The Gardener

by Tony Masero

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  The man who owns the place is a Greek called Fanoulis. At least he says he is a Greek. More accurately, a Berber-Jewish-Negro-Greek mix. A seedy international alliance, thinks McBraith, as he watches the swarthy creature warm up the radio. Some kind of fishing boat-owner-cum-chandler, dressed in a Berber cape. Grubby fez on his head and tasseled hood hanging down his back.

  “It is good,” Fanoulis crinkles his creases, smiles through broken teeth the color of honey. Though McBraith bets the breath is nowhere near so sweet. “We have one minute, maybe two.”

  It is a whitewashed building close to the beach. The smell of rotting fish present amongst a clutter of crates and nets. Halogen lamps collect insects in a swirling circumnavigation. Their harsh light shines through a wide window and highlights the incoming wavelets. It is warm in the room. Stuffy. Papers hang from the walls. Yellow and curled with age. Catch receipts, bills of lading. Calendars to excite the eye. If plump belly dancers are to your taste. McBraith feels the sweat trickling down inside the back of his nylon shirt.

  Anne is somewhere playing footsy with the Arab driver, and Caine leans against a cluttered desk picking at something lodged in his teeth with a match. Discretely. He is covering the action with a cupped hand. His eyes are fixed out of the window. Deceptively vague, he feigns languid disinterest.

  Fanoulis coughs up phlegm. Spits on the sandy floor. “We have,” he affirms.

  “Will you do the honors?” asks McBraith, with a nod at the set.

  Caine sashays forwards and picks up the handset. He begins a call sign in rapid Arabic. A small boy scurries into the office with a plastic tray bearing oily looking glasses of mint tea. Fanoulis lets him serve everybody, then ushers him out with a guttural bark. They have a contact. Caine turns to McBraith. “Wants to know who you are and who you wish to speak to.”

  “Tell them I want the boss man. And that I’m the one who owns the cargo they hold.”

  Caine repeats the information. “Apparently the chappie you want is called Habib Hamid. He’ll have a word, he says.”

  “Can we put this on a speaker?”

  Fanoulis obliges with the flip of a switch. “This is Habib Hamid.” The voice echoes loudly around the room against a backwash of static.

  “Mr. Hamid, I am Charles McBraith, the chief executive of Centurion Armaments.”

  “Yes, Mr. McBraith. You are a long way from home. How may I help you?” The voice is cultured. Excellent English.

  “You have something of mine, Mr. Hamid. And I’d really like it back.”

  “My apologies, Mr. McBraith. I’m afraid that’s not possible. We are, you see, people with a high mission. The armaments we have here will serve a better purpose in our hands than in those of an African warlord.”

  “My problem is now greater than just the supply to my client. It has been taken to a personal level. Omaluli Mtubu holds my son in ransom for the weapons. It is a life-threatening situation for the boy. We have already been supplied with one of Robert’s fingers as a warning. This is a most serious situation for us.”

  A pause. Momentary rise and fall of white sound. “I am most sorry to hear that, Mr. McBraith. A terrible thing indeed. But whilst children in my own land suffer far more distressing fates at the hands of the West, I’m afraid I see no other course of action than that in which I am now involved.”

  McBraith thinks. The others watch him closely. Engrossed in the live soap. Fanoulis hisses at Caine occasionally when he needs explanation of a word he does not understand.

  “Could we perhaps,” McBraith continues, “Come to some arrangement?”

  “I don’t see how, Mr. McBraith. But I am happy to discuss it with you.”

  McBraith looks at the hungry eyes around him. “May I come out to the ship so we can speak in confidence, face to face?”

  Silence. The swirl of crackling radio waves.

  “Very well, Mr. McBraith. You will come alone, though.”

  “As you wish.”

  McBraith nods at Fanoulis. Finished. Fanoulis breaks the contact. “Sort out a boat to take me out there will you, Caine?”

  Caine raises eyebrows theatrically. “Into the lion’s den, eh? Good Lord! It’s impressive stuff Mister M.”

  “Just cut the crap and get me a boat, will you?”

