by Nick Louth
My Dearest Cantara,
I should have written to you long before, to tell you how desperately sorry I am about what happened. I have tried repeatedly to ring you, to text you and e-mail, but I get no response. I can understand why you have been avoiding me. This must all have been very painful for you, and I can understand why you felt the need to change your phone (the old number is now coming up as unobtainable). I also know that you don’t live at Mile End Road anymore. Your neighbours didn’t seem to know where you had gone. All I can hope is that this letter is forwarded to you.
The temptation, I’m sure, is to tear up this letter, just as you must have consigned my e-mails into the junk box. I really want you to know that I am sorry; sorry from the bottom of my heart, for what happened that night. I know that I can never give you back what I have taken from you, your trust in men, perhaps even your trust in humanity. I abused a privileged position with you, and I am truly sorry for it.
When I set up the Fouad Adwan Foundation I meant to do the best thing I could in memory of a very dear man, and I think that most of what I have done has been good. However, Fouad and his family would be shocked by what I have done to his daughter, the little girl I met so long ago. You deserved better, and I am sorry that even now, I cannot make it better. If you feel you can ever talk to me again, and perhaps forgive me, my personal mobile number is on the attached card. If you don’t, well, I shall understand. I have done you a great wrong, and must bear that for all my days.
Ever yours,
Chris
Cantara burst into tears long before the end. As Zainab put a comforting arm around her, Cantara looked up and saw an elderly lady in a mackintosh sitting opposite with a small dog on her lap. She was looking at her with a sympathetic smile.
On the long walk back from the tube station to the musallah, Cantara poured out her heart again to Zainab. ‘You know,’ she said. ‘I still do love him. I don’t think I will ever love anyone else like that. You cannot bury your heart. You have to let it live. I think I have to phone him.’
‘Cantara, no. That really isn’t a good idea.’
‘But I miss him!”
‘He abused you…’
‘No, he didn’t. He’s a good man, really.’
‘Cantara you mustn’t…’
‘I want to go to him!’ Cantara said, getting out her mobile.
Zainab snatched at the phone, and got a glare from Cantara. ‘What are you doing?’
Zainab put her other arm around Cantara, kissed her gently on the cheek and said: ‘Look, don’t do anything yet. If you ring him now, all emotional because of the letter, you will just put him off. Men don’t like crazy women.’
‘I’m not crazy!’
‘Really? No contact for a year and then all hearts and flowers! Think about it. Besides, the immigration people will be able to trace you again.’
‘He wouldn’t give them the details.’
‘He might. Look. Give yourself a day to think about it,’ Zainab said, gradually easing the phone out of Cantara’s hand. ‘If you get excited, you could damage your heart. You’ve only just had an operation. Just wait a day. I’ll keep your phone. At this time tomorrow I’ll give it back to you. Once you’ve had chance to think.’
Cantara relented. ‘Okay. One day. So long as you keep your promise.’
They hugged fiercely, and Zainab said: ‘Cantara, I promise. I’d never let you down.’
* * *
Bram was sitting on his bed, holding his head in his hands. ‘This is a disaster.’
‘I can’t stall her any longer,’ said Zainab, leaning across to take another biscuit from Rifat’s plate. ‘I’ve got to give the phone back tomorrow and she’s bound to ring him. She even tried to go out this evening to the phone box.’
‘You let her?’ Rifat asked.
‘Aha, unfortunately, she mislaid his phone number,’ Zainab sniggered. She held up Wyrecliffe’s business card and then tore it into pieces.
‘Good work,’ Rifat said. ‘I made sure Mrs Ghat disconnected the internet too.’
‘It’s almost midnight. That’s all we can do for today. I’ll leave you two to figure out what we do tomorrow. Goodnight.’ Zainab closed the door quietly behind her.
Bram shook his head. ‘I really thought Cantara hated him.’
‘So did I,’ Rifat said. ‘I had assumed that even if they saw each other on the flight, she would avoid him.’
‘But now, Rifat, whether she rings him or not, they’ll be chatting away at the departure gate. She’s bound to spill the beans on where she has been for the last year,’ Bram said angrily. ‘He could be ringing his BBC friends before he even catches the flight!
