‘The regime,’ she said, her voice almost lost among the sounds of the road.
‘And who is the regime?’
‘According to The Lion, to Samira, to the Kemetic, it is the Consortium.’
‘Right. And Yusuf Al-Gambal told me he was sure that Hamid and the Kemetic had been murdered by the Consortium. So, if this woman, Fatimah Salawi, really is a member of Al-Gama’a al-Islamiyya, working with Hamid and her cousin to help expose one of the Consortium’s companies, then why would she murder Hamid? And why take your son? It makes absolutely no sense.’
Rania was silent for a long time. Clay let her ponder.
After a while, she said: ‘Perhaps she was using Al-Gama’a al-Islamiyya as a cover, as misdirection. Maybe she does work for the Consortium. Maybe she was the one who blew the cover on what Yusuf and Ali were doing.’
‘A mole? Working against her own cousin?’
‘Maybe. Perhaps she always intended to murder all three of us. When I didn’t come home on time that day, maybe she decided to kill Hamid and take Eugène, framing me for their murders. What better way to ensure my silence than to kidnap my son?’
‘Then your friends in the DGSE have their facts wrong.’
‘Quite possibly,’ she said.
‘But if she isn’t with the Consortium, then she is exactly who your contacts in DGSE say she is – an Islamic terrorist – and most likely your son is dead. And if she is with the Consortium, mole or not, then she isn’t going to Luxor.’ He felt as if he was stepping into a minefield. ‘Your son is dead, Rania. Face facts. We should leave. Now. Get out while we can.’
Rania stared at him, her hair haloed in the phosphorescence of the truck’s instrument panel, her face in darkness. Time passed. Miles of darkened desert. The slow turning of stars. The drone of the truck’s big diesel engine. Clay let her alone. Mahmoud too, knowing this was a silence that should not be broken.
The lights of Beni Suef were well behind them when she said: ‘I need to be sure, Claymore.’ Then she reached for his hand, took it in her own. He could feel her calloused finger tracing the big vein from his second knuckle to the point of his wrist.
‘Please understand, chéri. This is the best chance we have of finding out what happened to my son. I need to do this. And I need your help. After, I release you from any obligation you may feel you hold.’
Clay let her words wash over him. ‘Okay, Ra. We make sure. Whatever it takes.’ It could never be any other way.
The Greatest and Truest Means of Your Salvation
Over the next two hours they shared their plight with Mahmoud. They’d talked it over and agreed they had no other choice.
If he hadn’t already, Tall would soon issue a nationwide police bulletin for their arrest. If the DGSE was right, and some kind of attack by Al-Gama’a al-Islamiyya was imminent, and if indeed the woman, Fatimah Salawi, aka Jumoke Quarrah, was somehow involved, and was either in or on her way to Luxor, and if Eugène was with her, they had perhaps a day to find the boy. There were a lot of unknowns, far too many ifs, and no leads other than a partial address and two conflicting theories. They needed help, the help of locals, people who knew the area and its inhabitants. People like Mahmoud.
Rania described the woman. ‘She looks like me,’ she said. ‘But she is Lebanese, we think, a foreigner. She would have arrived here no more than two weeks ago, perhaps less. She will either be very pious, or pretending to be so.’
‘And your son will be with her?’ said Mahmoud, leaning over the steering wheel. Perhaps in deference to Rania, he hadn’t yet produced a bottle.
‘I think so. Perhaps.’ Rania passed Mahmoud a photograph of Eugène.
‘Mashallah,’ said Mahmoud.
Rania repeated the invocation.
‘My wife is from a very old Luxor family,’ said Mahmoud. ‘She knows everyone. Her father is imam of the largest mosque in the city. It is best if she makes enquiries, while the two of you stay hidden. If this woman can be found, my wife will do it.’
‘Please,’ said Rania. ‘Tell her to be careful. This woman is extremely dangerous.’
By the time they arrived at Mahmoud’s house, the sun was up and the heat was coming off the hills in incandescent sheets. A hot wind blew in from the desert, sending dust devils spinning down the narrow lane.
Mahmoud led them to the house, a simple two-storey building set at the back of the garden, shaded by a pair of towering sycamores. He showed Clay to a small room on the ground floor.
