Felaheen a-3

by Jon Courtenay Grimwood

  "No," said Hani. "So Kashif Pasha can have us killed. Although he'll try to blame it on terrorists or my uncle Ashraf . . ." She shrugged away the thought. "You do have a cell phone?" Hani said, pointing to Micki's handbag.

  The American woman nodded.

  "Good." Hani upended the bag and began to sort through tissues, tampons, a shop load of loose makeup and what Hamzah would called a boasting book, a plastic wallet full of family photographs. The cell phone was near the bottom, switched off.

  "What's your code?" asked Hani.

  Micki gave her a six-digit number.

  "Don't tell me," said Hani, "that's your date of birth . . ." She sighed at Micki's embarrassed nod. "Think about changing it," Hani suggested, fingers flicking through menus. When she reached the option she wanted, Hani punched in a number, remembering to make allowances for international dialling.

  Then she took a deep breath.

  "This is the truth," Hani said. "I promise you . . . I'm not an orphan," she stopped dead. "Well actually I am," she said, "but I'm not running away from an orphanage. And we're not engaged. But someone is trying to kill me. Well," Hani thought about that one too. "I guess they're really trying to kill Murad."

  "It was a lie about the marriage too?" Micki seemed to be one twist behind Hani, understandable really . . . Most of the adults Hani had met hadn't been too bright.

  "No one is forcing us to get married," Hani said.

  "So you're not going to marry your cousin?"

  Hani smiled. "That wasn't what I said at all."

  "Micki." The voice came from Carl Senior and, by the sound of things, he was either yelling from outside or standing in the doorway. "They got guns," he said. "And they want everyone out because they intend to search the coach."

  "God give me strength," said Micki loud enough to be heard. "Tell them I'm coming." She banged her hip against the door and slammed a tiny drawer. "Just as soon as I get this damn skirt on."

  "Take this," Hani said, shovelling everything back into Micki's bag. "As soon as you get across the border turn on the cell phone and it'll remind you that you need to make a call."

  "I do?"

  "Yes," said Hani, "definitely. Call the number that appears and demand to speak to Effendi."

  "What if Mr. Effendi doesn't want to speak to me?"

  "He will," promised Hani, wondering if the American realized she'd just agreed to make the call. "And if he doesn't, tell whoever answers that Hani says, If Effendi doesn't come to the phone she'll stop letting him play with her money. . . He keeps investing it in his own companies," Hani added, as if that explained everything.

  The words were Hamzah Effendi's guarantee that the message was real. What he did would have nothing to do with money. It would be done for Raf. A debt repaid.

  "What do I tell him?" Micki asked anxiously. "When Effendi does come to the phone?"

  "Tell him that Murad and Hani have been murdered by Kashif Pasha . . . Tell him to tell everyone he knows." Catching the American woman's appalled expression, Hani held up one hand as the first tears started to trickle down Micki's face, cutting tracks in her heavy makeup.

  "It might not happen," Hani said.

  CHAPTER 47

  Monday 14th March

  The call from the minaret came harsh as a crow. Only there was no minaret and when Raf kicked at a shadow it squawked into life and sliced the night in a spread of serrated black blades.

  "Very pretty," said Felix, nodding at Raf's shackles. So Raf swung them at him and missed, earning himself a smile. A real fat man grin.

  "Ignore him," the fox said. "He's just like all the others."

  Tiri was talking about the ghosts who walked out of the salt wilderness towards Raf, their carcasses destroyed, their faces twisted in the final moments of death or smoothed free of all memory.

  "I know," said Raf and forced one foot in front of the other, extracting another step from his shaking body. They were dead and so was he. At least that was what it felt like. This razor state between existences, flash-filled with waterfalls of exaltation that appeared one minute to run down his spine, then vanished the next, leaving him spent as an hourglass.

  Behind Raf stretched footprints speckled with blood from where he'd slashed his feet on rose petals. Rose de sable, crystallized gypsum. He'd come across a field of the things, stone flowers sharp as knife blades, and had walked through, being too tired to walk around.

