by Finn Óg
“Is all?”
“Nothing else.” Sam held his hands up a little.
“Come with me.”
The two men strolled out into the ferocious white sun. Waleed kept his head lowered and strode towards the perimeter of the compound. At the gate he nodded to the sentry to open the huge steel-shuttered doors and then led Sam round a corner. One glance confirmed to Waleed he was in a blind spot from the cameras and to all intents and purposes the men were in open desert.
“Are you believe-ed in God, Meester Sam?” he asked.
That wasn’t really a question Sam was expecting. “Probably not the same way you do,” said Sam, “but, yes, I have a faith. It’s not … conventional though.”
“You are Christian, yes? Catholic? Ireland is Catholic?”
“No, well, yes, Ireland is a Catholic country, but I’m not a Catholic. I’m not really a Protestant either. My wife, she was a Catholic. My daughter, she’s a Catholic. I was brought up Protestant, I suppose, but I’d say I’m a bit more ecumenical than that.”
“Ecumenical,” said Waleed slowly, as if working out what it tasted like.
“Look, Waleed, I’m on shaky ground here. I believe in God, yes, but not in everything the Bible says – which I know makes me someone who thinks he can pick and choose, but there are bits I have problems with.”
“What problems you have?”
“Well, some people use the Old Testament to justify the death penalty. I have no problem with knocking the odd person off when it is justified, but that doesn’t mean I think the state should be strapping people into electric chairs and frying them or hanging them.”
Waleed nodded.
“And I don’t think God is going to punish gay people. But that’s just me.”
“Your wife, she is dead?”
Waleed was nothing if not disarming.
“How do you know that?”
“You say was, not is.”
“Fuck, Waleed, you haven’t got a tense correct since I met you and that’s what you pick up on?”
“Tense?”
Sam looked at him in wonder for a moment then gave up.
“Yes, she died.”
“How she is dead?”
“She was murdered.”
“And you do not believe killer should hang?”
“He did worse than hang, Waleed. I imagine he died roaring but that was not the job of my government to do that.”
“You did this?”
Sam just looked at him.
“What’s this all about? Are you trying to convert me?”
“Convert?”
“To Islam?”
Waleed chuckled.
“This is problem, Meester Sam. I am not Muslim. I am Christian. Like you.”
“Right,” said Sam, yet still none of this was making sense.
“Fat cop inside interrogation suite,” he nodded to the compound wall, “he knows secret.”
“So it is a secret?”
“Yes, is secret! Christians, they not pier-mitted to be intelligence in Egypt. They not allowed to be in position like this.”
“I see. So how does he know? Did you tell him?”
“He is knowing me long time. When I arrest him out here I find out what he is doing in Sinai. I press him too hard. He is thinking, why my friend has turn-ed on me. Then he is thinking to time in academy. Then he is thinking why I never go to mosque or pray.”
“So he guessed?”
“Yes. For years is secret – no problem. Then most stupid man in whole of Egypt, he guess. Then – is problem.”
“Fuck.”
“Yes. Fuck.”
“At least you’re not gay. I hear the government here really doesn’t like gay people.”
Waleed just stared at Sam, not appreciating his attempt at levity, and Sam began to wonder if he was gay.
“So I have problem,” Waleed repeated after a moment.
“What would happen if your bosses found out you’re a Christian?”
“Discipline. Jail, maybe. Not in job, for sure.”
“So what are you going to do?”
“I help keep-ed you out of jail. Pier-haps you hel-ep me keep out of jail. You hel-ep me with big cop, maybe.”
And suddenly for Sam things became a little clearer.
The Libyan intelligence analyst waited nervously for his boss, a tall, thin man in traditional garb, to finish reading his summary.
“What is at these coordinates in the desert?”
“I do not know, sir.”
“What do the satellite images show?”
“Nothing, sir. Just a kind of rock formation.”
“Is there any water there – any oasis?”
“Not that I can see.”
The analyst pondered. Perhaps the Egyptian military chief had simply been testing his phone or its GPS. Perhaps the coordinates had been random, but that seemed unlikely. Random numbers could land anywhere in the world and these had plotted the country next door.
“I cannot take this upstairs. There is not enough information. Ask the Americans for more. Ask the British too.”
Sam and Waleed sat back down inside the compound. Sam had thought through his next moves on their return walk.
“I assume you can monitor phone signals?”
“Of course,” said Waleed.
“Well, if we want to find this Libyan people trafficker, we would do well to track calls made by the big cop’s boss with the funny shoes. If he has struck up an arrangement with the trafficker, that could be a quick way of finding him.”
Waleed nodded.
The doctor seized the phone greedily from the guard.
“Five minutes, this is all. More time, more euros. Understand?”
“Yes,” said the doctor. He dialled his cousin’s number from memory.
