by Carlos Luxul
On the far side was the old railway, some of it under rock and dust, some still above ground, an indistinct line of russet stretching into the distance. In a spur to one side were battered freight wagons, a fuel bowser, and the remains of a crushing plant, its paint yellowed and peeling.
‘Good job,’ Choukri said, squinting down in the harsh light and kicking at a loose gypsum rock. ‘And the bulldozer?’
‘Khan’s men picked it up this morning.’
‘Good job.’
They made their way across to a zigzag path in the corner of the pit. It wound its deliberate way to the rim of the bowl. At the top, Choukri wiped the sweat from his forehead, taking in the silence and isolation, his eyes panning the horizon. Beyond the mine, in the distance between gaps in the mountains, the blue of the Arabian sea stretched away.
He motioned to Faisel to sit. Faisel’s feet shuffled in the dust as he struggled to make himself comfortable, though the rock was quite smooth, the right height, and almost like a bench.
‘Are there snakes?’ Faisel said, looking around distastefully and swatting at the flies circling his perspiring head.
‘Probably,’ Choukri said; a beetle with an electric-blue shell scuttled away from under his feet.
The burying of the container was important, but it wasn’t the main reason Choukri had come here. From the ship, the hinterland had beckoned. It reminded him of home, the desert’s solace, a place to think. Mubarak had said he’d like Khan, and that, he had to agree, was proving to be true. Khan’s plans were comprehensive, his thoroughness impressive, with modelling of every scenario to identify the ideal operating conditions.
Choukri had no doubt that Khan knew what he was doing, but he wasn’t going to be there on the day. So far it was only theoretical. They could test, but the tests would be dry runs. The mechanical side of it, Khan’s side, held water. The electrical side, the command and control, was in the hands of the Russians.
Subconsciously his fingers crept inside his shirt, turning the pendant over and over. As he sat on the rock idly picking up pebbles and flicking them away, the dinar pendant between his lips, the chain hanging in an arc, the same thing was turning over and over in his mind – what if he pushed the button and nothing happened?
‘My father used to take me into the desert in the evenings,’ he said, breaking his own silence. ‘I had to listen out for wolves. Of course there weren’t any, but he would promise me a dinar if I heard one before him. Sometimes he gave me the money anyway, but usually I went home no richer.’
‘And he’s there now, at home?’
‘Afghanistan. I was put to bed one evening and the next morning he was gone. I was six.’
‘What does he do there?’
‘Nothing. He’s dead. Russians …’
Choukri pulled the chain up from around his neck, studying it for a moment before handing it across to Faisel.
‘Is it still the dinar in Algeria?’ Faisel said, turning the silver chain, looking at the coin, careful not to touch it.
Choukri nodded. ‘Then my mother took us to Marseille where her sister lived. My French was bad, and now it’s better than my Arabic. I went to school, where they tried to teach me to be a good Frenchman.’
‘And then the navy, the French navy?’
‘Better than prison … just. The police rounded us up when there was trouble and the magistrate said prison or the military – make your choice, boy. They’re just cleaning out the estates.’
Choukri was staring straight ahead, but he felt Faisel’s glance at him.
‘What about your community leaders?’ Faisel said.
Choukri turned. ‘You kidding? They’re in on it, the corrupt fuckers,’ he said, before adding a punctuating jet of spit. ‘I keep a special kind of hate for them.’
‘We had the Deutschmark,’ Faisel said, handing the chain back. ‘I was just beginning to understand money and then we got the euro. My parents were proud to name me Mehmet, but then …’ he added. ‘I was taught to be a good German and I looked and sounded like one until someone asked my name. By the time I was ten I understood the looks on the faces of my friends’ mothers.’
The chain was in Choukri’s hand, his fingers turning the coin worn smooth with time. He looked at Faisel, understanding the lost pride in his name, knowing it meant Mohamed in Turkish; the good little German, the dirty little Turk, the cracked mirror of his own experience. ‘Forty thousand shells …’ he said quietly.
