I ask God to look after these orphaned children. He has seen it necessary to take from them both of their parents. I cannot begin to understand the workings of God’s wisdom. Samira is gone, and He has determined that it should be so. Atef and his wife have agreed to take her daughters in. Their kindness, surely, He has noticed and will reward and is perhaps in itself an indication of His grace. And while it was Allah who took Samira, it is you, Claymore, who have ensured that her daughters will be well looked-after for as long as they live. All that death money you got from Cyprus is being washed clean. There is justice in this, although whose I am unsure.
Tonight I called Hope in California. She was with her mother. I did not tell her about Eugène. Only that I was safe. I left it to you to tell her that Jean-Marie was dead. You told her that he had died helping us, that he died doing what he loved, that you were together at the end, and that you buried him as a warrior, with his eyes open. I watched you, Claymore, as you told her. Your face was set hard. Your voice did not waver, even as I wept openly. I saw not a hint of tears, of emotion of any kind. I know you would not have betrayed your friend’s memory with such shows of weakness. Men like you and Crowbar foolishly think emotion is weakness. And yet I know that the things you have seen and done have not completely scoured away your ability to feel. That smile of moments ago is all the proof I need. And, perhaps, if we are allowed the time, I can help you heal, and then, if Allah wills it, you can love me. If these things can be done, maybe I, too, can find solace, and love you as I should. Inshallah.
After Hope had spoken to you, she told me that she had always known this time would arrive. That one day, she would get a telephone call, and that she would know he was dead. She has been preparing for it since before they were married, she said. I wish she were here now so I could hold her, and we could weep together. For I loved him, too, as I know you did, Claymore, in your way.
Better Than You Can Ever Know
Clay woke with morning’s first grey intrusions. He turned on the floor, felt the dull hooks of pain tangle inside him. Rania was sitting up in the bed, wide awake, staring down at him. He pushed himself up and sat on the bed beside her.
‘Did you sleep?’ he said.
‘A little,’ she whispered.
‘I need to get going,’ he said.
She reached for his hand. ‘When I reached the shelter, Samira was still alive,’ she said. ‘She looked up at me. She knew it was me.’ Rania closed her eyes for a moment. ‘I am sorry. That’s what she said, Claymore. Her final words: “I am sorry.”’
Clay said nothing.
‘Last night, Ghada, Samira’s daughter, told me she saw her mother take money from a man in the clinic. She said it was a white man, with yellow hair.’
Clay exhaled. ‘The guy we saw leaving Samira’s shelter was Rhodesian. He worked with Koevoet, but I’m pretty sure he also works for the AB – the people who are after me. And you.’
Rania took a sharp breath. ‘Why would he…’ She didn’t finish the sentence, knew the answer.
‘I should have killed the bastard when I had the chance.’
Rania closed her eyes, squeezed his hand. ‘Please, Claymore. No more killing. Promise me.’
Clay pushed her hand away.
‘I think he was after this,’ said Rania, reaching to the floor for her bag. She reached inside and placed a thick printed file on Clay’s lap and flicked on the bedside lamp.
He scanned the pages, the paper stained and battered, the columns of figures still legible. Concentrations in parts per million, particulate matter with diameters less than 2.5 microns, less than 10 microns. Lead, cadmium, oxides of sulphur and nitrogen, units in milligrams per cubic metre. The numbers were big, way above background. The values appeared to be attached to several different measuring stations.
Clay looked up at Rania. ‘Where did you get this?’
‘From my husband’s encrypted hard drive.’
‘Encrypted?’
Rania nodded. ‘Do you know what it means?’
‘Looking at the concentrations, the types of compounds, I’m pretty sure these are air-quality data.’
Rania was quiet a moment. ‘Are you certain?’
‘I’ve done this kind of work before, Ra. PM 2.5 and PM 10 are definitely air quality parameters. Lead and the other metals could be in water, but these units are definitely for air.’ He flipped a couple of pages and pointed to another set of numbers. ‘Look. Same measuring station. Could be a combined water effluent and air-monitoring station.’