‘Keep your voice down,’ Rifat hissed. ‘Idiot! She’s asleep just down the corridor.’
‘We have to stop it. She might even show him the false passport, everything. Our cover would be completely blown. No, she can’t go.’
‘She has to be on that flight,’ Rifat said simply. ‘We can’t let our plans be swayed by shifting female emotions.’
Bram threw his hands up in despair. ‘She’s a woman, not a robot! This flight is the wrong target for her, and we don’t have time to fix the plan. It’s time for you to forget the BBC guy, and concentrate on Operation Scorpion. We’ll use Cantara somewhere else. Maybe send her to the Houses of Parliament as a tourist and blow her up there.’
‘Stop being stupid. She’s only got just enough explosive for a jet. She’d kill less than a dozen in a building. It would be a waste.’
Bram stood up. ‘You know, I don’t understand why Yemen ever let you pursue this freelance operation.’
Rifat’s eyes narrowed. ‘I’ve spent time in Yemen. They know and trust me! That’s a privilege that you have not been offered. Don’t you understand? What we are doing has never been done. It neutralises security for the entire global airline industry. But we need Cantara to prove the procedure works, before Operation Scorpion, as well as letting me achieve my objectives.’
‘Your objectives? What are your objectives?’ hissed Bram, picking up Rifat’s laptop from the desk. ‘Is your secret in here? Why do you hate that journalist so much?’
‘Wyrecliffe raped Cantara, she told Zainab,’ Rifat said.
‘Maybe he did. And to avenge that you’re planning to blow her to pieces. As well as him!’ Bram bellowed. ‘It makes no sense. You had it in for him long before we knew about what happened to Cantara. This is nothing to do with jihad. This is all lies.’
Rifat stood up, and looked straight into his adversary’s eyes. Bram Malik was an inch shorter, but much more heavily built than Rifat. A fitness fanatic, weightlifter and strong swimmer. Rifat knew he’d be no match for him.
‘Give it back, Bram,’ Rifat said, holding out his hand for the laptop.
‘I think I’ll take a little look first,’ Bram replied.
Rifat lunged for the computer, but Bram seized Rifat’s wrist with his free hand. He squeezed the black-gloved hand fiercely. Rifat squealed in pain and tried to throw a punch. Bram tossed the computer on the bed, and then struck back with a counter-blow so fast and powerful Rifat didn’t even see it. He found himself dazed on the floor with Bram Malik standing over him.
There was a banging on the door. They looked at each other, alarmed. Dr Khan, a man who never seemed to sleep, was known to patrol the musallah at night. He may be almost blind but his hearing was acute. But this wasn’t Dr Khan. When Bram opened the door it was Cantara, in a dressing gown.
‘What’s all the noise?’ she asked. ‘I think you’ve woken everyone up. Are you fighting?’ she asked, looking at Rifat, who was now sitting unsteadily on the bed.
‘It’s nothing,’ Rifat said. ‘Go to bed.’
‘You’re bleeding,’ said Cantara. ‘Did you hit him, Bram?’
‘I fell over,’ said Rifat. ‘It’s nothing.’
She walked up to Rifat. A trail of blood was seeping from his nose. Cantara looked up at Bram, noticing his grazed knuckles.
‘Bram, pass me a clean tissue from that box,’ she said sternly. ‘I’m surprised at you both.’
Once she had the tissue, she held Rifat’s head and tenderly wiped the blood from his upper lip. She then gently pushed the side of his nose, provoking a wince. ‘That’s going to be a bruise, but I don’t think it’s broken. If the bleeding persists, pinch the bridge of your nose, or hold a glass of cold water to your forehead.’
She looked up. ‘Bram, aren’t you going to say sorry for this?’
Bram blinked at her for several seconds then said. ‘Sorry, Rifat.’ He extended a hand to the younger man, who reluctantly shook it, muttering his own apology.
Cantara got up to leave and just before the door said: ‘Can I ask something? Why were you arguing about me?’
‘We weren’t,’ Rifat said quickly.
‘I heard my name,’ she said softly. ‘Definitely.’
‘What else did you hear?’ asked Bram.