Faisel turned. ‘But when?’
Choukri let the suggestion of a smile on his mouth speak of one thing but left his narrowed eyes to say another – don’t ask, don’t push.
‘Soon,’ he conceded, tapping a finger on his forehead. ‘The date’s here, and soon it’ll be our day.’
‘At dinner on the ship you said many thousands will die. Can it really be so?’
‘Forty thousand shells …’ Choukri repeated.
‘And soon it will be our day.’ Faisel nodded.
~
The next morning, a minibus was on the jetty before breakfast, Sunshine Tours painted cheerfully on its sides. Karachi airport was around three hundred miles away, a journey of six hours, considerably shorter than the two days it had taken before the construction of the Makran highway, the new east–west coastal road.
All the crew were going on leave, including Mubarak. The chief engineer and Choukri were staying an extra day. They had things to attend to with the technical superintendent from OceanBird’s office, who was stretching his legs on the jetty and looking up at the ship, having just arrived with the minibus from Karachi.
Within reason, the crew could go where they pleased, which usually meant the fleshpots of Thailand or the Philippines. They had identities that would stand most forms of scrutiny. Home, however, was off-limits. Listed as missing under their former names, their families and communities being watched, they were effectively displaced.
The bus driver packed the luggage away while the crew milled around, calling to each other, arguing over seating plans. Faisel was dressed sensibly, mostly in beige. The morning wasn’t yet hot but he was wearing an anorak, also beige. Rap music was coming from the cans hanging around Snoop Dogg’s neck. He looked like he was ready to hit the clubs. Assam was all tough guy in gangsta black, tapping the beat with a finger on Snoop’s chest and cutting some dance moves, pirouetting on the ball of a foot and striking a balletic pose before going through a flurry of shadow-boxing. ‘Ready to chill, thrill and kill,’ he said, a leer spreading over his face.
Mubarak checked the ship’s emails before going through to breakfast. The frigate had arrived in Toulon ahead of schedule and there was a message from Lieutenant Boissy. It said that everything they had collected from the accident location would be handed over to the authorities and that he was going on holiday. In closing, he wished them good sailing and a happy Christmas.
His reply thanked the lieutenant and explained they were all going on leave as well. He put his private email address in open cc, and Choukri’s, and suggested that if Boissy needed any further information he should feel free to contact either of them directly. After his best regards, he wished him a happy Christmas too.
When Mubarak stepped into the mess, Choukri was attacking a plateful of eggs on waffles with lashings of maple syrup. He poured himself a cup of coffee and sat down, smoothing his crossword out on the table. Five down was giving him considerable trouble: ‘Huge Greek pastries back plan, 9, _ T _ A _ _ _ _ _’
Each week he printed The New York Times’ Sunday magazine puzzle and the Everyman from London’s Observer newspaper. They went everywhere with him. He struggled with some of the more culture-specific clues, but enjoyed an advantage with anything involving Egyptian mythology, which often featured.
His concentration was broken a minute later at the sound of Choukri’s voice, a familiar ‘Exactly.’
‘What is?’ he said.
Choukri looked up. ‘I was thinking to myself, out loud …’ he said, smili
ng self-consciously. ‘How are you? You’re all ready, you’re all ready?’
‘As I’ll ever be,’ Mubarak said, sensing an unfamiliar atmosphere. It could be, he thought, that Choukri recognised this was the last time they would part from each other in this way, returning home, leaving what was effectively their second home, their second family.
They exchanged enquiries about flights, the minibus, the road to Karachi and the airport, though Mubarak steered clear of what was at the front of his mind: the parting from the ship.
‘I think I might make Faisel some sort of acting captain when we get back,’ he said.
‘Why not. Do him good,’ Choukri said.
Faisel’s exam results were due. It was a foregone conclusion that he would pass. He would have his master’s ticket.
‘It will help him come out of his shell,’ Mubarak said, glancing towards the mess door at the sound of footsteps in the corridor. He turned back, catching Choukri’s eye. ‘So how will it be for you, at home?’
