Clay made a pincer with the thumb and index finger of his right hand, narrowed it down to an inch’s aperture. ‘Kakra.’ A little. He tried a smile, failed, woozy from the anaesthetic. ‘How long have I been here, Afia?’
‘You were brought in yesterday evening. We operated soon after.’ She looked at her timepiece. ‘You slept eighteen hours.’ Afia tucked the blanket in around him.
Clay raised his bandaged arm. ‘And this?’
Afia frowned. ‘The doctor will be in soon to talk to you. He will explain everything.’ She cranked him upright in the bed, set a tray of breakfast in front of him.
‘I don’t know if I can eat.’
‘You must try, Mister Clay.’
He gave her a stern look.
She laughed, covered her hand with her mouth. ‘Clay, I mean.’
‘Mepa wo kiew,’ he said. Thank you.
Afia blazed white teeth again, fussed over his tray, checked his IV line, and bustled from the room, humming to herself.
Clay picked at his meal, set the tray aside, and lapsed into a drugged half-sleep. After a while Afia came back to remove the tray. A small Arab man in a white lab coat followed her into the room, stood at the foot of his bed examining his chart. He had a starved, narrow face. He looked solemn, downcast. Afia retreated with the tray, quiet, professional.
The man stood at Clay’s bedside. ‘I am Doctor Rashid,’ he said. ‘How do you feel, Mister Keating?’
Clay looked down at his bandaged arm. ‘I can feel my fingers tingling. I can move them.’
The doctor leaned forward, inspected Clay’s arm. ‘It will be like this for some time. Perhaps a long time.’
Clay looked down at the bandage. He’d seen so many like it before. ‘When can I leave?’
‘At least a week, yet. Perhaps longer. You need careful observation. The bandages need to be changed regularly. We will show you how, so you can start to do it yourself.’ The doctor glanced at the IV bottle hanging from the hood above Clay’s bed. ‘We are giving you antibiotics and painkillers. There is still a high chance of secondary infection. You need time to heal.’
Clay ran his good hand through the thick beard that now covered his face. ‘I had a bag with me when I arrived.’
‘When you were admitted, you were in rags. A pair of trousers, a shirt, and a pair of boots. There was no bag. We took the liberty of disposing of your clothes.’
‘Identification?’
‘Nothing.’
Clay thought back to the hospital in Al Mukalla, Mohamed, his mother.
‘You were in critical condition when you arrived,’ said the Doctor. ‘The man who brought you provided all the necessary information, including payment details.’
‘From the Consulate.’
The doctor nodded. ‘I am Yemeni,’ said the doctor. ‘From the South.’
Clay looked him in the eyes, said nothing, wary now.
‘You came from my country,’ he said, jutting his chin towards Clay’s bandaged arm.
‘Was that on the admission form, too?’
The doctor shook his head. ‘No, it was not.’ He glanced from Clay’s cheek to his right forearm, the long scar there. ‘You have some experience, I think, with hospitals.’
‘A car accident,’ said Clay.
‘And the other?’ The Doctor pointed to Clay’s torso.
‘Same accident.’
‘I have seen many wounds. It is my business, after all.’
Clay said nothing.
The doctor leaned in close. ‘Be careful, Mister Keating. Saleh’s men are everywhere.’
Clay looked him in the eyes. The doctor did not look away.
‘I need to get to the French Embassy,’ he said.
After a while the doctor stood. ‘Let me see what can be done. In the meantime, rest.’ Then he smiled, turned and left the room.
The day turned. Clay lapsed in and out of consciousness, vaguely aware of the nurse coming and going, the swish of her skirts, the heat of day, the noise of the city beyond the open shuttered windows, the smell of the sea cutting through the morphine haze, the call to prayer echoing from the hills, a salty wet breeze flowing across his bare chest. And sometimes Rania would appear, slide through his consciousness, and he would wake overjoyed, laughing, heart racing, only to open his eyes and have day eviscerate the lie. Other times in his dreaming, the weaker part of him tried to stay with her, chase her through shifting dimensions, but then she was gone and there was only the swaying palms and the scorched black hills and the sounds of the cars on the street.
