by Holly Watt
At her desk in London, Hessa tracked the Bombardier as it cruised around the world. From Hong Kong it flew to Sydney, from Sydney to Jakarta, and then on to Singapore. A few hours later it appeared in Shanghai. Every time the jet left an airport, their nerves tightened, wondering where it would turn.
In Djanet, Casey lay sleepless on her bed, worrying about their plan. They needed luck, too much luck, and she didn’t like relying on luck.
It was Miranda who snapped at them. Casey was avoiding Ed. Eating breakfast before he woke up, and escaping to her room after lunch with one of the strong, sweet Arabic coffees. Ed was polite and thoughtful, just as he had always been, carrying bags and holding doors. But he was distant, too, disappearing into a book as he sat down.
‘I’m sorry, you two,’ said Miranda, as they sat stiffly in the courtyard, under the shade of a soaring pink bougainvillea, ‘but you’re going to have to sort it out.’
They looked up, both instinctively wary.
‘If you’re going to pass as a couple, you can’t be like this,’ Miranda went on. ‘I mean it. You won’t get away with it.’
‘We’ll be fine when we have to be,’ said Casey. She couldn’t look at Ed and wondered if she was blushing.
‘I’m sure you will be,’ said Miranda. ‘But we don’t know yet what Ed is like in this sort of situation, and we’re throwing him in at the deep end anyway.’
‘I’ll be fine,’ Ed broke in.
‘I don’t know that you will be,’ said Miranda. ‘And if you fuck up, you’re both dead. I mean it. I can’t let you go in if you can’t ask Casey to pass the salt.’
‘It’s not that bad,’ Casey protested.
‘It is,’ Miranda said. ‘Plus they’re going to have to want to have you both around. You know how it is. You’re going to have to be fun, and, quite frankly, right now the pair of you are making even me feel uncomfortable.’
‘Maybe’ – and Casey hated even to make it a possibility – ‘maybe you should go in with Ed. And I’ll stay behind.’
‘You two know each other better,’ said Miranda. ‘Ed and I have no shared history. I would be flying blind. Plus I don’t think that Tom would love the idea of me cavorting around with a gorgeous Marine.’
Ed ducked his head.
‘You’re just worrying because we’re here, and waiting and waiting,’ said Casey. ‘We’ll be fine once we get going.’
‘I can’t rely on that,’ said Miranda. ‘I was awake in the middle of the night thinking about sending someone with PTSD into this situation. It suddenly seems mad.’
Casey and Ed both went still. Post-traumatic stress disorder, the waking nightmares, the shattering mind. For a second, they all watched the bougainvillea petals spiralling in the wind.
‘Fine,’ said Ed. ‘We will work at this.’
And even as he said it, with the echo of some marriage-counselling session, Casey felt the edges of her mouth lift.
‘Better,’ said Miranda. ‘Right. I am going to go for a walk around sodding Djanet. You two find a way of making this work.’
She threw a scarf around her head, and swept out of the courtyard.
In one corner of the courtyard there was a wooden swing seat, padded with faded green cushions.
‘Maybe,’ Ed gestured, ‘we should try sitting over there.’
They sat side by side, awkward as dolls.
‘Maybe we should just try and talk,’ suggested Casey.
‘Great,’ said Ed, too quickly.
A long silence followed. Someone further down the street was smoking a shisha, sweet apple smoke drifting in the breeze. Casey stared at the tiled walls of the courtyard, blue and white, corkscrewing curls and lacy stars. Her eyes followed the pattern all the way along the wall.
‘Stop looking at the tiles,’ said Ed.
‘I can’t help it,’ said Casey. And then, all in a rush, ‘How is it? The—’
‘It’s getting better,’ interrupted Ed. ‘I promise you I wouldn’t be here if I couldn’t handle it.’
‘That’s wonderful,’ said Casey. ‘Really wonderful.’
‘They helped, as much as they could,’ said Ed. ‘I think it’s just going to take time. You struggle with odd things, things you’d never expect.’
‘But you’re enjoying the work, with the news crews?’
‘I am,’ he told her. ‘And I know you helped with getting that job, so thank you.’
