The Hidden Oasis

by Paul Sussman

  In the next-door room Girgis watched through the one-way mirror, nodding in satisfaction. Not at the rape itself – he didn’t care for such things; didn’t particularly care for sex full stop – but rather at the deal that had preceded it. Everyone knew that if you did business with Romani Girgis he’d look after you, put on a good show, and that in turn meant business always went smoothly. As it had this evening. Almost too smoothly, if anything. Knowing the sort of entertainment that was being laid on for them, the North Koreans hadn’t been able sign the contracts quick enough: fifty FIM-92 Stinger surface-to-air missiles, at $205,000 each, with Girgis taking a twenty per cent commission on the sale as middleman. He smiled, thinking maybe he ought to give the girl a cut, reward her for her exertions. But then the girl would most likely be dead by the end of the night, her body dumped in the Nile or somewhere out over the desert, so he might as well keep all the money himself. The thought made him smile even more.

  He watched on for a while as the rape became increasingly frenzied and bestial. Then, glancing at his watch, he turned away and left the room, walking across the marble-floored hallway and up the grand staircase towards his study on the top floor. There’d be more shows after this one – young boys with an older woman, three girls together, a girl and a dog – after which his guests would be shown to private bedrooms, supplied with hookers, drugs, porn, whatever they wanted, the entertainment continuing well into the early hours. His people would see to it all. He had other business to attend to. More important business. Even more important than twenty per cent commission on $10.25 million.

  At the top of the staircase he stooped to flick a crumb off the carpet – bloody cleaners, no attention to detail – before walking down a corridor and unlocking a door at the far end. He stepped into a large, wood-panelled study. A bank of closed-circuit television screens was arranged along one wall, each tuned in to a different room within the house. Crossing to his desk he sat down and, glancing at his watch again, lifted the phone, jabbing the loudspeaker button and placing the receiver on the desktop.

  ‘Everyone there?’

  Murmurs of assent as those at the other end of the line confirmed they were indeed present and ready to begin the conference call: Boutros Salah, his right-hand man; Ahmed Usman, his antiquities expert; Mohammed Kasri, his lawyer and link-man with the police and security services. The inner circle, his closest confidants.

  ‘OK, let’s get started,’ said Girgis. ‘Boutros?’

  There was a cough as Salah cleared his throat.

  ‘It’s definitely the co-pilot,’ came his voice, hoarse and wheezy – the voice of a heavy smoker. ‘We’ve checked the details from the wallet and they tally. Looks like he was trying to walk his way out of the desert.’

  ‘And he was coming from the oasis?’ asked Girgis. ‘We’re certain of that?’

  ‘Oh, no question about it,’ came another voice, this one hesitant, slightly bumbling: Ahmed Usman. ‘Really no question at all. We knew that’s where the plane came down from the final radio message, of course, but the artefact confirms it beyond any doubt. A votive obelisk with the sedjet sign, found that close to the Gilf – it could only be Zerzura. Absolutely no question.’

  Girgis nodded, clasping his hands on the desk in front of him.

  ‘What about the camera film?’

  Another cough as Salah again cleared his throat.

  ‘The map should be all we need,’ he wheezed. ‘The twins are out looking for the co-pilot’s body now. They got a good description from the Bedouin leader and the camel tracks are still visible so it shouldn’t be that hard to trace. Once they’ve found it they just reverse the compass bearings on the map and follow them back to the Gilf. In theory they should lead us straight to the plane.’

  ‘Theory?’

  ‘Well the guy must have been in a pretty bad state by the end, so it’s possible he didn’t get the bearings exact. Either way they’ll get us close, and once we’re in the vicinity it should be easy to find with the helicopter, even in the dark. If everything goes smoothly they should have it in a couple hours, maybe less. If they end up having to go back to Dakhla to refuel, four or five. By dawn. We’ll definitely have it by dawn.’

  There was a knock on the door and a white-jacketed servant entered, carrying a glass of tea. Girgis waved him forward without looking up. The man placed the glass on the desk and left, all the while keeping his eyes firmly on the floor.

  ‘What about the military?’ Girgis asked. ‘The Gilf’s a security zone. I don’t want any trouble.’

