Blind Reef

by Peter Tonkin

  ‘Were you going to … what’s the word … arrest these men?’ asked Nahom, his voice full of righteous indignation.

  ‘No. We were going to follow them to their rendezvous,’ answered Ibrahim.

  ‘And if you do not find them?’ asked Aman.

  ‘Then you two will get the phone back and the money belt – and we will stake you out like goats at a leopard hunt. If we cannot find a way to get to them, perhaps they will give themselves away when they come after you. Nekhel exists as a place like the old Wild West in American movies. It is full of well-armed and ruthless men who thrive on the generation of rumour and the sale of information. And on the more ancient businesses of theft and murder. I would not be surprised if word of our arrival is already out – someone will have heard the jet engines passing overhead. And in any case, I had to alert a lot of locals to our plans last night. Some of the men I talked with I would hesitate to trust. And that lack of trust – and the information I gave out – was all carefully calculated. All I would have to do is let you two out into the town, apparently alone and unobserved, and the local predators would come sniffing around. Then it wouldn’t be long before our particular man-eaters got to hear about you and came by to collect their ill-gotten gains. Then, snap! My trap would close on them.’ As he said ‘snap!’ he closed his hands together, claw-fingered, turning the long, artistic digits into a kind of man-trap. ‘What did you think?’ he continued, his tone changing to give more than a hint of the anger and frustration he was feeling. ‘That I would bend and break the rules simply so two illegal alien siblings could be reunited? No! Those idiots from Cairo in their helicopter with its rockets and its guns have come into my jurisdiction and made me look small and powerless. If I do not apprehend these people they will boast that they found the fugitives with no trouble and yet the local force could not follow up their good work! I will not allow this. Just be grateful that in this one instance your wishes have coincided with my own.’

  There was a short silence, under which it was just possible to hear the pilot discussing the upcoming landing with the tower at Nekhel airstrip. Richard nodded grimly to himself. The major’s plan was logical if ruthless; his motivation clear and understandable. Even if he had not been so keen on saving face in front of his superiors and competitors in Cairo, Richard shrewdly suspected that he would wish to save face in front of Sergeant Sabet, who was suddenly looking at him with something much warmer than mere professionalism in her wide brown eyes. And finally he had no doubt that Nahom would be a willing part of it, no matter why it had all been put in train; no matter what the risks or likely outcome, considering what the alternative might involve for Tsibekti.

  Richard’s suspicions were confirmed at once. Nahom went into a short but energetic conversation with Aman, who shrugged fatalistically at the end and said, ‘Inshallah. Nahom says we have his phone. The men holding Tsibekti have hers. He will simply phone them and say he is here and waiting with the money belt. They will come. Then you may spring your trap; but only when we are sure Tsibekti will come safely home.’

  ‘You know, of course …’ the major suddenly became more expansive, ‘… that in the days when leopards roamed freely through these mountains, the local villagers would tether a goat right in the back of a cave and keep watch. When a leopard went in for the kill, they would roll a boulder over the cave mouth and seal them in together. It is said that up in the hills where nobody much goes you can still find caves with the scattered bones of goats and the skeletons of leopards that starved to death after that one last meal. But you have to roll the boulders aside first.’

  ‘Nowadays, however,’ added Sabet brusquely, ‘if you roll the boulder away from a cave mouth you are more likely to find a jihadist arms dump than a dead leopard.’

  She had no sooner finished speaking than the seatbelt lights came on and the pilot’s voice over the intercom warned them that they were just about to land.

  There were several groups of people waiting to meet them as they stepped into the cool morning. Richard glanced around as he stepped down the steps from the cabin and strode across the apron. The sun was quite high already, the mountains to the north as red and threatening as those around the Wilderness of Sin, but Nekhel was more than four hundred metres above sea level, and although the temperature would likely approach forty degrees Celsius at midday, the recently departed night had been almost chilly. He could afford these distracting thoughts because for once he was very much a supernumary here – he and Robin allowed along merely because he had chartered the plane. The major would clearly have preferred to bring more men and leave the tourists back in Sharm. But he could not do so – another element he found almost as irritating as the helicopter’s thoughtless actions yesterday.