The analyst opened the new file from the Americans. There was no need to summarise the contents – it was brief:
Egyptian military chief has requested monitoring of phone of mid-ranking police officer in Alexandria, Egypt. Police officer has received a call from an unregistered phone located at a refugee detention centre in Libya.
The analyst copied, pasted and hit send.
Waleed sat up with excitement.
“He’s had call.”
“The cop with the tassels? That was quick,” Sam said.
Waleed read from his phone. “It’s from a refugee detention centre in Tobruk, Libya.”
“I’m familiar with Tobruk,” Sam said.
“Really?” said Waleed.
“Long story,” Sam replied.
“Well, you have plenty of time. Is fifteen-hour drive from here.”
“I don’t have much time, actually,” Sam faltered.
“Why?” Waleed was suddenly suspicious.
“I need to be back in Ireland by the end of the week,” he said, thinking about Isla’s return.
“Then we better leaving now.”
The doctor pressed the red button – it was nearly as red as his face. He’d never been so angry. Never.
His cousin had actually laughed aloud. Not just a chuckle, but a belly laugh that went on and on.
“What can you do for me?” he’d asked when the guffaw had subsided.
“Do for you?” Tassels had asked. “I’ll say a prayer, how’s that?”
“Will you not help me?” asked the doctor.
“Help you!” laughed Tassels.
“Remember, cousin, I’ve information about what you’ve done – your corruption, your beatings and torture.”
“The information you have is nothing compared to the information I have! This is the best news I’ve heard in months. You are in a refugee system that will keep you in Libya for years. Help you? Ha. I will give you advice, though, be careful in the showers – if there are any showers!”
Tassels had laughed and laughed until the doctor cut the call.
“You think-ed you would complete jobs in one week?” asked Waleed, sceptical.
It was three hours into the journey and the first time Waleed had spoken. Sam was driving and Big Suit was trussed up in the back.
“Well, I got half of it done in two days.”
The ship, thought Waleed, who pouted his lips. I suppose you did. “Is possible to go Alexandria first,” said Waleed, musing. “Deal with big fool’s boss, then with traffick man.”
Big Suit remained oblivious to their conversation. Even if it had been conducted in Arabic, his ability to follow it might have had its limitations.
“I’ve been thinking about that,” said Sam, “but, ideally, I was thinking you might like to leave your friend in another country.”
Waleed’s eyes made the slightest move towards Big Suit before a small smile cracked across his face. “Yes, I think yes.”
“So provided we don’t get stopped or detained or held up, let’s just keep going for Tobruk.”
“We will not be stopped,” said Waleed smiling. “This is my authority. I cannot be stopped in my own desert in my own country.”
“Libya could be a different story,” Sam said, half questioning his new colleague.
“I am thinking about Libya,” said Waleed. “There is way I can contact person same as me in Libya. We can pier-haps make way clear to Tobruk, but highway is dangerous for every pier-son on road. Libya is very, very dangerous.”
“So we deal with the bent copper later?”
“What is this?”
“The cop in Alexandria – we will do that after?”
“Yes, you leave to me. I will arrange-ed that.”
Waleed smiled his crooked smile again and they barrelled west.
The Libyan analyst referred the encrypted file to his boss. His boss read the contents with wide eyes before lifting the phone to his own superior.
“One of our allies wants to know what is at the location of the coordinates.”
There was silence while the boss listened to his orders and then relayed them to the analyst.
“Get one of the long-range units to take a look. Tell them to hurry up.”
Twenty Three
The road was relentless but at least the car was nice, a relatively modern saloon with air conditioning. Big Suit was crumpled sideways in the back. How his position was conducive to sleep was a mystery but his snoring endured for hours. Waleed and Sam found themselves talking as people on a long haul often do when there’s nothing else to distract. Some of Sam’s deepest discussions had taken place like this – on the rail of a racing boat while crossing a sea or ocean, or in the bunk of a troop carrier on the way to or from an operation. Perhaps it was to do with the lack of eye contact.
Waleed had talked a little about his family and its dispersal from a town not far from Alexandria.
“We were one of the last,” he mused. “Last Copt families in my area. Coptic Christians.”
“Were there many? Copts, like, before?”
“Yes, very many. Christians are oldest in Alexandria. Coptic – it is meaning Egypt. Egyptian Christians.”
“So what changed?”
“Many years, we are left alone. Even under Mubarak – he is not for religion, not really. Later things change-ed. Churches with bombing and attack at homes.”
“Were you affected?”
“When I was in army. Far away from my family.”
“What happened?”
“Joining army was accident really. I mean to be a police. I not telling any pier-son at academy I am Christian. I pretend I am Muslim, but I do not pray and I do not go to mosque. Under Mubarak is acceptable. Nobody care very strong.”
“Why did you cover it up, though, if joining the army was just an accident?”
“Is making life easy. This is only reason.”
