“What’s happening in Libya?” shouts Max. He might be his father enquiring about the Test score.
“A mess,” says Harry, who followed the news more than Max.
“NATO should have followed up,” says Aafia. “But as always it never does. It destroys but can’t build in its place. Now Libya is not the new Dubai, it’s the new Iraq. The new Syria. Only…”
“Only what?” asks Harry softly. She looks at him; this time he holds her eyes with his.
“Only it’s just there – over the Mediterranean – near enough to jump on a rickety old boat and hope for the best. Do you know the distance between Tripoli and Sicily? Three hundred miles… something like that.”
“Which is why you’re based in Italy?” Harry’s neck feels stiff from staring over the seat at Aafia.
“We were pretending to be a safe house,” she says.
“A safe house for who?” shouts Max.
“For terrorists coming over from Libya and pretending to be migrants. People like Omar.”
“Why?” Max again.
“So we could keep an eye on them.”
“Who’s we?”
“Some people you will meet soon enough.” Max and Harry exchange a glance.
“What fucking people?” Harry sounds almost shrill, and Aafia smiles.
“Let’s just get wherever we’re going.”
They’re silent for a while, and Harry wonders why he’s finding it so hard to ask the next question.
“So Tariq is no longer your boyfriend,” he says eventually.
She’s giving him that sardonic smile again. “No, we split up. Happens all the time I gather. He now works for my father.”
“For your father?” splutters Max from the driver’s seat.
“Yes, didn’t he tell you?”
“No, he told us he was a no-good Libyan playboy sponging off you,” says Max.
“Will he be all right?” asks Harry.
“He’ll be all right.” She smiles. “He knows how to look after himself.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
An enormous locust is crawling up Tariq’s forearm. He is back in Libya and he is so happy, his dead mother is even there, alive and well and laughing at Tariq’s stories. But the locust is annoying him. He tries to swipe it away, and he can hear voices telling him not to. The voices sound Italian.
He opens his eyes, breaking though what feels like a crust gluing his eyelids together, and, blinking the fog away, he focuses on a square of light to his right. A window. It is covered in vertical strips of curtain. There is someone sitting by his bed – a uniformed policewoman. He can feel nothing.
“Bon giorno, bella,” he says. Or does he yell it? She is very pretty, with her hair scraped back into a bun and her almond eyes and pert little nose. He feels euphoric and would like to ask her on a date.
“What brings you to Libya, my sweet?” he asks. But he realises he’s speaking Arabic and she doesn’t understand. Never mind, I will serenade her all the same. “You remind me of a girl I once loved,” he says. “What was her name?”
But the policewoman has gone, and instead a man in a white coat, a doctor, is looking at him with concern.
“I’m not in Libya, am I?” he says in Italian this time, and tries to sit up. This makes him feel queasy, and he slumps back against the pillow. Except he can’t feel the pillow against the back of his head. It must be a very soft pillow. Is this a luxury hotel? He can see a heart monitor however, and for some reasons it makes him laugh.
“No, signore, you are in Rome. You’ve had a very bad fall.”
“A fall? I don’t remember.”
“We’re not sure how it happened, but you were found in the street. You say you don’t remember what happened?”
But Tariq can’t remember. Suddenly he wants to cry. Perhaps he is crying. He can’t feel anything.
“There was something important,” he says. “But I can’t remember.”
“Never mind, signore,” the doctor says, his eyes examining the side of Tariq’s head. “A detective will be here soon and you can talk to him.”
“Yes, a boy. A little prostitute.”
The doctor’s expression hardens.
“Very good, signore. You can tell the detective.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
The boy, Adnan, sits on the edge of the hotel bed, which has not been made up, and on which lies an open tourist street map of Rome. He has strict instructions not to bother anyone; not to ring the reception or ask for room service. Not that there is any room service at this hotel.
The door of the wardrobe is open revealing its contents – a canvas holdall and a coat that’s two sizes too large for Adnan. Inside the holdall, he knows, is a sort of corset packed with explosives and ball bearings. The man showed him how to put it on and it weighed a ton. He also showed him how to detonate it.
Today is Friday. Just before midday on Sunday he must walk to St Peter’s Square, and squirm his way into the middle of the crowd that will apparently be there to listen to an important Christian holy man, and he must…
“I must die,” Adnan says disconsolately to himself.
He had refused and wept when the man first told him about the mission, and begged for mercy, but then the man had handed him his phone. On it was a video, shaky at first, but then Adnan had recognised the people in it.
His mother was sitting on the floor holding their baby brother. His younger sisters, Amena and Layal were there too, as was his younger brother, Sami. They seemed to have been crying, their eyes red, and none of them was smiling, which was unusual for them because they were usually so happy – even with the war and everything.
The camera panned out and he could see his uncles and aunties – Auntie Nooda who was always so nice to him – and her husband, his mother’s brother, Sayid. And Auntie Zeinah, his father’s sister, and her husband, Mohammed. And there was grandpa Hounan, with his enormous nose, and grandma Rasha, who was crying and waving her hands. It upset Adnan to see her crying. Why was she crying?
