by Dawson, Mark
“What happened?”
“My father died during the war. He was a soldier. The Americans bombed his tank. There is a road from Basra that heads to Baghdad. A lot of traffic that day. Many tanks. The Americans sent bomb after bomb. Many men were killed. I was a baby. My mother told me what happened. I do not remember him.”
“And your mother?”
“She was shot.”
“By who?”
“The security men. She was one of the ones they killed. The shooting at the office of the oil company. Did you hear about that?”
“Yes, I did. A little.”
“There was a big protest. Bigger than today. Angrier. Many people complaining that jobs were going to foreigners and not local people. My mother complained for my brother.”
“Were you there, too?”
“At the back. I saw.”
That was why she had been returning. She wanted justice, and there was no other means to get it for a twelve-year-old girl.
Until now, perhaps.
That was it. Beatrix realised why she wasn’t able to leave. It was safest to stay; that was part of it, but it wasn’t all of it. There was something of Isabella in the young Iraqi girl. The same age, give or take. The same stoicism. Abandoned, just the same. Her own sense of guilt, buried just beneath the surface, couldn’t be ignored. She couldn’t leave her now without knowing if she could help. Money, perhaps. She had plenty.
“You said you had a brother?”
“Yes.”
“Where is he?”
“The security men arrested him. He wouldn’t leave my mother when they told everyone to move away. They hit him in the head with their rifles and took him away.”
“Do you know where he is?”
“I do not know for sure. There is a building where they say they keep their prisoners. Perhaps there.”
“Has he been charged?”
“I do not know. I do not understand what is involved. He has done nothing wrong. I hope they will release him. But I have not seen him since they took him away.”
Beatrix was humbled by the little girl’s grace and composure. She had been orphaned, and now her brother had been arrested, too. There was no one to help her. How had she buried her mother? Had she been able to? How had she managed to do anything?
“Do you have any other relatives?”
“Not in Iraq. We have an aunt and uncle in Kuwait. But I have never met them.”
She had been put through a terrible experience that would have crushed most people, and yet here she was, trying to maintain what was left of the family home, waiting patiently for her brother to be released. But what if he wasn’t released? The riot would be characterised as inspired by insurgents. That would be the story that they would tell. And what if he was implicated in that? What if he met with an accident while in custody? What if he was disappeared? Juntas had been using those tactics to keep the people under the yoke for centuries.
“You said you were a journalist, Beatrix.”
Beatrix regretted that she had lied to her now. “Yes,” she said, because what else could she say? “That’s right.”
“Perhaps you could tell a story about what has happened?”
“To your brother?”
“Yes. Perhaps it would make a difference.”
“Yes,” she said. “Perhaps it would.”
The girl smiled and exhaled, and Beatrix watched as the enforced maturity sloughed away and she saw her for exactly what she was: a twelve-year-old girl who was growing up too fast under the most awful circumstances. Beatrix thought again of Isabella, and the loss that she was going to have to face before the year was out. A loss on top of all the other losses. The thought brought the pain back to the surface in a sudden rush, and she couldn’t suppress the wince.
“Are you alright?” Mysha said, hurrying over to her.
“Maybe he hit me harder than I thought he did.” She braced against a chair and did not resist as the girl guided her down into it.
“You should rest, Beatrix.”
“Maybe I should.”
“It is getting late. Stay here tonight. I will tell you about my brother. For your story.”
The hour was getting late, that was true. Beatrix thought about it. There was very little that she would be able to do this evening, and in any event, Duffy might have already started to look for her by now. Roadblocks were a possibility. Rolling patrols. Her earlier decision was right: it made sense for her to lay low for a few hours until the initial impetus waned. If it were her looking for him, she would scour the immediate area and then gradually widen the perimeter until it reached the city, and then she would search the hotels.
The risk of discovery was greatest now.
It was safer to stay where she was.
And it would give Faulkner a chance to make an assessment, too, and work out the safest way for her to return to the city.
And she felt so very, very tired.
“Thank you, Mysha. That’s very kind. But I need to speak to my colleague. He will be worried about me. Do you have a telephone I could use?”
“Of course,” Mysha said. “It was my mother’s. There is some credit on it.” She opened a box and took out an old-fashioned Nokia. She switched it on and handed it to Beatrix.
Beatrix had memorised Faulkner’s number. “It’s me,” she said as soon as the call connected.
“What happened?”
Mysha surely wouldn’t be able to speak English, but she spoke quietly and quickly, nonetheless. “A demonstration of how Manage Risk does its business.”
“Are you alright?”
“I got cold-cocked, but I’ll live. Where were you?”
“They moved me on. I doubled back, but they wouldn’t let me get anywhere near you.”
“It’s fine, Faulkner. Relax. I’m fine.”
“Did you get closer to Duffy?”
