by Peter Tonkin
‘What the bloody hell do you think you’re doing?’ she blazed at him. ‘That was not bloody funny Richard!’
Richard retrieved the phone and pulled himself out of bed. Sorry! he mimed. Accident … The sheet came with him, revealing Robin in white silk pyjamas that the water had transformed into distracting pink transparency, as though she had entered a wet T-shirt contest. She rolled out of bed, leaving a sopping puddle where her bottom had been, and snatched the sheet off the floor where Richard had let it fall. She sat herself down on the dry side of the bed which he had just vacated, piled the sheet on her translucent lap and glared at him.
‘Your decision?’ pressed Dr Zabr, who sounded no happier than Robin looked.
‘I’m sorry, Doctor,’ said Richard a little breathlessly, his mind racing like a hamster in a wheel. ‘I’m afraid I dropped the phone. Could you repeat that last bit?’
‘Will you continue to meet this patient’s bills or not? What is your decision? It will make no difference to his treatment, of course – he is an emergency case. But we have no Blue Cross or ObamaCare here. This is not the National Health Service. My accounts department is—’
‘Yes, Doctor Zabr. In full. For as long as it takes. Now, tell me,’ he took a deep breath, trying to steady things down, ‘has he been interviewed yet?’
‘Well, my admissions staff have performed an initial assessment, of course.’
‘By the police? By Sergeant Sabet?’
‘She may have talked to him on the way in from the desert but I doubt if she would have gotten much information from him. My people’s initial diagnosis suggests that he has been poisoned, either by a scorpion sting or a snakebite, so, combined with elements of starvation and dehydration, he won’t have been making much sense.’
‘Can I see him?’
‘Well, visiting hours are usually after four, but if he’s in a private room …’
‘Put him in a private room, if you have one.’
‘It so happens that we do have one available.’
‘Fine, put him in that. Tell your finance people it’s the same arrangement as last time.’
‘Then of course visiting hours are more negotiable. You may come when you like. Just report to reception and they will guide you.’
‘I’ll be there in half an hour.’
‘That’s funny …’
‘What?’
‘That’s just what Major Ibrahim said when I called him just now.’
Robin did not have time to forgive Richard before he dressed and left. Consequently she did not go with him. He left her still sitting angrily on the dry side of the bed. As he sat in the back of the Mercedes, feeling the welcome Arctic drafts of the air conditioning, he imagined her getting up now that he had departed. He tried not to imagine in too much detail how her silk pyjamas had been rendered see-through both above and below her waist by the accidental soaking she had received. But they hadn’t fooled around for days, and he found the mental images distractingly persistent. She would probably strip off the clinging wet silk and dress in one of the towelling robes he also found so alluring. Then, knowing her, she would strip the bed, working off some of her anger and resentment as she did so. Working herself into a better mood, he hoped.
She would haul the mattress to the wide window single-handed and stand it against the glass, where the sunlight would probably have dried it before she had finished showering. If this morning was anything like the last couple, she wouldn’t bother to dry her hair – she’d just open the window and let the shamaal and the sunlight dry it for her. Then she would get dressed and – he was getting jealous now – hurry down to another of Sharl’s amazing breakfasts. His stomach rumbled, for he had not thought to get anything to eat on his way out.
These vaguely carnal musings were enough to fill the ride to the hospital. Sasha, as usual, insisted on chauffeuring, even though Richard was certain he had more important calls on his time. Now he turned round to look back from the driver’s seat and asked, ‘You want me to wait, Mister Richard?’
‘No, thanks, Sasha. I’ll call when I want picking up.’
As Richard strode into the hospital’s reception, a familiar white SUV pulled into the car park. The major and the sergeant climbed out of the back and came towards the entrance side by side. He resisted the urge to hurry as though he was racing the police officers and Nahom was some sort of a prize. So, although he was carrying a solid-looking briefcase, the major caught up with him just as the orderly at reception directed him to the wounded man’s private room. But then, seeing the police officers, he called forward another orderly to guide them all.
‘Ah, Captain Mariner,’ said Ibrahim as they followed the orderly and Sergeant Sabet followed them, ‘I can’t say I’m surprised to see you here. You seem to have forged a surprisingly close relationship with this prisoner.’