  Raf thought they grew there naturally. But the fox insisted they'd been dumped as second-grade goods, unsuitable even for tourists like him. It claimed to have been there when the dumping was done.

  "I'm not a tourist," said Raf, but the fox had to disagree, informing Raf that he was a tourist in his own life. A hit-and-run recidivist who fixed himself on occasional moments of clarity. Their argument lasted so long that Raf forgot to feel pain and when he next looked around, he'd walked two, maybe three miles without ever seeing anyone he'd killed.

  Felix came round twice and looked happier the next time he appeared, face shredded and egg yolk running from one eye but definitely more smiley. "You're fragmenting," he told Raf.

  "You can talk." The retort just came and Raf was still wondering how to apologize for his tactlessness when the fat man gave a shrug like he agreed and blew apart in the night wind. Without shades, minus clothes, his hands chained. And now rudeness. The fox was right. Raf was excelling himself.

  Sharp edges cut his ankles every time Raf's feet broke through salt to hit one of the many puddles of brine beneath. Smears of what looked like rust threaded the chott's drying surface, marbling its saline whiteness. Blood on snow, his mother's favourite shot. Only the saline sting to tell Raf that what he walked on wasn't ice or snow.

  Somewhere up ahead should be a road. A strip of tarmac floating on treated polystyrene blocks, linked together and slung across the chott, Raf seemed to remember that was how it went. Polystyrene blocks so the weight of the road didn't sink it into the chott's soft surface.

  Raf couldn't have used the road even if it had been heading north towards Camp Moncef rather than west towards Tozeur. But Raf needed to cross it and until he did, he was, by definition, more than half a day away from killing Kashif Pasha.

  "You know what?" said a voice.

  Raf didn't.

  "You look shit." The drawl was skin-crawlingly familiar, the lips from which it issued tinted with a shade of Shu Uemura too deep to class as ironic. A turned-up collar framed a face sharp enough to break hearts. "Life not treating you too well?"

  "I'm fine," snapped Raf.

  "Of course you are," said Wild Boy. "Anyone can see that." He touched pale fingers to his brow in a mocking salute, swept dark hair back from his eyes and vanished.

  "I don't remember killing Wild Boy," Raf muttered.

  "You don't remember much at all, do you?" said the fox. "And what you do remember changes each day. I've never met anyone like it for avoiding the obvious." The animal paused, took a look through Raf's eyes at the night wilderness of the chott and sighed. "What do you think happened to him after you went missing?"

  "He came looking for me?"

  "And did he find you?" asked the fox.

  Raf shook his head.

  "Did anyone?"

  There wasn't an answer to that. At least not one that made real sense. Although maybe that wasn't surprising given his mind was full of ghosts and memories and things that might have happened but probably didn't or were about to happen, but only . . .

  "Only what?" the fox demanded.

  But Raf was already asleep. When he woke the walls had changed colour again. His bed was the same but the windows were different, wood not rusting metal. The oak outside was bare where it had been green. Only the firs on the far slopes looked the same. Like lazy smoke frozen in the act of rolling uphill.

  "You can sleep again now," someone said.

  He'd had days like that at Roslyn. Dozens of them. And before Roslyn, days in a white room with flowered curtains across the window
. Steel bars painted in childish reds and greens and blues because some expert decided bright colours made window bars look less intentional. As if the security measures had been put up by accident and no one could be bothered to take them down again.

  For maybe a year Raf had believed the bars were there to keep him in. Only towards the end did he realize they existed to keep others out. Evil people, one nurse told him. Misguided protestors. She was Swiss, much younger than he realized and she vanished the morning after he took a bar of chocolate from her. Neither had realized they planned to do double blood tests that day.

  One morning, shortly after that, Raf woke feeling stiff and cold with an ache in his ribs and new scars on his wrists. And his mother was sitting in a chair in the far corner of his room. She was crying, which wasn't unusual and carrying primroses, which was . . .

  "You look older." He said it without thinking.