  McBraith goes outside whilst he waits for the boat to be readied. The Mercedes sits unattended. Pulled over at an angle by the side of the road. Anne and the driver, Hassan, are nowhere in sight. It does not take much for McBraith to imagine what they are up to off somewhere in the dark.

  McBraith rubs his brow. Sticky. Damp. Feels the exhaustion sit around him like a cloak. Nerves jangled.

  Stressed out. But close. So close now. And Anne? Well fuck Anne. She is old news.

  The boat is a small fishing vessel with a single steerage cabin, some antique net hoists and a lot of filth on its deck. McBraith is past caring. As long as it gets him where he is going he no longer cares. The finely cut crisp suit he started out from London with is now wrinkled, limp and stained. His thin soled, polished brogue shoes slip on the slime underfoot. He grasps the ships rail for support, it is encrusted with seagull droppings, but he hardly notices.

  There is an incoming tide and the little boat bounces and wallows head on into the waves. Spray settles in a fine mist over McBraith’s already destroyed Armani. He bites back the queasiness as they approach the monolithic sides of the Mungo Star. Lights shine high above them. Taunting the satellite watchers. Daring them. Calmer on the lee side of the ship. A slow turn. Broadside they butt the plates with a hollow ring of metal. McBraith grasps the rough ropes of the ladder. And is across in a single step. He hugs the ladder closely and climbs carefully up the wooden steps as the boat turns and chugs away back to shore.

  There are men everywhere. Hard faced men, heads wrapped in dark turbans. Rifles tucked into their hips. They watch McBraith silently as he climbs aboard and is taken to the deck housing.

  Habib stands waiting on the bridge surrounded by his team. Calmly, they watch McBraith approach. The two men eye each other speculatively. There is no need for introduction.

  McBraith spreads open hands. “You have your weapons, where’s my money?”

  Habib turns away slowly, swivels, and then sits in the command chair. He looks out into the blackness.

  “It is here, Mr. McBraith, have no fear. Not quite to hand. But it is here.”

  “It all went as arranged, did it not?”

  “Yes, indeed. I am very pleased. Do not worry. You have kept your end of the bargain and so shall I.”

  “I don’t have time, Habib. The authorities will be gathering. And I have a son to find.”

  Habib shakes his head. “That was unfortunate.”

  “You’re telling me. If I had known the black bastard would pull a stunt like that, this arrangement of ours would never have happened.”

  “Fortunes of war, Mr. McBraith. Fortunes of war. But you have done very nicely, have you not? Twice the payment. And one of them undeclared and completely tax free.”

  “I haven’t had that payment yet.”

  Habib sits up in the chair. Suddenly erect. “Isam, the tide seems high enough, does it not?”

  Isam moves to the window. Shrugs. I suppose so.

  “Tell the men to begin the unloading. Hikmat, relay word to the small boats that we are ready and let Usuf el Ani know it is time to bring the trucks to their rendezvous point.”

  Hikmat heads for the communications room at the run. Isam has already gone.

  McBraith moves over to the window. “I was wondering how you were going to do this. Move those loaded containers onto a deserted beach in the middle of nowhere without a crane in sight.”

  “We have the deck cranes,” Habib corrects him. “Flotation tanks are being prepared. The containers will be lowered over the side. The small fishing vessels will tow them toward the shore and nudge them in with the incoming tide. Powered dinghies will guide them the fi
nal few meters. Usuf al Ani of the Polinari has a fleet of prepared trucks waiting. The containers will be winched up from the shoreline and onto the truck beds and then...they will disappear into the desert.”

  “But the sand, surely they will be bogged down in the sand?”

  “No, we have laid interlocking metal roadways onto the beach to prevent such a thing. They will be winched straight off the flotation beds and onto the roadways. The weight is dispersed, it has been tested. As you have seen, the beach here is broad, reasonably level and firm without any subsidence. Remember the military bring heavy equipment ashore along these same roadways quite easily.”

  McBraith snorts derisively. “It will take days to accomplish.”

  “There is no rush. What can the Americans or the British do? They can attack us, certainly. Bomb us with their missiles and strafe us from helicopters. But what will it achieve? A major political incident involving both Morocco and Algeria! Already the western powers are nervous; such an action would provoke an even greater retaliation from the Arab States. Either way, we cannot lose. It would serve an equal purpose in our cause, so I would welcome any such attack. Let them come. The Besiff are ready!”

