, leaning his head against it, slumping his shoulders. Once more, he was alone, the psychic weight of everything bearing down on his soul.
If only… If only he could have been honest with his protectors. Totally honest. But the memor
ies were too much. Even after these all years, it was still too damn much. And, no, he didn’t want to conceive of the loss. His loss.
Gritting his teeth, he cast a sideways glance at the bathroom door. He considered knocking on it gently. Imploring his wife in his most mellow voice. Reasoning things out with her…
He chuckled bitterly. They were past that point now, weren’t they? Last night had well and truly shattered any promises of safety. She would never forgive him. Ever.
Abraham straightened and paced the suite, circuiting it over and over, restless energy driving him. He reached into his pocket and drew out a string of prayer beads, fingering each one individually as he recited the dhikr—the divine incantation. ‘La hawla wa la quwwata illa billah.’ There is no power and strength except through God.
His head bobbled as he fell into a rhythm, seeking solace, banishing self-doubt. He had come so far now. Too far. To turn back now because of hardship, because of cowardice, would be absurd. Why couldn’t his wife understand that? This wasn’t about them. This wasn’t about their marriage. This was about something greater and purer and—
That’s when the bathroom door clicked open, and Belinda stepped out. Abraham stuttered to a halt, his mouth suddenly dry. They stared at each other for a long while, the tension of the moment mounting.
Finally, Belinda spoke. Slowly. Sharply. ‘Abe, I knew what kind of man you were when I married you. And I’ve always loved you. Never begrudged you. But this is it. This has to be the last time. Promise me. Draw the line. Otherwise I’m gone.’
Abraham sucked in a shaky breath. Considered his answer.
CHAPTER 17
In a perfect world, all it would take was a single bullet to Abraham Khan’s brainstem. Clinical. Precise. Zero chance of collateral damage. Never mind the lack of drama and theatricality.
But now, even if Magellan wanted a kill shot, he knew it would no longer be possible. As he stood on the SkyTower’s observation deck, surrounded by tourists, he peered through his binoculars. From here, he had a clear view of Abraham’s hotel suite. But the curtains were pulled tight. No gaps. Not even a sliver.