  ‘All covered,’ replied a third voice. Smooth, oily – Mohammed Kasri. ‘I’ve spoken to the people who need to be spoken to; they’ll give us a clear run. General Zawi was extremely helpful.’

  ‘He bloody should be, given the amount we pay him,’ said Girgis with a snort, raising his tea and taking a sip.

  There was a pause, then Usman’s voice came in again.

  ‘May I ask about safety? I mean, we don’t know what state it’s going to be in after all these years, how the crash might have affected it. We really are going to need specialist equipment, people who know what they’re doing.’

  ‘It’s in hand,’ replied Girgis.

  ‘Because this isn’t just a consignment of guns we’re talking about here. We can’t simply box it up and fly it out. We’re dealing with things …’

  ‘It’s in hand,’ repeated Girgis, firmer this time. ‘All necessary technical back-up will be provided.’

  ‘Of course, Mr Girgis,’ mumbled Usman, sensing that he had overstepped the mark. ‘I didn’t mean … I just wanted to be sure.’

  ‘Well now you are,’ said Girgis.

  He sipped again, his lips barely touching the liquid, then set the glass down and dabbed at his mouth with a handkerchief.

  ‘Which just leaves the girl,’ he said. ‘I take it we haven’t found her yet.’

  Salah acknowledged that this was the case.

  ‘We’ve left five of the guys in Dakhla. And we’ve got local friends. If she’s there we’ll track her down.’

  ‘The police?’ asked Girgis. ‘Jihaz amn al-daoula?’

  ‘I’ve alerted our contacts,’ said Kasri. ‘If she shows up they’ll let us know. I’m assuming our American …’

  ‘Alerted,’ said Girgis.

  He continued dabbing at his mouth before neatly folding his handkerchief and returning it to his pocket.

  ‘I want her found,’ he said. ‘Even if the map gives us everything we need, I want her found. I haven’t waited twenty-three years to see this whole thing screwed up by some little slut blabbing her mouth off. I want her found, and I want her removed. Clear?’

  ‘Clear,’ answered all three voices in unison.

  ‘Call me as soon as you have news.’

  The line clicked as one by one the other three rang off. For a moment Girgis was still, gazing across the room at the bank of closed-circuit television screens – a grainy mosaic of sex and violence – then he leant forward.

  ‘Did you get all that?’

  A barely audible murmur of acknowledgement emanated from the telephone. The tone was fractionally higher than those of the speakers who had just rung off; it was impossible to tell whether it belonged to a man or a woman.

  ‘I’m going to need your help on this,’ said Girgis. ‘If the girl contacts the Embassy …’

  Another murmur and the line went dead. Girgis stared at the phone, eyes narrowed, tongue flicking in and out of the corner of his mouth. With a nod, he replaced the receiver, stood and, taking his tea with him, wandered through onto the balcony where he gazed out over the ornamental gardens that ran down to the Nile at the back of the house.

  Twenty years he’d lived here, a sumptuous colonial mansion right on the Zamalek waterfront. Even now it still amazed him: that he, the son of rubbish collectors, grandson of Saidi fellaheen, should live at one of the most exclusive addresses in Cairo, find himself hobnobbing with the elite. From Manshiet Nasser to this, from s
treet-corner dope deals to a multimillion-dollar business empire – he’d certainly come a long way. Further than even he could have hoped or expected. Only the Gilf Kebir fiasco had marred an otherwise glittering career – a deal that should have been his crowning glory, audacious even by his standards, and all fucked up because of a freak weather event.

  He frowned, his mouth tightening into an angry grimace. The expression only lasted a moment before rearranging itself into a smile.

  Because the deal wasn’t fucked up. Delayed, yes. But not fucked up. Far from it. The crash had, in the end, done him and his clients a favour, transforming an already ambitious venture into something even bigger. It had taken its time coming to fruition, but now, finally, he was poised to reap the rewards. Every cloud has a silver lining. Or in this case every sandstorm.

