Serendipity Foundation_292

by The Serendipity Foundation (retail) (epub)

  He glanced out of the window as he waited for his change – no longer looking for answers, but for an alternative, a last chance to save what he wasn’t sure he wanted saving. And there it was, trailing behind a huge vision in khaki, with a clipboard: serendipity found in the most unlikely of places.

  Miller had tried a variety of liquor, tobacco and ginseng, but nothing could calm his panic. He stared across the lobby to the reception desk, where Jordie had gone to complain about the lack of toiletries.

  ‘Success,’ Jordie said as he joined Miller. ‘I’ve sorted out the substandard tea- and coffee-making facilities as well.’ The hotel was more luxurious than their projects usually afforded them: the generous philanthropic budget had upgraded them to marble floors, lobby water features and a disinterested piano player in the bar.

  Miller returned Jordie’s comment with a frosty stare.

  ‘Ah come on, man. I’m sorry. I fucked up. I know. How many times can I apologise?’

  Even if Miller wanted to, his body was incapable of forgiveness: it was preoccupied with the guilt of putting his and his colleagues’ jobs at risk. Jordie’s newfound sensitivities would have to wait.

  They had only found out about Richard’s involvement as they read the itinerary on the plane over to Cairo. Jordie could still clearly picture him up on stage 15 years ago, delivering a vision of big business that he thought either manipulative or naïve in the extreme. It had only just occurred to him that he might be owed £50 on an outstanding wager.

  ‘Well, what should we order from the wine list, considering this is a reunion and all?’

  Miller stared angrily at Jordie, shaking his head. ‘You might have given up hope on your future,’ said Miller, ‘but for the next couple of weeks, can you at least pretend you haven’t given up hope on mine.’ So far, their best plan to avoid the India trip with Olaf was to contract dysentery.

  ‘Well . . . we could just kidnap Pounder,’ said Jordie, raising his eyebrows in an attempt to bring a smile to Miller. ‘Rebalance the world’s karma a little. Even for us it would represent new territory in the many ways to fail a development project.’

  Miller signalled with his head across the lobby. ‘Speak of the devil.’

  Miller and Jordie both stood up. Richard headed in their direction; all he knew was that on his arrival at the hotel from the airport he was supposed to meet two Brits in the bar. It was only when he got closer to Jordie that he took on the face of a man who had forgotten where he had put his keys.

  ‘Cotswolds. 15 years ago. Self-righteous festival,’ Jordie said as he shook Richard’s hand. ‘I believe we made a bet over which one of us would become disillusioned first.’

  ‘I trust the court is still out,’ Richard said, with vague recognition sparking in his face.

  ‘Cotswolds as well, I suppose,’ said Miller, holding out his hand. Richard looked blank. ‘I was 16,’ Miller clarified.

  Richard shook his head. ‘You too. Jesus.’

  ‘Well, it’s nice that we’re all back together. All passionate and motivated,’ said Jordie.

  ‘Isn’t it?’

  They made small talk around the flight, the oppressive outside temperature and whether it was their first time in Cairo. After 15 minutes, conversation was going to dry up unless one of the elephants in the room drew attention to itself, which elephants have a habit of doing after eight units of alcohol.

  ‘So . . . uh . . . when did you rediscover your passion for solar energy?’ said Jordie.

  Richard stared back frostily, trying to hold his tongue for long enough to let his defensiveness subside. But the touch-paper was already lit. Richard had been looking for someone to argue with since the final board meeting.

  ‘I’ve done more for the environment than you’ll ever know.’

  Jordie nodded. ‘Ah yes, I hear that oil is like Nivea for seabirds.’

  Richard was caught between laughter and anger. ‘I remember you. The one who put himself on the pedestal because he left the World Bank so that he could play around with the poor a little more intimately.’

  Jordie let out a patronising smile. ‘Well, I’m so glad you’ve finally arrived down here to give us a helping hand. I suppose it’s nice for you to be a little more . . . what should we say? Public?’

  ‘Something like that.’

