Birds of the Nile

by N E. David

  Lee Yong was more concerned with confidentiality.

  “Have you told any of the others about this?”

  “Of course not.”

  “I’d prefer it to keep it that way if you don’t mind.”

  He was certainly no gossip and after all the effort he’d made, Blake felt put out that she should think he could be so indiscreet.

  “Fine. I had no intention…”

  “I’m sorry,” She interrupted him. “I didn’t mean to imply anything…Oh God!” Her hands flew up to her forehead, partly obscuring her face. “I’m really not thinking straight at the moment. Perhaps we could talk about this later.”

  “Ok…” He leant back in the chair so as not to crowd her. “But we don’t have a lot of time. Do you think you’ll be coming down to dinner?”

  “I don’t know. I’ll try. It depends on how I feel…”

  Despite her extra rest she remained tearful. Her eyes were still red and next to the bed, the waste bin was half-full of wet tissues. He desperately wanted to go over and sit with her and fold her into his arms and tell her everything would be alright. But at present that was not possible and as much as it hurt him, he knew he would have to leave her to find comfort from within herself. He’d seen glimpses of her inner strength – now she would have to draw on it. For the moment, and until such time as she recovered, he felt powerless to help and all he could do was look to the future.

  “Well, if you can’t make it, I’ll meet you in the foyer after the meal – say, nine o’clock?”

  She nodded but said nothing. She’d lowered her hands to uncover her face and seemed a little calmer now – although what state she might revert to after he’d gone was open to question. Blake thought it safe enough to take his leave.

  “I’ll see you later then…”

  Outside in the corridor he stopped to reflect on their interview. He was in two minds and dithering as to what to do. His first instinct had been to stay and comfort her – but he did not want her to think that he was forward and it had not seemed appropriate. But now her door was closed behind him he regretted leaving – how heartless it was of him to walk away when she most needed help! Then he remembered that he’d neglected to pick up the envelope full of money – although whether she’d intended him to take it or not, he wasn’t entirely sure. Nevertheless, it was an excuse to return and he raised his fist to knock for the second time – but then lowered it again as caution got the better of him and he walked off, berating himself under his breath for his lack of conviction.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  She was ten minutes late but Lee Yong did come down to dinner that evening. Perhaps she’d not been affected as much as Blake thought, as her appearance was immaculate and she arrived without a hair out of place. How long she’d spent in the company of her bottles and sprays to achieve the effect he’d no idea, but on closer inspection, all that remained of her earlier distress was a hint of tiredness around the eyes – and that in itself was barely perceptible and certainly not seen by the others.

  She’d changed into a fresh top, although she’d not ‘dressed’ for dinner and had kept her jeans and Cuban heels – a move which Blake took to signal she was ready to go out. As she approached the table he stood up and pulled out her chair then handed her into it, giving her fingers a gentle squeeze of encouragement. After his failure to console her that afternoon, it was really the least he could do.

  The meal itself was a makeshift affair. Word had got round that the chef had re-engaged two of the staff and between them they’d cooked up a simple stew and some mashed potato. For pudding there was ice cream and a selection of fruit. Given the circumstances, even Joan had no cause for complaint.

  The talk at the table was of nothing but the revolution and how it might affect their trip. Some of the tours they’d booked had actually been running that day – whether free or under the yoke, the working Egyptian still had mouths to feed and expenses to pay – but most had elected to stay in their rooms and watch things as they unfolded. In the Forward Lounge the captain had set up a widescreen TV, and to placate the passengers he’d laid on free tea and coffee for the day. After the events of the previous evening, no-one had wanted or dared to leave the ship.

  In Cairo, the protestors continued to occupy Tahrir Square. Other than the removal of Mubarak, they’d vowed that nothing would persuade them to move. As a counter measure, and to deny them their means of communication, the Government had cut off the internet – which explained why those who’d spent the day on their computers trying to email home had been unsuccessful. As Blake had discovered, some of the phone lines were working and this had allowed David to solve the mystery of the travel insurance. Both rebellion and revolution were excluded, he informed them (there was a groan of disbelief at the news) but as he went on to point out, no-one had as yet suffered any quantifiable loss. That would arise if they missed their flight connections and had to stay over.

  This prompted them all to look at Keith. He’d been deputed to contact the airport and he advised there was nothing abnormal to report and everything was running as it should. All in all, rather than the wholesale upheaval they had feared, things seemed to have gone off like a damp squib.

  Blake found it significant that no-one thought to mention Reda. With their minds focused on their own problems, he seemed to have slipped off their radar. It was a helpful development as it was a topic that neither he nor Lee Yong wanted to see raised.

  The others had grown used to his early nights so it aroused no comment when he excused himself from the table and with a pointed glance at Lee Yong, slipped out to the foyer. Having collected her shoulder bag, she joined him a few moments later. The reception desk was unattended, their only company the television above the notice board, but he still felt it prudent to whisper.

  “Are you alright?”

  “Yes.”

  “You brought the money I take it?”

  She nodded and fetched the brown envelope out of her bag and handed it over to him.

  “To be honest, Mr Blake, I think it would be a good idea if you took it.”

