by John Sweeney
Jameela and Ham? He couldn’t be sure that what he’d seen weren’t just blurrings on his retina imprinted there by the chemical brilliance of the phosphorus.
‘Drink up, Paddy-dude. You never know, it could be your last,’ said Humfrey.
‘I dunno, but I think I just saw Jameela and Ham,’ said Joe.
‘Where?’
Joe gestured towards the archway above, now masked in darkness. Nothing could be seen.
‘Your eyes are playing up, Paddy-dude. Drink up!’
Humfrey plucked three glasses from a waiter’s tray, handed one to Joe and kept two for himself. Then he looked at him sidelong and said in his Ozark accent, ‘In this game, Joe, you’ve got to remember the golden rule. Seeing is not believing.’
‘What?’
‘Enjoy the party, bro!’ he said, and wandered off.
Joe walked towards the door on the ground floor, hidden in a recess, that led to the archways above – where, maybe, he’d seen the woman and boy. Only when he was in the recess did he see that, standing in deep shadow at the side of the door, there was a man in a suit, polite, bulky, not to be messed with. As Joe approached, the man pivoted on his feet and blocked the door. Joe mumbled an apology and tracked back into the thick of the throng.
For a city under the thumb of war, the party boasted an astonishing number of beautiful women wearing party frocks that would pass muster at an Oscars bash. And the men were no less fat and ugly than you would come across in Hollywood. Sex and genius is the dream; what you get is sex and money, which is not the same.
On the edge of the scrum were five or six young men in wheelchairs. They reminded Joe of his brother back in Donegal, crippled because of a stupid war. The grimness of that recollection made him slug his drink and stumble towards the next, and then the next.
Through a light haze of alcohol, he recognised some of the Russian wheeler-dealers from the hotel and, standing on her own, the melancholy harpist, in a black dress that hugged her figure from her neck to her ankles. She looked to be Russian or Ukrainian rather than Syrian. She saw Joe watching her and turned her back to him. It was a nice back.
Joe sidled up to her and remembered the sliver of Russian he had learnt from Katya: ‘Kak dela?’ – how’s it going?
‘Nichevo’ – nothing – she replied, as gloomy as gloomy could be. There was something so grimly miserable about her that, pig-headed Irishman that he was, he couldn’t resist the challenge.
‘Toi naimet?’ he said, asking if she was a working girl.
‘English asshole.’
She spoke good English, and now Joe had his opening, that of the mortally offended Irish patriot. ‘I’m Irish. What you have just said, there is no bigger insult.’
‘Irish asshole.’
‘Thank you so much. Irish asshole makes all the difference. It matters to us, it really does. Has done since 1916. We are assholes in our own homeland.’
Seemingly against her own better judgement, she laughed.
In the centre of the courtyard, a belly dancer with a preposterous figure began gyrating, joined, seconds later, by Humfrey, who had somehow shrouded his psychedelic shirt in a gauze shift that he began playfully to unwrap to the rhythm of the music. The crowd whooped with joy, delighting in the dance-off between the official female entertainment and the American fruitcake walking on the wild side. Joe knew who he’d put his money on.
The harpist, Daria, originally from Donetsk, now caught up in Russia’s frozen war with Ukraine, was on a contract to play her harp six nights a week at the hotel. She knew about Joe’s connection with Humfrey, who was currently writhing, erotically for some, to Boney M’s ‘Rasputin’ while the belly dancer looked irritated at the interloper.
‘Are you two for real?’ asked Daria. ‘What are you really doing here? Are you an arms dealer? Is he?’
Joe shook his head and slurped his drink.
‘Who is he? Who are you?’ she said with a piercing directness.
‘Humfrey is a lingerie salesman. I’m looking for someone.’
‘Prove it, Irishman,’ she said.
‘My name’s Joe.’
‘Prove it, Joe.’
‘Well, Humfrey is modelling some of his own lingerie right now. I can get you ten per cent off if you ask nicely.’
‘No, idiot.’ She pronounced ‘idiot’ wrong, making the last syllable rhyme with yacht, but not so wrong that Joe felt the need to correct her. ‘If you are looking for someone,’ she continued, ‘who is it?’
Joe didn’t know why, but there was a plainness about her manner that he trusted or that felt trustworthy. From his suit-jacket pocket he retrieved the printout of Jameela in her cocktail dress, full of life: the Avalon photograph.