Choukri’s gaze dropped. ‘Fine,’ he said. ‘I’ll just act the same, I guess. Nothing any different from any other time I go home. And you?’
‘The same.’ Mubarak shrugged. ‘I’ll see my daughter for the first time in two years, but as usual we won’t get on. I’ll put fresh flowers on my wife’s grave, and at the end I’ll tidy my apartment and pay the landlord the usual six months’ rent. I’ve had that apartment for twenty years. Nothing has changed. Not the landlord, not the furniture, not the way I live. Only the world has changed.’
‘My wife is excited about a new apartment. I’m supposed to go and see it when I get back. She’s choosing the curtains and things. What can I say?’
‘The district’s changed though. There’s a Starbucks on every corner,’ Mubarak added.
‘I don’t like the district,’ Choukri said.
‘No, nor me. I used to.’
‘No, in Algiers.’
‘Sorry,’ Mubarak said, realising they had each been in their own worlds, talking to themselves rather than the other person.
‘So you’ll leave everything just as you normally would?’ Choukri said.
‘Yes. See my friends from the Brotherhood. Say my goodbyes. Maybe they’ll feel something different in me this time. Maybe they’ll think it’s just me.’
‘They mean a lot to you.’
‘I’ve known them all my life, but I think it’s more valuable that they’ve known me all my life. There’s no room for pretence. You can’t fool people who’ve known you since you were a child.’
Choukri looked away, the heels of his boots grinding together. ‘Oh yeah. I nearly forgot. You saw the news, Madrid last night?’
‘I did,’ Mubarak said, the side of his mouth screwing up. ‘Did it have to be kids?’
‘Not my decision – but an efficient operation,’ Choukri said, gathering his things together and pushing up from the table.
Evidently, Mubarak thought. Yesterday evening, outside a Justin Bieber concert in Madrid, a truck had ploughed into the queue – mostly kids, girls with their mothers. The news was still fresh, the details patchy, but there were already reports of fifty-two dead and over two hundred injured.
Moments before, they had shared heartfelt thoughts: the pain of home, of family and parting. Pain and doubt shared, like brothers. But how quickly it had turned to the efficiency of mowing down Spanish children. Madrid could now be added to the Ohio baseball game, the Amsterdam nightclub, the Toulouse fair, Munich’s Christmas market and other efficient operations still to come.
God, he thought, lifting his eyes, both you and your faithful servants on this earth do sorely test me. Please send me a sign. My mind is strong but my stomach is weak. Or do I just flatter myself that my sensibilities are finer, while secretly glorying in the carnage? Perhaps it is only hypocrites who relish their own regrets. Good men can kill.
It was all well and good to support something on an intellectual level, as it was to be an intellectual itself. It was also a self-justification he was struggling to accept. At times like these he wished he could find some of the crew’s blind acceptance or Choukri’s unblinking determination. He looked at the empty place along the table, at the soiled plate of waffles. Shrewd he may be, quick-witted and determined, but unhindered by a capacity to pause and weigh a philosophical balance. Mubarak envied him that, especially now.
He’d slept badly, weighing a private philosophical balance of his own, troubled by the recurring dream of his wife’s face in her bed at the Anglo-American hospital in Cairo. She was staring blankly, not recognising him, a doctor at her side who recognised Mubarak only too well, waiting with what seemed a detached impatience for his consent to switch off her life support – her young life.
Six
Dan arrived at five o’clock on Wednesday afternoon. He’d caught an afternoon train to Hull’s Paragon Station. From there it was a short walk to Lars’s hotel overlooking the marina, where he had also booked a room.
There was nothing unusual in a business trip to Hull. He had signed out, logged his destination as he was obliged to do, and arranged a meeting with the head of operations at the ferry terminal for the following morning. Lars hadn’t been mentioned in his itinerary.
