Clay stood in the dark of the corridor and raised his hand to knock on the heavy wooden door. The smell of baking filled the air. Friends. He didn’t have many. Most of the best ones he’d had were dead. His fist hovered an inch from the surface of the door. For days now he’d fought against this. Was this what friends did? Expose each other to danger? Pull each other into decaying orbits of death, spirals of loss? In his experience, the answer was yes. Definitely, yes. Who else could you call on when the shit was definitely and comprehensively flying? It was, after all, the only test of the thing.
He knocked, waited.
After a moment, the door opened. Atef stood before him, a little stouter, the same big, open face peering out at him, half a smile edged as always on that generous mouth.
Atef tilted his head to one side. ‘Do I know you, sir?’ he said, the Cairo thick in his Arabic. ‘It is very early.’
Clay unwound his turban, put out his right hand. ‘Atef, it’s me,’ he said in the man’s own language. ‘Clay Straker.’
Atef took a step closer and gazed into Clay’s eyes. A big smile opened up across his face, big ivory teeth everywhere. ‘Mr Clay,’ he began, taking Clay’s hand and pulling him inside.
‘Just Clay. Please, Atef.’
Atef smiled. It was a conversation they’d had many times before. ‘Mr Clay is better,’ he said. And then his expression changed. ‘I thought…’ he stumbled, went quiet a moment. ‘Allah be praised. You are alive.’
Clay smiled. ‘Al hamdillulah,’ he said. ‘Ja, no, definitely.’
Atef showed him into the flat, sat him in the kitchen and started heating water. ‘I have fresh croissants in the oven now. They should be ready in a few minutes. Would you like coffee?’
Clay sat. ‘Mumtaz,’ he said. Excellent.
Atef busied himself around the kitchen then started kneading some dough. ‘The newspapers said you died in Yemen,’ he said at last in a half-whisper, without looking up. ‘Three years ago. 1994.’
Clay nodded.
‘And then, after the stories about Medved in the newspapers, the company was closed down. We were all sent home.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Clay.
‘It was a bad operation,’ said Atef. ‘I knew this.’ He handed Clay a steaming cup of coffee. ‘Did you get the things I posted to Cyprus, as you had asked?’
‘I did. Thank you Atef. Without you, we would never have been able to stop Medved. People were dying out there.’
Atef kept kneading. ‘We knew something was wrong,’ he said, his voice lowered again. ‘Many of us did. But we did nothing. We wanted our jobs. They paid well.’
Clay sipped his coffee. He had learned, late, not to judge.
‘Whenever I have thought about those days, thinking you were dead, I felt shame,’ he said. ‘We knew it was wrong. But we did nothing.’ He bowed his head.
‘No, Atef. You did something. Thank you.’
After a time, Atef pulled the croissants from the oven, put two on a plate and handed them to Clay, glancing at his stump. ‘How did this happen, Mr Clay?’
‘In Yemen. They didn’t kill me, but they took this.’
Atef nodded. ‘It is honourable.’
Clay ate, deciding not to contemplate this. Not here, not now. After he’d finished the croissants and drained his coffee he said: ‘I need your help again, Atef.’
Atef nodded, walked across the room and closed a door. ‘My wife and son are still asleep,’ he said, sitting across from Clay.
‘What is the Consortium, Atef?’
Atef shifted in his chair, glancing back towards the door. He leaned across the table, arms folded. ‘Please do not tell me that you have made such an enemy, Mr Clay.’
‘I can leave now, if you wish, Atef. It will not change our friendship.’
Atef ran his hand over his face, leaving a smear of flour on his cheeks. ‘My family,’ he said.
‘I understand.’ Clay stood. ‘Thanks for the coffee, Atef. It’s been good to see you again.’
Atef stood and reached out his hand. ‘Wait,’ he said. ‘Please, sit.’
‘It’s alright, Atef. I shouldn’t have come.’ Clay started for the door.
Atef followed him, wiping his hands across his apron. ‘Please, Mr Clay. This is not what I meant. Please, stay.’
Clay stopped, turned to face his friend.
‘Sit. Finish your breakfast.’
Clay sat. There was always so much to lose.
‘This is why you are dressed as an Upper Egyptian,’ said Atef. ‘It is a time like before, is it not?’
‘It is.’
‘It is very important?’
‘My friend is in danger.’
‘From the Consortium?’
‘I think so, yes.’
Atef stood, walked to the kitchen, returned with the coffee pot, poured out two cups, added sugar. ‘Everyone is in danger,’ he said.
‘I don’t understand.’
‘The Consortium is a group of very powerful and wealthy men. They control most of the government, most of our big industries, much of the police. They run this country. Those who threaten their control always lose.’
Clay let this trace across his nerve endings. Rania had always known how to pick her enemies. ‘Jesus Christ,’ he muttered.
‘Him, too, so they say.’
Clay let the beginning of a smile die. ‘How far does it go?’
Atef leaned back in his chair. ‘All the way.’
‘To Mubarak? The president?’
‘That is what people say. They are all ex-army, you see. Ever since King Farouk was deposed in 1952, it has been these men, all linked through the army, who control Egypt. The Consortium works in the shadows, but everyone knows that this is where the power lies.’