  Ibrahim strode on ahead with Sabet at his shoulder and his two policemen immediately behind them. A short, tubby man saluted punctiliously, his uniform jacket straining across his paunch. ‘That’ll be Captain Fawzi, Ibrahim’s opposite number in the Nekhel police,’ muttered Robin as she caught up with Richard. ‘Let’s hope he’s got the men Ibrahim ordered. The major is suddenly a scary individual.’

  ‘He’s certainly not a happy bunny,’ agreed Richard. ‘And I guess the forbidding looking group of individuals in fatigues further back are the local army brass come to check out this invasion of their turf,’ he added.

  ‘And the two crestfallen boys over there who look like naughty students outside the headteacher’s door will be the two sent down to the crossroads commissioned to track Nahom’s friends, Ali and Tariq …’ observed Robin.

  ‘… only to return empty-handed,’ completed Richard. ‘Yes, I think you’re right.’

  ‘Well,’ said Aman cheerfully as he and Nahom caught up with them, ‘at least they made it back alive.’

  ‘Let’s hope you and Nahom manage to do the same,’ said Robin. ‘It looks like you’ve just gone from being the hunters to being the bait.’

  Richard remembered Saiid’s warning words. The djinn of the Sinai had a wicked sense of humour. They had just granted Nahom’s wish.

  Ibrahim, Sabet and the other policemen joined them. There were no introductions. No conversation at all, in fact. In a stormy silence, Richard, Robin and the two Eritreans were led to a pair of two-ton military-style green-painted trucks and handed up into the canvas-covered rear sections. There were no seats as such – simply benches running front-to-back. Richard and Robin sat, surrounded by policemen in one – Aman and Nahom were put in the other. Ibrahim, Sabet and the local police chief climbed into the front of the truck carrying the English couple, beside the driver. Tailgates slammed up. Engines coughed and the trucks juddered forward.

  It took twenty minutes to reach the outskirts of Nekhel. By the time the trucks rolled into town, life was stirring. There was sufficient traffic to slow their progress. Pavements which had been empty as the Cessna swooped over them were beginning to bustle. Looking back through the open section above the tailgate, Richard marvelled at how swiftly Nekhel was coming to life under the red beams of the still-rising sun. But, he knew, there would be little or no activity between eleven and one because the heat would be too much to work through – unless there was air conditioning. Or unless, he thought wryly, Noël Coward was right – and you were a mad dog or an Englishman.

  Richard half expected the trucks to pull up outside a police station, though he had little idea what Nekhel’s equivalent to the building on El Benouk would look like. But no. They came to a stop in the middle of a large square and everyone piled out. ‘It’s the market,’ said Robin.

  Nahom and Aman joined them. ‘The Nekhel souk,’ agreed Aman. ‘A famous place. It once supplied the faithful on Hajj. They don’t come this way any longer but it is still important. And it is market day. Everyone comes here.’

  Richard and Robin looked around, caught between bemusement and wonder. For, indeed, the edges of the square were bright and busy with shops opening and stalls being set up. The two police trucks were almost immedi
ately lost in a jam of trucks, cars, carts, bikes pulling laden trailers or carrying bulging sacks, and even camel trains as the farmers from outlying smallholdings and Bedouin nomads from even farther afield brought their wares in for sale. The shopkeepers and stallholders were all men, dressed in a range of costume from simple cotton dishdasha robes and taqiyah caps to full Bedouin dress with heavy white cotton tobs under kibr gowns and sleeveless striped aba robes. White keffiyehs were held in place with black camel-hair igals – for the most part closed so that only the eyes could be seen. On the other hand, the shoppers were almost all women, modestly dressed in abaya robes and either niquab or full burqa headdresses.

  The noise and the smell were overwhelming. Exciting. Irresistibly romantic. Everything from the essence of camel – with the complaining braying to accompany it – to the elusive scents of saffron, cumin, turmeric and cardamom. And, early though it was, the mouth-watering aromas of the street vendors cooking both sweet and savoury breakfasts. Everything from sweet belila, barley and cinnamon porridge to fiery chicken and goat kebabs. Accompanied by the calls of the cooks, stall holders and shopkeepers touting their wares.

