‘I do not care for your implication.’
Adeola put in, ‘Mr Kavanagh isn’t implying anything, Captain. But either he and his colleagues are permitted to vet the conference room or there is no conference, and I’d like to see how you explain that to His Excellency. You have ten seconds. That’s it. We’re leaving.’
‘But that was not ten seconds!’
‘You’re right. It wasn’t. I changed my mind. Just like you’re going to change yours.’
The meeting with the Ethiopian Foreign Minister lasted for four and a half hours. In common with most of the meetings that Adeola had attended in Africa and the Middle East, it was dreamlike and prolix.
They sat in a cool white room with a high ceiling and white muslin drapes drawn across the windows, so that all Adeola could see of the city outside was the occasional sparkle from a car window.
A long low table was laid out with various Ethiopian snacks which had been prepared by His Excellency’s own chef – bowls of dabo kolo, little balls of crunchy fried bread; plates of the warm raw meat called kitfo; and several different vegetarian dishes, like misir wat, which was made of lentils, and fosolia string beans.
There was coffee, and Ethiopian herbal tea, but no alcohol. Adeola drank only Ambo, the fizzy Ethiopian mineral water. She found it far too salty and metallic, but she wanted to show respect for her host.
Ato Ketona Aklilu was a small, languid man, with an obsessively neat beard and bulging eyes and an aquiline nose. He was immaculately dressed in a white silk shirt and a pale beige tailor-made suit. A large gold Rolex hung loosely on his wrist. He spoke perfect but rather pedantic English with a cut-glass British accent. He had been educated at Harrow, after all.
‘What you have to realize, my dear lady, is that since 1991 Ethiopia’s foreign policy has been to reduce our dependency on Western aid. Aid is always appreciated, especially in years of drought and famine. But the problem with aid is that it always comes with political provisos, does it not?’
‘Well, you’re right,’ said Adeola. ‘And I can tell you that DOVE has authorized me to offer you a substantial amount of new aid, particularly medical supplies and foodstuffs – well over and above this year’s agreed quota from USAID. But I’m not looking to attach any strings to it – not in the way you’re talking about. I want to work with you – not dictate to you. All I’m asking from you is that you seriously consider what I have to say.’
One of the foreign minister’s servants passed Adeola a plate of injera, the flat bread with which most Ethiopian foods are eaten. She tore off a piece with her right hand and used it to dip into the misir wat. She wasn’t going to touch the kitfo. It might be highly popular in Ethiopia, but her friend Ruth had tried some and spent nine agonizing days on the toilet.
‘We are rebuilding our political standing in the world, that is the point,’ said the foreign minister. ‘We have poverty, we have backwardness, we have illiteracy. These shortcomings we freely admit. But they are all the result of centuries of foreign oppression and continuing aggression from our neighbours.’
Adeola said, ‘I understand that, Your Excellency, but you will never be fully respected by the international community while you go on committing acts of repression and ethnic cleansing against your own people.’
The foreign minister frowned, as if he had never heard such an accusation before. ‘Repression? Ethnic cleansing? I don’t know who has been supplying you with such misinformation. We have strict law enforcement, of course. In a nation as disparate as ours, this is necessary. Sometimes – because of drought – we have to move whole populations from one location to another, for their own humanitarian benefit. But no repression! No ethnic cleansing! My goodness!’
But Adeola persisted. ‘In particular, Your Excellency, I’m looking for some guarantees for the Anuak people in Gambella.’
‘Guarantees? What guarantees would you need to look for? The Anuak are very rebellious. Very awkward, very ungrateful. But they are always treated fairly, in spite of this.’
‘With respect, sir, the Anuak have always been a peaceful people. They’re farmers, not insurgents. But my office is still regularly receiving reports of some terrible acts of violence by government forces. Women being beaten and raped, men being punished for doing nothing more than talking to each other in the street.’
‘No, dear lady. Of course I have heard some of these false reports myself. But I can assure you that they are all lies and exaggerations spread by those who seek to besmirch the good reputation of the Ethiopian People’s Revolutionary Democratic Front.’