‘Rest, now,’ he said. ‘There is clean water.’ He made as if to pour a bucket over his head. ‘Lunch is at two o’clock.’ And then to Rania: ‘Come. I will introduce you to my wife. You can trust her. Tell her everything. She will start looking for the woman right away. If Fatimah Salawi is in Luxor, we will find her.’
Clay tried to catch Rania’s gaze but she had already turned away. He watched her as she followed Mahmoud down the corridor. Her gait was compressed, stilted somehow, stress there in every movement. Would she be able to do as Mahmoud had counselled, and stay put, trust their new friends to find the woman? And when they came up with nothing – no woman called Fatimah, and no little boy called Eugène – would she finally see reason and allow him to take her away? In twenty-four hours, with any luck, and if G was as venal as Clay thought him, the AB would be notified of Clay’s death. The window for escape would open, just. But it wouldn’t last long.
Clay pulled off his jelabia, unwrapped his headscarf and dropped his pack on the floor. He stripped off his clothes, closed the shutters, switched on the ceiling fan and locked the bedroom door. He took the G21 from his pack, checked the action, and set it on the table next to the bed. Then he lay on the bed and closed his eyes.
Women’s voices drifted up from the courtyard, the sounds of children playing. Coloured lights flashed in the distance, from some other part of the room, perhaps. He was standing in front of a bar, a beer in hand. It was very cold. He hadn’t had a beer in a long time. There were others in the place, figures in dark clothing, men and women. Some of the women were bound, their wrists tied behind their backs. As they approached, he could see that their skirts were very short and their naked breasts quivered as they walked. Some were chained, dragged heavy weights across the floor, hunks of metal, large stones. They strained against their bonds. One of the women approached him. She too was bound, partially naked. She looked at him. For a moment, he thought it was Rania. It looked like her, but it wasn’t. The eyes were wrong, the lips, the build. She turned away and bent slightly at the waist, revealing smooth labia and a glistening cleft. And then she was gone and Crowbar was there, at the far end of the bar. Crowbar smiled, raised a glass, but then he turned and started towards the lights. Clay made to follow, but his feet were rooted to the floor. He pushed out one foot, felt it scrape heavy across what was now thick sand. The lights came into focus for a moment and there was a flash of blue sky, a sun-browned savannah, a green empire of scattered trees, and he knew it as the Africa of his wartime – scarred and murdered and beautiful. Crowbar stopped there, on the threshold, looked back at him, urged him on. Clay called out, but Crowbar turned and was gone.
Clay woke gasping, bathed in sweat, painfully erect. He reached for the G21, dropped the mag, checked the breech, worked the action. The last time he’d fired it, it had ended Manheim’s life. The images from his dream came to him, clear and troubling. He wanted Rania. It was all he could do to stop himself going to her now. He imagined her here, now, in the bed beside him, trying to push him away, turning her face away at first then yielding as he overpowered her.
Clay swung his feet from the bed, set down the weapon, combed his fingers through his hair and tried to calm himself. He stood, stretched. Slowly, the images faded.
He began field-stripping the Glock. He dry-fired the weapon, placed the handle between his knees, pushed in the takedown lever, eased the slide forwards and detached the slide, barrel and recoil assembly. He was about to remove the recoil spring when there
was a knock at the door. Clay set down the Glock, rose, wrapped a towel around his waist, and opened the door.
It was Mahmoud. ‘We have found something,’ he said, glancing at the parts laid out on the bed.
Parveen, Mahmoud’s wife, was seated in the garden under a vine-covered trellis. Her broad face was framed by a severely drawn headscarf, but she smiled with strong yellow teeth as he approached, indicating with her hand where Clay was to sit.
Rania was seated on Parveen’s left. Clay bowed, sat on the cushion to Parveen’s right. Mahmoud sat across from his wife. Parveen’s youngest son brought tea. Parveen poured. The tea was black and sweet. They drank in silence. Clay paced himself, matching Mahmoud. Second cups were poured.
‘We are very pleased that you have been reunited,’ said Parveen, smiling at Rania and then at Clay. ‘It is God’s will.’
‘Thank you,’ said Rania, glancing at Clay.