Sam could understand that. He’d always been an outsider in the British military where most claimed to find him barely comprehensible. So to make the going smoother he’d adopted an accent just for being in England and only reverted back when at home. It was purely functional even if it felt like a tiny betrayal, but when you’re in your late teens and early twenties small things make a big difference and standing out from the crowd isn’t always the best way to get along. Sam learned early that sticking in the middle of the pack made falls shorter and rises quicker. He’d stood out at Lympstone nonetheless, for being quieter than most, for being capable and for having reserves in his character that eventually drew him into even bigger things.
“So how did you go from the police to the military?”
“I never join-ed police,” said Waleed. “At end of academy, military approach-ed me and say we wish for you to come with us. Then they train me again.”
“In intelligence?”
“Later intelligence. First they train-ed me in military. Unit is name-ed 777. Is antiterrorist unit.”
Sam had heard of it. “Special forces.”
“Yes.”
The pair remained quiet for a few miles before Waleed broke the silence. “You also?”
Sam knew what he meant. “Me also.”
“Special sailor?”
“Special Boat Service,” Sam said.
“Ah-hah!” said Waleed, suddenly remembering the name.
“Briefly,” Sam clarified. “Quite brief, really.”
“Why?”
Sam found himself opening up a little about Shannon and how they’d collided in Gaza. He didn’t elaborate on anything operational, just that he’d been on a job. Sam made a vague allusion to getting into trouble as a result of something he’d done for her and then deflected attention back onto Waleed.
“You said your family had been affected by the persecution of Copts?”
Waleed hadn’t married, in part because he hadn’t known how to unravel his lie about his religious background. He explained how difficult it would be to become part of a wider Muslim family given that he had no point of reference. Sam could identify with that and his less than basic knowledge of the sacraments in the Catholic Church, and how awkward he’d felt going through the motions with Shannon despite their religions having the same origin. He had no idea how Christians and Muslims could find a way to unite in matrimony in an increasingly tricky environment like Egypt.
“Did you never meet a Christian girl?”
“If I meet Christian, I cannot marry and stay in job unless she become Muslim, which is crazy as I not even Muslim!” He laughed at the ridiculousness of what he might have to ask a future partner to do.
Sam warmed to Waleed enormously.
And then from the laughter came a sad note.
“There was a woman back home,” he said, “but we lose-ed contact.”
“Deliberately?”
“How you mean?”
“Did you lose contact on purpose?”
“She is asking me, do not join-ed police. Is dangerous.”
“She was right.”
“But I think, how can change Egypt if good people not joining police? So much corrupt in Egypt. Is no good.”
“What happened to her?”
“I try to find her, one year.”
“One year?”
“Yes, one year pass-ed.”
“One year ago?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I think, maybe is no use. Sinai is lost. Maybe she is right. We cannot defeat jihadist. They will come and come and from everywhere – Iraq and Syria. This is where they will settle.”
“You think they’re going to win?”
“One year pass-ed I think maybe. Now, not certain.”
“Did you find her?”
Waleed fell into an awkward silence. “I think, yes,” he conceded after a period. “Some of her family killed in bomb at church. Suicide bomb.”
“But she was ok?”
“Yes, I think. Police did good job that day.” He shook his head in wonder. “They stop-ed suicide bomber outside church.”
“Yet some people were killed.”
“Yes, many,” Waleed said.
“So what became of her?”
“I believe she leave Egypt.”
Sam had a sinking feeling as to where this was going. “I think I can guess how,” he said.
“She cross-ed to Libya,” Waleed said. “I believe she take boat to Europe.”
“Did she make it?”
“Nobody know.”
Sam found himself trying to give Waleed hope. He described his night with Isla and how they’d rescued the women in the water. Waleed listened with a solemn resignation and appeared to take no solace in the story.
“Tell me about your daughter,” he said instead.
Against his better judgement Sam found himself talking about Isla and what they’d been through. He confessed that she was the reason he had to get back to Ireland quickly.
“One day, for me, pier-haps, children. I would like very much,” Waleed said dreamily.
“I reckon you’d be a great dad,” Sam said, and he meant it.
“I hope,” said Waleed.
The long-range team set out from Benghazi twenty minutes after the order had been issued. The estimated journey time was fifteen hours. The terrain looked lumpy, the destination nondescript.
The eight men couldn’t understand the point of the exercise. Their vehicles were aged, the fuel they were burning would be costly and they stood every chance of blowing out more tyres and wheels than they could replace. Besides, such journeys were brutally uncomfortable.
There was nothing else for it, though, but to lie as flat as possible in the big wheeler and try to rest until it was their turn to drive. The lower a man managed to get onto the bed of the vehicle, the less the strain on the neck from the judder and spring of rubber on rock.
Something was going on.
The analyst hadn’t seen as much interest from friendly intelligence agencies since Gaddafi had been killed. Every hour there was an update request. The analyst had decided against making his boss aware of every demand – it only brought wrath upon the messenger. He opted instead to answer himself with polite courtesy: the team is on its way. We shall advise as soon as we know anything further.