And so the hours went by, with Adeola repeatedly asking for the Ethiopian government to stop treating their African minorities so harshly, and Ato Kenota Aklilu repeatedly denying that they ever had, or would. ‘Let me say this – compared with the appalling suffering of many peoples in Africa, the Anuak, for instance, are living in clover.’
‘Oh, really? So why have they been thrown off their farms? Why did government forces shoot nearly five hundred of them?’
‘I can arrange for you to visit Gambella yourself within a few weeks. There you can see for yourself that I am telling you the truth.’
‘OK. I’ll take you up on that offer. I’d be delighted for you to prove me wrong.’
Like most meetings, this one appeared to end inconclusively. There were salaams and handshakes and smiles, except from Captain Madoowbe, who stood in a corner, his eyes glittering with resentment. But nothing seemed to have been agreed, or guaranteed, and no commitments seemed to have been made on either side.
All the same, Adeola was smiling as Rick and Reuben escorted her down in the express elevator to the hotel lobby.
Rick said, ‘You look pretty damned pleased with yourself.’
‘Of course. I got him to blink, and that was all I was looking for.’
‘He blinked?’ asked Reuben.
‘Oh, yes. He invited me to visit Gambella to see how wonderfully well the Anuaks are being treated. He wouldn’t have done that if he hadn’t wanted that extra aid so badly. But let’s face it – this year’s drought has been the worst for seventeen years, and I think he would rather stop persecuting the Anuaks for a while than lose five and a half million dollars worth of food.’
‘Seems like everything has a price, doesn’t it?’ said Rick. ‘Even human decency.’
They crossed the shiny marble lobby. A crowd of reporters and TV cameramen were waiting for Adeola outside. They were supposed to be held back behind a velvet rope, but as she stepped out on to the hotel steps they pushed forward with their microphones held out.
‘Ms Davis! Have you managed to reach any kind of agreement with the Ethiopian government?’
‘Ms Davis! Did they give way on any human rights issues?’
‘Ms Davis!’
Adeola paused for a moment. ‘I’ll have a full statement for you at six this evening, when I hold my media conference at the Emirates Towers. Right now, I can tell you that His Excellency and I had a very constructive discussion in which a number of important issues were raised, including humanitarian aid and human rights.’
‘How about the Anuaks? Did you discuss the situation in Gambella?’
‘Yes, we did. And His Excellency has kindly invited me to visit Gambella to see the conditions there for myself.’
That will skewer the bastard, she thought. Now I’ve announced it publicly, he won’t be able to withdraw the invitation without looking as if he has something to hide.
Rick took her elbow. ‘Come on, time to haul ass. We’re too exposed out here.’
The three black Explorers nosed their way towards the front steps. Rick was staying close to Adeola and looking around anxiously. The media people were milling about everywhere, as well as a recently-arrived party of French tourists, and Rick was never happy when there were too many people for him to keep his eye on. The Explorers’ doors opened and Charles climbed out of the rear vehicle and beckoned Rick to hurry up and bring Adeola down the steps.
At that moment Adeola heard the slap-slap-slapping of sandals. The young Arab who had approached them outside the Emirates Towers Hotel was hurrying up the steps towards them. He was smiling, just like before, and he called out, ‘Ms Davis! Assalam alekum!’
‘Your fan, the autograph hunter,’ said Rick. ‘Persistent little pest, isn’t he?’
‘Hey, buddy,’ said Reuben, holding out his hand to prevent the young Arab from coming any further up the steps, ‘I told you before, didn’t I? That’s as far as you go.’
‘Oh come on, Reuben,’ Adeola called out to him. ‘He only wants an autograph.’
‘All I ask for is autograph!’ the young Arab repeated.
‘Well, OK,’ said Reuben, and stepped aside so that the young Arab could climb the steps towards them.
But it was then that Rick said, ‘Holy Christ, his coat’s buttoned up – and where’s his hat?’
Adeola said, ‘What?’ But it was then that she realized that the young Arab’s black coat was fastened, and he looked much bulkier than he had before. Not only that, he had replaced his knitted hat with a black scarf, tied tight around his temples.