  He sipped his tea and gazed across the Nile to the Carlton Hotel and the light-covered towers of the Egyptian National Bank building opposite as the sound of screams echoed up from below, pained and helpless. His smile broadened and he let out a chuckle. Say what you like, Romani Girgis always put on a good show.

  CAIRO – THE AMERICAN EMBASSY

  Having made himself a cup of warm milk Cy Angleton went through into the living area and settled himself down in the armchair, his paunch slumping out over the waistband of his pyjama bottoms, his hips pushing hard against the armrests of the chair (who the hell designed this furniture? Midgets?). Most Embassy staff lived off site, in Garden City or across the river in Gezira and Zamalek, but he’d managed to bag one of the apartments on the top floor of Cairo 2. It was a tiny space, just a bedroom, living area, bathroom and kitchenette, with barely enough room to walk more than a few paces in any direction without slapping into a wall. But it was more secure than being outside the compound, less chance of people nosing around. And besides, it meant he could have all his meals sent up from the Marine Corps kitchen down in the basement, proper food, American food, including a steady supply of chef Barney’s Mississippi mud pie. Damn, that pie was good. Almost made all the other shit worth it. Almost.

  He took a long, slow gulp of the milk and, reaching for the remote control, activated the CD player. Adjusting the volume, he flicked through the tracks until he came to the one he wanted: Patsy Cline, ‘Too Many Secrets’. A momentary silence, and then the familiar jaunty honk of clarinets as the song got started. He sighed with pleasure, leaning his head back and closing his eyes, drumming his fingers on the armrests.

  He loved Country music; had always loved it, ever since he was a kid listening to crackly 78s on his ma’s old Crosley radio-record player. Hank Williams, Jimmie Rodgers, Lefty Frizzell, Merle Travis: without these he would never have survived those early years – the bullying, the endless hospital visits, his pa’s drunken rages. (‘Look at you, for Christ’s sake! I ask God for a son and what does he give me? A big fat pansy fucking hog!’) Country had provided an escape, a refuge, a place where he didn’t feel quite so alone.

  Still did. If anything he needed it more today than he had back then, what with all the lies and suspicion and stinking corrupt filth he was forever having to wade through. ‘Country ain’t just music,’ his ma used to tell him. ‘It’s what gets you through.’ And she’d been right. The framed citation on the wall opposite proved it: ‘The United States Department of State Award for Heroism is presented to Cyrus Jeremiah Angleton. For heroic service under circumstances of extreme danger.’ It was Country that had got him that. He sure wished his ma was still around, so she could see how right she’d been.

  He allowed the track to play through the first verse and chorus, then dropped the volume a few notches, finished his milk and leant forward, staring down at the floor. A large map of Egypt was spread out in front of him, the paper covered with a confusion of pencil scribbles: names, dates, phone numbers, sums of money, sequences of digits that might or might not have been bank accounts. There were photographs as well, lots of them, scattered across the country, all passport sized save for three larger images arranged side by side in the bottom left-hand corner of the map, above the words ‘Gilf Kebir Plateau’: Flin Brodie, Alex Hannen, Molly Kiernan. Reaching down, struggling to bend his body, he picked them up and sat back again, shuffling them in his hand like a pack of cards. He stared at each in turn: Brodie, Hannen, Kiernan, then back to Brodie again. Things were starting to open up, connections to appear, he could feel it, he could definitely feel it. There was still a way to go, but hopefully it wouldn’t be too long before he could get the hell out of here. No more Sandfire, no more heat, no more creeping around – job done, money earned, employers satisfied. No more of chef Barney’s Mississippi mud pie either, but he could live without that. Could live without anything except his beloved Country music. Throwing the pictures down he reached for the remote control and pressed replay, the room falling silent before once again filling with the song’s jaunty instrumental opening, ‘Too Many Secrets’. He chuckled. Story of his goddam life.

  DAKHLA

  The eastern sky was turning a cool shade of pink and the dawn birds were screeching in the trees as Fatima Gharoub stomped through the oasis, her capacious black robes flapping around her, her bulky frame moving with surprising speed. Every now and then she would stop and spit in the dust, muttering angrily, before moving on again, following the track as it switched back and forth through the palm and olive groves until eventually it brought her out in front of the American woman’s house.