‘It was nothing.’
Casey was watching the tiles again, the pattern twisting in her mind.
‘Is there someone . . .’ Casey started and broke off. ‘Sorry. I know I shouldn’t ask. But I just need . . .’
‘And you’ve never been great at unanswered questions.’ Ed smiled at her. ‘That much, I remember.’
‘I’m just going to wonder until I know. I’m sorry.’
‘It’s OK.’ He paused. ‘There was someone for a bit. She was very sweet, very gentle.’
Casey felt jealousy burn through her.
‘I moved on too,’ she said.
‘It didn’t work,’ Ed went on. ‘I can’t be that person to anyone right now. I don’t know why . . . I just can’t.’
‘Well’ – Casey made her voice brisk – ‘I hope you work it out eventually.’
The silence lengthened. A skinny black cat, with hungry eyes and patchy fur, prowled across the courtyard.
‘I’ll look like that cat if I live here too long,’ said Ed. ‘That lunch was abysmal.’
It wasn’t much of a joke, but Casey smiled. They sat, side by side, watching the cat stalk a pink petal across the courtyard.
Ed put his arm around her. Casey jumped up, knocking her book to the ground.
‘You can’t do that,’ said Ed. ‘You can’t flinch when I touch you.’
‘I know.’ Casey clapped her hands over her eyes. ‘I know. Sorry.’
They stared at each other, under the swirl of flowers.
‘I’m going to have to touch you,’ said Ed. ‘I’m going to have to touch you and hug you and kiss you. That’s just how it is.’
‘I know,’ Casey said. ‘I know it’s acting, OK? Love’s young dream, and all that. And it’s just for a few days.’
‘Acting,’ said Ed. ‘It’s just acting. You do this all the time.’
‘Not this, exactly, but something like it.’ Casey clenched her fists, nails deep into her palms. ‘Kiss me now, Ed. We’ve got to just get it out of the way.’
For a second, they both laughed.
‘I know it’s ridiculous,’ said Ed. He stepped towards her, moving slowly. Very carefully, he put his arms around her, brushing her hair back from her face.
He kissed her then, in the shady courtyard, watched by the disapproving cat. Gently at first, then harder, drawing her body to his, pulling her in.
And Casey kissed him back, her hands winding around his neck, closing her eyes until he was everything and there was nothing else.
From the entrance came the sound of clapping.
‘That,’ said Miranda, ‘looks a lot more like it.’
22
They waited for days, with that odd combination of nerves and boredom. Casey and Ed practised meeting eyes and holding hands, curling up on the old swing seat in the evening light. She got used to his body against her, rock-solid and oddly gentle.
Occasionally, Casey wondered if her heart would break.
It wasn’t real, any of it. Sometimes she watched as his eyes went blank, and he disappeared to somewhere else, a million miles away.
‘Come back, Ed’ – she would tap his elbow – ‘Stay with me.’
And he would remember to smile and joke, stroking her face with a perfectly careless familiarity.
They read endless books and tried to sleep at night. Miranda, incapable of inaction, always tried to learn more Arabic on journeys, chanting school phrases at the elderly woman who ran the hotel.
‘Am I making any sense, Ed?’
‘Frankly, no.’
Ed tried to jog in the bla
zing heat, and returned brick-red and exhausted.
And then Miranda’s phone bleeped.
‘It’s Hessa,’ she said. ‘The Bombardier has just landed at Tiska.’
They all went silent. Tiska was the scruffy little airport twenty miles south of Djanet.
‘Where has it arrived from?’ asked Casey.
‘London,’ said Miranda. ‘It flew out of Northolt this morning.’
There was that pause, the quiet before the storm.
‘OK.’ Ed was the first to break the spell. ‘We’re ready. Let’s go.’
They got lucky, at first.
Leaving the Bombardier gleaming on the runway, the shiny black pickup whisked out of Tiska and north towards Djanet. Not east, out along the scorched road that led directly to Libya. Just in case, Ed and Casey were waiting on the eastern road to Libya, stranded by a carefully disabled Hilux, and hoping that their plight, as a couple of pretty Western tourists, would be enough to convince the speeding car to stop.