She shrugged. ‘I couldn’t make it out. But just in case, let me tell you that you are both my brothers. And I love you dearly. Both of you, equally. And I hate to see you fighting like children. This is supposed to be a house of peace, prayer and reflection. Not a house of war.’ She went out quietly and closed the door.
* * *
After their enforced reconciliation, Rifat and Bram stayed in the room for several hours, talking quietly, and using the laptop. They finally reached agreement, and e-mailed Irfan Tiwana with their proposed solution. After an hour they got his agreement. Then at 4am, Bram tiptoed down the corridor and listened outside the room shared by Cantara and Zainab. He knew they couldn’t wait until tomorrow. This was all far too time-critical. He could faintly hear Zainab saying her Fajr. He waited until she had finished then eased the door open an inch.
‘Zainab,’ he whispered. She responded, and he led her out into the corridor. He was taken aback by the tangled mass of green hair that spilled across the shoulders of her dressing gown. ‘Is Cantara asleep?’
Zainab nodded. ‘What’s up?’
‘Come with me. It’s urgent.’
In Bram’s room Rifat had already made coffee. Zainab picked up a mug and sat in the one chair. ‘We’ve got a decision, Zainab,’ Rifat said. ‘Cantara will be going to Cairo, but not on the original flight on Thursday. She’ll be going first thing this morning, with me.’
‘I don’t get it. Has Wyrecliffe changed his flight?’ Zainab asked.
‘I don’t think so. But she is now being reserved for Operation Scorpion. In the meantime we need to get her out of here, to distract her from contacting Wyrecliffe and to keep her somewhere safe until then. We’ll be going to Sharm el-Sheikh. We’ve got friends there who will look after her.’
‘So Wyrecliffe gets away with what he did to her?’ she said indignantly. ‘That man deserves to die for his abuse of her.’
‘I couldn’t agree more,’ said Rifat, his face breaking into a smile. ‘He does deserve to die for what he did to Cantara. Avenging her will be the honour of our first martyr.’
‘Have you chosen then?
Rifat smiled. ‘It is you, Zainab.’
‘Me?’ Her face fell.
‘Don’t cry,’ Bram said. ‘Not only will it be the sacrifice you always wanted, but you will avenging a wrong against your friend, you sister in Islam.’
Zainab looked down and nodded. She had always thought herself ready for martyrdom. She knew it would happen sometime. But she had not expected it so soon. And what of her child?
Chapter Thirty-Two
London
November, 2010
Cantara was awoken at 5am and given an hour to prepare for a mid-morning flight from London’s Heathrow to the Red Sea coast resort of Sharm el-Sheikh. She was pleased when Rifat said he was going to accompany her on the flight to Egypt, but everything in the end seemed to be rushed.
Rifat seemed taciturn and morose that morning, and seemed withdrawn on the flight, spending most of his time working on his laptop, or listening to music. The only time he looked at her was when she pressed her hands against her tummy, to ease the discomfort that she had felt on and off since her operation. He had been very attentive then, asking her in some alarm if she felt okay. She had laughed, and said how frequently she felt as if something was moving inside her. ‘This must be what it’s like to have a baby,’ she had said. She had hoped to draw a smile from him, but the stricken look that passed over his countenance at that point was anything but comforting. Rifat, she decided, wouldn’t be a natural father.
Cantara flicked through the in-flight magazine, to get an idea of her destination. Sinai was a pennant of land, about the size of Lebanon, strung between the Suez canal to the west, and the Israeli border to the east. Like Lebanon it had been fought over for thousands of years. Sharm el-Sheikh was at its bottom-most tip, facing south into the Red Sea, reclining against rocky mountains and gorges.
Eventually, when they were well out over the Mediterranean, Rifat fell asleep. She needed to get past him to go to the toilet, and managed to step over his outstretched legs without awakening him. It was only when she removed her weight from the seat arm that he stirred. His eyes flicked wide with alarm and he seized her wrist. ‘Where are you going?’
‘Just to the toilet,’ she said, wrestling her arm away. Her eyes blazed. It was the first time he had ever touched her at all, and it reminded her of a greater and deeper pain. Rifat offered to come with her, but she refused. ‘It’s alright you know, I’m not going to run away!’
