by Gavin Chait
The streets are filled with a dancing, stamping mob. There is no joy to the singing. Jubilation, defiance, anger, but no joy.
‘I’m going to try setting down there,’ says Simon, pointing at a small opening in the crowd near the administration buildings. ‘Hopefully they’ll get out of the way.’
Shakiso, Tuft at her feet, stares out the windows, her jaw tight. Tiémoko appears unconcerned.
Armed men wearing UN-blue helmets come out from the building and start shouting at the crowd, pushing them back.
Simon makes a small gesture, and the security drones unclip from the helicopter and take up position around them. The helicopter rotors change pitch, and they slowly descend.
The noise, as the doors open, is the screaming, roaring outrage of a mob.
‘You sure about this?’ asks Simon, searching Shakiso’s face.
She nods, her thoughts an anguished torrent, staring fixedly ahead. The warmth and companionship of their evening scattered in the moments following Moussa’s call.
A man lunges at Simon as they step on to the ground. There is a crackle, and he drops to the floor writhing from electrical discharge.
The drones emit a howling, nerve-jangling alarm and make short charges at the crowd. Tuft stays close to Shakiso, yowling and baring her teeth and claws. People pull back, and the UN soldiers push their way through, surrounding Simon, Shakiso and Tiémoko, and adding their cries to the din.
‘This way,’ says one of the men, his voice urgent.
The mob seems not to be targeting anything in particular, merely a gathering to express their grievance. With the strangers now identified as part of the UN, the mob loses interest and turns inwards once more.
The soldiers shepherd their charges into the low administrative building and close the doors behind them. More soldiers are inside the building, chatting and drinking the staff coffee from the small canteen. They are observing the mob through the windows but seem untroubled.
‘It is not a good time,’ says the soldier.
‘What’s going on?’ demands Shakiso.
He shrugs, gestures with his head towards the staffroom where a clamour of heated conversation can be heard.
Moussa is sitting on a table, his arm in a sling, his other hand open as if to calm those shouting. His smile at seeing Shakiso is one of delight and concern.
‘I told you not to come,’ he says.
She hugs him tightly, releasing him instantly as he groans. ‘Sorry,’ she says. ‘What . . .’
Simon and Tuft stand in the doorway looking around the room. It is filled with a seemingly random assortment of people. Tiémoko recognizes a few faces and is surrounded, embraced and drawn into the discussion.
‘Excuse me,’ says Moussa to the others, leading Simon and Shakiso back to the canteen.
‘It is late,’ he says, pushing a button on the coffee machine and setting it to dispense three cups. One of the soldiers gathers his colleagues, and they make space on the sofas.
Moussa looks exhausted and pale, but his hand is firm where he holds his cup.
‘We have a problem,’ he starts.
‘Not Ansar Dine?’ asks Shakiso, her face pale.
‘No,’ shaking his head. ‘There are many different nationalities here. Many have fled civil war at home, or even police states, like in Cameroon and Ethiopia. There are spies and agents from these countries here, and there are others who smuggle goods from here back to these countries.’
‘That’s been happening since the beginning,’ says Shakiso. ‘That was the point of having these huge schools, to encourage integration.’
Moussa nods. ‘That was your plan, yes, but the dynamic of the city has always been volatile. People have put down permanent roots here. Communities are developing, and they do not want outside interference. They want to keep to their own, and they do not trust each other. Not yet. This afternoon armed men raided this school.’
‘Why?’
‘They are a group of smugglers supporting resistance fighters in Ethiopia. We think they wanted boys to take back to become soldiers. I called for UN support,’ indicating the soldiers. ‘Before they arrived, Ethiopian government agents got here, and the two groups began to fight inside the school.’
Shakiso looks stunned.
‘There were only five of the smugglers and three of the agents. The teachers organized the children, getting them to safety in the hall at the back of the classrooms. I waited near the fighting with the headmaster and one of the other teachers. We wanted to ensure that the soldiers would know where the fighters were and that we could warn the others if they began to move towards the hall.’