“Yes. It’s him. He was there. Right in the middle of it. I think he saw me.”
“Shit.”
Mysha brought her another cup of tea.
“What do we do next?” Faulkner asked.
“If he did see me, he’ll be looking for me now. The road back to the city won’t be safe. I’ve got somewhere to stay tonight. I’m out of the way.”
“And?”
“And I’ll need you to come and pick me up. Tomorrow morning. Seven.”
She told him where she was.
“Fine. And then?”
“I need you to arrange a call with Pope.”
He hesitated. “Okay . . . you want to tell me what you want to speak to him about? Because I know he’s going to ask.”
“You need to tell him there’s going to be a change of plan.”
“We’re still going to get Mackenzie West?”
“I promised Pope I would, and so we will.”
“What about Duffy?”
“We’re going to need him to help us do what I want to do.”
“You think that’s likely?”
“I can be persuasive.”
Mysha busied herself by the stove, coming over to check on Beatrix at regular intervals and bringing fresh cups of tea. Beatrix didn’t have her bag with her, and the Zomorph was in it. The pain was bad, but she was going to have to go without her pills. She concentrated on her breathing, and after a while, the pain receded a little.
The shack grew dark as the hour drew on. Mysha lit the paraffin lamp and hung it from a hook on one of the joists that supported the ceiling. The light was warm and inviting, flickering against the blanketed walls. Beatrix drifted in and out of sleep until she became aware of pleasant aromas. Mysha brought her a tray of food. She had prepared sabich, pita stuffed with fried aubergine and hard-boiled eggs. There was also shawarma, a wrap made of shaved lamb and goat.
“Have you kept food for yourself?” Beatrix said as the girl passed the plate across to her.
“Yes, I have plenty,” she said, although Beatrix knew that she was probably lying.
“Here,” she said, tearing the shawarma and passing half back to her.
“No . . .”
“Eat it, Mysha.”
The girl paused, but then did as she was told. She finished it quickly, betraying her hunger.
“Do you have a photograph of your brother?”
“For your story?”
“Yes.”
“Of course.”
She went over to a bag at the other side of the hut, and when she returned, she had a passport photo. She gave it to Beatrix. The young man in the photograph couldn’t have been much older than twenty. He was handsome, with a clear and open face and thick, jet-black hair. His hazel eyes sparkled with life.
“What’s his name?”
“His name is Faik. Faik al-Kaysi.”
“And his age?”
“Nineteen.”
“Do you mind if I borrow this?”
Her face flinched with reluctance.
“Don’t worry. He can bring it back himself after I get him out.”
“You can do that . . . ?”
“I’m going to try.”
Mysha put her fingers to her cheek, and her lip quivered. “I . . .”
“It’s alright, Mysha. I’m going to speak to some people I know. They will be able to help.”
Her voice cracked a little. “Thank you.”
She reached out and took the girl by the shoulder. “There’s something else. My station pays for stories . . .”
“I don’t want anything,” she interrupted quickly.
“I would feel bad if I didn’t pay you.”
She was about to protest again, but she was stalled by Beatrix’s raised hand. She put the other one into her pocket and took out two fifty-dollar bills. She pressed them into the girl’s hand.
“Don’t worry,” she said. “I’ll make sure you get your brother back again.”
“Thank you,” she sniffled, almost pitifully grateful.
Beatrix looked up at the wall opposite her. There were a dozen school achievement medals that had been clipped to the fabric covering, all in the name of Mysha al-Kaysi and all from at least three years ago.
“Those are very impressive,” Beatrix said.
Mysha was busying herself with cleaning the stove. She looked up and looked over to where Beatrix was pointing. She smiled shyly. “It is nothing. Just school.”
“Do you still go?”
“Not any more. I have to look after the house now that my . . .” She started to say “mother,” then “brother,” and then she stopped and looked down at the stove again. “It is alright. I was lucky to be able to go at all. Many of my friends cannot. They cannot read or write.”
“What do you want to do when you’re older?”
Mysha looked at her as if Beatrix was fooling with her. “When I am older? I will be a wife, if Allah is willing.”
“You don’t want to do something else? A career?”
“This is not America, Beatrix. That is not for me. I will be happy to have a husband and a family.”
“And your brother wants to work on the oil field?”
“It is a good paying job. We do not have much. It would help.” She looked reluctant as she said it.
“What do you think?”
“It is dangerous. Many men are injured. Many die. I would worry.”
Beatrix finished the food and then helped to wash the dishes. The girl pulled a box away from the wall and took out blankets and a pillow. She arranged them in the centre of the makeshift room, layering the blankets to soften the rough contours of the bare earth. When she had finished, there were two separate beds. She indicated that Beatrix should lie down.
She did as she was told.
“Good night,” the girl said.
She extinguished the paraffin lamp, and the shack fell dark.
“Good night.”