  He instantly regretted coming to Cairo. He had no desire to see the project before investing, but had been convinced by Si from the philanthropic investment firm that it would let the team know he was committed. Larry, his supposed friend, had agreed with Si. The bastards, he thought.

  The following morning, they left for the site visit: Jordie in the front, the other two in the back. Jordie played with the air conditioner but still couldn’t halt the trickles of sweat sliding down the side of his face.

  The day before, Jordie and Miller had started collecting household data on electricity use, utility bills and potential roof space. They had tried to limit the time lost in translation by using a simple questionnaire, but their translator Hashim, like a visiting relative, still talked for long periods at each port of call. Jordie and Miller spent most of their time declining endless cups of tea and sugary snacks.

  They were all now on their way to meet Hashim at a local café for a tour of the neighbourhood. The tense evening had been carried on into the morning, coloured with a tinge of regret.

  Their vehicle came to a halt. The fleet of dilapidated blue and white taxis that surrounded them showed no patience for diagnosis, and embarked on a cure of collective horn blowing: the traffic jam equivalent of kicking a broken television. Jordie grunted.

  ‘Things like this just happen here. Strange things. Traffic jam with no jam. How do you say it . . . effect without cause?’ said the driver.

  Minutes passed. ‘Maybe best you walk. Don’t know how long this could take. Café only three minutes away.’ None of them had any inclination to leave, but Miller eventually took the lead and opened the door.

  ‘You need to walk down the second small road on the left,’ said the driver, ‘and then you’re on the street with the café. You know from there. Remember, second on the left.’

  They slowly made their way down the road. The stationary frustrations of the cars were in sharp contrast to the frenetic activity on the pavement. Hawkers and fruit carts encroached on it as pedestrians wove between obstacles. The smell of spice, fish, garbage and fumes underlined their foreignness to this environment, as did the inquisitive stares that accompan-ied them everywhere.

  ‘Richard . . . Richard . . . Richard, is that you?’

  They looked behind to see a figure slaloming between the traffic towards them. Jordie and Miller both turned to Richard, who gave no sign of recognition as the man approached them, hand outstretched.

  ‘Liam Powell,’ he said, holding out his hand. ‘The, er . . .’ – an embarrassed edge to his voice – ‘journalist.’ Richard offered his hand before he fully comprehended who was in front of him. ‘What a coincidence to see you here like this.’

  Jordie’s laugh broke the silence. ‘What are the fucking chances? That’s perfect. Bit of early publicity for your altruism.’

  Richard looked less impressed. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘Oh, just doing some background on a story.’

  ‘You chasing another kidnap victim around the world?’ said Richard, deciding against the pleasantries.

  Liam smiled, embarrassed, as he leaned in towards them to let a pedestrian pass. ‘No . . . I’m, er . . . I’m looking into the radical ways urban communities solve crises.’

  ‘What a coincidence,’ said Jordie. ‘Richard’s investing in something like that. Aren’t you, Richard?’ He nudged him with his shoulder. ‘I tell you what, why don’t you come around with us and have a look at what we’re doing. We can give you some inside information, and, you know, maybe you could give us a mention.’

  ‘I, really, I was just about to go back to the hotel.’

  ‘I thought you were
an investigative reporter.’

  Liam stared at Richard. Despite their animosity, the look signalled a common bond of enmity towards Jordie, who had already turned and continued walking.

  They reached the second street on the left: a service road that provided access to the abandoned warehouses that graced both sides. They strode down it with increasing anxiety as they left the din of the traffic behind. There were no signs of life. Halfway down they approached two garbage piles that rose over six feet, heaped against the warehouse walls.

  A wolf whistle pierced the quiet.

  They looked to their right to see a figure dressed all in black crouched between the piles. The figure held an AK47 and aimed it at Richard’s forehead.

  ‘Don’t even think about it, gentleman,’ said the figure. ‘We have the whole area covered.’ The voice was female.

  She motioned to the opposite side of the lane where another gunman emerged from the shadow of a doorway and waved them inside. The men exchanged glances, their imagin-ations filled with images of bloody consequence rather than of heroic escape. In a city of millions, they found themselves alone without hope of rescue or even a witness.