He stops as the noise outside lessens. A soldier stands and looks out the window. ‘They are leaving now,’ he says, looking relieved.
‘You were shot,’ says Shakiso.
‘Yes. A stray bullet. After the soldiers arrived, the fighters tried to flee. One of them shot me as he was running away.’
‘Are you—’
‘It is not serious,’ says Moussa, quickly. ‘Three of the fighters were caught. The others were killed. We did not know what to do with these captives. If they are Ansar Dine, we hand them to the Senegalese army to deal with. If they are petty criminals, each district has its own informal courts to deal with them. They are harsh and unfair, but it is what we have. This was different. Many communities send their children to this school. We have twenty-five thousand children in this complex every day.’
It is Simon’s turn to look shocked. ‘I never realized it was so big.’
Shakiso has turned pale. She folds back on the sofa.
Moussa looks at her with compassion, but he is unflinching. ‘I have always been worried about this. About what would happen when so many people who already conflict in so many ways are drawn into some violence through a threat to their children. Those people outside are parents. Most came only to take their children home. Many remained.’
‘What do they want?’ asks Shakiso quietly.
‘It has already happened,’ says Moussa. ‘The parents took the three fighters. They burned them outside. Their anger remains. They want to know who will protect them. The Ethiopians in the city are in hiding.’
‘Where’s UNHCR? Surely—’
‘This is not a camp, Shakiso,’ says Moussa. ‘Our agencies have no role here. There are only a few soldiers to protect agency property, like this school. All we may do is offer guidance.’
Simon nods. ‘This is where it leads,’ he says thoughtfully. A city of millions without the protective structure of a state.
‘You have allowed Climate to adapt, Shakiso,’ says Moussa. ‘We are grateful, but now we are no different from a civil-engineering firm who builds roads. We are not responsible for how people drive, or what the rules are.’
‘What happens now?’ asks Shakiso, looking numbed.
Moussa smiles. ‘It is happening. Come,’ and leading them back to the staffroom.
‘I have been working with different community groups for months. That woman,’ he says, ‘was a constitutional lawyer in Kenya. That man was a judge in Rwanda. She, a human rights lawyer in Sudan. Each of them manages legal disputes in their own communities. They want to bring their communities together for a constitutional convention. They want their own courts, their own security. They will find their own solutions.’
Tiémoko joins them. ‘Has our hero told you of his bravery?’
Shakiso nods.
‘About the child?’ says Tiémoko, indicating a Chinese woman with a small boy held tightly in her arms.
Shakiso recognizes her from the printing works.
‘That is Donald, one of the many orphans in the city,’ he continues, seeing that Moussa has not told them. ‘It seems he has taken to sneaking into the school at lunchtime to get a free meal. He was on his own, and the smugglers captured him as he was climbing through a fence near where they were hiding.
‘Our Moussa,’ looking at him proudly, ‘dragged the boy to safe
ty during the fighting.’
Moussa shrugs and blushes, smiling again at Shakiso. ‘I said it was not necessary for you to come.’
‘You convinced Mrs Chen to adopt him?’ asks Tiémoko.
‘Not yet, but I called her and she came immediately. He was terrified and fighting with us until she came.’
Shakiso beams at him, looking both proud and lost.
‘Shakiso,’ says Moussa, taking her hand and speaking as gently and firmly as he is able. ‘It is time for you to let go. I must take over now.’
She seems to shrink, recognizing the wisdom in his words. ‘I know,’ she says.
She stares long into the room where people are writing on boards in small groups, each apparently tackling different concerns. Many are tapping at their consoles while debating, having looked up other statutes to support their opinions. ‘You’re right, Moussa. We’ll leave you to it.’
She embraces him gently. Simon shakes his free hand as Tuft rubs up against his legs.
They return to the canteen, leaving Moussa to rejoin the whirling discussion.