He opened his eyes. The room was dark. A nightlight glowed near the door. Afia was there, her bulk swaying as she closed shutters, secured latches. She turned and walked to the bed, wrote something on his chart, and checked his bandages. ‘You have a visitor,’ she said. ‘He is outside. He has been waiting for some time. Do you feel up to it?’
Clay nodded.
‘After, we will change your dressing.’
‘Looking forward to it,’ said Clay.
Afia walked to the door, disappeared, returned a moment later, ushered a man into the room. It was the Deputy Consul from the French Embassy. He walked to Clay’s bed, sat in the chair, folded his hands. He wore the same dark suit, clean starched shirt, dark tie. ‘Good morning, Monsieur, ah, Keating.’
Clay tried a smile. ‘Nice touch. Paul Keating. The Australian Prime Minister.’
‘I thought, under the circumstances, that you might want to keep your real name off the admission documents.’
‘Thanks.’ Not a bad bloke.
‘How are you feeling?’
‘Like nothing’s missing,’ said Clay.
The Consul glanced at Clay’s bandaged arm.
‘I have checked your documents, made enquiries.’ He flipped open a notebook. ‘Thierry Champard’s letter has been authenticated. Would you be willing to testify?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you say that this man Todorov can be made available for questioning?’
‘If you can get him out of Yemen.’
‘I have referred this matter to Paris. I have recommended that they take action to indict Vance Parnell for conspiracy in the murder of Thierry Champard.’
Clay took a deep breath. That was something. ‘And what about Petro-Tex, the pollution that Champard died trying to prevent?’
The Consul closed his notebook. ‘I am afraid that is beyond the jurisdiction of the French government. It is an internal Yemeni matter.’
‘I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but they’re a little preoccupied right now. There must be something you can do.’
‘I am afraid not, Monsieur.’
‘I have data, photographs, field and laboratory measurements, everything. I can prove categorically that Petro-Tex is knowingly poisoning at least a dozen villages. You’ve seen the letter. And it’s still going on. Surely you can bring diplomatic pressure to bear, go after Petro-Tex’s assets, something.’
‘I have seen and read everything you brought.’
‘Then you know what’s at stake. I need your help.’
‘That is impossible.’
Clay looked up at the Deputy Consul. He wasn’t much older than Clay, a man past apprenticeship, set on his career now, building a reputation, going places, a ring on his finger. He might have children, a mortgage back in France. ‘I’m not asking the government of France,’ said Clay. ‘I’m asking you. Help me help these people.’
The Consul stood, straightened his tie. ‘I’m sorry. Beyond seeking justice for Champard’s murder, I cannot help you. I have no authority in these matters. Please understand.’
Clay sank back in the bed, closed his eyes. A cold current welled up from somewhere deep inside him, spread through his extremities. Yes, he understood perfectly, comprehensively.
‘There is one more thing,’ said the Consul. ‘I recommend that you maintain your new identity, at least until your name can be cleared. I warn you that it may take some time. You are still officia
lly a suspect in several murders.’
‘How long?’
‘Years. Perhaps never. It is difficult to know.’
The Consul put an envelope on the side table.
Clay picked it up, looked inside. DG’s passport, a sheaf of hundred dollar bills, all that was left of the cash Al Shams had given him. He looked back up at the Consul.
‘In that case, copy what you need. I’m going to need those documents back.’
‘Of course. I will have them sent over.’ The Consul stood a moment, hesitated.
‘Your resurrection could cause problems,’ he said. ‘I suggest you keep a very low profile. Stay away from the Press, be discreet. As far as the French government is concerned, Claymore Straker died in Yemen as reported. You are exactly who this passport says you are. I promise you, we will do everything we can to bring Todorov and Parnell to justice. But there are no certainties. We thank you for your courageous efforts. And please do not worry about the costs of your treatment and rehabilitation. That has all been covered. Stay as long as you need. Everything has been arranged with the government of Oman and the local police. You are free to go as soon as you are discharged. We wish you speedy recovery.’
