by N E. David
Blake resolved to go back to his cabin and write up his notes while he waited. He’d still not finished what he’d begun at the breakfast table that morning. Apart from the name of Lee Yong (which he had attempted to scratch through) his bird list consisted of a few commonplace entries plus the Spur-winged Plover he’d found at the Colossi of Memnon – but he could not for the life of him recall what had come next. With all the distractions, he’d failed to keep up to date and he was now thirty-six hours behind. How could he be expected to remember it all?
He forced himself to think. After the Colossi, they’d gone to Queen Hatshepsut’s Temple. That’s where he’d seen the unidentified lark – but he could hardly record that. Then it was the Valley of the Kings – but that had been a blank. And as for today, other than Pied Kingfisher, nothing, not even a sniff. Two days of his holiday gone already and hardly any birding done. What on earth had he been doing? Making a fool of himself over Lee Yong, worrying about Reda…
At twenty past six he washed and changed so as to be ready for dinner. Then, on the dot of half past, he turned on his mobile.
The phone seemed to ring for ages before Carpenter finally answered. He sounded out of breath and uncharacteristically under pressure. Perhaps things were different at home than they were in the office.
“Sorry, old boy, I’ve only just got in. Would you believe it but the blighters have had me working late for once. Can you hang on a minute.”
“Of course…”
There was a dull thud at the other end of the line as the receiver went down and then the solid clunk of ice cubes falling into a glass. A minute or two later, Carpenter returned to the phone, evidently refreshed.
“Ah…That’s better. Now where had we got to?”
Blake took a deep breath and attempted to remain patient. As yet, they hadn’t got anywhere.
“Reda Eldasouky – you were going to have a look at the police records.”
“So I was…Well, I hate to disappoint you but there’s not an awful lot to tell. I don’t know what you were expecting but he’s hardly Jack the Lad, you know, your boy. Both the police and State Security have got a file but there’s next to nothing on it – certainly no convictions, although they’ve pulled him in for questioning a couple of times. They suspect he’s a member of this April 6th Youth thing, but that’s about all.”
Blake sniffed. He was sure Reda did have convictions – although it looked as though they were of the political rather than the criminal kind. As for the April 6th Youth Movement, that came as no surprise. Almost every young person in Egypt under the age of thirty was either in it, or suspected of being in it, especially if they showed any signs of an educated mind – but that in itself would hardly warrant a police record. So if they’d pulled him in for questioning, it must be for something else…
“So let me get this straight – he’s on their radar, but we don’t know why?”
“Ah!” Carpenter’s interjection promised a glimmer of hope. “I think I may have the answer to that.”
“Go on.”
“Well, I managed to get a peek at our files as you suggested.”
“Tell me.” If there was a price to pay, another bribe, then Blake was only too willing if it meant he could get to the bottom of it. “So what did you find out?”
“As far as Reda is concerned, nothing, we don’t have a file. But here’s the thing – we do for his father.”
“Really?”
“Oh yes. Apparently, Ahmed Eldasouky was a founder member of…”
Carpenter halted as he focused on pronouncing what was in front of him. At the risk of stealing his thunder, Blake beat him to it.
“Let me guess. Al-Wasat Al-Jadid.”
“Spot on, old boy! How on earth did you know that?”
“Let’s just say it was an educated guess.”
“Well it obviously means something to you. Damned if it does to me. And I’m afraid I didn’t have the time to look it up.”
A little more information would have been helpful, but Blake already knew enough to put two and two together. If the son was anything like the father, no wonder the authorities wanted to keep an eye on Reda.
But Carpenter had more up his sleeve.
“There’s something else. Ahmed Eldasouky was arrested in January 2001 and imprisoned in Al-Fayoum. No trial, of course, and there were accusations of torture. He died there in 2006.”
Blake whistled through his teeth. The infamous Al-Fayoum…A favourite of State Security Intelligence, it was a notorious place of confinement for dissidents and political detainees. The rumour was that once you went in, you never came out.
“That explains a lot.”
“I thought it might. Well I don’t know what you’re up to old boy, but I wish you the best of luck with it. It sounds awfully James Bond to me. You’re not in any sort of trouble, are you?”
“I hope not, Alan, I hope not.” It wasn’t often they used Christian names but on this occasion it somehow seemed appropriate. “Look, I’m eternally grateful. If it’s alright with you, I’ll sort the bribe out when I get back. How much was it, by the way?”
“Don’t worry about it old boy, glad to be of assistance. Just save me one or two of those dusky maidens. Although on second thoughts, a couple of bottles of Scotch might be a better plan…”
Blake made a promise to provide them on his return. The information he’d gained from Carpenter had been worthwhile and if asked, he’d have been prepared to give more. They ended the call with a mutual agreement to keep in touch and to speak again soon.
Blake turned off his mobile phone and consulted the bedside clock. Having missed tea, his stomach was reminding him it was way past time he should eat. He stood up in front of the mirror, straightened his linen jacket and tugged at the cuffs of his shirt.