‘What will you do?’ asks Simon.
Her eyes are the fog of an ocean dawn. ‘There was a time when Oktar was the right person for the job. Times changed, and he had no useful answers. I cursed him for not recognizing it. Moussa is the right person now. He lives here. He is of this city. I’m not. And,’ she says, ‘there’s you.’
The soldiers are packing up and beginning to leave. The streets are quiet outside. The anger is spent.
‘Did you know about this?’ asks Simon, searching Tiémoko’s eyes.
He nods. ‘Moussa and I speak often. We have been worried about such an eruption for months.’
Shakiso allows her mind to go blank, calming herself. ‘Has it only been a few hours since we were listening to that story?’ she asks. ‘What happened at the end – to the animals – I missed it when Moussa called.’
‘What?’ asks Simon, looking confused.
‘The animals. There were so many different animals, all trying to cross an ocean to get to a promised land. You remember?’ worried once more that she did not hear the story that was actually told.
Tiémoko smiles gently. ‘They made it. The Wall of Shame is broken,’ touching Simon on the shoulder.
‘Joshua and his family,’ says Simon, his eyes distant. ‘Maybe I will get to—’
Tuft whines as Simon staggers, losing his balance briefly. Shakiso grabs on to his arm, Tiémoko at his back.
‘What’s happening?’
Simon looks disoriented, his skin clammy. His breath in short gasps. Shakiso crouches and holds him tightly, her face torn with anguish. ‘Simon?’
He recovers, clarity returning to his eyes.
‘I’m sorry, my darling. It’s time.’ His voice is exhausted.
‘Can you stand?’
‘I think so.’
‘Let’s get you home.’
He leans on them as they walk slowly out to the waiting helicopter.
33
‘Do you think he realized?’ asks Uberti, his feet up on his desk, swirling his vodka in a glass clenched between chubby fingers.
Pazanov is seated in the middle of the room, his knees drawn together, his vodka against his brow. Cigarette smoke twists and rises from the ashtray between them on the floor. Both are watching a Russia Today journalist standing uncomfortably in front of the reopening ceremony at the European Parliament in Strasbourg.
Archival footage of La traversée des pèlerins, of people sobbing on the northern beaches of the Mediterranean, police vehicles overturned and in flames, long queues of people voting in Belgium’s referendum on joining the Federation, black flags and skinheads marching, an old man holding up an ancient purple EU passport alongside his orange Dutch card and grinning toothlessly, dark-skinned children playing football in a park joined by a laughing rush of fair-haired friends.
The sound is muted, and the images pulse and flicker in the sombre room, fluttering with the spurt and sparks from the fire in the grate.
‘I suppose it was inevitable that the blockade would fail once Ansar Dine fell. Too many people crossed the desert for it to hold. He must have realized that, once it did, there would be so much chaos there we could easily get our submersibles in. His line would never be safe,’ says Pazanov.
‘He made the best of his situation while he tried to figure out how to get across,’ says Uberti. ‘He’s still out-thinking us.
‘Still, this all might be good for business. Millions of new “Europeans” all wanting their new electric apartments and new electric cars.’
Pazanov feels the weight of the console in his suit jacket pocket and wonders whether he should show Uberti what he has seen.
‘The difficulty is this new Federation,’ he says, choosing to wait.
Uberti makes a dismissive gesture. ‘Six countries does not make a Federation, and they only join because they fear being alone. It could be years before they’re able to work together. No, we will have retired by then, and it can be someone else’s problem.
‘He has irritated us, certainly, reminded us of the danger of being complacent, but we have lost nothing irreplaceable.’
‘Except Valuchkin,’ says Pazanov quietly. ‘I sent some roses to his widow.’
‘What?’ asks Uberti, scarcely paying attention as he rises and heads for the liquor cabinet, waving a hand in dismissal. He has no wish for further details. He pours himself another measure of vodka, returning with the bottle and offering it to Pazanov, who shakes his head.