For a fraction of a second, Daria’s eyes opened wide, wider than they should have done had she not known the woman in the photo.
‘No,’ she said. ‘No idea.’
‘Sure?’
‘I’m sure.’ A pause, a stillness between them. ‘She’s very beautiful. Why are you looking for this woman?’
‘I’m doing so on behalf of her family back in LA. They’re worried sick about her and her boy, Ham.’
It was a credible line, and it had the virtue of being true – but not, of course, the whole truth.
‘I’m not convince—’ But Joe was interrupted by a commotion in the centre of the courtyard, as the belly dancer was throwing a tantrum at Humfrey’s satire on her act. She slapped him hard on the jaw and the crowd went woo!, enjoying the comedy. Perhaps Humfrey did have a future in the movies, but not as a screenwriter. Jelly-legged, he staggered forwards then backwards, before slumping to the ground in front of her, playing dead. This performance infuriated the belly dancer even more. She started yelping something pretty toxic in Arabic, which only added to the merriment. Suddenly, the squat little man appeared by her side, said something soothing to her and courteously led her offstage. He returned, fast, to Humfrey, now back on his feet, and with a champagne flute in his hand the little man pretended to do a little belly dance of his own – cue mass hilarity – before proffering the glass. No harm done and the party continued on an even keel. Mr Buddha was quite the diplomat.
‘Who’s that?’
Daria explained that Mr Buddha was Adnan Qureshi of Qureshi Oil and Gas – billionaire, miracle worker, and host for the evening. She told Joe he managed to fund the Red Crescent across Syria, organised local ceasefires, and paid for a home for war orphans out of his own pocket. She stopped, sensing Joe didn’t buy it.
‘So he’s the biggest philanthropist in the whole of Syria?’ he asked.
She nodded.
‘Philanthropy is what rich people do instead of paying their taxes.’
‘Oh, he pays taxes. No question about that.’ She smiled to herself. ‘There are people in the regime who think he’s a rich fat crook.’
‘And you?’
‘Well . . .’
‘Well?’
‘He’s fat and he’s rich and he’s a crook. But he’s not a bad man.’
‘How can you be so sure?’
‘He owns the hotel. He owns me.’
She caught Joe’s sigh.
‘He’s not possessive. I can sleep with you, if he’s not busy, if I want.’
‘Do you want?’
‘You can ask him’ – which wasn’t quite the answer to Joe’s question – ‘he’s coming over now.’
And so he was, a great smile fixed on his lips.
‘Mr Tiplady, I’ve heard all about you from your friend, the Ayatollah Princess.’
So Humfrey had traded up from ‘Ronny Dymond’.
‘My dear Daria,’ Qureshi continued, ‘I feel a trifle peckish. Could I ask you to find the chef and ask him to grill some shish kebab, fresh, for Mr Tiplady and I?’
‘Of course, Mr Qureshi.’ She skipped off, all melancholy gone. It was handled so gracefully that it took Joe a second to realise that what Qureshi had done was get her out of the way so that the two of
them could have a private conversation.
‘What brings you to Damascus, Mr Tiplady, in our time of troubles?’
‘I’m retrieving a work of art for a family back in the States.’
Qureshi’s brown eyes studied Joe placidly.
‘A work of art?’
‘Nothing precious. A nineteenth-century family portrait that has sentimental value.’
‘To be frank with you, Mr Tiplady, I don’t believe you.’ Qureshi surveyed the party genially and, just as genially, took a step closer. ‘I’m afraid we don’t have time to indulge in fantasies about an oil painting of sentimental value, Mr Tiplady. My enemies may come for me at any moment.’ His hand gripped Joe’s arm, holding him close. ‘You’re in Damascus to find Jameela Abdiek, are you not?’
‘Jameela who?’
‘We Syrians are killing each other in a stupid war, Mr Tiplady. But that does not mean that all of us are stupid. Stop insulting me. You and the dancing American used the business centre of my hotel to print a photograph of Jameela Abdiek in a suicide vest, and her little boy too, in front of an ISIS flag, with ISIS gunmen in the background. My chief of IT is loyal to me and brought this matter to my attention. His deputy works for me too, but also has acquaintances in the Mukhabarat, our secret police. Good acquaintances, you understand me? The possession of such a photograph here is no light matter. For the moment, my stock is low. I cannot protect you or your friend DeCrecy. Jameela Abdiek is not here. You are wasting your time. My strongest advice is that tomorrow morning, early, you go straight to Beirut. But before you go, you destroy this picture of Jameela and Ham and any memory stick carrying it. The Mukhabarat is a pitiless organisation, numb to human pain. They will already know about you and this picture. If they wish to, they will break you as they have broken so many others. You must leave Damascus first thing in the morning and forget about Jameela Abdiek.’
