by Andrew Brown
When he had finished, she considered him coldly for a while, only the cicadas breaking the silence between them. ‘You’re not someone looking to save the world; I can see that. There is something else in this plant that keeps you interested.’
It was a fair assessment. There was of course a certain amount of personal ambition driving his quest, as well as his attempt to escape his intolerable domestic circumstances. ‘You’re right,’ he said, ‘there are many reasons, but ultimately this research is about botanical homeostasis. It’s my passion – the most beautiful of equations. The meaning of life. God itself.’
‘So you’re here to turn God into a formula? God is absent enough in Sudan without your help.’
‘Vim promovet insitam: “Learning promotes one’s innate power.” My university’s motto, taken from Horace. Not everything is about survival, Ms …’ The fact that he did not know her name made his defensiveness feel even more miserly, like some spiteful academic challenge.
Her response was vicious: ‘In Sudan we say: “Empty stomachs have no ears.” You may find learning hard to come by here.’ She hadn’t laughed at him, not even smiled, but he felt her scorn. ‘And here our proverbs do not come in Latin, Mr Gabriel. That one is Arabic.’
Despite her dismissive attitude, there lurked beneath the surface an engaging intellect that wished to spar, to challenge and understand. He couldn’t resist asking where she’d been educated.
‘Kampala and Nairobi,’ she said in a tone that allowed no further enquiry. ‘You’ve told me much about this plant – I will learn its name properly, perhaps. But first, what you have not told me is more important. You want to go up to Bahr el Ghazal. Do you have authorisation from NISS?’
‘NISS?’
‘The National Intelligence and Security Services?’
‘No. But I have a letter of introduction from Professor Ismail from the department of botany at the University of Khartoum.’
‘Khartoum?’ Alek looked at him with a mixture of contempt and ridicule. ‘Did someone give you this and tell you that it would help you in South Sudan? They’re making you a fool. Do you know what we think of Khartoum here? Bashir!’ She spat on the ground. ‘I think you know nothing, Mr Gabriel. You are a fool after all.’
She pushed her chair away and got up, walking away from him, striding a distance down the muddy road. Her ankles and calves seemed too thin to support her, sticks protruding from her dress, but she moved with strength nonetheless. He heard her castigating herself – hard, foreign words that seemed to bounce off the dirt like stones. She spent several minutes pacing up and down the road, engaged in some self-dialogue.
Gabriel tried not to cower when she returned.
‘I will take you,’ she announced, still glowering.
He stood up to shake her hand. ‘Good. I mean, thank you.’
‘You will pay for the vehicle. I will organise it. You will also pay for fuel. And also the driver. And for me.’
‘Yes, that’s fine.’
She turned to go, and he called after her. ‘Wait, why are you agreeing to do this?’
She shrugged. ‘I should get away for a while. The UN people, they’ve had enough of me and my questions.’
He nodded, although her explanation solved nothing.
‘Besides,’ she added, ‘you have something that is … useful.’
‘Money?’
‘A camera. You’re foreign, but you’re not UN. You’re not a journalist. You’re not military. Maybe they won’t know what to do with you. And because of that there is, perhaps, but only a small chance, that you’ll succeed.’
Gabriel elected not to ask anything further.
Chapter 12
MINISTRY OF DEFENCE, WHITEHALL, LONDON
Bartholomew paused to catch his breath under the statue of a Gurkha soldier on Horse Guards Avenue. The soldier bore his bayonetted rifle with stoicism, only the rakish angle of his wide-brimmed hat giving him any sense of individualism. The base showed traces of spraypaint attacks, the work of the anticolonial lobby protesting against the ‘idealisation’ of Britain’s history abroad. Like the abuse Vietnam soldiers faced on their return to America, to Bartholomew it seemed extraordinarily disloyal and misdirected. Now British troops were facing the same treatment on returning from Afghanistan, making a mockery of their honour and bravery. As if the podgy members of the public had any right to criticise their sterling contribution.