Down in the dining room the early entrants would be filing in and taking their places, filling the empty space with their vacuous chatter. Someone would say how hot it had been, someone else would say they’d felt cold. Someone would say that they’d finished their book, someone else would say that they’d not. On his own table, it would not be long before Mrs Biltmore set off on another inane story like that of the stolen handbag or the worth of Johns Hopkins and they would all be obliged to sit in respectful silence while she rambled on. And outside the narrow porthole, the Nile would flow relentlessly by, flat and brown and seemingly never-ending.
But meanwhile, somewhere deep in the bowels of the ship, hunched up in one of the cramped cabins that belonged to the crew, a young man was lying on his bunk, thinking of his country, his father and dreaming of revolution.
Blake took a last look at himself in the mirror and as his groaning stomach let out one more rumble of complaint, he set off for dinner in a pensive mood.
Later that night, after they’d finished their evening meal and it had grown dark, the curtains in the dining room were dramatically pulled back to reveal a spectacular sight. Across the river on the far bank, the luxurious vegetation had given way to desert and a huge hill of sand rose up before them. Eerily lit by banks of arc lights, this was the Tombs of the Nobles, the entrances to which could clearly be seen. Mr Mohammed, the boat captain, had come good on his promise and they had reached Aswan a day earlier than planned.
It was a fact which Blake was to find significant.
Chapter Eleven
Blake anxiously paced the quayside, deep in contemplation. It was almost 8am, his boat would soon be ready to leave and the eagerly awaited birding tour he’d signed up for the previous day would shortly begin.
He’d been awake since before dawn, going straight up to the top deck in time to watch the sunrise. A huge red ball, it had appeared in the sky to the east, floating effortlessly upwards like a balloon above the skyline of the city. It was a spectacle he’d missed the day before – together with the flock of Glossy Ibis that David had captured on his mobile phone – and he was determined not to lose out again. The sunrise was certain, but the Ibis were not and he reali
sed he would have to wait for another occasion. Behind him, on the opposite bank, the sun struck the hill of sand full on, igniting the Tombs of the Nobles with a dull orange glow.
After scanning the surroundings, he went straight down to breakfast where he ate alone, finishing before anyone else arrived. Then, having returned to his cabin to gather his things, he’d gone directly out onto the quayside rather than wait in reception. As a result, he was the first to arrive at the appointed spot and now had fifteen minutes to himself in which he could indulge his thoughts.
Left alone and with time to kill outdoors, his normal practice would be to look for birds. Today there were gulls, wheeling and screeching over the end of the wharf, but other than a cursory glance to establish their species (common Black-headed, he decided) he took no further interest. Ever since the conversation with his former colleague the previous afternoon, he’d been unable to shake off his thoughts about Reda. Yesterday morning it had been Lee Yong who’d preoccupied him – today it was the young Egyptian.
I don’t know what you’re up to, old boy, but I wish you the best of luck with it.
Those had been Carpenter’s precise words. And what exactly was he up to? He didn’t know the answer to that himself, let alone be able to explain it to anyone else.
He had a naturally inquisitive nature (you couldn’t watch birds if you didn’t) which partly explained his curiosity regarding Reda – but there was far more to it than that. As respectable as the young man appeared, Blake had to admit he was concerned – for himself, for his fellow travellers and the more he thought about it, especially for Lee Yong. He wondered whether they were under threat. What if Reda was a terrorist? The possibility worried him. The boy was both a Muslim and a political activist – and according to popular Western belief, such people were supposed to preach jihad and the destruction of the Infidel. What better way was there to attack the symbols of Western materialism than to blow apart a cruise ship on the Nile? It wouldn’t take much, just a few pounds of explosives left in a backpack in reception – it was a chilling thought.
He’d known for some while that something was stirring in the hearts of many North Africans. He’d sensed it amongst the people in the markets of Dokki, seen it for himself in Alexandria and then had come the uprising in Tunisia. Like a boil that had festered for too long beneath the surface of the skin, it had suddenly burst open and violently erupted. Had Reda been infected by it too?
But all this was unsubstantiated nonsense – he didn’t have a shred of proof. Just because a young man took an interest in politics and was a member of a banned organisation, it didn’t mean to say he practised violence. In fact, the public proclamations of the party he’d joined suggested precisely the opposite. Blake realised he was in danger of falling into the same trap as he’d accused his travelling companions of doing – they’d made unwarranted assumptions and he’d chided them for it. You can’t trust the Arabs, they’re a dodgy lot. To presume anything about the Egyptian people, or Muslims in general, invariable proved false. He’d said as much in his memo to the First Secretary.
You seem to think that the Brotherhood’s aim is to establish an Islamic state by violent means. They’ve realised that won’t work. The Egyptians don’t want a religiously run Republic – they want freedom. And they know it will only come about through democracy and not violence.
That, at least, was the theory. It had looked all very well on paper, sitting in the sterile surroundings of a comfortable office. Now he was faced with the practice out in the field, he couldn’t help thinking things were different.
His train of thought was interrupted by a disturbance further along the quay. A small group of passengers had gathered some twenty yards further up next to a gangplank. From the direction of the town, an Egyptian boatman appeared carrying a large can of petrol. Wearing a dirty white cap, he was middle-aged and portly and the swathe of grey stubble on his chin merely strengthened the impression that he had only recently got out of bed. His dishevelled look did not inspire confidence and his arrival provoked a babble of conversation amongst the would-be trippers.