  He saw her point – in countries such as Egypt, it was better for a man to be seen to be doing the business.

  Blake counted out what was needed and stowed the rest in his back pocket. It was best not left in the bag – if they were accosted for any reason, it was too obvious a target.

  They left the ship as discreetly as they could and headed toward the Corniche. The sky was again pitch black but the town was lit by the glow of street lights and the torch-like beams of car headlamps cutting through the night. Ahead of them the square, which had been the scene of such disruption barely twenty-four hours earlier, stood empty save for the same discarded evidence which had littered it the night before. Doomed to be forever parted from its mate, the lost shoe still lay unclaimed amongst the wreckage.

  Once across the road, Blake began looking for a turning to the right.

  “I’m told it’s down here somewhere…”

  Sharia Abtal was the same street in which they’d seen the young man with his head bandaged – but he was long gone and so too at least was the broken glass, cleared away by some responsible shopkeeper. All the same, other traces of the conflict remained.

  The police station was half a mile down on the left hand side. Unlike the Governorate building which was new and of modern design, it was old and single-storied. Of rather decrepit appearance, it was painted in a sandy brown colour that matched the shade of the surrounding desert. It reminded Blake of the jailhouse in a cowboy western and on entering, he half expected to see John Wayne with boots and stetson sauntering across the set. Instead of which they were greeted by a dimly lit interior and the stale warmth of humanity, the scent of sweat tinged with a whiff of urine. Above their heads, a solitary ceiling fan whirred disconsolately, shifting the foul and humid air from one side of the room to the other. Lee Yong immediately covered her nose and mouth with her hand to prevent herself from gagging.
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  Behind the counter a clerk sat at a desk, shuffling paper. He was evidently Nubian – dark-skinned, short and of slight build – and had found his way into the uniform of a sergeant that was far too big for him. He looked like a child who’d discovered his father’s wardrobe was unlocked and had tried on his clothes, his hands barely extending beyond the ends of his sleeves. Round his neck, his buttoned collar hung as if suspended on a stick. He slowly got up and came to the counter, but rather than make any effort to speak, he enquired by jerking his head sullenly in their direction.

  Blake doubted he’d understand English and so spoke in Arabic.

  “We’ve come about Reda Eldasouky.”

  The clerk didn’t flinch. The name obviously meant nothing to him.

  “Have you filled in a form?”

  “No.”

  The clerk pushed a pen and a grubby sheet of paper across the counter towards him.

  “We don’t need to fill in a form,” said Blake. “We’re British.”

  In remote parts of the world it was always worth a try. Had he still been employed by the Embassy, he’d have considered invoking diplomatic immunity.

  The clerk shrugged, totally unimpressed.

  “Everyone fills in a form.”

  Blake pushed the pen and paper to one side and tried a different tack.

  “We’re here to see Mr Rasheed.”

  This time there was a flicker of interest.

  “The chief? You’ll be lucky – there’s a queue…”

  Behind them, a row of plastic chairs was set against the wall. A young black, barefoot and in combats and a sweat-stained top lay slumped in the far corner, asleep. Halfway along, beneath an iron-grilled window, an unshaven Egyptian dressed in shorts, singlet and open-toed sandals sat forward, elbows on knees, his leg jiggling uncontrollably. They were an unprepossessing pair. If this was the queue and the clerk expected backsheesh to jump it, he was out of luck – they were paying enough already.

  “We’re expected,” said Blake.

  The clerk shrugged again. So?

  “Passport?” he asked.

  Blake fished in an inside pocket and placed it on the counter. The clerk flicked carelessly through it to the back page, glanced at the photograph, glanced at Blake, then snapped it shut.

  “Wait here,” he commanded and taking the passport with him, meandered slowly off down the corridor, whistling loudly.

  High above their heads, the ceiling fan groaned at its thankless task while beneath the row of plastic chairs, a cockroach scurried towards its hole.

  With her hand still covering her face, Lee Yong shuddered.

  “Can’t we just collect him and go?”

  “Unfortunately not,” said Blake. “There’s a protocol to go through. We’ll just have to grin and bear it.”

  In Egypt, jail was not a hotel you chose to stay in.

  The clerk returned, but at no greater pace. And to pay Blake out for the incident regarding the form, he waited until he’d recovered his position behind the counter before pointing back in the direction from which he’d just arrived and giving another economical jerk of his head.

  “Oh, for God’s sake!” Blake steered Lee Yong away by the elbow. “Come on, let’s get it over with.”

  At the far end of the corridor, a door stood open, inviting them forward.

  Hossein Rasheed was indeed the fat policeman. During his discussions Blake had thought as much and now his suspicions were confirmed. Even when seated close at hand he was every bit as big as he appeared from a distance. It was not a position that flattered him, as with the need to stand upright removed, everything about him seemed to sag. The bags which hung beneath his eyes gave him a debauched look and his chin fell all too easily into the folds of his neck. The paunch – a feature Blake had previously admired – no longer stood out but slid below the edge of his desk like the aftermath of an avalanche. All in all, like so many of Egypt’s monuments, he resembled an old and collapsed building. His desk was completely clear except for Blake’s passport which lay neatly aligned in the centre. Behind it, Rasheed sat waiting, his hands clasped together across his ample belly.