He had initially tried to set up an appointment to see the secretary of state in the defence ministry to inform him about the missing missile fragment, but he had been fobbed off to the parliamentary undersecretary of state for international security strategy. While the Foxley fraud scandal had provided a caution to ministerial involvement in weapons procurement programmes, it was the Chinook helicopter fiasco that really had the politicians running scared. All those associated with the debacle had been subject to searing media criticism and internal scrutiny. Demotions, resignations and dismissals had followed in a furious wave of self-righteous cleansing. The net result was that it had become almost impossible to get the leadership within the MoD to take any responsibility for the sensitive decisions around weapons procurement and tactical deployment. The honourable secretary’s evasion was nothing unusual. But the parliamentary undersecretary wasn’t sufficiently elevated to take the important decisions himself. This meant that Bartholomew was going to be locked into a cycle of referrals and avoidance. He realised that the involvement of the Saudi agent, Hussein, did nothing to settle their nerves. Nor the fact that the identity of the end-user was disclosed only to a select few. But the MoD’s inability to terminate the negotiations or seal the agreement smacked of the worst cowardice.
He wiped his hand across his brow and made his way to the northern access on Horse Guards Avenue. The entrance was flanked by the enormous Earth and Water figures sculpted out of Portland stone by Sir Charles Wheeler. Quite why the ministry desired a massive nude at its front door was a mystery, though Bartholomew was relieved that the defence budget cuts had precluded the plan to have the remaining ‘elements’ added to the collection. It was extraordinary what the government deemed worthy of funding. The parliamentary public accounts committee had commented on the purchase of the disastrous Chinook helicopters, concluding that ‘they might as well have bought eight turkeys’. That was about right, Bartholomew thought ruefully as he huffed his way up the stairs.
‘Air Marshal.’ An impeccably suited man with combed black hair and an upright manner appeared at his side. The man smelt of expensive and overly floral cologne. Bartholomew would’ve considered him to be homosexual, but he’d come to realise that such quick evaluations no longer held true. Even straight men apparently now used moisturiser and groomed their hair.
‘Unfortunately …’ the man continued, reaching for Bartholomew’s arm, ‘regrettably, Air Marshal, the undersecretary is engaged on another pressing matter and won’t be able to make the appointment. He’s asked me to convey his apologies to you. Personally. And to conduct the meeting with you in his absence. I’ve arranged for a meeting room, if you’d kindly follow me.’
Bartholomew pulled his arm away and allowed his irritation to show. ‘I’m sorry, that won’t do,’ he said. ‘This matter is for the highest levels of the MoD only. Good day.’
Bartholomew turned on his heel, but the man’s grip returned, fast and firm.
‘Air Marshal Bartholomew, I’m afraid I must insist you hear me out. Please come with me to the meeting room. I can’t discuss this matter with you further in the corridors.’
The strength of the grip on his arm was matched by a steely expression that made the fixed hair and scrubbed skin suddenly sinister. Bartholomew nodded, looking down at the man’s hand in a plea for release. The grip was eased and the man adjusted his jacket sleeves, as if recovering from a brawl. He beckoned Bartholomew to follow him, walking with a straight back, the hint perhaps of a mince, his polished shoes making little clipping sounds on the marble floor. He was
probably twenty years Bartholomew’s junior, but there was something unnerving about him, a confidence, a restraint, that made the airman comply.
Bartholomew was shown into a meeting room, bare save for the table and chairs. The man flicked a switch on the wall and a low humming sound started. Then he sat down opposite him and rather deliberately placed his hands into a steeple, looking over the top at Bartholomew. There was an unreasonably long pause.
‘My name is Todd. This room is in interceptor mode, so we can talk freely. I’m the person who will, from now on, be dealing with you on the issues that you wished to raise with the secretary of state.’
‘And who exactly are you, Mr Todd?’
‘Just Todd, Air Marshal. It doesn’t matter who I am, just that I am the person authorised to deal with you on these matters.’
‘And these matters are what, exactly?’
Todd smiled. The teeth were, of course, perfectly matched and beautifully white. But the smile wasn’t warm, more like a mocking grin. Bartholomew felt a little dizzy, as if his blood pressure had plummeted. He could have done with a glass of water, but had no intention of asking his interrogator for the favour.
