“You had better!” he said before heading upstairs.
That night Erik had a strange dream, a nightmare. It had started rather comically. He was riding a golden calf with a sun disc between its horns. The calf stopped in front of a temple with gold pillars containing rows and rows of incomprehensible writing. He could see the temple clearly; it was nothing like he had ever seen before, made entirely of gold. Suddenly he saw Paul in the distance looking the other way but slowly turning his head to see him. Just as Erik was about to shout Paul’s name, a group of people, looking aggravated, came running at high speed towards him. Paul had seen him but pretended not to. Erik didn’t have time to react and the second the mob reached him he found himself awake in bed; screaming. He had once read that if you dream that you die, you are dead. He was grateful that he had at least woken up but in his delirious state of mind he was sure that if he had not woken up, the angry mob would have killed him. Their enraged faces were still etched on his inner eye, leaving him sweaty and shaking.
“Don’t be silly”, he said out loud in Swedish to himself before drifting back into sleep.
FIFTEEN
Beirut, February 2006
It was only just past eleven in the morning when the bus came to a halt at the Charles Helou bus station near the harbour in central Beirut. Given the hour, Erik had imagined that they would have avoided the worst of the rush hour so that the streets of Beirut would be relatively quiet. However, he was gravely mistaken. It was Monday but the bus station was sprawling with people streaming out of busses, mainly young men.
“What’s going on?” he asked in the direction of no one in particular, feeling ill at ease, anxiously staring out of the bus window as they stood up to exit. The others were equally perplexed by the scenes around the bus. They all stepped out, feeling as if they were trespassing on forbidden property. Erik was glad to have survived the unnerving bus ride, although in comparison to the scenes greeting them outside of the bus, the dangers of driving suddenly seemed trivial. Erik wished they were back on the bus, away from the threatening tension of the crowded square in front of them.
At that moment his mobile phone, which had found a sliver of coverage, came to life. It was his mother. She got straight to the point, without small talk, with some exciting news. But only a few seconds into the conversation on a crackly line, he suddenly felt his phone slip out of his hand. He looked around and saw a man, with seemingly astounding athletic ability, running away from them through the assembly, carrying Erik’s phone, leaving no time for any of them to react.
“Now, that’s just great…” was all he managed to say. “Our only communication device with the rest of the world, gone with the wind!”
“We’ll find another one!” Emma said, sounding less than convincing and looking around as if she expected another attack. “Who was that on the phone by the way? You sounded excited.”
“It was my mum. The Swedish police have found the person who committed the break in and caused my grandmother’s death! It’s believed he’s a contract burglar. She didn’t have time to say much unfortunately.”
“That’s great news!” Emma said.
“Does that mean that they have also found the chest with its contents?” Paul said, sounding oddly blasé, especially for someone who had spent more than a little time on the whole ‘opening of the wall’ campaign.
“Unfortunately not yet, as far as I could tell. Maybe he’s unwilling to speak.”
Following this, Paul seemed invigorated and proclaimed that they had no time to lose, that they needed to get out of there. A drop of sweat trickled down his cheek from the temple.
“We’ll never find a taxi here”, Emma added.
“No, I was thinking we should walk. Hopefully we’ll find someone who could tell us what’s going on! It looks like some sort of demonstration.” Paul was worried about their safety. “I’ve never seen anything like this. I don’t like it. Not at all. Let’s get out of here and find somewhere to have lunch. Or maybe not. Maybe we should find the British Embassy, quickly.” They all knew that it made sense. He paused and continued after they had left the main station area. “I know where it is – not far from here. From memory, I think it’s near the Place D’Etoile. Come on, this way.”
They tried to take side streets, to avoid the masses of demonstrators. Since they didn’t know exactly where the embassy was, they ventured in the direction of Place D’Etoile. Unfortunately, this seemed to be where the demonstrators were heading too.
The area where they were walking had been restored following the civil war. The architecture was striking, with a mix of French and Ottoman style buildings, together with modern glass and steel office blocks. There were several cafés, restaurants and expensive shops to be seen. Despite this, Erik didn’t get a warm feeling from peeking through shop windows – the faces staring back at him were grave, disapproving, and not all shops were occupied, leaving an impression of fairly recent neglect. In the distance they spotted the long line of demonstrators, now carrying green flags and shouting loudly in Arabic. If Emma or Paul could hear what they were shouting, they didn’t bother to tell him, although he noticed that Paul was becoming increasingly edgy. From their tone, it was not a friendly demonstration. Most of the demonstrators seemed to be young men, some even teenagers.
“Let’s have some lunch. I think we’ll be safer off the streets”, Paul suggested and they all thankfully agreed.
“Yes, I’m starving,” Laura admitted. The first potentially suitable place they saw was a modern looking Italian restaurant. Venturing inside, away from the loud shouting and hostility, was a great relief but it didn’t last long. Despite Paul’s polite greeting in Arabic and the fact that the place was empty, save for a small bold man reading the paper in the corner, the waiter pointed at the door with an angry face and ordered them to leave immediately.