  He eyed each of them in turn and then barked out, “Sit!”

  Blake stiffened. He was used to receiving instruction by invitation rather than command, and although the First Secretary had used the same word he’d been far more polite. The effect was still the same – in circumstances like these, you did as you were told. They took their seats.

  There followed a protracted silence during which the fat policeman appeared to be weighing them up. Rather than come to any conclusion, he eventually decided to ask.

  “Well?”

  “We’ve come about Reda Eldasouky,” said Blake. There was no preamble and he’d not prepared a speech – the talking had already been done over the telephone.

  “I know very well why you’re here.” Rasheed’s English was perfect and suggested a foreign and expensive education. “Give me a reason as to why I should let you have him.”

  “We have an agreement,” said Blake.

  “We have no agreement,” snapped Rasheed, “and I do not wish to hear you speak of one. If I so decide, he will be released, you will sign for him and there will be the normal administrative fee to pay. If not, then he will stay where he is. Let me make myself clear – there is no agreement.”

  A play with words, thought Blake. He’s covering himself.

  “What puzzles me,” continued Rasheed, “is why the British Embassy should take an interest in such a man. You’re a long way from Cairo, Mr Blake. He must be one of your better spies.”

  Reda? A spy? Is that what they thought? Blake was astounded. If the young man were not in such danger, the whole idea would be laughable. Where had that suggestion come from? Unless of course it was Carpenter’s contact who had passed the information on to Aswan. That would have been worth a decent backhander at the very least.

  “That’s ridiculous. This has nothing to do with the British Embassy.”

  “It has everything to do with the British Embassy. You work for them, don’t you, Mr Blake? You cannot deny it.”

  “I used to, it’s true.” There was no point in hiding it. “But I left their employment a month ago. I’m here on a birding holiday.”

  Although it wasn’t turning out to be much of one…

  “Hah!” Rasheed guffawed with disbelief. “A likely story! You don’t seriously expect me to believe that, do you?”

  “I can assure you it’s the truth. And anyway,” Blake went on, “this is a private matter.”

  The fat policeman inclined his head and nodded in the direction of Lee Yong as if to ask, Who’s she? So far she’d sat in silence, her hands held respectfully in her lap and looking as demure as possible. Blake took this as his cue to introduce her.

  “This is Miss Yong.” He’d meant to say she was purely a friend – and whether it was the pressure of the situation or an attack of nerves or the thought that he needed a better explanation of their presence, but he suddenly lost control of his tongue and before he could stop himself, he’d blurted out a story which had been running fancifully through his head but which they’d neither agreed nor rehearsed. “Miss Yong is Mr Eldasouky’s fiancée. She’s travelled all the way from Malaysia for the wedding in a couple of weeks’ time. His arrest has come as a great shock to her and she’s asked me to place a sum of money at your disposal which she hopes will secure his release.”

  The point was that it sounded believable – and for all Blake knew, it could be the truth. And if Lee Yong was embarrassed by the deception, she failed to show it and remained calm and collected.

  Blake took the envelope out of his pocket and placed it carefully on the desk opposite his passport, then folded his arms and sat back to wait.

  Rasheed eyed the envelope, then Blake and then Lee Yong. That he was tempted to take it clearly showed but an inner doubt appeared to hold him back. Perhaps it was conscience that battled with his greed. Althou
gh that was unlikely, thought Blake – it was probably some other form of self-interest that was driving him. Was it best to take the money? Or was the information he might extract from his prisoner worth more? It was a neat calculation. It was certainly not Blake’s story that had moved him. Although it had been delivered with conviction, Rasheed didn’t look like the kind of man whose range of emotions included an understanding of love. To prove it, a sneer of contempt crossed his lips.

  “Why should I believe this fairy tale?”

  Now it was Blake’s turn to shrug. Because we’re paying you to.

  A podgy hand reached out for the envelope and riffled casually through the notes. Blake wondered whether it was it enough – but apparently it was. Greed had triumphed and the fat policeman opened the side drawer of his desk, swept the envelope into it and slid it shut, then pushed Blake’s passport towards him.

  “You can have your precious Mr Eldasouky.” His decision came barbed with scorn. “He’s a worthless son of a bitch! Why keep these minnows when there are bigger fish to catch. I tell you straight, I’m only too happy to throw this one back. It’s not worth the price of keeping him. I know the type, he’ll tell us nothing. He’s had his lesson!”

  There was an element of sour grapes in his tirade. He’d reached a decision he didn’t much like and felt the need to justify it to himself. And even if he believed Blake’s story, there was no attempt to spare Lee Yong’s feelings. Blake glanced toward her, hoping she’d stay quiet. With the battle won, the last thing he wanted was for her to give a feisty response and upset the deal.

  “So, you know who the ringleaders are then?”

  It sounded as though he was fishing, but his hope was to move the discussion elsewhere.

  “Don’t you worry, Mr Blake – we know what’s going on. These Islamists think they’re going to take over the country, but we know better than that. We’ll soon sort them out – then you and your American friends can sleep easily in your beds.”