‘Very close,’ added the sergeant. ‘Financially, at any rate. Are you paying for his accommodation and food again?’
‘It’s the Chinese, I believe,’ Richard observed, ‘who say that if you save someone’s life you are responsible for them until they die.’
‘Ah, the famous Chinese logic,’ observed Ibrahim, amused. ‘The inverted thinking that suggests you should pay your doctor every day you are well, and refuse to pay him as long as you are ill. I wonder how that would appeal to Doctor Zabr.’
‘It’s the same logic that suggests policemen should be paid only on crime-free days,’ observed Richard. ‘How would you like that, Major?’
‘Fortunately I do not have to answer you immediately, Captain Mariner, because here we are, I believe.’
‘Though,’ inserted Sabet forcefully, catching up with the two men as she spoke, ‘as there is almost no crime in Sharm, the major would be a rich man under your Chinese system, Captain.’
The orderly opened the door from the outside just as Doctor Zabr was about to open it from within. The four of them stood facing each other in the doorway as the orderly, sensitive to the tense atmosphere, made his escape and hurried away.
‘You may talk to him, but be brief and do not rely on the accuracy of his answers,’ said the doctor. ‘From what we can ascertain, he has been attacked by a cobra, naja haje haje. He is only alive and well enough to talk because of the sergeant’s swift and effective lifesaving techniques. He is on several drips as we deliver a broad-spectrum anti-venom derived from the Australian tiger snake, which has proved effective in such cases. He is fortunate. We keep it to counter the venom of sea snakes who have bitten divers, but it is equally effective against cobra venom. We are transfusing his blood. We are hydrating his eyes as well as his body. We will be putting him on a ventilator after he has talked to you, something he insists on doing at once. I warn you, however, that your time will be limited and, as I say, you may not be able to rely on the accuracy of what he has to tell you. He is feverish and occasionally seems to drift off into disturbing fantasies.’
‘Well,’ said the major, easing forward so that the doctor had to stand aside, ‘let us see what he has to tell us before we judge its accuracy and reliability. I would like to speak to him alone, except for the sergeant.’
Richard opened his mouth to protest when Dr Zabr snapped, quite unexpectedly, ‘Most of what I have just told you was addressed to Captain Mariner. It is the captain whom Nahom wishes to speak with.’
‘We’ll see about that,’ said Ibrahim, his voice unexpectedly as steely as the expression which occasionally entered the sergeant’s coffee-coloured eyes. Admitting defeat at last, Richard stood back as the room emptied and the door closed behind the police officers. Dr Zabr and his team bustled off, leaving Richard standing listlessly in the corridor, the wind taken out of his sails – a situation that lasted for less than five minutes before the door opened again. ‘You’d better come in,’ said the sergeant with extremely bad grace. ‘He won’t say a word unless you are there too.’
The room was dimly lit and blessedly cool. An air-conditioning unit hummed quietly i
n the background. The whole place smelt of medication, soap and antibacterial cleansers. Nahom was half sitting up in bed, supported by pillows. He looked even more skeletal than he had the last time Richard saw him. His full lips were cracked and peeling, while his high forehead was bandaged, but there were blisters at the bottom of the bandage, just above Nahom’s eyebrows. His frail, skeletal body hardly seemed to lift the sheet that covered him, but his left leg lay beneath a tented section from the knee down. There were several drips attached to his arms, though his hands were still free to move. He appeared to be crying, but Richard soon realized that this was the effect of keeping his eyes hydrated. A ventilator stood beside his bed with a triangular plastic face mask convenient to his left hand, though Richard couldn’t see what was in the gas bottle it was attached to. Oxygen, he supposed.
The black rubber money belt lay gaping across Nahom’s thighs with its contents strewn across the sheet down towards his knees. Ibrahim’s briefcase sat open and empty on a bedside chair. The major and the sergeant stood on Nahom’s right, so Richard went and stood by the gas bottle on his left. Ibrahim looked down at Nahom with a frown which Richard could not quite read – irritation … confusion … enquiry … accusation?