“What was that all about?” Paul said as they were making their way back onto the street. “I’ve never been refused entry, especially not in this part of Beirut.” They tried another couple of less western looking restaurants but the result was the same – they were refused entry. By now, Paul was almost jumping up and down from anger and confusion.
Emma was edgy, eyes roving. “What is going on here? I feel we’re missing something. I think it was a mistake to venture into Beirut without watching the news or reading a paper first.”
“I agree. I haven’t caught up with the latest news since Crete,” Erik said as he spotted another green flag a few streets down. Paul had also caught a glimpse of the banner.
“The message on the flag says ‘God is great’ in Arabic,” he explained.
Emma had suddenly gone white and Erik understood that they were now near enough and she had heard what they were shouting. She stopped and they all followed her example. “I believe we are all in danger – especially you Erik!” she said, grabbing his shoulders. “Paul, did you hear what they said?”
“Yes, I’m afraid so. We need to get to safety.” His gaze flickered as if he was planning a hasty escape but didn’t know where to turn.
“Can you please tell me what’s going on here?” Erik almost shouted as he started to feel ill and faint. He wished that they had been able to get a bite to eat. The hunger and thirst increased the surrealistic tinge to the situation.
Paul obliged: “What I have heard chanting is something like ‘Death to the Danish’; ‘Long live Islam! We are Muslims! We don’t let anyone insult our prophet!’ I think we all know what this is about and they are clearly out for the Danes. We are in great danger. They are unlikely to distinguish Danes from anyone looking remotely Scandinavian. We need to get to the British Embassy now!” He started to walk again, pulling the others along.
Erik was incredulous. He had of course heard the noises over the past few months about the unfortunate cartoons printed in a local Danish newspaper, Jyllands Posten, back in September, depicting the Muslim prophet Muhammad. But, he had never suspected that the whole thing could h
ave escalated into such a situation so many months later! What none of them knew was that papers in France, Germany, Italy and Spain had reprinted the cartoons only a few days earlier in the name of free speech, fuelling the debate even further.
A few moments later they were at a loss as to where to go. They were trapped in a street which appeared surrounded by demonstrators, unable to enter any of the shops or restaurants. Erik now assumed that rather than hatred towards them in particular, the restaurateurs were probably unwilling to risk allowing any westerners to eat there as this would reflect badly on them in the eyes of the demonstrators, putting their livelihood at risk. He sympathised with this but thought it unfortunate and disappointing given that they were in grave danger on the street.
“I would say we would be in less danger if we covered up”, Laura suggested. “I have a scarf in my rucksack and someone can use this cardigan.” Everyone except Paul, who decided that he was not at risk, was soon wearing the garments. Erik could not help laughing in the middle of it all, as he felt enormously silly wearing Laura’s pink cardigan on his head. Emma and Laura joined him in a brief moment of hilarity before Paul pulled them along in the direction of Place D’Etoile.
“I know that as soon as I see the square I’ll know where the Embassy is. It shouldn’t be far from there.”
“Wouldn’t it be better to try to avoid the square?” Erik suggested but Paul simply stared back at him and ventured off at high speed, looking alarmed.
“Come on, we need to hurry!” Erik soon saw what had triggered this reaction. They had been spotted by some demonstrators on the other side. They were now walking towards them. They were all running side by side when Erik saw that Emma had lost her scarf covering her hair. He realised that she would be in grave danger as soon as they reached the square. Without hesitating he took off his pink cardigan and gave it to her. He would rather die himself than see her come to any harm.
“What about you?” She managed to squeak before Paul increased the speed and dragged them along. They were running along the side streets, still chased by a group of demonstrators. The moment they reached the square, the air was filled with smoke. It came from a few streets down, black and thick. The previously peaceful demonstration appeared now to have developed into rioting violent mess. Sirens could be heard in the distance. Young demonstrators were running around chanting and waving their banners, filling the square. There was no way they could cross the square but their brief pause had let the demonstrators behind them catch up. Paul didn’t hesitate. He ventured out in the crowd without looking back. Erik urged Emma and Laura to follow him. At least they were covered up. But Erik could not simply go forth into the crowd exposing his distinct Scandinavian looks. That would be close to suicidal. Instead he stopped for a second to take off his jumper to use it to put on his head. Suddenly he was back in his dream. The scene was almost identical to where he now found himself, apart from the absence of the calf with the sun disc which he had been riding in his dream and the golden temple. The angry mob behind him was getting closer. It was almost as if things were happening in slow motion. Fear gripped him with deadly force. For a moment he looked out in the direction of Emma and Laura. Paul had suddenly stopped and slowly turned his head in Erik’s direction. He grabbed Laura and Emma, who were now looking back at Erik considering whether to go back. But Paul pulled them along with force, pretending not to have seen Erik’s predicament. A second later Erik was attacked. He felt something hard on his head and his consciousness faded in an instant. The last thing he remembered was his own pathetic scream as his face hit the pavement.