  ‘If it helps I can ask you to come inside and have a look at our carpets. Just look, no buy, cheap price. I can make you all some tea.’ The voice lacked malice, as if making an attempt at humour.

  Liam closed his eyes to try to calm himself. This must be them, he told himself, but the gleam of the rifle barrel dispelled the previously benign image he had constructed. Next to him he could hear Richard mumbling swear words.

  ‘Get a move on,’ said the gunwoman to Jordie who kept glancing towards the intersection.

  ‘Heeeeeeelp. Fucking help us,’ Jordie shouted as a figure passed the intersection. Before he had time to see the passer-by disappear into the sea of noise, a shove forced him towards the door, knocking him off balance. He looked up to see the rifle in his face.

  ‘Make no mistake, fatty, I will shoot you in the face right here. But I would prefer to cook you lunch. Now get up and go inside.’

  The others watched him get up in stunned terror. The countless hostages they had seen on TV, the drawn-out negotiations and the gunshots that had been heard echoing down corporate conference-call speakers – and here they were, seconds from being the photos that would titillate a global public obsessed with tragedy.

  They found themselves shuffling towards the door.

  ‘If you please, gentlemen, a little more pace. It is very hot out here,’ said the armed female as they crossed the threshold.

  Inside was a room six metres by six with two doors: one to their left, and one in front of them, guarded by the silent second gunman who had gone in ahead of them. The entrance behind them slammed shut.

  ‘Welcome, welcome,’ the gunwoman said. ‘Now, before we continue I must ask a favour. I’m sorry to trouble you, but could you put all your phones and wallets in the basket in the middle of the room. Please, don’t worry, I won’t steal or sell them on. You know where I live.’

  The men stared at each other, helpless, handicapped by fear. ‘Phones and wallets, gentlemen. I won’t ask again.’

  One by one they placed their phones and wallets into the basket.

  ‘Thank you. There’s no reception in there anyway, but I don’t want you to be distracted with thoughts of escape.’

  The small room was painted beige and had darkened over the years. The only other marking on the walls was a simply painted black symbol. On first impression it looked like a thermometer.

  ‘It’s sort of our family crest,’ she said, as if this was the detail from the last minute that played heaviest on their minds.

  The silent gunman opened the door to their left, which revealed a staircase leading down into the basement. At the bottom lay another door.

  ‘Make yourselves at home,’ said the gunwoman, gun by her waist. ‘Mi casa es su casa.’

  The door shut behind them after they entered.

  The windowless room was 12 metres long by 6 metres wide and split into two halves. The half to the left had two bunk beds with a chest of drawers between them. The other side had two sofas that were turned to face each other, a modern-looking TV against the wall on the right and an L-shaped bookshelf that ran the whole length of the wall closest to them and around behind the TV. Opposite the entrance was another door that led to a bathroom with a shower and western toilet. A small table with four seats stood in the centre of the room. The walls had crisp beige paint; carpets covered the cement floors; an air conditioner welcomed its visitors from the oppressive heat outside.

  They explored the cell, unsure how the unexpected comfort of the room squared with the terrible fates they each imagined. Had they been locked in a dark cage they could have understood their plight better.

  In the corner next to the TV stood a small desk with a menu, writing paper and a laptop without internet connection. The menu fused east with west; all dishes were priced ‘FREE’. It stated: ‘If you have any special dietary requirements, please let us know. Please place your order under the door two hours before lunch and dinner, which are served at 1pm and 7pm respectively. Breakfast is served at 8am and should be ordered before 8pm the night before.’

  The bookshelf contained a range of fiction, a spiritual collection covering the major religions and philosophies, and self-help books with titles such as What I Believe in When I’m Stuck in a Room, A Flexible Amount of Steps to a Happier Life, and How I Became a Successful Noun.

  ‘What the fuck are we going to do? Fuck. Fuck. I knew I never should’ve been talked into coming. Fucking people. Fuck,’ said Richard as he paced the room.

  The silence gave way to recriminations and hopelessness.