‘The prisoner really only speaks Arabic fluently,’ said Sergeant Sabet. ‘It is Eritrean Arabic, but I believe Major Ibrahim and I can understand what he is saying and make ourselves understood by him. He can manage a word or two in English, but he only spoke Arabic as we were bringing him in – not that what he said made much sense. Now you are here he will answer the major’s questions and I will translate the questions and his answers into English. If you have any questions of your own which the major is happy for you to ask, I will translate your words into Arabic.’
‘Thank you,’ said Richard. ‘That is very courteous.’
‘It is the only condition under which he will speak to us,’ said Ibrahim.
‘Right,’ said Richard. ‘Please begin.’ He turned all his attention to Nahom, and, although the conversation went back and forth through the police officers, it was soon almost as though Nahom was talking directly to him.
‘My name is Nahom Selassie,’ the young man said. His voice was little more than a whisper. The sergeant’s translation, however, was brusque and forceful – the exact opposite of his original tone. ‘I live in a village near Dogali in the lowlands of Eritrea less than thirty kilometres inland from Massawa, near the famous Dogali Bridge. I was released from my National Service less than a year ago to return to my family and help them on our farm. Am I a smuggler? No, I am not a smuggler. I am a farmer. All of my family are farmers. We grow sorghum, which is a good crop on our small but fertile fields. However, a series of droughts over the last few years have made things hard in our village. My family, together with many other families, has grown desperate as we watch our brothers and sisters, parents and children starve. But even so, I would never become a smuggler. I hate smugglers and traffickers of all kinds. Why was I with them? To follow the last band of smugglers who came through the Sinai little more than a week ago. Why am I doing that? To rescue my sister, Tsibekti, who has been kidnapped by them.’
Nahom paused, shaking, clearly overcome by emotion. His eyes closed briefly, then opened again, their gaze focused fiercely on Richard. Sergeant Sabet fell silent after she translated his last heartfelt outcry. Her eyes, too, turned towards Richard, as though she was also silently begging him to help. As much to regain the young man’s attention as to get him to state the obvious, Ibrahim asked, ‘Why must you do this, Mr Selassie? Why not go to the authorities and ask for their help?’
As Nahom, gasping, struggled to overcome his emotion and frame his answer, Richard thought of his own twin children, off on summer work placements this year, though in contact by cell or Skype a couple of times a week. What would William do if someone kidnapped Mary, his sister, and Robin and Richard were unable to help? He would do what Nahom was doing, he thought. No matter what the cost or danger. And the realization was like a knife twisting in his heart.
‘Why must I do this? And I alone rather than squads of policemen and women?’ Nahom answered faintly and Sabet translated more gently. ‘Because Tsibekti left our little village ten nights ago in the company of Bisrat, a friend of our family, who said he had contacts with smugglers – Bedouin tribesmen and various authorities who could be bribed to look the other way. He promised to find her work either in Israel or the Emirates if she would travel with him through Massawa City, down to the port and across the Red Sea to Sinai. Bisrat told us we must be silent and secret until we heard from Tsibekti that she was safely in work. To contact the authorities would simply mean that the men smuggling my sister would kill her and hide her body. Tsibekti took with her all the money our family could get together and a cell phone with which she promised to stay in touch with us. The twin of this phone here, as Tsibekti is the twin of my heart.’
Nahom at last reached into the incriminating money belt, his fingers working amongst the bundles of bank notes until he pulled free the Galaxy phone that was the only other item the belt contained. He switched it on and immediately the screen was filled with the picture of a stunningly beautiful young woman. Richard could see that hers was the feminine twin of Nahom’s own face: huge dark eyes emphasized by the depth of their sockets below delicately curving brows and above hunger-sharpened cheekbones. A high, wide forehead crowned with a luxuriance of black hair hanging in lustrous waves and coils which escaped almost wilfully from beneath a modest head dress. A long, patrician nose, spread at its tip by broad nostrils. Full, finely chiselled lips, parted in a gentle smile to reveal white, even teeth and an attractive pair of dimples. A long, fine-boned jaw ending in a square, determined-looking chin. Nahom switched off the phone and, at Ibrahim’s prompting, continued with his story. Though as he answered the major’s questions, his eyes never left Richard’s face, and their desperate glare communicated so much more than the words of the bald narrative that the sergeant ground out in English.