SIXTEEN
Emma suffered from emotions fluctuating between relief that they were safe and guilt that Erik wasn’t, that they had left him behind. For all they knew he could be dead, his corpse lying on that distant corner of the square where they had selfishly left him to fend for himself only fifteen minutes earlier. He had saved her life and risked his own by giving her his head-scarf. She tried to tell herself that she had not had a choice. Paul had been adamant that they continue, to save themselves. He had even dragged them along. As soon as they had managed to find the British Embassy, Paul had ventured out again, to try to find Erik. Both she and Laura had offered to go with him but he had refused point blank. Instead, they had entered the Embassy building and had already been equipped with a mug of strong Earl Grey tea, sandwiches and a blanket each, together with confirmation that their assumptions of what was going on were correct. The smoke they had seen was coming from the Danish Embassy which had been attacked. Laura was crying on the sofa opposite her.
“We have got to… go… back out there!” she heaved between sobs. Emma knew exactly how she felt. She could not help sensing a great hole in her own heart, numbness, emptiness, sadness combined into a lump in her stomach.
“Well, I’m sure that Erik and Paul wouldn’t have liked to risk their lives for us only to find that we then went and got killed looking for them. Let’s take Paul’s advice and stay here. I’m sure they’ll be back soon.” At that moment they were interrupted by a clerk, a young man, wanting to take their details; names, ages, travel itinerary, their reason for being in Beirut, who they were travelling with and a multitude of questions about Erik and Paul. The list went on. Emma was grateful for the interruption. It helped to divert her wondering mind. She was appreciative when the clerk promised, on Emma’s request, that they would file Erik and Paul as missing persons at the local hospital, police station and on the Embassy website.
“This can’t be good news. They should be back by now,” Laura said with an almost squeaky voice after they had eaten. They called their parents and tried without much success to get some sleep. “What can possibly be taking so long?!”
The clerk entered the room, looking serious and edgy. Emma could no longer hold back the tears, suspecting the worst.
“The Maronite Catholic church near the Danish consulate has also been attacked,” he said and continued: “I believe order was restored but I have just heard reports that a counter-demonstration of Christian protesters has gathered there, so it seems it’s not over yet.” He fell silent, as if in two minds about whether to continue. Emma could see Laura holding her breath, almost as if she was waiting for a death sentence.
“I’m afraid we need to ask you a few more questions about Paul.” This was not what they had expected and Laura demonstrably released her suspended breath.
“Why? What’s happened to him? Is he alright?” Emma asked quickly.
“We don’t know where he is but something has come to our attention which the ambassador needs to ask you about. Please come with me.” He took them to a nearby office with a pompous desk in the middle of the grand room and exquisite oil paintings decorating the walls. Emma dried her tears with her sleeve, feeling small and helpless. Behind the desk was a middle aged woman impeccably dressed and her dark hair neatly arranged in a knot. As they entered, she stood up and greeted them by shaking their hands, introducing herself.
“Please sit down”, she offered, pointing at a couple of chairs in front of her desk. They obliged. “How do you know Paul Simmons?” She asked.
“I’m sorry but I believe we have already answered these questions”, Laura replied shortly as she turned to leave.
“Wait. I know but I’m afraid we need to know more. How well do you know him and has he been acting strangely at all?”
“Paul is a respected Oxford Professor and he has been my tutor for the past four years. We are very close. He’s not been acting strangely,” Emma said, feeling more and more annoyed. “Where’s this leading? I’m afraid you’ll have to explain! Paul is missing. We have no way of contacting him. He went out to search for our Scandinavian friend and as far as we know they could both be dead!” Emma could not help getting increasingly upset.
“Well, if it helps, we have had no reported deaths.” She seemed to resist adding ‘so far’. “I will explain but I should warn you that what I have to tell you may be upsetting.” She
paused for a few seconds and continued. “We have had a call from the Swedish police. They have released a warrant for the arrest of Mr Simmons, for his involvement in a break-in and consequential manslaughter in Sweden.”
“What, that’s rubbish! Paul was not even in the country when the break in happened. And besides, I thought they had already caught the perpetrator?” Emma was shaken by the accusations. “How do you know this?”
“The Swedish police have good grounds for the warrant. They have indeed managed to catch the perpetrator, a professional burglar, and he has named Paul Simmons, Professor at Oxford University, as his employer.”
The ambassador might as well have stabbed her in the chest and left her to bleed to death. Emma felt as if she had been caught by a chilly wind which pulled her away from the real world and into a surreal nightmare.
“He’s lying! The Paul I know would never do something like that! Someone has set him up!” As soon as she had said it, Erik’s words of warning started to ring in her ears. Erik had suspected Paul. He had sensed that Paul was up to something. She had not believed him, just as she had not believed these very real accusations from the Swedish police just now. Yet a small niggling doubt started to form in her mind. She feared she may have been wrong about Paul, blinded by her love for him. She admitted to herself that she had been foolish. As she thought about it for a moment, she wondered whether Paul may even deliberately have led them into this mess. She needed to be alone with her thoughts but the questioning continued for another half hour before the ambassador was interrupted by a written message delivered personally by the clerk. She read it and looked at them, hesitating but apparently making a decision to tell them something.
The Atlantis Keystone Page 14