  McBraith could see the man was quite beyond recall. His only ambition now was to take his payment and get as far away as possible. Once he had the cash salted away, he could apply himself to Robert’s safety. With a bankroll like that behind him, he could hire an army to get the boy back.

  “We were talking of my payment, Habib.”

  Habib turns away from the darkness outside. Steeples his fingers. Smiles at McBraith. “I will tell you a story, my friend.”

  McBraith sighs inwardly. Will he never get to the point?

  “In the days of the American and British invasion of Iraq. You may remember that only a remarkably small amount of the country’s reserves were recovered from the vaults of Iraq’s Central Bank. Much had been removed and hidden within the country, of course. There were bricked-up houses discovered where boxes of gold bars were stacked, waiting for their owners to return. Looters caught at checkpoints and at airports. Millions of dollars were recovered, but still it was only a small proportion of what was believed to have been held.

  “Before the war, the UN could not control the Iraqi oil profits. Oil was pumped from Kirkuk to the Syrian port of Baniyas, sold to the Syrians at cut price rates and so avoided any economic sanctions. No mention of any of this was made to the International Monetary Fund. Western officials have estimated a concealed profit of seven billion dollars was made. It was more. Mr. McBraith, much, much more.

  “This is how it really was. Everything was taken away long before the Americans even set foot in the country. It was taken and stored in secret depots within the borders of sympathetic countries. Much of it ready for use in a call to arms. A call such as the Besiff have made. So here in the Saharan desert, is one such a place. And that is where your money is held. I have access to it and shall take you there at daylight as the first trucks leave the shore.” He smiles again. “You see, it is all prepared. You shall have all that is agreed, Mr. McBride.”

  “Thank you, Habib. I am relieved to hear it. I never doubted you for a moment, of course.”

  McBraith is given a cabin and manages to take a shower. He climbs exhausted into a vacant bunk. It is hard to sleep, though, with the ever-present whining of gears and the screech of heavy metal moving.

  McBraith finally manages a few hours of restless slumber to the background music of rattling chains.

  They are ashore at first light. Pallid dawn on a passive sea. Long ribbons of soft tide like ripples on a pond. The unloaded containers standing as black monoliths against the light. Gleaming with damp. Chains taught and dripping with seaweed run from great drums. Sand everywhere chewed in dark pathways by the trucks. An army of men scurrying about their tasks. It is a logistical miracle. McBraith is impressed.

  He wanders up the beach, away from the activity and sees Anne hurrying toward him. She is angry. Not looking her best. Perfect hair awry. White blouse hanging loose from her skirt. Smudged with dust. Hobbling in the ridges of the truck tracks. Limping. One shoe on and one off. She takes the other off and strides towards him barefoot.

  “Where have you been?” she hisses. “Leaving me here alone with those gross people all night. What do you think you’re up to? I haven’t had a minute’s sleep. Hardly eaten a thing. And had to listen to that fag bleating on about life in the gay fast lane for hours.”

  McBraith smiles thinly at her petty tirade. “I’m sure you managed to lie down somewhere for a while.” Cynical. Off-hand.

  She is frowning. “And just what is that supposed to mean?”

  “You and the Arab boy. Have a nice walk on the beach last night?”

  Disgust. “You’ve got to be kidding! He’s a sweet kid, that’s all. I was starving. He managed to find me a bite to eat, which is more than can be said for you.”

  “Right. Yeah.” McBraith looks her over with obvious disdain. What on earth did he see in her in the first place? A delicately beautiful object, nice to have on his arm in the city, but here, where it counts, not worth the rent money. “Break any nails?”

  “You bastard!” A dawning recognition. “This is it, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, Anne. This is it. When we get back to London, you can clear your desk. I think we’ve had our fun, and now it’s time to call it a day.”

  Her shoulders sag. She sighs. A bitter, long sigh. Abruptly. She turns on her heel and walks away from him. It is not quite the imposing gesture she envisages. Tangled hair and barefoot on a ruined beach.