‘At first, the journey seemed to go well and Tsibekti reported that she and Bisrat had contacted their men in Massawa docks and found their place aboard the boat. That they had crossed the sea with no incident and had landed on the Sinai at a little, unguarded bay north of El Tur. She and Bisrat were about to be met by Bedouin guides who would take them across the coastal desert, into the mountains and north until they could spirit her out of the Sinai through tunnels dug beneath the border, where their associates in Israel, Jordan or Saudi would take her to Jerusalem, Jeddah or Riyadh, which is what Bisrat had assured us would certainly happen, as I have said. It was only on the strength of this assurance our parents allowed Tsibekti to leave in the first place.’
Whether because of his illness, his weakness or because of emotional stress, Nahom’s story broke off there once again and he reached for the face mask, taking such deep gulps of oxygen that Richard was prompted to open a bottle of water and offer him a series of sips as soon as the mask came off. Ibrahim and Sabet watched silently, waiting for the interrogation to resume and for the story to proceed. Though Richard, for one, had a shrewd idea where it was heading next, especially after his conversations with Robin, Husan, Ahmed and Mahmood.
‘What happened next?’ prompted Ibrahim in Arabic.
Sergeant Sabet translated both the question and the answer into English, but her mood had changed completely. Her anger and outrage were no longer targeted at Richard and Nahom.
‘What happened next, Major? Something went terribly wrong. Tsibekti called again almost immediately to tell us that she has been kidnapped and is being held for ransom. The only thing that has kept her safe so far has been the money she took with her, which she has been able to give the brigands holding her. But, she told us, unless we send much more money soon, she will be raped, tortured and either murdered or sold into slavery. And if we went to the authorities either in Egypt or at home, she would be raped, tortured and killed as Bisrat had warned us.’
Major Ibrahim interrupted at this point, no doubt remembering the doctor’s warning that Nahom’s testimony might drift into fantasy. His tone was soft but insistent, and Sabet translated his words that were surprisingly confrontational. ‘We have heard stories like this too often before, Mr Selassie. If we believed them all there would have to be, somewhere up in the interior or in the red zone of the North Sinai, a place that is little better than a concentration camp. A place where unspeakable atrocities happen without anyone being any the wiser. Why should we believe you? Especially as you have told us nothing but lies until today. Especially in the state to which you have reduced yourself now?’
Nahom took up his phone again without speaking. With trembling fingers, he touched several buttons on the screen, which abruptly sprang to life once more, but in video mode rather than still picture. He reversed it so they could all see and hear. His eyes closed and water streamed down his face. Richard no longer believed the tears all came from the hydration after the snakebite. On that thought, he switched his attention to what Nahom wanted them to see. The beautiful woman from the still picture sprang into life. But she did not look so beautiful now. She was dusty, filthy, terrified and distraught. She was screaming something Richard could not make out and someone with a phone like Nahom’s was videoing it. He could see pretty clearly why her twin brother’s hands were shaking as he held the small device.
Tears washed clear channels through the grit on Tsibekti’s cavernous cheeks. Behind her stood a line of men, their faces masked with colourfully checked and white-fringed keffiyehs so that only their eyes were uncovered. The rest of their clothing was hidden beneath long white dishdasha robes. Behind the men stood a low, rug-covered shelter beside which knelt a camel. On the camel’s back there was a sling made of similar carpet material to the roof and walls of the tent. Sticking out of it was a black tube that caught Richard’s attention for a moment before he started to consider the wider view. Behind the tent rose sharp-sided mountains looking disturbingly like the pyramids at Giza. The mountains were ill-focused but it was clear that they were a striking pink with thick green bands running up their slopes where some other rock had been layered into them like the filling in a sandwich and then the whole structure shattered and stood up on its end. And in the distance, more peaks, higher, matt black in colour almost eclipsing the hard blue sky. Richard knew these mountains. They were in the interior of the Sinai Peninsula. He flicked a glance at Ibrahim. The major recognized them too.