‘Rube!’ yelled Rick, and tugged out his semi-automatic.
Reuben came storming up the steps and threw himself at the young Arab in a massive football tackle. The two of them started to topple sideways, but they hadn’t fallen even halfway to the ground before there was an explosion so loud Adeola couldn’t even hear it.
The young Arab’s head sprang from his shoulders as if somebody had kicked it, and hurtled high up into the air. Adeola was knocked backward, and as she fell she saw a blizzard of body parts flying over her, followed by a warm, wet spray against her face. She felt Rick snatching at her sleeve, but she still hit the steps awkwardly, and tumbled down six or seven of them before she ended up beside one of the Explorer’s rear wheels.
The hotel’s front doors shattered and plate glass burst out everywhere. The press caught the worst of it, and a female reporter screamed as a scimitar-shaped piece of glass sliced off her left cheek and part of her chin. A cameraman raised his hand to protect his face, only to have it hacked off like a knuckle of lamb. One of the hotel’s doormen was thrown face-forward, as if he were diving, and was impaled through the chest by the brass stanchion that held up the velvet rope.
The explosion lasted only a fraction of a second, but it seemed to Adeola to go on for ever. Blood came running down the hotel steps, and the air was filled with pungent brown smoke and whirling paper and tatters of clothing.
She tried to sit up. Rick was right beside her, with a pattern of scratches on his face. ‘Are you OK?’ he asked her.
She could hardly hear him. ‘I think so.’
‘Keep low. There could well be another one. We have to get you out of here.’
He stood up. Immediately after the bomb had gone off, there had been an eerie silence, broken only by the tinkling of falling glass. But now a woman started to scream, wildly and hysterically, and a man started to shout out for help, and suddenly there was a cacophony of voices, like a choir from hell – begging, pleading, moaning, whimpering, crying out in pain.
Rick opened up the Explorer’s door and helped Adeola into the front passenger seat. As he did so, she saw a jumble of images. People staggering aimlessly up and down the hotel steps, their hair sticking up like clowns’, smothered in blood. Bits of luggage and bits of bodies scattered everywhere.
As Rick climbed in beside her and started the engine, she looked out of the window and saw Reuben lying face down on the steps. His eyes were open and he seemed to be grinning at her. It was only when Rick backed the Explorer up that she saw that both of his arms and both of his legs were nothing but bloody stumps, and that he was grinning at nothing at all.
They pulled out of the forecourt and sped south-east on Al Rigga Road. Fire trucks and ambulances and police cars were already heading towards the Taj Hotel, their lights flashing and their sirens blaring.
‘Nesta?’ said Adeola. ‘Charles, Miko, Jimmy – did you see any of them?’
Rick checked his rear-view mirror. ‘They’re OK. They’re right behind us.’
‘Oh, God. Reuben!’
‘Rube saved us. Rube the Cube. If he hadn’t jumped on that bastard—’
‘Who do you think did it?’
Rick looked at her. ‘Who do I think did it? Who have you managed to upset in your three and a half years as diplomatic representative for DOVE? The Somalis? The Eritreans? The Palestinians? The Israelis? The Sudanese? The Chinese? The Taiwanese? You’ve upset just about everybody on the entire goddamned planet!’
‘Well, I’m going to find out who did it,’ vowed Adeola. Her voice was shaking. ‘I’m going to find out who did it and I’m going to make them pay.’
Rick said, ‘Come on, you’re in shock.’
‘No, I’m not. I’m going to get my revenge for this.’
‘Hey, don’t forget, blessed are the peacemakers.’
Adeola stared at him defiantly. ‘In that case, this is where I stop being blessed.’
Five
Noah was in the kitchen stirring a pot of gazpacho when his cellphone played the Dead March from Saul. As usual, his blue-fronted Amazon parrot joined in.
‘Marilyn,’ he snapped, ‘will you for once in your life shut your goddamned beak?’
‘Noah? It’s Silja.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry, Silja. I was remonstrating with my parrot. Hey – I thought you were in Britain?’