‘And now,’ said Parveen, ‘we have news of the woman in the passport.’ She paused. ‘Jumoke Quarrah was born here in Luxor over thirty years ago. At first I was not sure that it was her. It was a long time ago.’ The matriarch waved to the kitchen, called for more tea. ‘I had almost forgotten her. It was a very sad story. Her father died two months before she was born – drowned in the Nile when the boat he was working on overturned. Her mother, a widow, died in childbirth. The girl was claimed by her aunt, who took her to live in Edfu. We never saw her again.’
Rania glanced at Clay. ‘Could this be her?’
Mahmoud’s son came with fresh glasses of tea, offered them from a polished copper tray.
‘I made enquiries with friends from Edfu,’ said Parveen. ‘Jumoke died when she was eight years old, poor girl. The aunt not long after.’ She sipped her tea. ‘Tragedy has a way of following some families,’ she said. ‘God is great.’
‘Allah’u akbar,’ repeated Mahmoud and Rania almost in unison.
‘If this Lebanese woman you have described has taken poor Jumoke’s identity,’ said Parveen, ‘there is no surviving family to expose her.’
Rania covered her face with her hands. ‘What about Eugène?’ she said after a moment. ‘Have you heard anything about a little boy?’
The matriarch closed her eyes. ‘Not yet, my dear. Not yet. But do not lose hope. My eldest son is out now, making enquiries. My husband will take me to the mosque immediately and I will speak with my father.’
‘Please,’ said Rania, ‘may I come with you?’
Parveen smiled, took Rania’s hands in her own. ‘Please, dear, stay here where it is safe. If you are with us, it will only arouse suspicion. Allow us to do this good work for you, in our own way.’
Rania inclined her head and kissed the older woman’s hands.
‘But before we continue, I must speak with you both.’ Parveen closed her eyes a moment. ‘My husband is a very trusting man,’ she said. ‘Sometimes too trusting.’
Clay looked over at Mahmoud. He showed no sign of being displeased.
‘And you understand that I must protect my family.’ Parveen looked at her husband. Her face was drawn now, the earlier warmth gone.
‘Yes,’ said Clay. ‘I am sorry for…’
The matriarch raised her hand and turned the full power of her gaze on Clay. ‘My husband has told me of your first meeting. He tells me you are a traveller, an engineer.’
Clay glanced at Mahmoud, replied that yes, this was true.
‘Do not be surprised, young man. We tell each other everything,’ said the woman. ‘I am my husband’s only wife. I have borne him five sons.’
Clay nodded.
‘He told me that you came from the desert, wounded by bullets.’ Parveen glanced at Rania, frowned. ‘Are you Israeli, young man? Tell me, truthfully.’
‘South African.’
The matriarch nodded, considered this. ‘I have heard of your apartheid. Are you racist?’
Clay looked inside himself. ‘I was brought up that way. But now, I am not.’
She blinked twice. ‘Changing one’s views is a sign of intelligence and open-mindedness. Do you believe in God, young man?’
Clay did not hesitate. Perhaps he should have. ‘No, ma’am.’
Parveen sat quietly a moment. ‘No matter,’ she said, taking Clay’s hand in her own so that Clay and Rania were now linked by her touch. ‘This woman has faith enough for you both. Do you love her?’ She turned her gaze to meet his. ‘Answer me truthfully.’
Clay began, stumbled, stopped. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘My Arabic is not sufficient.’ He might have said, had he been able, that he could still not understand the binary nature of this thing that seemed to exist only as yes or no. And if there were degrees of it, then it was not absolute; and if it was not absolute then surely it could not exist at all. Or that he had insufficient experience of it to know if this raging, sex-fuelled, physical longing was a betrayal of the thing, or its truest expression. That all the other emotions at war inside him were beyond his understanding, and even, on most days, his contemplation; and that for a long time it had been a matter of pure survival that these things be buried, annihilated. But he could say none of it, and instead sat mute, staring at the tightly woven geometries of the carpet.
The older woman closed her eyes. Rania looked away.
‘There will be time for this, inshallah,’ said Parveen after a time, patting Rania’s hand. ‘For now, it is Allah’s will that you are here. He has chosen this for you and for us. It is our task to discern his purpose, and to be faithful to it.’
‘Inshallah,’ said Rania.
‘Do you understand, young man?’ said Parveen.
‘I will try,’ said Clay. ‘But in these things…’ He stopped, looked up. ‘It is difficult.’