The Consul reached into his jacket pocket and withdrew a card, handed it to Clay. ‘Stay in touch,’ he said. ‘We may need you to testify. Goodbye, Monsieur Greene.’ The Consul smoothed his jacket, turned and walked to the door.
‘One more thing,’ said Clay.
The Consul turned, stood with his hand on the door handle.
‘Rania LaTour.’
‘The journalist.’ Journaliste, with an e, feminine. ‘Yes. It is very sad.’
‘Was she …’
The Consul waited.
‘Did she work for the French government?’
The Consul smoothed the front of his suit. ‘As far as I know, she was a journalist, nothing more. Good night, Monsieur Greene.’
The Accused
The next day broke hot and clear. Clay stood by the window and looked out over the hospital gardens and the small domed mosque to the flat quiet silence of the Arabian Sea. Already, he found that he could manage for hours at a time without the morphine, biting down on the pain, letting it wash through him. He’d surprised the nurse by being able to change his own dressing the first time. The wound looked bad, the skin stretched and pinned, surprising in its asymmetry, its mute anger. But the doctor said he was healing. On the outside, at least.
Clay sat back on the bed, picked up DG’s passport. A scrap of paper fell from between its pages to the bed covers. It was the tear of Marlboro packet that Rania had given him at the airport in Al Mukhalla, all he had left of her. So many times he had come close to ripping it up. But each time he had relented, slipped it back into the passport. Even now the meaning of Rania’s cypher escaped him, not that it mattered, not that it would change a single thing whether he understood it or not.
Clay flipped open the passport to the back page, scanned the numbers scrawled there, ten strings of numbers stacked in a column down the centre of the page, the word dovetail at the bottom of the list. Not now, Hussein had said. Clay had committed the numbers to memory when he’d first seen them, and ever since they’d rolled around in his subconscious, pebbles in the surf, scattering and aggregating with the ebb and flow of his dreaming. The first four numbers each contained twenty digits, no common patterns except for a nine in the penultimate position. Credit-card numbers perhaps – sixteen digits plus four expiry. The fifth and sixth strings had eleven digits. What had struck him almost immediately was that both began with 61, the international country code telephone prefix for Australia. The last four numbers had no common pattern. He pushed himself up and pressed the call button.
A few moments later Afia appeared in the doorway. ‘Yes, Mister Clay?’
‘May I use a telephone, please, Miss Afia?’
She tsked. ‘There is no public phone in the hospital. There was one, but the telephone company took it away a few months ago and has not replaced it.’
‘What about the hospital’s phones, Afia? I can pay.’
‘We are not supposed to…’ She stopped short, looked down at her hands.
‘Please, Afia. It’s important.’
Afia looked over her shoulder. ‘Come with me,’ she said.
She led him down the corridor to a small office, and closed the door behind them. There was a table with an in-tray, a phone, stacks of papers. A window letting out onto the garden. A glass medicine cabinet against one wall, with bandages, boxes of syringes, phials. A door led off to a medical storage room. ‘My office, Mister Clay.’
‘If there’s any trouble, I’ll say I snuck in here on my own.’
That smile again, big like Africa. ‘Dial nine,’ she said. ‘And please record your calls for me. The hospital will make me pay.’
Clay bent down, kissed her on the cheek. Her skin was as smooth and soft as it looked. ‘Thank you so much, Afia.’
She lowered her eyes. Her cheeks were flushed. She looked up at him a brief moment and then turned and closed the door after her.
Clay sat at the desk, tucked a hundred-dollar bill under the pencil holder, picked up the handset, and wedged it between his chin and shoulder. He punched in the international access code, tried the first number. A failure tone, a recorded message in Arabic. Second string. Same result. Of course. Not phone numbers. He tried the first 61 number, punched in the digits, waited as the phone system digested the information. A ring tone. Connection. A recorded voice: if you wish to leave a message for Declan Greene, please speak after the tone. Clay put down the receiver, heart rate accelerating.