‘Where were the measurements taken?’
‘I can’t tell.’ Clay ran his finger down one of the columns. They’re not lat-long. Could be UTM coordinates, but I’m not sure.’
Over the next few minutes, as dawn came, Rania told Clay about her meeting with Yusuf Al-Gambal, his reaction to seeing this very file, his unwillingness to meet further. ‘He sent me instead to a friend,’ she said. ‘A Kemetic – a follower of the ancient Egyptian religion.’
‘Ja, I met him,’ said Clay.
Rania glanced at him. ‘You did?’
‘He was dead.’
Rania closed her eyes.
‘Someone cut his throat. He was cold by the time I got there.’ Clay reached into his pocket. ‘I found this in his flat.’ He placed the camera on Rania’s lap. On the screen was the photo of the dead man and three friends.
She picked it up and sat looking at the screen.
‘The dead guy is the one on the left. Atef said the one on the right is Yusuf Al-Gambal. I don’t know who the one in the middle is.’
Rania stared at him a long moment. ‘It is Hamid,’ she whispered. ‘My husband.’
‘Jesus,’ said Clay.
She pointed at the screen. ‘And this?’ Her finger hovered over the image of the woman.
‘I don’t know.’
Rania bit her lip. ‘What else did you find?’
‘Scroll back through the photos,’ said Clay. She might as well know.
Rania flicked through the photos, stopped. ‘I’ve been here,’ she said. ‘It was an industrial facility, a lead smelter in Hadayek-el-Koba, here in Cairo. The address was on a card that Yusuf gave me.’ And she told him about the night she was chased out of the facility.
‘Keep going.’
Rania flicked through a few more photos, then stopped dead. She looked up at Clay, the colour rising in her face. ‘Con,’ she hissed. ‘Louche.’
Clay reached into his pocket and handed her the button. ‘Yours?’
Rania took the button, turned it over in her fingers a moment, but said nothing.
‘Did he hurt you?’ said Clay.
‘I do not want to talk about it,’ said Rania, looking away. ‘Just make sure you delete those photos.’
Clay pocketed the camera. ‘Okay, Ra.’ He handed her the journal. ‘I found this, too. Most of the Arabic is in some kind of shorthand.’
Rania started leafing through the pages. She was quiet for a long time.
‘Can you read it?’ asked Clay.
Rania nodded. ‘Some.’ She leaned across him and placed the open journal on top of the file, on his lap, then pointed to a string of Arabic characters. She was very close to him now; he could smell her hair and the sweet chemistry of her skin, feel the heat coming from her body. He closed his eyes. Despite everything, desire fizzed through him, jarred the ligaments of his joints, weakened the muscles of his legs. She was speaking to him now, her voice soft on swirling desert eddies.
‘Claymore? Are you alright?’
He opened his eyes. She was looking right at him, gazing out from the infinite depth of those twinned constellations whose flecked and layered patterns he had long ago locked in his memory.
‘Sorry. What did you say?’
‘This word here,’ she said. ‘Blood.’
‘And then more numbers,’ he said, still swimming through.
‘What does it mean?’
‘I have no idea.’ Clay stood, steadied
himself. ‘Keep looking through it, Rania.’ He started dressing.
‘What’s wrong?’
‘There is something I have to do. Back soon.’
Clay arrived at the Ritz Carlton just as the main restaurant was opening for breakfast. He sat in one of the big armchairs in the lobby, his back to the front window, so he could see across the marble entranceway to the main desk and the bank of lifts beyond. The place was early-morning quiet – a few Western businessmen in suits waiting for associates or drivers; hotel staff carrying trays, arranging flowers. He pulled his cap down low, ordered a coffee and waited.