Blake caught sight of Janet and Keith in the queue, but he was not in the mood for conversation. A movement on one of the mudflats across the river temporarily caught his eye and forcing a weak smile, he retreated behind the safety of his binoculars. Meanwhile, the slovenly boatman had opened up his can and began pouring petrol.
The boat in which they were due to depart lay at the foot of the gangplank. It was a motor launch about twenty feet in length, the hull painted white with red markings, and it had clearly been built for sightseeing as it was covered by a canopy stretching from bow to stern to shade the occupants. The sight of it confirmed what Blake had already thought – he was not going to take his telescope. The boat was not a steady enough platform and if the guide that Reda had promised him was worth his salt, he would surely bring one of his own.
Eventually, after what seemed like an age during which the boatman uncoiled and recoiled several strands of rope, removed his cap, scratched the back of his head and tried to start the motor several times, the engine coughed and spluttered into reluctant life, their guide joined them and their journey began.
In the years to come, Blake would often wonder what it was that had made that day so special. He’d watched birds from a boat before – but it had never been quite like this. Then, it had been at sea and his experience had been confined to being tossed up and down in a rough swell, barely able to hold himself steady – never mind his binoculars – but now he was standing solidly on a deck that hardly seemed to move as the hull of the boat skimmed lightly across the surface of the water.
It grew warm as the sun rose ever higher in the sky, but it was pleasant in the shade of the canvas awning and the cool breeze that came with their forward motion. Behind him, the quiet chatter of the passengers blended with the thrum of the engine and before long, he had even forgiven the boatman his unprepossessing appearance. This in itself might have been enough to make it enjoyable. But then there were the birds – the fabulous, fabulous birds…
The guide had not in fact brought a telescope – but he was blessed with exceptional eyesight and as they neared the mudflats, the birds had come in so close that even Blake had no need of his bins. And it soon became apparent that the young man’s depth of knowledge was outstanding.
“The smallest birds are Little Stint, the next in size are Ruff. The largest are Godwit, Bar-tailed I would say by the shape of the bill.”
Of course they were – and now he came to mention it, Blake remembered the details from his handbook.
“And over here,” continued the guide, indicating to his left, “we have Black-winged Stilt.”
Black-winged Stilt! Blake’s head swivelled round to look. This was a bird he’d never seen, but he soon found it parading about on a sandbank. It was easily distinguishable, its improbably long pink legs supporting a black and white body and head with thin black bill. Its features seemed rather extreme, and yet there was an elegance about its appearance you could not deny.
On the other side of the boat, Janet and Keith had contrived to look in a different direction and with no Miss Malaysia to monitor his every move, he could indulge himself with a schoolboy-like enthusiasm. Black-winged Stilt – a first, a lifer, and all within a few minutes of setting off! Suddenly, things were looking up – now he truly was ‘in amongst the birds’.
There had been times when he thought he would never get there – the first few days had been slow and there’d been constant diversions. But he’d been patient, he’d waited and now he was being rewarded. Birds were appearing by the dozen and from that moment on, thanks to the intervention of the guide, there was simply no looking back. And with these delights to distract him, it was not long before he had forgotten all about Reda and Carpenter and the Embassy and the Brotherhood and was off in a world of his own.
They moved further on upriver. Here the character of the Nile changed dramatically. It ceased
to be the wide and comforting expanse of water that had carried them up from Luxor and turned into a series of deep and fast-flowing channels, wending their way between the massive rocks and islands leading up to the First Cataract. This might have been of some concern had it not been for the skill of the boatman who, despite his dirty clothes and unkempt stubble, steered a steady course. And there was always the continual distraction of wildlife.
On the opposite bank, herds of camel and water buffalo meandered along the sands. While they were busy watching, a cry went up of Look out! as a cream-crowned Marsh Harrier broke cover from a nearby tree and sailed directly over their heads, looking for prey. Beneath it, poking its head out from the bushes on the rocky shoreline, someone spotted a mongoose. But even then they were not quite done. When the boat turned northwards and headed back down the eastern channel and past the Old Cataract Hotel, they found the way guarded by an Osprey sitting on a pole. As they passed, it lifted lazily from its perch and flapped its way downriver, leading them home.
They arrived back at the ship feeling rather jaded. If anything, it had all been too much – the weather, the boat trip, the birds…
Blake went straight to his room and made himself a cup of coffee. But instead of staying inside, he gathered his notebook and pen and took his drink up onto the sun-deck. His party had been the first to return and with the others still out on their tours, he could look forward to an hour’s peace and quiet to write up his notes.
After a while he found himself falling back into the same train of thought that had engaged him on the quayside before setting off that morning. And the more he dwelled on it, the more he began to worry. Where was Lee Yong? She had not been at breakfast – had she joined David and Joan on their shopping trip, or had she gone out somewhere else?
A casual enquiry at reception revealed that she had taken the coach outing to Kalabsha and would not be back until late that afternoon. And where was the young Egyptian? Had he gone to Kalabsha too?