Another of the 61 numbers was that of a property manager, Mr Wheaton, who had a slight lisp and a strong Aussie accent. Yes, Mr Wheaton had said over a line so clear he might have been standing in the same room, the Cottesloe apartment was being well looked after and would be ready when he returned from overseas. He could stop by and get the key when convenient. Clay put down the phone, breathless. He reached for the hospital directory, flipped to the international country code pages, ran his finger down the list, comparing the digits. The eighth string began with 1345: the Cayman Islands. He punched in the number, waited.
‘Standard Bank, how may I help you?’
A bank. It made sense. ‘Account information, please.’
‘For an existing account?’
‘Yes.’
‘Name?’
‘Declan W. Greene.’
‘The account number, please?’
Clay took a deep breath, read out the string immediately below the telephone number.
‘One moment, please.’ Muzak.
Clay scanned the figures.
The phone crackled. ‘This is Mister Prendeville, branch manager. We have been expecting to hear from you Mister Greene. May I ask you a few security questions?’
Clay shifted in his seat. ‘Of course.’
Date of birth, mother’s maiden name. Clay fumbled with the passport, provided the answers.
‘Can you provide me with the code word, please?’
There it was, at the bottom of the list, in the same slanted hand. ‘Dovetail,’ he said. Clay sat open-mouthed as the banker duly informed him that the current balance in his account was 485,000 US dollars. There was also, Mr Prendeville continued, a term deposit of 200,000 sterling rolling over annually at five and a quarter percent, and another in Swiss francs, half a million, no less, at four and half percent. All tax free, all belonging to Declan Greene. Him. Hussein’s pension plan, accessible by signed and faxed wire transfer instruction, complete with codeword, sent to the personal attention of Mister Prendeville, anytime, anywhere.
Declan W. Greene, it turned out, was a pretty good person to be.
Later that afternoon, with Afia’s help, Clay prepared two handwritten international bank wire transfer instructions. The first was to the Rosedale Long-term Care Clinic in Johannesburg, covering all arrears for the account of Mister Eben Barstow, and
providing sufficient funds to cover all costs for his care for the next three years. The second was in favour of Capricorn Consulting, Nicosia, Cyprus, in an amount that cleared all existing debt and provided a small capital float. He signed both documents with his new signature, the one on the photo page of DG’s passport, and faxed them to the Cayman Islands using Afia’s machine. For Abdulkader’s widow and children, for Mohamed’s mother, for whoever Rania had, he could do nothing. Not yet.
The late afternoon and evening were hard. The pain came in waves, knocking him over, sending him spinning. Clay lay in bed and looked out at the deep, fading blue of the Arabian Sea, the way it stretched away from the claws of a crazed twisting coastline all the way to the black dream of the horizon. Afia upped his morphine, murmured something to him, and checked the antibiotics. Later, the doctor came, removed the dressing, examined the wound, and stood whispering with Afia. There was still some infection, the doctor said. Rest. Afia gave him something to sleep, smiling as she did it. Smiling, as she pushed a syringe of etomidate into his IV.
Sometime later, Clay awoke with a start. It was dark, save for the dull-yellow wash of the little night light near the door. Silent, save for the crashing of the waves along the coast. He looked at the bedside clock. Red numbers glowed: 12:47. He filled his lungs with dark air. His arm was throbbing. There was a knock at the door. Clay turned. The door opened slowly. A dark figure appeared, a man silhouetted against the dim light of the corridor. Clay jolted up in his bed. The man looked back over his shoulder, stepped inside and closed the door behind him, approached the bed.
It was the Deputy Consul from the French Embassy. He was dressed as before in a dark suit and tie. Under his arm was a bag of some sort. He strode to the bed, sat on the chair. Sweat shone at his temples, yellow in the pale light. He was breathing hard. He looked over his shoulder, ran a finger under his collar.
‘I don’t have long, Monsieur Straker.’
Clay said nothing, waited.
‘The documents, your documents …’ He paused, glanced over his shoulder again, as if he was expecting someone to appear in the doorway. ‘They have been taken from my office.’
The Abrupt Physics of Dying Page 35