Rania had wanted to leave for Luxor immediately. Clay had called Mahmoud, asked him if he had any runs south from Cairo scheduled, and Mahmoud, as expected, had immediately laid on a trip. They would meet him later that night and leave Cairo in the early hours of the morning, arriving in Luxor shortly after daybreak. As before, Mahmoud hadn’t asked the purpose of Clay’s trip, or the reasons for haste. He had behaved as might the oldest and most trusted of friends, without a moment’s hesitation. And while the man’s charity and trust were still a surprise to Clay, he nonetheless understood where such things were born, and had seen the power of these bonds between men. In comparison, the dark currents that seemed to buffet Rania were an unfathomable mystery. It was clear to him now that whatever they had once had – the love and physical intimacy they had shared for a time – was now gone. Like him, she seemed to know that such distractions could be fatal for them both. They had a job to do. That was all that mattered.
Clay’s coffee came. He didn’t have a room number and didn’t want to alert G to his presence by calling the room. He would wait until G appeared. If he came down for breakfast, Clay would wait and follow him back up. If he went out, Clay would corner him somewhere in the city. Either way, he was going to get some answers. He had no doubt that G was still in Cairo. A man like him would not have come this far only to leave before the promised payoff.
Clay sipped his coffee and watched the lobby, scanning the faces of the people coming out of the lift.
The early hours crawled past. Nine o’clock came and slid away into history. Clay ordered a third coffee. A second wave of guests, the late risers, crowded the restaurant, ate, straggled away.
And then he was there, striding across the lobby. With his arm in the sling and the deep contusions around his eyes, Clay didn’t recognise him at first. But then it was clear. That tall, lanky build. The asymmetric, stilted walk, as if someone had hobbled his legs with a metre of chain. It was the cop, Tall. And he was coming straight towards Clay.
Clay stood, palmed the Glock’s handle.
Tall opened his free hand, palm out and up, slowed. ‘Please,’ he said in Arabic as he approached. ‘Only to talk.’
Clay moved his hand away from the gun and indicated the chair opposite. Tall sat.
‘Coffee?’ said Clay, wondering just how this guy had found him, looking around the lobby for Tall’s backup. An escape plan took shape. There was an emergency exit in the bar, just beyond the wall to his right, about five seconds away. Then out and double back towards Tahir Square, get lost in the crowds.
Tall nodded. Clay called over the waiter and Tall ordered.
‘You don’t look so good,’ said Clay. It was worth reminding him.
Tall looked down at his arm. ‘It was not necessary,’ he said. ‘I tried to tell you.’
Clay rolled up his sleeve, revealing the bandage. ‘Neither was this.’
Tall pushed his lips into a flat line. ‘I am sorry,’ he said. ‘After you followed me, I feared for my life.’
‘And your buddy?’
‘He is still in hospital. Still unconscious. You hit him hard.’
Clay twisted his cup on the glass tabletop and hardened his gaze. ‘You said you wanted to talk. So talk.’
Tall glanced back towards the lobby, the main entrance, and leaned forwards. ‘The man you are looking for, I know where he is.’
‘And who am I looking for?’
‘Yusuf Al-Gambal.’
Clay took a mouthful of coffee and swallowed it down, tasting nothing. ‘I’m not looking for him.’
‘Your friend is.’ Tall placed a business card on the table and slid it towards Clay. ‘And if she wants to speak with him, she should do it quickly.’
Clay glanced at the card then focused back on the man opposite. ‘Suez.’
The waiter came with Tall’s coffee. He took a sip, swallowed and waited a moment. ‘He thinks he is safer there.’
‘From what?’
‘From us.’
‘Why should I believe you?’
‘I am helping you.’ His busted nose made him sound as if he had a cold.
‘Like last night.’
Tall closed his eyes, opened them again. The whites of his eyes were stained with blood. ‘And the man you came to see is not here. He is down the road, at the Hilton, registered as Mr Leadbetter. Room 1506.’
Clay stared back at the guy.
‘Your colleague from Africa.’
It was as if the world was reordering itself. ‘Go on.’
‘He arrived here five days ago. We were told to work with him. And no, he did not kill the woman. We did that.’
Clay could feel the fury gathering, a distillation of fifteen years’ injustice and betrayal.
‘Not me,’ said Tall. ‘My partner.’