  When she'd finished drying her eyes she came over and stood by his bed, her fingers reaching out to touch his face. "You don't," she said. The coat she wore was new and her shoes were different, shiny at the toes and unscuffed on the heels. She'd also changed the colour of her hair.

  As always, Raf forgot how angry he was about everything and agreed to come home. Although it was difficult to remember where home was at that point. Not New York for the second time, that came later.

  He'd been . . . Raf found it impossible to remember how old. Somehow birthdays and candles and parties with presents had always seemed to pass him by.

  "That's what this is about?" said the fox. "Massive sulks that Mummy never gave you a proper birthday party?" The voice was sardonic, darker than Raf remembered it having been for years. "You're going to die in the wilderness because no one let you blow candles?"

  "I'm not going to die," said Raf.

  CHAPTER 48

  Tuesday 15th March

  "Count them," said the fox. So Raf did. A handful of mubahith, teenage girls in khaki jumpsuits, jellaba-clad orderlies and two visiting Berber elders wrapped respectively in lengths of blue and black. Awaiting a day that threatened to be as impossibly hot as the day before.

  Eleven in all.

  And then there was Raf watching from the chott, flayed by UV that already filtered through scummy cloud to tighten his skin.

  Sweat shivering down his spine in anticipation.

  He stank of shit and piss and blood, the smell assailing him every time he halted long enough for his own body heat to reach his nostrils. Evidence of his own humanity.

  St. John the Baptist. Minus the loincloth.

  Now that a road existed between Kibili and El Hamma du Jerid, carefully skirting the edge of the wilderness before slanting off from the chott's edge to cross at the narrowest point, few people except 'packers and Soviet tourists in fat-tyred UAZ four-by-fours tried to cross the salt lake any other way.

  The camel trains were gone, along with the slave markets and spice routes. And while it was true that an annual Sand Yacht Championship was held on the chott, this was only ever attended by Soviets and, in any case, was not due for another three months.

  So the khaki-clad teenager sweating out her early shift on the southern perimeter of Camp Moncef watched the arrival of a naked apparition with disbelief. At first she assumed the tiny speck was an animal either lost or abandoned. Dogs escaped from cars, half-dead donkeys were cast loose when the amount they could carry stopped being worth what they cost in feed.

  Not yet worried enough to find herself a pair of binoculars, Corporal Habib kept an eye on the approaching animal. But sometime between tucking a cigarette inside her hand because one of Kashif Pasha's men had suddenly roared up in his open Jeep and saluting the departing sergeant without getting caught, the speck vanished.

  "Shit."

  Corporal Habib blinked into the chott's acid glare, ground the butt of her cigarette underfoot and reached into her pocket for a pair of shades; circumstances demanded it even if wearing them on duty was almost as bad as smoking, being the preserve of officers.

  Her shades cut down haze and cancelled out most refraction but the figure was still gone, leaving only early-morning shimmer and diminishing slivers of what had to be surface water left over from the winter rains.

  Fifteen minutes later, Corporal Habib was still squinting into the distance when the emptiness beside her suddenly took her feet from under her and followed the corporal down, slamming itself into her rib cage. Bone splintered, on the wrong side; Corporal Habib's heart kept pounding and by the time she realized her aorta wasn't pierced and both lungs still drew breath the emptiness sat back on its heels, waiting, with the corporal's own machine gun to her throat.

  Only the camouflage of her jumpsuit had kept Corporal Habib alive. Had her uniform been bottle green, the colour of Kashif's own guard, or the black of the mubahith, she would have been dead. Something that might still happen to judge from the blue eyes that stared down at her, pale as cracked ice.

  "Single shot," said a crow's voice, raw and bitter. "All you'll get at this distance is a gas star and no chance to cry for help. You ever seen a gas star?"

  The corporal nodded. A gas star happened when muzzle flash entered flesh, from guns almost touching you got burn rings, and then powder tattoos: part of the corporal was certain gas stars only occurred on upper limbs or torso but she kept that to herself. Something about the apparition staring down at her suggested he might have a more intimate knowledge of the phenomenon.