‘Well, I should ask you that, Air Marshal,’ Todd said, ‘since you set up the meeting with the secretary. But let me pre-empt you for the sake of expedience.’ He put his hands palm-down on the table. ‘You’re in discussion with Mr Khalid Hussein, a Saudi national who is brokering a substantial contract between a foreign government and BAE Systems. The undersecretary is aware of the importance – financially – of this potential contract for BAE Systems and, indeed, the MoD. We’re also not naive and we understand that your involvement in this transaction may be inevitable. Even beneficial.’
Bartholomew was feeling nauseous now and his hearing seemed to be affected by a high-pitched whine, perhaps the interception device he thought, though he could also still clearly make out the rumbling drone. His stomach clenched and a spasm passed across his belly. Goddamn this impudent man.
‘But we want to make one thing absolutely, positively, undeniably clear,’ the man was saying. ‘We’re aware that the foreign power involved may not, in the greater scheme of public perception, be the most glamorous or … presentable of nations. To put it plainly, Air Marshal, you’re brokering a deal with a nation that still appears on America’s list of terrorist states.’
Bartholomew tried to intervene but Todd put up his hand to stop him. ‘Yes, yes, no doubt the deal is conditional on the Saudis negotiating the removal of your buyer from that particular list, but I assure you it gives this government cold comfort indeed.
‘We’re also aware of Hussein’s passing involvement in the Chinook helicopter deal. Under no circumstances … and, Air Marshal, we mean under absolutely no circumstances, will this government, this ministry or the secretary of state accept any knowledge, responsibility or involvement in the conclusion of or negotiation for this contract. If you choose to assist in smoothing the course for the contracting parties, that’s entirely your decision, your risk and your career on the line. Do I need to make anything clearer for you, Air Marshal?’
Bartholomew thought he might throw up. He nodded, his collar damp and tight around his neck. ‘It’s perfectly clear. I expected nothing else.’
‘Now, Air Marshal. What was it that you wished to convey to the undersecretary? Is there a problem, something we need to know about?’ Todd had leant forward and was staring at Bartholomew, daring him to blink or look away. ‘Anything at all?’
Was this a test, Bartholomew wondered. Did this man know about the Reaper Project perhaps, was he testing his frankness? Or perhaps his trustworthiness? If he said something would it be seen as laudable honesty or a breach of security protocols? How exactly did one nonchalantly disclose the event of a covert strike conducted in a foreign state?
‘Nothing. Just wanted to give an update. There are a few outstanding matters, but it seems the contract is on track.’
Todd nodded thoughtfully as if Bartholomew had said something of great complexity.
‘Nothing at all,’ Bartholomew said, immediately regretting the suspicious-sounding repetition.
‘That’s very considerate of you, Air Marshal. I will give the secretary your happy news.’ Todd handed him a white card with nothing but a mobile telephone number printed on it. ‘If you do have anything to tell the undersecretary, please contact me directly. And only me.’
Bartholomew took the card with some reluctance and slipped it into the top pocket of his jacket. He had to fight back a churlish impulse to tear up the card and throw it at the man’s overly pointy shoes. Todd nodded to him without conviction and concluded the meeting, holding the door open and then escorting him to the entrance, rather like a prisoner. There was no handshake offered, no pat on the back, just a curt ‘goodbye’.
Bartholomew headed for the cloakroom to douse his flushed face with handfuls of cold water. When he looked up into the mirror he saw an ageing, ruddy-faced man, his jowls loose, his eyes tired. And behind the red-rimmed eyelids, he saw something else. Fear. Not of death, but of death with ignominy.
Once out on Horse Guards Avenue he started to feel a little better, his nausea subsiding and the stiff breeze cooling him down. He passed the corner of Whitehall, the spot where the IRA had launched its mortar attack on Downing Street. The causes may change, but war remains the constant human endeavour, Bartholomew thought as he headed past the statue of Spencer Cavendish. He had just reached the Embankment public gardens when his cellphone started ringing, an annoying, shrill noise emanating from his breast pocket. The number was not identified.