Cantara was happy to spend a few minutes alone in the cubicle. She had missing being able to say goodbye to Zainab, and because of all the rush, she still hadn’t been able to get her phone back. Rifat had given her another, but it didn’t have her directory in it. Somehow she seemed to have lost the card with Chris’s current number. She had thought a lot about him in the last few days, and missed him despite everything that had happened. Once she was in Egypt, she would get on the Internet and dig up his number again, or at least a general one for the BBC.
Rifat had been evasive about the hotel they were going to, and whether or not it had a swimming pool. He said he wanted it to be a surprise, which excited her even more. Irfan Tiwana had hinted that she would be staying somewhere luxurious, and she was really looking forward to it. The idea of a pool, azure and warm, was enticing to her, and she had weeks ago bought a swimming costume in preparation. She had as a child paddled in the sea in Lebanon, and had tried a crowded municipal swimming pool in London. A five-star hotel should have something better. She tried to remind herself that she was there to work, to help Irfan Tiwana, but the idea of learning to swim in a hotel pool kept seducing her. All in all, she felt better about herself than she had for a long while. The next week should be the start of something better in her life. After squandering so many opportunities, she was determined to make sure that this one didn’t slip through her fingers.
But as Cantara felt her tummy, she had no idea that her hopes and dreams were going to be dashed. Visiting Sinai would be nothing like she expected.
* * *
Zainab ran the tap carefully. Hot water gushed into the sink, and then she mixed in cold, until it was a temperature she could bear. She stripped off her blouse and put a towel round her shoulders. She tore open a sachet of peroxide, and began rubbing it into her green-tinted hair. She was fond of that colour, but she would never wear it again. Once the peroxide had taken effect and bleached all the green out, she was going to dye her hair a dark and lustrous brown. An Arabic chestnut. Then she would dye her eyebrows. The contact lenses, too, were dark brown. She had worn contacts for years, but never tried to change her eye colour. But this was important. She knew that.
She knew Rifat had already cancelled the flight in the name of Muysaneh Abbas and then rebooked the same seat immediately with Cantara’s old credit card and Lebanese passport details. The passenger on flight MS960 was no longer Muysaneh Abbas but Cantara al-Mansoor. And Zainab was Cantara al-Mansoor, at least in offici
al and electronic terms. Her appearance may not yet be perfect, but there was still some time for that. Good enough to leave a country. And she would after all never have to arrive in one. Bram was already preparing the video recorder. She would soon be ready to sit in front of it. To sit with an Al Qaeda flag behind her, a sash around her head, and state why she, Cantara al-Mansoor was going to lay down her life to end the repression of Islam, to take with her hundreds of those on the airliner to Cairo, crusaders who deal with the illegitimate Mubarak regime. The video would later be sent out to the usual media organisations across the Middle East who would then air the message.
Not least, Zainab knew she was going to her death to avenge her friend, a friend who had been abused by a member of the British establishment. A friend who had in turn helped her. For years she had known she was ready to sacrifice herself, and in Islam she had found a cause that would mark her devotion. Yet for all this, she felt that her main emotion was not of glory in the happiness awaiting her in the afterlife, but fear. No, worse than fear. Terror. And a feeling that her martyrdom was being taken for granted. Maybe Cantara was luckier than her. To be able to trust and not know the fate that awaited her.
Zainab then turned to a pad of paper on which there were already numerous crossings out, and picked up her pen. Then, for the tenth time that evening, she sat down to write a goodbye letter to her son, her hair dripping dark, dyed tears onto the page.
* * *
It was late afternoon on the day they arrived at Sharm airport. A large and ugly man in a dirty djelabah had been waiting for them. His name was Tofi, and had the discoloured zabiba callus on his forehead that years of zealous friction with the prayer mat induces. He offered her a large grimy hand. Tofi seemed to know Rifat, and they exchanged words in some dialect of Arabic she couldn’t catch. But one thing was clear, from the man’s sly glances. They were talking about her. Tofi led them to a battered white Hyundai whose only decoration was a series of Islamic pennants and some prayer beads hanging from the mirror. He put the bags in the boot, showed Rifat into the front and her into the back.