  ‘Slut!’ she bellowed, striding up to the front door. ‘Where is he? What have you done with my Mahmoud?’

  She raised a fist ready to hammer before noticing the door was already ajar. Kicking it open she barged through into the living area.

  ‘Come on, I know you’re in here! The donkey and his whore! Forty years of marriage and this is how he repays me!’

  She stood listening, her face a rictus of indignant fury. Snatching up a plastic dustpan from the windowsill, she started towards the main bedroom, the pan held above her head like a weapon.

  ‘Don’t make me come and find you, Mahmoud Gharoub!’ she yelled. ‘Do you hear? Because believe me, if I have to come and find you, you’ll regret it for the rest of your life!’

  She was halfway across the living area when she sensed movement. A figure appeared in the bedroom doorway. She came to a halt, mouth dropping open in surprise.

  ‘Zahir al-Sabri? My God, how many of you has she got in here?’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ snapped Zahir, scowling, clearly not pleased to have been found thus.

  ‘Oh yes you do!’ Fatima Gharoub cried. ‘I know what goes on out here! Always snuffling around, he is. Bewitched! They’ve bewitched him, the dirty little whores! Mahmoud! Mahmoud! Oh my beautiful Mahmoud!’

  She started wailing, tugging at her robe, banging the dustpan against her head. As suddenly as they had come, her hysterics ceased and her eyes narrowed.

  ‘What are you doing here?’

  Zahir shifted uneasily.

  ‘I came to see Miss Freya.’

  ‘At six in the morning?’

  ‘I brought her breakfast.’ He nodded towards a basket sitting on the living room table. ‘The door was open. I came in to make sure she was OK.’

  ‘You were snooping,’ said the old woman, wagging an accusing finger. ‘Poking around.’

  ‘I came in to make sure Miss Freya was OK,’ he repeated. ‘She wasn’t here. Her bed hasn’t been slept in.’

  ‘Snooping and poking,’ she pushed, sensing a juicy bit of gossip. ‘Looking at things you’re not supposed to look at. Just you wait till I tell … What do you mean her bed hasn’t been slept in?’

  Zahir opened his mouth to answer, but before he could say anything the aggrieved wife had starting yelling again, tearing at her dress, slapping her palms against her forehead.

  ‘Oh God, I knew it! They’ve gone away together. She’s stolen my Mahmoud! Mahmoud, Mahmoud! My little Mahmoud!’

  Throwing the dustpan across the room she
swung round and, presumably intending to give chase to the eloping couple, rushed from the house, leaving Zahir standing where he was, shaking his head and looking distinctly uncomfortable.

  CAIRO

  Those who worked for Romani Girgis could sense when violence was imminent. They knew at such times either to keep out of his way or, if they couldn’t keep out of his way, to keep their heads well down, get on with what they were doing and not attract attention to themselves.

  It had been brewing all morning. A little after dawn Girgis had taken a phone call out on the terrace at the back of the house and according to the old gardener who was at the time watering geranium pots nearby, he hadn’t been happy. Not happy at all, shouting at the person at the other end of the line, hammering his fist so hard on the wooden table that his cup of coffee had tumbled off and smashed on the ground, leaving an unsightly stain on the gleaming white marble. The gardener hadn’t heard exactly what was being said, he later explained to one of the household cooks, hadn’t dared look up or get too close, but he definitely heard Girgis use the words ‘oasis’ and ‘helicopter’. And something about a black tower and an arch too, although by that point he had started to move away out of Girgis’s line of sight, and might have misheard.

  That had been the start. From there Girgis’s mood had steadily worsened as the morning progressed. Around 8 a.m. his three lieutenants – Boutros Salah, Ahmed Usman and Mohammed Kasri – had arrived and disappeared into his study. A maid reported that she heard the sound of smashing glass and a yell of ‘You said the map would be enough!’ An hour later, at 9 a.m., a handyman mending a socket at the foot of the grand staircase had almost been knocked over as Girgis swept past him, mobile in hand as he bellowed, ‘I don’t care about the fucking fuel! Keep looking! You hear me! Just keep looking!’