The pressure has eased, and Uberti no longer has the leaden hunted look that shrouded him over the last year. He may even take a vacation down to Crimea this summer.
‘Did you find Argenti?’ he asks, remembering.
‘Yes,’ says Pazanov. ‘He is in Yalta, and retired, as you thought.’
‘How did he get into drugs?’
‘He didn’t. He transports the arms to Venezuela, where they’re loaded along with regular drug shipments from the Caracas Cartel. These deals are normally small and sent via a drone from a submarine, but the blockade has prevented anything getting through for the last three years. Ag Ghaly was desperate. It seems the drug suppliers and Argenti conspired to sell one huge deal and have it flown there in this convoy. Ag Ghaly paid cash up front. I think they may have known before any of us that Ag Ghaly would fall, even before Adaro helped him down.’
‘What did Argenti sell him? Not even on his best day could he put together more than $50 million of weapons. His share wouldn’t be enough to retire on.’
‘He wouldn’t say, but I got the feeling those weapons were duds. Perhaps they deliberately sabotaged the delivery? Do you want me to push him?’
‘No. Let him have his retirement.’
‘The Senegalese presidential election is in three weeks. Should we still go ahead?’ asks Pazanov. ‘We have about one hundred of Ag Ghaly’s veterans in safe-houses in Dakar, and I should be able to get another twenty of our own forces in there before the inauguration.’
Uberti sticks his bottom lip out until he can just see it. He flicks it with a finger, watching it bobble back and forth.
The refurnished office looks almost exactly as it did last spring. Except for a tendency for one of the doors to stick, it looks as if his eruption had never taken place. The office of a siloviki in complete command of his operations.
‘No, let them have their peace. You tell me Adaro has not left London in months. Maybe he has tired of his sport and we can buy those farms from him.’
Pazanov picks at a scratch on the chair arm, grimaces and pulls the console from his pocket.
‘I’m still not sure we understand what he’s doing.’
‘Does it matter? He wanted to hurt us. He hurt us. We will recover.’
Pazanov rises and walks over to the table. He flicks his thumb across the console screen.
‘I went to the mountains near Bologna last week to have a look at the receiving statio
n he’s building there. I wanted to see what is happening and understand if he still intends delivering on his deal with the Europeans. This is what it looks like,’ sliding the console across the table.
Uberti stares at it, shaking his head.
‘I don’t understand. What is this?’
‘We don’t know. I asked our engineers down in Kursk what it is, and they have no idea either. All they can say is that only part of it is a receiving station. The rest – it looks like some sort of radio satellite dish.’
Uberti thumbs through different pictures, equally blurry and indistinct, turning the console around.
‘You couldn’t get any closer?’
‘The Spanish security weren’t happy even with me this close. What I can say is that there is no path to the sea from there. They haven’t secured any of the land they would need.’
‘How big is it?’
‘That’s the thing. It’s enormous. They have taken over an old wind-turbine farm. The grounds are about fourteen kilometres square. That array, whatever it is, is about half that. They’re also continuing to buy and clear land around the station.’
He retrieves the console and flips into another application.
‘This is time-lapse satellite footage of the site.’
Uberti watches the jerky transformation of the dusty landscape. A central bowl scraped out and earth carried away, poured into open hoppers on the outskirts of the site. A strange oblong vehicle creeps out and drives down into the depression.
‘We think that’s a different type of vitrification printer to the one he’s been using in the desert. It seems to have some sort of hopper on top. You’ll see drones flying back and forth to it. They replace batteries as well as pouring material into it. From what we can see from the footage, it hasn’t stopped operations in fourteen months.’
‘What is this thing?’
‘We don’t know.’
‘Is it still operating?’
‘No,’ says Pazanov, sliding the footage through to near the end, speeding up the vehicle which looks like a spider spinning its web, round and round. ‘It finished about three weeks ago.’
The footage shows the vehicle being lifted and vanishing out of shot.