  Suddenly Ibrahim was beside them with Sabet at his shoulder. The gathering crowd of retailers and shoppers kept clear of the uniforms, creating a little space where they could stand easily and talk clearly. ‘Right,’ he said to Nahom, ‘I will return your phone and money belt. It has been arranged that you will both go over there to the spice stall. The local police have already set up a secure cordon, though the men on watch are of course well-hidden. We will make a show of getting back in our trucks and pulling away. Captain and Mrs Mariner, I see no reason why you cannot make use of the time by doing a little shopping. It is, as they say, a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. Tourists are something of a rarity here. I would strongly urge you, however, to cover your hair and face, Mrs Mariner. The summer dress you are wearing is quite well suited to this place but the local people are unused to seeing any woman’s hair, let alone hair that is dahab – gold.’

  ‘I brought a scarf on purpose,’ said Robin, and in a moment she was as modestly covered as the other women around her; or nearly so, for many of them were in full burqas. Even so, she reminded Richard of an ill-disguised character from the TV series Homeland.

  ‘Good,’ said Ibrahim. ‘We will go now. But if you stay in this general area, you will be safely under our eyes at all times.’

  ‘Everywhere but the spice shop,’ observed Richard drily, looking across at Aman and Nahom lingering conspicuously outside the colourful cliff of wares, phone in hand, as the police climbed back into their two-ton trucks and roared away. ‘I rather think we’re being set up as a distraction.’

  ‘What?’ said Robin. ‘Just another couple of goats tethered at the back of a cave, waiting for a hungry leopard, you mean?’

  They were no sooner alone than a gang of small boys descended on them – more like piranhas than leopards, thought Richard. They were calling in a range of accents and languages until they worked out that English was the most effective. ‘You come, effendi. You see my father’s shop. It is cheaper than Walmart. Cheaper than Asda, I promise …’

  But both Richard and Robin were well trained in handling such matters – not least by their visits to the Old Market in Sharm and the bustling commercial heart of Dahab. So they remained courteous but unwavering as they wandered around the stalls, intoning ‘La aa shukran’ as though it was some kind of mantra as they made a pantomime of looking for something worth haggling over but tried to keep an eye on the spice shop at the same time.

  Time sped by, for the market was nothing if not distractingly exciting. There were none of the touristy shops they were used to in Sharm. Instead, as in Dahab, there was an over-abundance of spice stalls, vegetable stalls, butchers’ stalls – selling mostly chicken, goat and camel. Then there were the more familiar products which they discovered in a modest supermarket at the heart of the market. A dark, cool cavern with sliding doors to keep the air conditioning in and high-piled shelves full of Western produce. Coke and Pepsi, Fanta, Sprite – all in cans and bottles. Tonic, soda and ginger ale by Schweppes. Lipton’s and Twining’s teas. Oreos. Twinkies. Hershey bars. Cadbury’s. They wandered, unmolested, around the aisles, letting the air conditioning cool them down.

  But as they stepped, empty-handed, back out into the bustling square, they found themselves confronted by a tall figure in Bedouin dress. An anonymous man wearing a heavy white keffiyeh that masked his face. Two brown eyes stared angrily at them. The tall stranger pulled the tail of his keffiyeh aside to reveal Major Ibrahim’s familiar frown. ‘Did you see them?’ he demanded.

  ‘See who?’ asked Richard.

  ‘Nahom Salassie and Aman Kifle,’ snapped Ibrahim. ‘The pair of them have disappeared.’

  EIGHT

  Dune

  ‘Disappeared?’ echoed Richard. ‘How on earth …’

  ‘I don’t know,’ snarled Ibrahim. ‘But I certainly intend to find out.’

  ‘As long as it doesn’t distract you from the main point of your investigation; catching the smugglers and rescuing that poor girl,’ warned Robin.

  ‘Although,’ allowed Richard, ‘finding out how the pair of them disappeared might well be the whole point of the investigation if they were helped to disappear. And if the people who helped them are on the one hand associated with the smugglers or on the other hand something to do with the local authorities who were supposed to be keeping them under close observation.’