  "You want my clothes?" The corporal's strangled question did exactly what she meant it to, told the apparition she wasn't about to put up a fight.

  "Water," Raf demanded. Watching as the corporal silently unclipped her flask and held it out. She did a very impressive job of not looking at his nakedness or chains.

  He drank.

  "And those," said Raf, "I want these, too." Lifting the shades off her nose, he nodded to the two spare magazines on her belt. "And those." The weapon he held in shaking fingers was an old-model MP5i 9mm Heckler & Koch, the one issued with a thirty-round mag.

  "Now get up."

  Corporal Habib did what she was told.

  Conditioning, Raf told himself, worked every time. He should know.

  "Is Kashif Pasha here?"

  The corporal nodded, only to freeze when she saw Raf's scowl. Very slowly, probably unconsciously, she began to shake her head, as if that might change the answer.

  "And the Emir?"

  A frightened nod. And with it a look that suggested she wanted to say more but wasn't sure whether to risk it.

  "What?" Raf demanded.

  "He's dying. So if you've come to kill him, there's no point."

  "I haven't," said Raf. "I wouldn't . . . One last question. What's that over there?"

  Corporal Habib never saw the blow that dropped her into a heap. Or realized, until long afterwards, that when Raf went through her ammo pouch he took only her bar of chocolate. Everything else he left . . .

  "Fuck, no."

  Not that.

  Jammed into a pocket on the passenger side of an open-top Jeep, Raf found a copy of the previous evening's La Presse, final edition.

  He found it shortly after swinging his shackles into the face of the NCO driving, wrapping them around the man's fat throat, bringing his screams to an abrupt halt. The NCO was still alive but his jaw hung crooked, his moustache was thick with blood and his face sported bruises which would last for a month. His arm was also broken. But some of that was self-inflicted. The NCO had run his Jeep straight into a rock.

  Having read the headlines Raf wished he'd just killed him.

  "You're crying," said the fox.

  "Of course I'm fucking crying." Talking to the fox avoided thinking and thought was the last thing Raf wanted. He wanted emptiness. The dislocation of mind from body and body from action; not so much cognitive as psychic dissonance, blood music. The sound of glass spheres as they ground against each other.

  Behind reality emptiness. Behind emptiness . . .

&nbs
p; This.

  "You want me to take it from here?" asked the fox. If Raf hadn't known otherwise, he'd have said Tiri was worried. Smart move. Raf watched himself watching the fox, standing naked on a dirt track below Jebel Morra, scanning a headline he already knew.

  Kashif Pasha accused of killing half brother and cousin.

  A photograph of Murad showed him staring into the lens with childish seriousness. The picture of Hani was an old papp shot, grabbed outside Le Trianon. A fact made obvious by a section of café canopy and writing on the ice-cream glass on the table in front of her. Lady Hana al-Mansur.

  All the picture did for Raf was reinforce how fast Hani had changed in those last few months. In the picture she looked as he still thought of her. Would always think of her. Small and thin, with a wry smile and more imagination than was good for any child.

  Rolling the NCO over with his foot, Raf bent to take his pistol and found it attached by lanyard to a leather holster, along with three spare magazines.

  "You plan to do this for yourself, don't you?" said the fox.

  Raf nodded.

  Unbuckling the sergeant's broad belt, Raf ripped it through a handful of trouser loops to free the holster. And once he'd got the belt off, Raf decided to keep it anyway. His only problem being that, even on its tightest setting, the belt threatened to slide over his hips, so he slung it across his right shoulder instead. An action made difficult by the fact his hands were still linked by their length of rusting shackle.

  One H&K with 3¥30 rounds. One Browning, plus a total of four magazines. That made . . . Raf ran his eye down the edge of a black metal clip, counting rounds, two at a time. Twelve to each, made forty-eight, add ninety from the submachine gun . . . How many guards could Kashif Pasha have?

  There was only one track into Moncef's latest camp and at its entrance stood a temporary barrier; one of those striped aluminium poles, counterbalanced by a square weight at the pivot end. A single soldier stood guard, shaded by an open-fronted hut.