‘So Jameela isn’t here, is she? Because when that phosphorus shell burst, I could have sworn I saw her and Ham on that archway over there, standing next to you.’
Qureshi’s brown eyes studied him for a time.
At length: ‘She is not here now.’
‘Where is she?’
‘In Syria, the wrong word can kill. Forget about Jameela and get out of Syria. Fast.’
A waiter was coming towards them, bearing a silver platter laden with skewered meat, and behind him was Daria. Qureshi let go of Joe and clapped his hands above his head – ‘Ah, food at last!’ – and went back to being the all-smiling Buddha. Courteous as ever, he handed Joe a kebab skewer, then took one for himself. As he did so, a posse of unsmiling men in dark suits entered the courtyard. The way they held themselves signalled to all that they had the right, here, to do anything they wanted, whenever they wanted, however they wanted. Their leader was the man with pitted skin and sunken eyes who Joe had seen lit up by the flare of a match earlier in the evening. He looked no more pleasant on second acquaintance.
Qureshi said, sotto voce, ‘That’s Mr Mansour, from the Mukhabarat.’
‘Friend of yours?’ Joe asked.
‘Not quite. A shame because the party was going so well.’
Qureshi turned to Daria and began a sentence in Arabic, then switched suddenly to English: ‘This is bad. Tell her to warn Rashid. Tell her to get him out.’
Joe was trying to work out why Qureshi chose to say this in English when he realised that the waiter who had brought the kebabs was in earshot and was lingering near his boss. Daria nodded. Qureshi tilted his head slightly, a subtle gesture. Joe turned to follow his gaze and realised he was signalling that Daria might care to exit not via the courtyard entrance but the other way, through the kitchen. She disappeared without fuss. The moment she’d gone, Qureshi clapped his hands and announced that the party was over and thanked everyone for coming. People began to dribble past the Mukhabarat towards the courtyard door and then out into the main street. A number followed Daria inside, seeking the alternative exit. Humfrey, on the far side of the courtyard, had been deep in conversation with a young man in a wheelchair, but he looked up, sniffing out trouble, and started to make his way back towards the centre. Qureshi walked towards Mansour with a half-smile on his face and, shaded from the lights by a palm tree, entered a pool of darkness. Joe heard a soft metallic click. Someone killed the music but left the amplifiers on, so the courtyard echoed with the hiss of white noise.
Qureshi emerged back into the light, his hands cuffed behind his back. Mansour slapped him, hard across the face, once. Somewhere, a woman gasped. Qureshi, very much the older man and in no great physical shape, almost buckled to the ground but managed to stay upright, just. Mansour slapped him again, once on his left cheek, once on his right, then kneed him in the groin and slapped him so hard Qureshi fell to the ground. Mansour started kicking him in the head and neck as Qureshi tried to wriggle away from him, as lowly as an earthworm.
Joe’s mouth had dried up. Mansour was in the Mukhabarat, so it was unsurprising that he tortured people or had people tortured. What was so sickening was the openness of it – that here, at Qureshi’s own party, the Mukhabarat could hurt him and no one lifted a finger.
No one, that is, apart from Humfrey. He ran up to one of the fancy Bedouin guards, who was frozen to the spot, wrestled his scimitar from him and trotted towards Mansour, holding the sword high above him, its curved blade blood-orange, reflecting the light from a flaming torch nearby.
‘Put the sword down,’ Joe hissed. ‘Stop this, Humfrey, stop it now.’ But Humfrey ignored Joe and continued towards Mansour, more slowly than before.
Mansour kicked Qureshi twice more in the gut, causing him to cough up blood and vomit, all the while coolly observing Humfrey’s advance.
‘Humf,’ Joe hissed once more. ‘Stop it.’