  ‘Would you shut up and let me think,’ said Jordie from the sofa.

  ‘Oh, you need to think now, do you? About what? We’ve been kidnapped. No one knows where we are. And I’ve had first-hand experience of what these type of people do to hostages. And as for you,’ he said to Liam who sat opposite Jordie, ‘why the fuck are you here? A minute after we meet this world expert in kidnapping we get fucking kidnapped.’

  There was a loud knock on the door. ‘Gentlemen, please. I know that after such an ordeal people like to blame each other, but I’d prefer it if my mum didn’t have to hear the swearing. It’s a bit awkward.’

  They heard the footsteps disappear, replaced by the sound of uncontrollable sobbing. Miller sat against the wall, doubled over, his body shaking violently.

  They were beset by a jumble of regrets and worries. Images of friends and family hearing the news of their capture were punctuated by the bloody spectre of their own mortality.

  It was the most complete loneliness they had ever felt.

  ‘More to the point,’ Richard said, as if the last hour of silence had never happened, ‘how did they know where we were going to be? Or are there patient terrorists waiting on every abandoned side street?’ He glared at Jordie and Miller, who looked up, surprised that in spite of their private torment, they were in fact in a room with others. ‘It must have come from you. You’ve been here for two days. Let slip a millionaire was visiting, did you?’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Jordie, ‘I speed-dialled straight through to al-Qaeda.’

  ‘How mature. I meant let it slip to someone in the neighbourhood.’ Richard paced behind Liam.

  ‘Because everyone around here has two degrees of separ­ation between themselves and Bin Laden. Fucking hell. Trust me, your presence wasn’t something to brag about. You’re as desirable as rubella in a fucking nursery. And to my know­ledge you’re the only one with a background in hostage crises, and the precedent you set is pretty fucking worrying.’

  ‘Well, they didn’t just magic out of nowhere. Someone must have told them we’d be walking down that street.’

  ‘Why did you walk down that particular street?’ said Liam, speaking up for the first time. ‘It felt dodgy from the moment we got there.’

  ‘We got told to by our�
�’ Richard broke off.

  Jordie breathed deeply. ‘Our fucking driver.’

  Richard escaped the tension he had instigated by visiting the toilet. As he peed, he noticed four new toothbrushes, a range of shower gels and shampoos, fresh bath mats and lavender air fresheners.

  He re-entered the room with greater focus. ‘We can sort this out,’ he said, as the other three stared at him blankly. ‘We need to tell them that we’re here to help . . . you know . . . Muslims.’

  He walked to the door and banged it repeatedly. ‘We’re here to help Muslims, not harm them.’ By the third repeat, a sad desperation had entered Richard’s voice.

  Miller walked over and put a hand on Richard’s shoulder, whose forehead now rested against the door. ‘Come on, it’s OK. That’s enough.’

  But to their surprise a knock came back.

  The young voice from the other side of the door said, ‘Are you here just to help Muslims, or are you here also to help sisters, carpenters and storytellers?’

  Richard stared at Miller, confusion contorting his reddened face.

  ‘I . . . I suppose so,’ Richard said out loud.

  ‘That’s good. People have many identities and it’s dangerous to focus on just one. And whatever makes you think we’re Muslim anyway? You should say, “We’re here to help people, not harm them.”’

  Richard looked nervously at the others. ‘I . . . I understand. We’re here to help people, not harm them.’

  ‘Excellent! Now please, relax and have a read of the welcome literature.’

  ‘Here’s how I see it,’ said Jordie. The four of them sat on the sofas. ‘They haven’t made demands, but the air conditioning, Bible on the bookshelf, and chicken kiev on the menu don’t scream al-Qaeda. If they were going to kill us, why provide spare clothes?’

  ‘They might just be using us for something first,’ said Richard.

  ‘Like what? Fashion models in their summer catalogue?’ said Jordie.

  ‘Let’s just try to relax,’ said Miller, attempting to ease the tension. The mental focus these deductions required had overcome the darker sides of their imaginations and diverted their initial terror.