‘Air Marshal Bartholomew,’ he answered, pressing the phone against his ear to cut out the sound of the wind.
‘Ah, George. My client wants to know when you can proceed with that little favour.’
It was Hussein. The absence of any greeting, the familiarity of the tone, the timing of the call, all smacked of disrespect and a certain entitlement.
‘The window of opportunity is not a big one,’ the Saudi added.
Bartholomew’s customary annoyance at such an intrusion was replaced by queasy anxiety. ‘That favour may have to be delayed for a while,’ he said. ‘There may have been a … problem with the last gift for your friend. I can explain if we meet.’ His throat seemed tight, as if a tablet had got stuck above his windpipe. He coughed dryly.
‘There’s no need. I have no interest in your problems. But my client will be most disappointed that you’re so unwilling to assist.’
‘It is not that we’re unwilling—’
‘I don’t think that you quite understand, Air Marshal,’ Hussein interrupted him, raising his voice. ‘Let me state it quite plainly for you: your failure to provide this favour to my client will cause us to terminate the sale negotiations. That is how my client views the position. My client requires a sign of your good faith. Its absence will result in our supplier preference being transferred to competing parties. The decision is yours.’
He hung up before Bartholomew could respond. The air marshal felt something flutter in his chest, then a strong tickling feeling, like someone drumming their fingers on his breastbone. The phone slipped from his hand but when he looked down for it he realised that his vision had blurred. The knocking feeling was confusing him, as if something had attached itself to his chest, although it seemed to be burrowing from the inside out rather than trying to get in. He slapped his chest weakly with his arm. He was increasingly dizzy and aware of a burning pain starting at the base of his skull. He put his hand out towards the railing to steady himself, but he grasped at air and stumbled forward, his shoulder jarring into the metal bars instead. He could hear himself groaning, though he’d made no conscious effort to make a noise.
Someone was talking to him, asking him if he was all right. He could see the pair of dark trousers, a man’s black shoes. He tried to say something, to ask him to find his phone, but the low groaning continued. The pain had spread across the back of his
head now and seemed intent on reaching his forehead. He was no longer sure if his eyes were open or closed, the world reduced to a black sky, the stars pulsating back at him.
Dear God, he thought, his knees buckling. Let me not go this way, wetting my trousers and lying in a heap like a homeless man on the Avenue.
Chapter 13
TRAVERSING THE LAKES AND WARRAP STATES, SOUTH SUDAN
The first setback came early. Rasta arrived the following morning with Alek, driving a beaten-up Toyota Land Cruiser, the mustard-brown colour making the rust appear to blend into the bodywork. Gabriel could make out the old signage of the UNHCR across one door, but clearly the vehicle’s days of assisting the global good were long past. Its brakes shrieked as Rasta pulled to a stop, and the car rocked on its springs, the dust settling around it.
Then Rasta announced that he would not drive beyond the town of Yirol. His reasons – anxieties really – were indecipherable. He had blithely portrayed the trip to Wau as safe the evening before, but now refused to venture forth himself. The personal reasons he cited – a blossoming romance, his nephew’s birthday – were unconvincing. Gabriel decided not to push him, but the barman’s blunt refusal disturbed him. Rasta’s usual jovial mood also seemed subdued. Gabriel tried asking Alek what the issue was.
‘He’s Bor Dinka.’ She shrugged. ‘They’re cowards.’
Not only did the racial categorisation seem unhelpful, but the suggestion that the undertaking was one that cowards would eschew was itself not comforting.
‘But I thought you were Dinka yourself?’
Alek gave him a withering look. ‘We’re both Muonyjieng, in the same way you and I are both human beings. I am Malual Dinka. We’re not the same.’
They would have to find a replacement driver, she advised him, glaring at the crestfallen Rastafarian. She would need some money upfront to secure this. And she needed to give the owner of the vehicle a deposit. Gabriel pulled out two hundred British pounds from the side of his camera bag.