  ‘Precisely,’ snapped Ibrahim. ‘Though even if it was simple inefficiency, it will still need to be rooted out!’ He looked around, eyes narrow, as though the whole of the market was packed with smugglers and terrorists.

  ‘Then again,’ hazarded Robin, ‘it might be that Captain Fawzi and his men were simply outsmarted. That there was an element in the situation here that they weren’t really prepared for.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked Ibrahim, his frown shifting subtly from outrage to enquiry.

  ‘I assume they were briefed in the belief that the two subjects – Nahom and Aman – were going to cooperate with the stake-out,’ Robin explained. ‘But what if one or both of them actually wanted to join the smugglers? It’s not an unimaginable scenario, is it? And I’m sure it must have crossed your mind as well as mine. Aman and his brother Bisrat could easily be the smugglers’ front men in Eritrea – we agreed that the smugglers need apparently disinterested people to talk potential victims into taking the fatal journey …’

  ‘Or,’ added Richard, picking up on her train of thought, ‘Nahom might well have preferred to rely on himself rather than on the authorities. With all due respect, Major, so far in this affair, and in spite of our best efforts, we have done nothing to actually help him. In fact, all we have done is put hurdle after hurdle in his path.’

  ‘Which,’ added Robin, ‘he may simply see as one barrier after another designed to stop him rescuing Tsibekti.’

  ‘He would need to be mad to think this,’ snapped Ibrahim.

  ‘Mad,’ allowed Robin. ‘Or desperate.’

  ‘Either way, and no matter what the truth of the matter turns out to be,’ said Richard shortly, ‘we need to get after him as fast as possible.’

  He saw that Ibrahim was hesitating, clearly tempted.

  ‘Before the trail goes cold,’ he added.

  Ibrahim frowned. ‘The trail will not go cold,’ he snapped. ‘It leads from here to Taba. One road. One trail.’

  ‘Then let’s get to it,’ said Richard, already looking around for a means of transport. Then he realized. The jet that had whisked them here from Sharm was useless now. It could follow and overfly the fleeing smugglers, but there was nowhere for it to land between here and Taba International Airport at the far end of the trail. There was no time to summon up more helicopters – even assuming Ibrahim was inclined to trust the over-enthusiastic flyboys again. Any meaningful pursuit in the immediate future must be on the ground – and along that one
roadway whose black tarmac width separated the potentially dangerous Amber Zone from the possibly deadly Red Zone.

  ‘You need to move your trucks, Major,’ he said. ‘The faster you hit the road the better your chances will be.’

  ‘I can see that!’ snapped Ibrahim. ‘That much is obvious. But the trucks are not mine, are they? They belong to the local command. I will need to negotiate their use. I will also need to ask Captain Fawzi to fill them with his best men. Unfortunately, these are the same men who have already allowed our two goats to slip through their fingers and into the clutches of the leopards.’

  ‘But we still have a chance to roll the boulder over the cave mouth,’ insisted Richard. ‘If we can move quickly enough.’

  ‘We,’ snapped Ibrahim. ‘There is no we. There are the men of my Sharm command and the men of Captain Fawzi’s Nekhel command. I must return to Sharm, and I suspect that the pilot of your Cessna will be keen to do so too. Myself and my sergeant, yourself and Mrs Mariner will all be aboard when the plane lifts off.’

  There was a short silence after Ibrahim said this. Suddenly a breath of oven-hot wind blew past them, laden with sand grains, hissing out of the north and blowing purposefully southwards. Under the abrupt, threatening weight of it, the whole of the market seemed to still for a moment. A woman in a black abaya robe and a full burqa headdress appeared at Ibrahim’s shoulder. The only parts of her body visible were her dark chocolate eyes.

  ‘Is that going to work?’ asked Richard. ‘One truck with your men among some more locals and another completely full of Captain Fawzi’s men. Nobody from your command in charge. Nobody to report back to you what is going on. You don’t fully trust them, in any case – they might well have allowed your two little goats to escape. I can see very clearly that you are wondering whether someone up here is actually working with the smugglers.’