The mad heroic bastard ignored Joe. Only when Humfrey was within striking distance did Mansour take out the gun from within his jacket and aim at Humfrey – and fire, once, directly at his chest. Humfrey’s white shirt erupted into a mush of red and he staggered backwards, blood spurting from his wound, then slumped to the ground, the scimitar clattering on the stone as he fell. A woman screamed, piercingly, then shut up. Gun in hand, smoke curling from its muzzle, Mansour walked over to Humfrey and kicked him in the head. Humfrey’s body moved with the kick, a pool of blood widening underneath. Mansour returned to Qureshi, kicked him once more in the face, then held his fingers aloft and clicked them.
Immediately, four of Mansour’s goons swooped, two going to Humfrey’s prone figure, one at the head, one taking care of the legs, trailing a slick of blood as they dragged him out. Two others got Qureshi to his feet and then he, too, was gone.
Mansour said something in Arabic and then in English: ‘Mr Qureshi has been arrested.’ His tone was conversational, smooth. ‘Mr DeCrecy has been shot while resisting arrest.’
People started to drift away, avoiding the blood slick, most heading towards the kitchen. Joe’s heart was pumping, his mouth bone dry. Silently, he joined the exodus.
‘Mr Tiplady?’
Joe stopped, frozen, his back to Mansour.
‘Excuse me, Mr Tiplady. We haven’t had a proper opportunity to be introduced. My name is Mr Mansour.’
‘I’m just leaving,’ Joe said, not moving.
‘We need to talk, Mr Tiplady,’ said Mansour.
Joe didn’t move. Joe didn’t say a word. But he could feel the anger boiling inside him. If Mansour got much closer, he could jab an elbow in his face, knee him in the balls and go for the wrist of his gun hand, all at the same time. Mr Chong had taught him the move back in North Korea, and had him practise it so many times he was seriously good at it. But the rest of Mansour’s posse? The other seven or eight of them? They would kill Joe in no time.
‘Please don’t ignore me, Mr Tiplady.’ There was an oiliness to his voice that could grate on a man.
‘Why don’t we have a chat tomorrow?’ Joe suggested, still with his back to him. ‘I’ll come to your office.�
��
‘The protection of the state takes precedence over our traditional courtesy to guests, I’m afraid. Our work is more important than that. I suggest that you come with us now.’
Joe turned, a little, and then Mansour’s phone rang. Whoever was calling had clout. Joe could see the deference ooze out of him into the phone. His cockiness had somehow dissolved. And that’s when Joe started to run, run as fast as he ever had in his life, zig-zagging between the tables, curving around a palm tree and throwing himself through the kitchen entrance, where he was blocked by an unsmiling goon in a black suit holding a gun to his stomach. Joe backed out to see Mansour idling towards him.
Mansour slammed a balled fist into his stomach. Joe buckled, gasping, but made no attempt to fight back. Joe wanted to kill him, but if he tried, that would be the end of him.
‘Duty calls, Mr Tiplady, duty calls. You stay here in Damascus. When we have time, we shall be talking to you.’
‘Is that an order?’ Joe asked.
‘No. It’s a polite request from the Syrian Mukhabarat.’
His smooth falsity, his affectation of politeness, was the thing that did it. Joe wasn’t going to hit him, but he would be damned if he was going to play along with Mansour’s psychosis dressed up as courtesy.
‘You’ve murdered my friend. What are you really telling me? That I can’t leave Damascus? Or that you’re going to shoot me tomorrow, gun me down in cold blood as you did Humfrey? If you’re going to kill me, do that now.’
‘No,’ said Mansour. ‘You mistake me. You can leave Damascus whenever you wish. But . . .’
‘But what?’
‘You might not get very far. And these are dangerous times for Western travellers.’ Mansour smiled bleakly. ‘Goodnight. Go to your hotel. My men will escort you. We shall meet tomorrow. My advice: get a good night’s sleep.’
No chance of that.
NORTHERN ALBANIA
The old engineer, Ramiz, was extraordinarily frail, more skeleton than man, quite bald, in his late eighties or early nineties, sitting in a high-backed wooden chair with a blanket on his knees in front of a roaring log fire, his shrunken frame drinking in the heat. The house was high up on a bluff, twenty miles west of Tropojë, along a minor road that switchbacked through the mountains like a badly constructed amusement-park ride. It was late afternoon, the sky grey, overcast; summer on the plain by the coast, but up you here you could feel the threat of winter, hence the fire.