  Habib calls. “We are ready, Mr. McBraith. Your friends can wait here until you return.”

  McBraith shouts after Anne. “Anne, tell Caine to wait here. I’ll be back soon as possible.”

  She strides on. Ignoring him. Back to the white building and its stink of dead fish.

  The convoy soon disperses. Within half an hour, they are off the road and into the outskirts of the Sahara. Flat open land. Dry, dun and lifeless. Trucks branch out in different directions across the desert. A Diaspora of dust. Each load of weapons en route to its individual hideaway.

  The sun is up and the first cut of its heat can be felt. McBraith is in a covered Jeep. Habib driving. Isam silent in the back. The Jeep bucks over the rough, trackless ground. Growling as Habib rips the gears. Making all conversation impossible under a shout. An hour passes. McBraith checks his watch. Bellows at Habib. “How far?” He points ahead into the empty vastness.

  Habib shakes his head. Holds a hand to his ear. Can’t hear. “How far?” Habib tugs the edges of his mouth down. Shrugs. Not far.

  The sun climbs higher. So does the heat.

  Another hour passes and finally, Habib jabs a finger at the windscreen. Far ahead, McBraith sees it. A tiny mound on the horizon. An outcrop of rock quivering in the heat haze.

  “We are here,” Habib shouts over the engine noise. About time, thinks McBraith.

  The heat haze is deceptive and it takes longer than McBraith calculated to arrive. He is thirsty and irritable by the time they finally draw up under the rocks. A semicircle of worn stone standing above a pebble strewn forecourt. The raw colors burning hotly under the sun. Strata’s of orange and brown sloping at an angle upwards out of the dry land.

  McBraith swallows water greedily from a flask. “Be careful with that, my friend.” Habib cautions. “There is never enough in the desert.”

  “Where is this cache hidden?”

  “Come. I will show you.”

  Out of the Jeep, McBraith feels the full strength of the sun. It is like a hammer blow on his unprotected head. He winces against the bright light. Habib leads them to an overhang where a low cavern entrance awaits. They duck and enter. It is a relief to escape the sun’s rays. By reflected light from outside, McBraith can see the cavern widen out ahead. The walls around him bear gouged evidence of cutting tools. A great metal door is set into the stone.

  Habib fusses
with locks, turns the dial of a combination. He calls Isam forward and, together they pull the heavy door open. It is thick reinforced steel; heavy locking bars span the rear side. Inside, concrete walls. The stale smell of dead air. And centrally a stack of steel boxes, their reinforced corners a dull gleam in the gloom.

  Habib ushers him in. “Open them, Mr. McBraith. It is for you.”

  McBraith falls to his knees. Opens a box at random. Inside, tucked neatly in a bed of foam, bars of shining gold. He smiles, turns to the others. “This should do it.”

  Habib steps forward. “Come. We will help carry them to the Jeep. Isam is strong he will carry two. You and I, perhaps only one at a time.”

  It is slow work. The boxes are heavy. And the heat intense. Even though Habib reverses the Jeep back snugly to the cavern entrance, it seems to McBraith as if the short trip grows by the hour. When the job is done, McBraith slumps down against the cliff face. Drains a water flask.

  “You are not used to manual labor, Mr. McBraith.” Habib observes.

  McBraith raises an arm to shade his eyes, looks back at Habib and grins through his tiredness. “And now, with all this,” he waves at the loaded Jeep, “I don’t expect to ever get used to it again.”

  “That is a certainty,” agrees Habib. He opens the driver’s door. McBraith rises creakily to his feet. Steps forward. Habib holds up a restraining hand.

  “What now?” asks McBraith.

  “Don’t get up, Mr. McBraith. You will be staying.”

  “Staying?” McBraith looks around, bemused. Isam stands to one side, pistol held casually leveled, his face expressionless. “You’re not leaving me here!” snarls McBraith.

  “We have met our end of the bargain. You have your money. No mention was made of transport. No agreement was made that you might keep that money.” Habib is glib. A cynical smile playing on his lips. “Did you really think you could be so clever with me, Mr. McBraith? To double deal an African, then sell me his seconds? What a foolish man you are.”