‘I was supposed to be, for the new James Bond picture, but there have been so many delays. I came back Friday for my sister’s wedding.’
‘I never knew you had a sister. Older or younger?’
‘Older.’
‘Shoot – you should have introduced me. But if she just got married – well, it sounds like it’s too late now.’
He picked up a small handful of chopped green chillies and scattered them into the gazpacho. ‘Are you around at all? You want to come to my place for dinner? I’m having a few friends around this evening and you’re more than welcome.’
‘Sure, that would be great. I want to see you in any case. I have something interesting to show you.’
‘Around seven, how’s that?’
He set the round oak table that stood on his terrace. He tried to remember how Jenna used to lay out all the cutlery, and the side plates, and how she folded the napkins. He even found a clear-crystal vase and made a decorative arrangement of purple orchids, placing it in the centre, between the candles.
Jenna had been one of the few civilizing influences in his life, and even after eighteen months he still missed her. But the stuntman and the jewellery designer? You couldn’t even make a situation comedy about it, let alone try to live it out for real.
He went back into the kitchen and peered into the oven to make sure that his Moroccan chicken wasn’t burning, and then opened a very cold bottle of Pinot Grigio.
‘Here’s to civilizing influences,’ he said, raising his glass.
‘Screw you,’ croaked Marilyn.
He stood by the railing, looking out over Laurel Canyon. Beside him, his flag hung limp and motionless on its flagpole. His neighbour, Cy Winterman, was having drinks by the pool. He could hear Cy’s baying laughter and the screaming of his children as they threw each other into the water.
Far below, Los Angeles was covered by gilded haze, like a city seen in a dream.
Noah spent only a few weeks of each year at home in California. When he did, though, he always became reflective, and started to question what he was doing with his life, and who he really was. He was standing in for actors who were pretending to be people who didn’t even exist. How was that for questioning your identity?
He heard a car pull up in front of the house. The doorbell chimed and it was Silja. She was wearing a white diaphanous dress with big yellow poppies printed on it, and wedge-heeled sandals that were laced all the way up her calves. She kissed him directly on the lips. Her p
erfume smelled like summer flowers.
‘Am I the first?’
‘Yes, but that’s OK. It’ll give us a chance to talk. Mo Speller’s coming round tonight and he never lets anybody else get a word in edgewise.’
‘Nice place,’ said Silja, walking through to the living room. It was still decorated according to Jenna’s tastes – with pale lemon walls and white-upholstered couches, and white ceramic jugs and figurines.
‘I’ve been here nearly eight years now. Bought it from Jimmy Volante when he retired. You know, the guy who used to do Happy Pappy on children’s TV. Or probably you don’t know. Way before your time.’
Silja went out on to the veranda. The setting sun shone through her dress, and Noah couldn’t help noticing that she was wearing nothing underneath but a white lace thong. He coughed and said, ‘How about a glass of wine?’
‘Why not? I have two days free before I have to fly back to London. God, I hate that Pinewood Studios. It’s like a prison camp. And it never stopped raining.’
‘So what’s this interesting something that you wanted to show me?’
‘I tried to call you, but I can never work out the time difference. Is it nine hours behind or nine hours ahead? Anyhow, when I found out that I was coming back here, I brought it with me.’
She opened her small white purse and took out a folded page torn from a magazine. She spread it out on the table and said, ‘This was in the Telegraph magazine last Saturday. It was an article about suicide bombers. I was only reading it because I was bored and there was nothing else to read.’
The headline said, Destination: Heaven. There were several pictures of Middle Eastern suicide bombers, posing in front of political banners. To Noah, they all looked pretty much the same, their heads tied with scarves, some of them trying to look intimidating, some of them grinning as if they were posing for holiday photographs, but all of them painfully young.
‘What am I looking for?’ he asked.
‘This one,’ said Silja, and pointed to the largest photograph. It showed a young man in glasses with a wispy moustache. Unlike the others, he was standing in front of a plain background, with no Arabic messages written on it. He was wearing a black shirt, open at the front, revealing a chain and a circular medallion.
Chaos Theory Page 3