‘I’m just not convinced it will work,’ Casey had said nervously. ‘From all we know about these people, compassion may not be their thing. They’ll go straight past us.’
‘We just have to hope,’ said Miranda. ‘Shortest skirt and sweetest wave. But I do think they will go straight up to Djanet for a night, at least. It’s ten hours’ drive to anywhere in Libya, and they’ll want to do that border crossing in the light.’
‘They won’t want to do any of that road in the dark,’ said Ed. ‘There’ll be bandits out there.’
‘Maybe they’ll get a helicopter.’
‘Milo wouldn’t have had that stamp in his passport, if they’d gone by helicopter.’
‘Fuck it,’ said Casey. ‘Fuck. If you don’t spot them, how am I going to know who to aim for? Fuck.’
She always got tense before an operation.
‘There aren’t enough of us out here to make it easy,’ agreed Miranda, who was used to calming her down. ‘But you guys have to be out on that road, in case they go straight towards Ghat. We have to keep that route covered. I’ll do the town. Don’t worry.’
‘We need more people,’ said Casey. ‘This team is far too fucking small. It’s ridiculous. We can’t cover all the options.’
‘It will be OK,’ Ed interrupted. ‘Apart from our little place, there isn’t really anywhere else for them to stay in Djanet, except that one hotel. We know the Germans are staying there, and the French, and we’ve seen them already. It isn’t a huge place. We’ll have to listen for English voices and work it out from there.’
‘Just because they came in from London doesn’t mean they’re English,’ Casey pointed out sulkily. ‘And it only works if they go to that hotel.’
‘It’s OK, Casey.’ Miranda was soothing. ‘We’ve got lots of chances to get this right. Dash isn’t expecting it to work straight off. Just take it slowly.’
Instead of taking the road to Libya, the Land Cruiser rolled into Djanet. As Miranda watched from the square, the black pickup drove under a green-tiled archway and straight into the courtyard of the Palais. A dark-haired man was driving, a pale man beside him. The dark-haired man was smiling, pointing, knowing.
Miranda gave them ten minutes, and followed. After the heat of the square, it was cool in the reception of the Riad Palais. Miranda booked a room, using her married name. The bellboy was obsequious.
Now she untidied the room, and headed to the roof terrace. From there, the view stretched all around, scrappy rooftops ignoring the sun. There were only two tables up here, and a ragged umbrella. It wouldn’t do. It would only work if they came up here for the view, and he might not care for the rooftops of Djanet.
Miranda prowled around the hotel. As usual, the rooms were set around an interior courtyard, providing a breath of shade. There was an alcove at one end of the covered walk, with a couple of benches, padded with cushions. On a low table stood a beautiful chess set, ebony and ivory. Miranda sprawled gracefully, book out.
The dark-haired man came out of his room, and shouted a few words. A muffled reply, negative. He laughed and disappeared towards the street. Miranda didn’t look up, didn’t meet his eyes. Not him, she calculated. Not him. But now she knew which room to watch.
She stood up. The courtyard was empty. She dragged the bench a couple of feet to the right, flicked an imaginary speck from the cushions and settled back down. Now she had a direct line of sight to his room.
Miranda had waited for hours for the right prey. Now she relaxed, smiling blandly as the hotel staff trotted here and there. She gestured for a glass of water and a man brought it, ice bobbing, with a bow. And finally, the door cracked open. A man looked out. Dark red hair, and it suited him. Tall, and used to being obeyed. He stretched, and looked around, and there was Miranda.
A glance, a long one. She held his eye, so it was almost a promise. She’d been here before. So many times. And so had he, she knew already.
‘Would you ever fuck someone for a story?’ Miranda had asked Casey once.
‘No!’ It was always fun to shock Casey, who considered herself so unshockable. ‘Never. You?’
‘Not unless I wanted to anyway. And now not at all, I suppose. But, once upon a time . . .’
An anonymous hotel room, in some desperate dot on the map. Grey walls and white sheets, soft laughter and gasping pleasure.
Just for one night.
Brought together, like this, he’d laugh.