‘All I need, Atef, is help translating a few things.’ Clay put the camera and the journal on the table. ‘My Arabic isn’t good enough.’
Atef reached for the journal, flipped through the pages a moment then looked up. ‘Only some of this is Arabic.’
‘Yes, I know. It looks like ancient Egyptian.’
‘Where did you get this?’
‘It’s better if you don’t know.’
Atef nodded. ‘Yes, of course.’
Clay turned on the camera and scrolled to the last photograph. ‘What does this sign say, in the background?’ He handed the camera to Atef.
‘It is the central courthouse, here in Cairo. The sign says the Ministry of Internal Affairs and the Ministry of Justice.’ Atef stared at the image. ‘I know one of these men. I have seen his face before.’
‘Which one?’
‘The young one in the suit and tie. He was in the news, a year ago or so. Something about a study funded by the Canadian government. He is a scientist, I believe.’ Atef handed the camera back to Clay.
‘Are you sure?’
‘I think so. I have a good memory for faces.’
‘What’s his name?’
‘Names not so much. I am sorry.’
Clay scrolled further back, to the images of the industrial facilities. ‘And these?’ he said. ‘Are any of them familiar?’
Atef flicked through the images, stopping occasionally to study them more closely. ‘Some of these places are here in Cairo. Some are very close, just upriver. Some north of here. One of the signs says Fabrika el Hamra Company, with an address in the Hadayek-el Koba district.’
‘Do you know what they make there?’
Atef put the camera on the table. ‘I have not heard of this place. I do not know.’
Clay looked at his watch. Already nine-thirty. ‘Thank you, my friend. I need to go now.’ He pocketed the camera, tapped his finger on the journal. ‘Can I leave this with you to have a look at?
Atef nodded, looking at the leather-bound journal as if it had teeth. ‘I will do what I can.’
Clay stood. ‘I will be back later this evening.’
‘Do you have a place to stay, Mr Clay?’
‘I’
ll take a room in a hotel.’
‘It is not safe. The Consortium owns many of the hotels. You must stay with us. We have an extra room. It is a big flat.’
Clay nodded, thanking his friend formally.
Half an hour later Clay was making his way through Tahir Square, dodging cars and motorcycles across the crazed turmoil that passed as a roundabout. Soon he was approaching Talaat Harb Square. He bent over his stick, lowered his head and shuffled along the crowded, late-morning pavement. Up ahead, he could see the statue of Talaat Pasha Harb surrounded by traffic, hounded by blaring horns and gassed with exhaust. When he reached the Egypt Air office he stopped. A group of European tourists passed him, making their way towards the square. From here he had a relatively clear view of Groppi’s once-grand façade and the few tables and chairs spread café style on the street before the big glass windows. A few patrons sat sipping coffee, indulging in the celebrated chocolates.
As midday neared the streets began to fill. Soon the pavements were choked with people, and he could no longer see the front of the café. Clay pushed his way closer to the square, sliding along with a group of Western tourists. By the time he reached the street lights it was almost noon. He’d been watching the pavement outside Groppi’s continuously, but so far had seen no one who looked remotely like Rania. She was trained though. He’d seen her evade pursuers before – change her hair, her clothes, transform herself into a wholly different person. So what exactly he was looking for now, he didn’t know. He just had to hope that she would be looking for him.
By the time he’d installed himself within the notched entranceway to one of the big, old buildings that faced the café across the square, it was a few minutes after noon. Groppi’s was filling up. Customers milled in front of the counters inside, and all the outside tables were now occupied. A couple of older gentlemen, portly Egyptian businessmen in suits and open collared shirts, sipped tea. A woman in a grey coverup and brown headscarf sat haranguing a young woman in jeans – her daughter perhaps. The girl’s dark hair was uncovered and spilled over her shoulders and her expensively embroidered jacket. She bowed her head, covered her face with her hands. Inside the shop, a group of young men in rip-off jeans and t-shirts passed around paper cups; matrons in flowing hijabs reached across the counter for boxes of sweets tied with string; white-uniformed attendants moved between tables. A woman entered through the shop’s side door and disappeared in the crowd of patrons. A moment later she re-emerged, made her way to the front of the café and stood just inside the front window, like a mannequin on display – a solitary figure shrouded in black, her face veiled.
Clay’s pulse jumped. The woman was gazing out into the square. Clay took a step forwards, emerging into the sunshine. She was looking right at him across the swirling traffic. He started walking towards the café. She was right there, looking in his direction. Surely she’d seen him. Yes, she was still looking. He saw her glance left, then catch his gaze again. She tapped her left wrist with her right index finger, very deliberately, then opened up two fingers, held them there against her chest for a second, less, then brought up her left palm and opened it up against her right, her thumbs extended and meeting, her fingertips touching. He was almost at the streetlights now, the traffic flooding past, the walk light still red. He glanced right, looking for an opening. When he looked back at the café, she was gone.
Clay jumped into the traffic. A car screamed by, horn blaring. Its wing mirror clipped his hip, folded back, the driver’s curses lost in the cacophony as soon as they were uttered. He pushed open the front door of the café and scanned the interior. Faces stared up at him, none of them her. He looked at his watch. Ten past twelve. It had been her. It must have been.