‘Allah will guide you,’ said Parveen, getting to her feet, still holding Rania’s hand.
Mahmoud and Clay stood.
‘Now, come daughter. We will talk more of this woman we must find.’ Rania followed Parveen into the house.
‘She is very direct,’ said Mahmoud. ‘But she is a good woman, and wise. She is very glad you found your friend, that you have managed to protect her from the danger she faces, and that you have brought her here to stay with us.’
Clay grabbed Mahmoud’s wrist. ‘We don’t have time for this, Mahmoud. The danger is close. We need to leave Egypt now.’
‘You are safe here,’ said Mahmoud, looking down at Clay’s hand. He moved his free arm in an arc around the garden. ‘All around, all of these houses, this whole neighbourhood, are my family. You are safe.’
‘No one is safe.’ Clay released Mahmoud’s wrist, looked into his eyes. ‘Her boy is dead, Mahmoud. She will not accept it.’
He nodded. ‘Women can be this way. They are much stronger than we in these things.’
‘Please, ask your wife to speak with her. We need to go. I cannot put you in danger any longer.’
‘I will talk to her, my friend. But right now, you must allow us to do this. If this woman is here, if your friend’s son is here, we will find them.’
‘Understand me, please. I am speaking of hours, not days.’
Mahmoud put his hand on Clay’s shoulder. ‘I understand,’ said Mahmoud. ‘I will tell her.’
‘We are very grateful,’ said Clay. ‘More than I can say.’
‘I am pleased that Allah saw fit to put you in my path. It is I who am grateful.’
Clay bowed his head.
‘Allah, though you do not believe in him yet, favours those who are truthful, and those who fight for what is just.’
Clay said nothing, did not attempt to articulate the turmoil boiling within him. For he had no such certainty of right or truth. He was acting out of pure selfishness. Whatever higher purpose he had ever felt or acted upon had come not from within himself, but from Eben. It had been his friend’s philosophy, his burning sense of justice, that had set him on his life’s course, back then during the war when they had made the conscious decision to reject apartheid and all
that it stood for, all that they had been raised to believe. And after Eben had been wounded, put into a decade-long coma, living but not, it was Crowbar who had taken carriage of Clay’s soul, taken it in another direction entirely. And now that both were gone, he knew it was time for him to find his own way.
‘What do you think of this man who calls himself The Lion,’ said Clay. ‘Is he fighting for what is just and right?’
Mahmoud ran his fingers through his beard. ‘My other brother runs a company that charters boats for tourists wishing to see the Nile,’ he said. ‘He calls this man a terrorist. Every attack he makes, no matter where in Egypt, means fewer tourists come. His business is already half of what it was before.’
‘And you, Mahmoud?’
‘I understand my brother’s view. But I also know, as he does, that our government and those that control it are deeply corrupt and do not care about the people. Many Muslims feel this and are convinced that things cannot continue in this way. The Lion is expressing this discontent. But he does it in a way that is not good.’
‘Right fight, wrong method?’
‘Perhaps, my friend, it could be put this way.’
Clay grabbed Mahmood’s forearm. ‘Tell your family to be very careful.’
Mahmoud looked at him through narrowed eyes.
‘Just tell them to be extra safe in the next few days. There is talk of an attack in Luxor. Stay away from tourists. Tell them now, Mahmoud.’
Mahmoud nodded. ‘I will do as you say. And now, my friend, you must prepare to leave, and despite the difficulty in doing so, you must wait. But most difficult of all, you must search inside yourself. The greatest and truest means of your salvation is right in front of you.’
16th November 1997. Luxor, Egypt. 16:30 hrs
We waited all the rest of yesterday, and through the day today.
Mahmoud’s eldest son scoured the east bank with his grandfather, speaking to dozens of people. No one had seen anyone fitting the descriptions. His mother, Parveen, the one who calls me daughter, has said that I should not give up hope, but I feel my reserves of belief slipping away. If the woman, Fatimah Salawi, is not here in Luxor, how can we possibly hope to find her? If my friend from the Directorate is right and a terrorist attack is coming, somewhere here, then surely Eugène is in even greater danger. Terrible possibilities begin to form in my mind and I pretend that I have not glimpsed them; I force myself to think of other things.
Absolution Page 28