Meant to be, he’d say.
Just for one night.
She remembered the dance, now.
This is what I want. This. That. Now. Again.
I’ll tell you half of my secrets, but not my name. The words, but not the code. My story, but not its end.
And in the morning, the world spins on, and the kaleidoscope turns again.
A kiss goodbye, a long look and a smile. In another world . . .
Turn, and laugh at the chance.
Maybe, she’d think. Maybe. Probably not.
She could see him now, thinking careless thoughts. And she smiled back, half promising. Because a promise might be enough, and promises can always be broken.
He walked towards her, already familiar.
‘Hi.’ That smile. ‘And what are you doing in a place like this?’
She told him she was a researcher, one of those words that can mean everything and nothing. And he didn’t pry, because he didn’t care.
They sat and chatted, laughing at nothing. The night was hours away. No rush. She drifted questions at him, knowing he would lie, now more than ever. But there would be clues.
He said his name was Olly. And she thought it probably was, because he hesitated for a second.
They had spent hours deciding how to bait this trap. Milo came from the world of Cézanne and Monet, but Miranda thought they might come from anywhere, these men. They couldn’t all come from the art world, surely. That world, too small. Too few targets.
And so now she talked in circles, drifting around his travels. Not what, but where. Aberdeen was freezing. Saudi, a hassle. And you never knew where you were with Iran.
Oil, thought Miranda. Gas.
She mentioned a visit to Kurdistan, and watched his eyes flicker.
‘I met this amazing couple last night,’ Miranda decided, in the end. ‘He’s looking at the cave art out here.’
‘Cave art?’
‘It’s a thing, apparently.’ She dismissed it with a laugh. ‘Old drawings on the rock. But actually he’s quite an interesting character, this guy. He’s not just about cave art, whatever that is. He’s got interests in oil too.’
She watched him shift, just so slightly.
‘What sort of interests?’
‘Not sure,’ Miranda shrugged. ‘But he was telling me all about some new find in Liberia last night, and it was just announced an hour ago. I got a Bloomberg alert. Should have bought shares, I suppose.’
They half laughed together.
‘Useful guy to know,’ he said.
This version of the story hinted at wealth, eccentricity, contacts.
‘Interesting guy.’ Oliver handed the phone back. ‘You about for dinner?’
‘I’m not.’ And she watched his eyes glitter with frustration. ‘I’ve got to meet someone. Tomorrow?’
‘I think we’ll have moved on by tomorrow.’
‘Too bad.’ She stretched lazily. ‘Too bad.’
And a few minutes later, she slipped back to her room, with just a backwards glance.
23
In the evenings, as the sun burned out, Djanet’s square filled gradually. One stall sold orange juice, another small cakes. A furious cobra, teeth ripped out, was tormented by a flute. A man with no legs and a horrible crust down one side of his face begged, agonisingly.
Small boys dodged through the crowd, kicking a football, bright bursts of energy, largely ignored.
‘Hello, mister. Hello, mister,’ they shouted at every tourist.
Casey and Ed sat at one table outside the coffee shop. All around them, men ate dates and smoked endless cigarettes.
You’re Ed Fitzwilliam, the message came through. He’s intrigued. And Ed pulled on the story like a cloak.
The Germans appeared, in sturdy walking boots, then the French. Casey fretted, but quietly. Then a figure appeared, on the other side of the square. The moment she saw him, Casey’s nerves disappeared, the actress on her stage.
The man drew closer. He was tall, with the fox-red hair Miranda had described. There was a brutal confidence in his walk, even the pushiest Tuareg falling away as he strode past the stalls. This man was familiar, Casey thought. From somewhere. Somewhere . . . Her brain ripped through a million faces, adrenalin speeding everything.
Oliver Selby, she realised. The Cormium boss. At Gigi’s, that night, while she flirted with Brendan. Snapping his fingers at the hostess.
Would he recognise her? No, Casey was sure not. He might have seen her black satin dress that night, but never the girl inside. And he had been surrounded by his friends, acolytes, and drinking games and vodka. That girl, Amelie, coiled around him. It was safe, she was sure. It was safe.