‘For fuck’s sake, why?’ It came out as a groan.
‘She cooperated at the beginning, through Mr Leadbetter, but then she stopped.’
‘After the pyramids.’
‘She crossed us. My partner, he…’ Tall tailed off, stared into his coffee cup. ‘He has a serious temper. He doesn’t like being crossed.’
There it was. The betrayal. But then, despite everything, Samira had found it within herself to fight back. And they’d killed her for it.
Clay leaned forwards so that his face was only inches from Tall’s. ‘Tell your partner, next time it won’t be a hospital bed he ends up in, it’ll be the morgue.’
Tall’s index finger twitched against the handle of his mug.
‘Who is paying you?’ said Clay.
Tall shifted in his chair and lowered his eyes. ‘I never see him. My partner does that. We do what he tells us.’
‘He tells you to kill some poor woman with two kids to look after, living in a rubbish dump? And you fuckers go and do it? Allah will judge you harshly.’
Tall hung his head. ‘I am trying.’
‘Not hard enough, broer.’
‘You don’t understand,’ whispered Tall, ‘what these people can do.’
Clay said nothing. I understand better than you can ever know, he thought.
‘Leadbetter was giving the woman money for information, passing it to us. At a price.’
‘Information about what?’
‘About your friend, Veronique Deschamps. Or should I say Lise Moulinbecq.’
Suddenly the room was as cold as a tomb.
‘The people who pay us do not want her here. You must leave immediately. If they find her, they will kill her. I was trying to warn you, before.’
‘What the hell has she done to them, whoever the fuck they are?’
Tall drained his coffee, stood. ‘We are not told why. Only do.’
‘But you know, don’t you?’
Tall fumbled in his pocket, withdrew a packet of Marlboros and tried to shake one out of the opening. Three cigarettes fell to the floor. He cursed in Arabic, put the pack on the table and started picking them up one by one.
‘Not so easy with one hand, is it?’ said Clay.
Tall flashed what might have been a smile. He put one of the cigarettes between his lips, fished out his lighter, turned the wheel and lit it. After a few lungfulls, he exhaled and said: ‘They are very frightened of her. She has a reputation.’ He took another long draw and narrowed his eyes. ‘It is for prevention. And revenge.’
‘Revenge? For what?’
‘For things she has written, and may write.’ Tall stubbed the half-finished cigarette out in the ashtray, wincing as he adjusted his arm in its sling. ‘I must leave now,’ he said. ‘Allah’s blessing be upon you, non-believer. You have thirty-six hours. After that, I will no longer be able to delay putting out a city-wide alert and arrest order for you both. Go in peace.’
‘Wait,’ said Clay. ‘Why are you doing this?’
Tall stared into his eyes. ‘Yusuf Al-Gambal is not the only person who hopes for a better Egypt. I have children, Mr Straker.’
And then he turned and walked away, out the front door and into the Cairo traffic.
14th November 1997. Cairo, Egypt. 07:10 hrs
Atef’s wife has just come to me and handed me a small black-and-white photograph. She found it in your clothes before she laundered them.
It is as if I am looking at a ghost. You stare out at me from the past, your face full of all of that wonderful round smoothness of youth, your eyes bright, the hint of a wry smile at the corner of your mouth, despite the hard stare you are putting on for the camera.
It is a military photograph, clearly. The collar and epaulettes of your uniform are visible. Your hair is cut brush-short. Am I looking back sixteen years, seventeen? How young you look! To see you like this, clean and fair and beautiful, like a child. I have only ever known you scarred, damaged, cut and shot and sewn and sliced through by bone and metal. But it is your eyes that hurt me most.
My heart swells, and then a deep sadness comes.
Keeps You Alive
The Hilton was only a short walk along the corniche. If it was a setup, it was overelaborate. He decided to trust Tall, take the chance and fight his way out if he had to.
Room 1506 was at the back of the hotel, halfway along a curved corridor, overlooking the Nile. Clay banged on the door.
After a moment a voice came. ‘Who is it?’
Absolution Page 25