And then he saw the barrel of a rifle, and as the camera zoomed out he saw that along the walls of the room where the family was sitting stood men dressed in black and holding rifles. The faces were masked, except for the eyes. Adnan felt frozen to the core.
He thinks of his father, with whom he made the crossing to Italy. By the time they had reached the island called Lampedusa, his father was very sick and he had to be taken to hospital. Adnan had been taken to the immigration reception centre, which had mostly been full of Africans, but there had been a Syrian boy there, Yaman, who was two years older than Adnan and they had become friends.
His father didn’t get better. He died. Adnan was alone now in this strange new world, alone except for Yaman.
Yaman turned out to be adventurous and brave – in fact he had made the journey from Syria all on his own. When they were finally taken to the mainland, to an old school on the outskirts of Rome – their bus being hit by stones thrown by local residents who were shouting and giving them the finger – Adnan and Yaman decided they needed to escape. They spent a week doing nothing but sitting around with this huge group of strange adults and a few kids, and then they just walked out one morning. It was so simple. At first it was simple.
They made their way to the central station in Rome because that’s where a lot of other Syrian kids were hanging out. But they didn’t have any food or money, and then one of the other kids showed them how to make some money. They just had to go with the men.
He hadn’t seen Yaman for days, not since the man with the scar put him up at the hotel, and he missed him. Especially now.
The video on the man’s phone suddenly went blurry and there was a commotion, his family shouting and screaming. When the camera focused he could see his uncle Sayid being dragged from the room, the men in black pushing back his relatives with their rifle butts.
The camera followed Uncle Sayid outside where he was made to kneel. A blindfold was put over his e
yes, and a man told him to beg Allah for forgiveness. Adnan pushed away the phone and told the man he didn’t want to see any more. The phone lay on the bed and Adnan could hear the shot.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
By the time they are approaching Milan, Max and Harry are feeling hungry and pull over at a service station. Aafia, who had seemed to be dozing, rouses herself and squints out of the window.
“I need a pee,” she says.
“Ah,” says Harry.
“I need a pee,” she repeats firmly.
Max is drumming his fingers on the steering wheel, thinking hard. What if she was to do a runner, or barricades herself inside the toilet cubicle and refuses to come out? Or screams at the nearest attendant that she’s been abducted? They’re not going to shoot her anyway. They have no leverage and she must know it.
“Don’t worry, I won’t run away or make a scene,” says Aafia. “In a funny way I’m looking forward to our trip to Switzerland. I don’t think you know what you’re getting into.”
Harry, with his memories of the hotel room in Geneva, and Aafia’s barefaced trickery, can’t bring himself to believe her.
“Okay Max, you get us something to eat – a ham sandwich or something – and I will follow her to the toilets. I swear…” he says this last bit while staring ferociously at Aafia, but can’t bring himself to finish his sentence.
She returns his gaze steadily, without expression. “Can I have something with cheese,” she says, her eyes still on Harry; her dark brown, unreadable eyes appear to be enjoying a private joke. “And a Coke.” She smiles at Harry.
“We need petrol as well,” says Max. “And just as well that I hid these” he says with a note of triumph, taking the plastic folder with the hire documents from behind the sun visor and picking out the euros he had stashed there.
“Come on then, let’s go,” says Harry, folding his jacket over the gun. She has the upper hand and knows it, he thinks; all Harry has is his desperation. Would twenty years in an Italian jail be so bad? It’s one way of ending it all.
“I can’t get out,” she says.
Max opens his door, gets out and opens Aafia’s door. She steps out onto the forecourt and stretches, her arms up above her head, and starts walking towards the service area where the shop, a restaurant and rest rooms are situated. As he follows two paces behind, Harry can’t help but notice her great arse that is accentuated by the tight jeans. She half turns as if she can sense his admiration.
There is a queue of two outside the ‘signore’ – an old woman dressed in black with hair sprouting from a mole on her chin, and a teenage girl. They both stare at Harry as he stands behind Aafia. Eventually it is her turn.
“Don’t be long,” he says. She doesn’t reply, but disappears inside.
While he’s waiting, Harry steps over to a road map of Italy that is on the opposite wall. He finds Milan and then searches out Lake Como – it doesn’t look too far. The map also shows a part of southern Switzerland, and he manages to find Verbier. It would have been quicker to head towards Geneva by crossing the border at Chamonix, but that would have meant crossing two sets of borders, the French followed by the Swiss. And the French, from the first-hand accounts he has found online, are being extra vigilant because of the ongoing state of emergency after Paris and Nice. So much for open borders. He hopes that the Swiss won’t be so attentive.
He looks at his watch – five minutes have passed – and becomes aware of an alarm going off – a high-pitched oscillating sound. The old woman comes out, followed a minute later by the teenager, both of them looking at Harry as they pass. The old woman shakes her head and mutters. A young woman who has gone in after Aafia also comes out. The alarm continues to sound.