He pushed his way through to the back of the café, out the side door she’d come in through and looked back towards the square, down the side street. If it was her, she’d vanished. She had looked right at him, he at her. Surely she’d recognised him, even dressed as he was. It had to have been her. Who else could it have been? Why had she run? Something, or someone, must have spooked her.
Clay started down the side street, taking a guess that she would move away from the square, move off into the narrow warren of dark lanes that spread north and west between here and the river. It was more an impulse than any hope of finding her that drove him. He knew from experience that if she wanted to disappear, she would.
Traffic fumed past, clogged the narrow street. Clay came to the first intersection. A narrow lane tunnelled through the buildings in the direction of the river. As he rounded the corner he was jostled from behind. Two men pushed past him, then sprinted down the lane. One was tall and lanky, the other stout with thinning hair. Clay followed, doubling his pace and watched the pair stop at the next cross street. They looked both ways, hands on hips. The broad one reached into his pocket and, producing a mobile phone, put it to his ear. The tall one lit a cigarette, offered one to his partner.
Clay tucked himself behind a parked van and watched the men talking. One pointed down the lane and the other replied, indicating the left. After a time, the broad one flicked away his cigarette and they continued down the alley, walking now. Clay watched them go, dread bubbling up inside him. Whoever was after Rania, they were closing in. And in trying to make contact with him, she was exposing herself to a degree she would normally never allow.
His admiration for this woman, already finely developed, surged. Admiration was, he thought, a poor word for it. It was that, yes, but it was much more. And he knew, standing at that street corner, staring out into the blur of the city, that however long he might live, he would never be able to describe it, to himself or others. He could feel it now, a physical ache that had taken root inside him three years ago, housed within whatever fucked-up consciousness he still maintained. But to qualify it, to attribute it to any specific emotion, was impossible. And in this realisation, he knew, was the beginning of something. Maybe. Just maybe. If he had the time.
11th November 1997. Cairo, Egypt. 21:15 hrs
Samira went to the clinic late this afternoon to see her daughter. She left the little one with me and returned with Eleana not long after. All she has done since returning is weep. Every time I try to speak to her she breaks into tears. I can only conclude that the stress of the last few days, of seeing her daughter so ill, has affected her deeply. And yet I know we will be friends for as long as we live. There is no bond greater than that of shared suffering. I feel as if we are somehow sisters now, and I aunt to her daughters, but I miss my own son more than I can express in words. The tears falling onto this paper will have to suffice.
I saw you today, Claymore! Praise God!
You were dressed as a local and your beard has grown long, but it was you. I would recognise those shoulders, that tilt of the head, those eyes, among thousands, millions … all who ever lived. And from the way you emerged from that building and started across the street, I know you recognised me. Please, God, make it thus.
God help me, standing there looking at you, I could so easily have run to you and thrown myself into your embrace. I could have abandoned myself utterly. But I had to remain strong. You were being watched. It was a white man, poorly dressed, ragged and pale, with a ravaged, diseased face. When I saw him I shivered, despite the heat. He followed you all the way along Talaat Harb Street from as far as the metro station at Tahir Square, and I am sure you were not aware of it – you were never good at knowing when you were being followed. I think it is because you are always too intent on wherever you are going, too focused on what you are doing.
When I saw the man there, lurking in the doorway one down from where you were standing, I knew I had to leave. You are in danger. When I spoke to Hope last, she made that very clear. I saw no sign of Jean-Marie, though. God, most merciful, protect you both.
I must tell Samira, tonight, that I am leaving. The longer I stay, the more I expose her and her children to danger. This must be the last night I spend here. It is past time to move
on. But I need her help, one last time. I wish it were not so, that I did not have to involve her, but there is no one else I can trust. And please, God, it is not that she now owes me a debt. In my heart, there is no debt whatsoever. I pray that when I ask her, she does not think this of me, that I have coerced her somehow. God help me, my guilt is swallowing me. I know I should leave now and not wait until tomorrow, but I am weak. Without her help, I will not be able to find you, Claymore, not without exposing you to your enemies, and me to mine. Perhaps I should accept my fate and go to you openly. At least we will be together, whatever happens.
But you will want to run. I know you. You will want to take me away from here, protect me. I am not leaving. Not until I know what happened here. If it means facing trial for murder, I am ready. I will plead guilty. But not before I prove my innocence in the killings of my beloved son and husband. I will learn the truth. This is all that matters to me now, all I have. The truth.
I am a murderer. I can feel this truth eroding me into nothingness, like sand from the beach in Brittany we used to visit in summer when I was very young. I remember two big rocks the colour of honey, a swath of chamomile sand protected from the wind and waves, the sea so blue and the water lapping my legs, and my father, God rest his soul, digging in the sand with me in the sunlight. We built a wonderful castle. There was a moat and three smooth-sided towers we made by filling my little plastic bucket with sand and tipping it over. I put gull feathers atop the towers for flags. And then the tide came in. I held my father’s hand and cried as the castle was washed away. It is an old memory.
Absolution Page 20