Apart from the problems of contraband and people-smuggling on the ferry services, an additional threat was gaining traction within the security services. The ferry systems throughout the UK were potentially vulnerable to terrorist attack. Intelligence and chatter indicated an increase in attention. Security needed to be tightened. Dan had worked with the ferry companies and ports and introduced new protocols and methods.
Hull and the Humber were familiar territory, though he was more used to arriving and departing by sea. The train had been a welcome change, especially when it branched along the estuary, the last of the wintry sun low on the horizon picking out the Humber Bridge’s towers in silhouette.
Nothing appeared to have changed much, especially the weather, he thought, getting his bearings outside the station. A biting wind was gusting up the street leaving a taste of salt on his lips. He wrapped his collar tight and set off. Had he not known where he was going, the clatter of halyards whipping against masts in the marina would have guided him.
He checked in, went to his room, called Lars on the internal phone and arranged to meet in the bar. Dan got there first, ordered a beer and checked his phone for messages. A minute later, in the corner of his eye he recognised the shambling gait of a burly man approaching him. He turned to meet a warm smile and an outstretched hand.
Lars Jensen was in his late forties, his hair steel grey, thick and cropped short. A pair of reading glasses were hanging from his neck on a cord.
Dan smiled. ‘Good to see you, Lars.’
‘You too. Been a long time.’
‘Too long. A beer?’
They stood at the bar, catching up with the news and laughing about the old times, comfortable in each other’s company. At sea, it didn’t take long to gauge a man. You either rated him or you didn’t.
Their attention switched abruptly to the TV screen across the bar, where a camera was sweeping along a Madrid street, an anchorwoman sombrely announcing the death toll had risen again.
Dan shook his head. ‘Give it a few years and that’s Phoebe and Julie, or me, holding her hand in the queue.’
Lars sighed. ‘Don’t. Makes me think of my Pernille.’ He blew his cheeks out as the TV piece ended and turned back to Dan. ‘So, why is it you come up to Hull to see me?’
The bar was filling for the early evening session.
‘Can we go up to my room?’
Lars looked at him before draining his glass. ‘Sure.’
Dan’s room was at the front of the hotel looking out over the harbour. The wind had calmed; lights twinkled, reflected in the still water. By the large window was a coffee table with two easy chairs. Dan gestured to them and opened the minibar.
He pulled a bottle of Carlsberg out and handed it across. ‘I’m glad y
ou’re here,’ he said, lifting his hands, his fingers spread. ‘I’ve got a problem.’
Lars took a mouthful of beer and raised an eyebrow.
‘You know I work for the government,’ Dan continued. ‘Well, it’s a bit more complicated than that – national security, you know.’
‘I think so.’
‘You can’t discuss this with colleagues or anyone. If you don’t want me to say anything, I won’t. We can just have a drink and dinner like friends, and that’s it.’
Lars pushed the curtain aside, casting an eye over the marina for a moment before turning back. ‘Why me?’
‘Because you know the sea and ships. And because I trust you.’
Lars’s head tilted back. ‘And I can’t use this, and we didn’t meet here today?’
‘Maybe you could. If it was your own idea. If it never came back to me.’
‘I see,’ Lars said, looking away, and back to his empty glass.
Dan got up and went back to the minibar. He opened two more bottles and tossed a bag of nibbles across. Lars pulled the bag open and tipped a few into his hand.
‘So, okay, you tell me, then we decide what we do,’ he said.
Dan sat down. ‘Do you have any suspicions about what happened to the Danske Prince, or do you think it’s just technical and procedural – procedures that went wrong …’
Lars’s head rocked gently as if he was weighing up his answer. ‘Suspicions? Not really.’
‘Just an unfortunate accident?’
Lars’s chest filled. ‘It’s all total shit. We got a hundred questions and no real answers. But I don’t have that kind of suspicions – like you suggest.’
‘Did you know, on the second Bofors voyage in July on the Danske Queen, the Ocean Dove followed her for about two weeks.’
Lars sat back. ‘No. I didn’t know that.’