“Aafia!” Harry shouts from the doorway. No answer. He pokes his head round the corner and notices a fire door at the far end, beyond a row of sinks, has been opened. A light is flashing in tune to the alarm.
“Shit!” he says turning, pushing past a surprised woman leading a toddler into the ladies. “Scusi, signore.”
Charging outside he comes to an abrupt halt. Aafia is standing leaning against the Mercedes, her head towards the sun, her eyes closed. Max is marching from the payment kiosk, carrying two laden plastic bags. She lowers her head as they approach.
“Amateurs,” she mutters.
* * *
They barely speak for the next hour or so until signs start appearing for Como and ‘Svizzera’ and the satnav tells them they are nearing the Swiss border.
“What are we going to do with you Aafia – hide you somehow?” says Max, speaking over his shoulder. It’s the first time either of them have addressed her by name, thinks Harry.
Aafia, who has been lying slumped with eyes closed, opens them uncertainly, as if she has been dozing.
“It’s all right,” she says, starting to pull up the front of her shirt. Harry grips the gun and raises it to just below seat height. She’s wearing a black money belt, which she starts to unzip.
“What’s in there?” Harry almost shouts, but she doesn’t reply – tugging out a passport which she hands in Harry’s direction. He takes it and looks at the cover which is green and covered in Arabic script.
“It’s my get-out-of-jail-free card,” she says, reading his thoughts. “I take it everywhere.”
“Okay,” says Max. “So what’s our story?”
“We’re going to your chalet in Verbier,” says Aafia. “That’s what rich people do. At least that’s what we’re doing now, isn’t it?”
“How do you know about Verbier?” says Max, addressing her through the rear-view mirror.
“I heard you talking about it.”
Harry laughs, despite himself. “You’re a cool chick, Aafia,” he says. He likes using her name. Max glances over at him. “What do you think will happen when we get to Verbier?”
“I dunno,” says Aafia. “Perhaps we can go skiing.”
This time Max laughs. “I’m not sure there’ll be any snow left.”
“You will reach your destination in twenty miles,” cuts in the satnav. The destination that they’d punched in is Lugarno, just over the border in Switzerland.
“Okay, we’re going to the chalet for the weekend,” says Max. “What day is it?”
“Friday,” says Harry, after some thought.
“Okay, we’re going for the week. A holiday.”
“A happy little threesome,” says Aafia. Is there something teasing in her voice, thinks Harry? Is Max interested in her as well?
“How about the truth?” she continues. “You’ve abducted me at gunpoint and are taking me against my will into their country.”
“What about the bit about stealing our diamond and threatening to behead us for YouTube?” says Harry.
“I think they’ll be more interested in your gun.”
Talk of the diamond has Max once again feeling for the reassuring lump in his breast pocket. He wonders where best to put it while they pass through Swiss customs.
“What will your father do once we tell him that we have you?” asks Harry.
She waves her hand as if the batting away the question. “I’ve already told you, it’s not my father you have to worry about.”
“But what will your father do?” says Max.
“He’s my daddy, he just wants me safe and by his side.”
“He won’t harm you?” continues Max.
“Harm? Harm is what these fucking so-called Islamic State bastards do,” she says, suddenly vehement. “Sexual slavery – do you know what sexual slavery actually means? It means that you can be raped at will – over and over and over again. It means you are owned by your rapist.”
“And you and your gang are fighting this under the guise of being Islamic State?”
“That’s right Mr Harry,” she says, leaning forward and giving him both barrels with her dark brown eyes. “That’s exactly what we’re doing.” She slumps back into her seat, and begins staring out of the window again.
“What else have got in that money belt?” asks Harry.
“Just my mobile phone… and these…”
She opens her palm to reveal five or six bullets.
“You may want to load your gun now, or perhaps it’s safer if you don’t.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
The Italian customs post is in the middle of a Chiasso, a compact town with utilitarian concrete apartment blocks in its centre and chalets dotted up the surrounding hillsides. They join a line of cars that slowly trundles under a sign announcing ‘Valico Turistico di Brogeda’, and past a customs officer in sunglasses sitting in a kiosk who doesn’t look up as the drivers roll past, some with passports proffered from the car window. So far so good, thinks Harry.
He has hidden the gun under his seat and is trying to look as nonchalant as possible. He glances back at Aafia, who is still staring out of her window. Cars seem to be passing smoothly through the Swiss customs barrier.
It’s now their turn and Max hands the three passports to the Swiss customs officer.
“What happened to the window?” the customs man asks.
“Someone tried to break in when we were in Rome”, says Max. “Nothing was stolen. We’ve reported it to the Italian police and the car-hire company”
The man nods as if to say of course a fancy car like this would be broken into in Rome, and then he bows his head to look in at the back but can’t see through the tinted windows.
“Descendez la fenetre, si’il vous plait,” he says. “Open the window, please.”
Max fumbles around for the button, eventually finding the right one for the rear window. Aafia sits up and looks neutrally at the customs man, who nods, and starts tapping in their passport numbers. He looks long and hard at Aafia’s. “Corps diplomatique?” he asks through her window. She nods.
The Concierge Page 13