Beatrix couldn’t sleep.
She was in an unfamiliar place, in an unfriendly country. The silence was intermittent, disturbed by a loud and drunken argument from the next shack along, the misfiring of a car engine and, in the distant desert, the howling of wild dogs.
But the inability to rest was thanks to more than those distractions.
She closed her eyes again, but her mind was racing too fast and would not be still. She gave up and sat, removed the blankets and as quietly as she could, she stood up. Mysha was beside her, snoring very lightly, her breath going in and out with a light snuffle. Beatrix stepped over her legs and pulled aside the tarpaulin that covered the door. She went outside.
Something was different. Unusual. It was quiet now. The argument had subsided, the car had passed on and the dogs had either found something to eat or had moved away.
She looked up. The moon was shaded a burnt reddish-orange, the light reflecting through the smog from the burning gas and the sand in the air. It reminded her of a blood moon. Beatrix had seen one before, in Africa, so long ago that it seemed like another lifetime. There had been fresh blood on her hands then, the corpse of the Zimbabwean arms dealer still warm in the sand at her feet. He had dealt death and misery all around the continent, and he had, without doubt, warranted her attention. Beatrix had never given him a second thought, but now she found herself wondering about his situation: Had he had a wife, children, loved ones? Did that make any difference?
A blood moon.
How appropriate.
She sat in the sand and watched the sky for thirty minutes, the incremental progress of the red stain as it seemed to darken and swallowed the whole of the moon.
She reached into her pocket and took out the torn strip of photographs. She unfolded it and looked at her daughter and the way that she was looking at her. She touched her fingertips against her sweet face.
Her thoughts ran away with her. She was thinking about the decisions that she had made. Once Isabella had been returned to her care and could no longer be used against her, she had made the decision to wipe out those who had done her wrong.
To extinguish them.
But was it a decision? A decision required alternatives, different paths that could be taken in lieu of the one that she had chosen. Did she have a choice in any of this? Were there other paths? How much room was there for free will?
She had spent almost a decade nursing her grudges, dripping poison into the open wounds that had been inflicted by the five men and one woman who had found their way onto her list. The wound had festered and become septic. There had never been any chance for it to heal. After long enough, the need to avenge herself on them had become reflexive, as instinctive as the scratching of an itch.
She had never stopped to think about whether there was another course that she could take.
She stretched out her legs to ease the ache and considered. She could stop, she supposed, and ignore what had been done to her. Not forgive them, and never forget, but just let the hatred go and abandon her short future to fate. But too much had already happened for that to be possible. There were choices, but those choices had consequences, too. Her own decisions were one thing. She couldn’t influence theirs. She could go back to the riad, but they would find her. She could flee and hide somewhere else, but they would find her there, too. Perhaps the cancer would finish her before they did, but that was no solace.
Because there was Isabella, too.
Control and the others knew that Beatrix was in the world now, looking for them; their names were on a list, all ready to be struck out. They would do everything they could to protect themselves. She knew Control. He would feel cornered and vulnerable, and the only possible response for a man like him would be to go on the attack. The
re would be no respite. No surcease. She could go dark again, and he wouldn’t rest. He would be relentless, determined, and tear down the world until he found her. He had resources behind him that she couldn’t hope to beat. If she delayed, she would lose all of her advantages. He would find her in the end, and when he did, there would be nothing that she could do.
She had to take the battle to him while she had the advantage. She would keep moving, perpetual motion, so that he could be kept off balance.
She looked at the photographs again.
She had her daughter to think about now.
She had no choice.
There were no alternatives.
She was set on a course that she could not change.
Immutable.
Indelible.
Unshakeable.
She had to follow it to its destination, whatever that was.
She looked up into the darkened vault of the sky again. The moon, plump and fat, was suspended above the rolling dunes, an orange counterpoint to the flames that burned on the horizon, the torches of fired gas. The crimson filter crept all the way across the silver disc, staining it all. Beatrix stood, brushing the sand from her legs. Her mind was clear now. She knew that she had no choice in any of this. Her fate was a focussed beam, from here to its vanishing point, that allowed no possibility of diversion. There was peace in that knowledge, and her mind, finally, was quietened.
She folded the strip of photographs along the crease and slipped it back into her pocket again.
She went back inside, fastened the tarpaulin behind her and returned to her bed. She was asleep within minutes.
Chapter Nineteen
The news that Ahmed was dead passed around the cell quickly, and then it was passed down the corridor to the other cells. It was adorned with new information, some of it true and plenty of it false, until it returned to their cell the next day so changed that it was difficult to know what to believe. The suggestion that he had suffered a heart attack was debunked, and now everyone believed the same thing: he had been tortured for his impertinence and had died during the ordeal.
That was probably true. The details didn’t matter.
The temperature rose higher and higher until the atmosphere was feverish.