He paused, choosing his words carefully. ‘The Muslim Brotherhood believes in order and discipline. Demonstrations can bring disorder and chaos but at certain points in history there is no alternative.’
‘And this is such a point?’
‘It could be, yes. But, as I say, members of the Brotherhood will decide for themselves.’
Carver nodded. He tried several more questions but Mr Shalaby had said what he wanted to say. Prayers were about to begin and he was happy to let the men around him lead him away.
After the prayers, the political meeting began; Carver took up position just outside the prayer room and surreptitiously recorded the speeches. He needed to know whether what Shalaby had told him squared with the general message of the meeting and although he couldn’t understand much of what was said, Zahra would have no trouble.
Leaving the mosque, he looked again for the East African but there was no sign. Instead he saw two of the most conspicuous plain-clothes policemen he’d ever seen, suited figures slouched against the wall of the apartment block opposite. These must be the spies that the thug in the skullcap had spoken of. The smaller of the two was paring his nails and staring openly at certain faces in the crowd; his colleague had his mobile phone out in front of him and was pretending to send text messages while in fact filming. The Muslim Brothers kept their heads down and strode quickly past the police and Carver tried to do the same, though his presence there clearly interested the pair. The plain-clothes man with the mobile dropped the pretence, raising his phone to eye level and turning it in his hand, tracking Carver as he walked down the narrow street in the direction of El Hossein Square.
Nawal was crouched next to a streetlight in the centre of Tahrir charging her phone when she got the message. She was borrowing some electricity that an enterprising individual had managed to re-route from the base of the streetlight to a four-gang plug point. When the message came through from her contact at the mosque, she felt goosebumps rise on her arms. She unplugged her phone and started typing frantically.
@tsquarelawan
Time for a new chant here in Tahrir: the Brotherhood and the people are One Hand!
@tsquarelawan
With every hour that passes we are more united. If we believe we will win – THEN WE WILL WIN!
Patrick had been in Tahrir Square for a couple of hours when a murmur went through the crowd. People in front of him started reaching for their phones. He was trying to figure out what was going on when his own phone rang – Carver.
‘Hello? I just left. It looks like the Brotherhood are going to back the protest.’
‘That explains it.’
‘Explains what?’
‘I think the crowd just heard.’
Carver sucked at his teeth. ‘That was quick. Bush telegraph must be working overtime, I guess.’
Patrick smiled. ‘If that’s what we’re calling Facebook and Twitter this week, then yes.’
‘What?’
‘Nothing. I better go get some reaction interviews. You want to meet back at the Seti?’
‘Yeah, I need to run this stuff I recorded past Zahra then file it pronto. We can head back to Tahrir later.’
Carver glanced around his hotel bedroom, unsure where to put himself. Patrick was at the writing desk unpacking his laptop, leads, sound card reader and notepad. Zahra was lying on her stomach on the bed with Carver’s MiniDisc player in front of her and a pair of headphones clamped over her ears. She had her hands pressed against the headphones as though she were trying to push the sound deeper into her ears and was swinging her legs behind her. When she saw Carver she lifted the headphones from one ear.
‘This is what we hoped for. A message to the Brotherhood. A clear message.’ Her voice was high with excitement.
Carver just nodded. ‘Fine. Keep listening, will you? I need you to check it all.’
He edged past Patrick and into the bathroom, kicking the door shut behind him. He twisted the cold tap on, splashed water on his face and left it running for inspiration while he took a pee. His swimming trunks were hanging on the towel rail. Carver looked at his watch; he could fit in a quick swim while Patrick was putting the piece together, then come back up and record his links. Chances were, Jean was down there. He could ask her about those painkillers she’d mentioned and say hi.
The air conditioning had dried the trunks too well; they were as stiff as cardboard. He struggled out of his trousers and Y-fronts and into the unyielding trunks. When he walked back into the bedroom, Patrick and Zahra exchanged a look but said nothing. Patrick had copied the audio from the Brotherhood’s meeting on to the laptop and Carver pointed at the first jagged block of audio.
‘The interview I need is at the beginning of that band.’
Patrick slipped his headphones on and listened. When the short interview had finished he glanced up at Carver. ‘I don’t see why this is so significant. He’s just saying that people should use their own judgement, make their own decisions about whether to join the protest.’
Zahra shook her head. ‘The men who were at this meeting will understand what it means.’
Carver agreed ‘Egyptians learn to read between the lines before they learn to read. This is the Muslim Brotherhood giving their lot the green light to get out on the streets. It’s bad news for the regime.’
Zahra smiled. ‘And great news for the people.’
Carver shrugged. ‘Maybe. I’m going to go do my lengths.’
There was no sign of Jean at the poolside bar. Carver swam a few grudging lengths then – still in his trunks – went and checked the main hotel bar, attracting interested looks along the way. There were several familiar faces in the bar but none of them belonged to Jean Fitzgerald. He bought a large whisky for himself, a bottle of beer for Patrick and some peanuts and took them back to the room.
Zahra had returned to work and Carver took her place on the bed, working on his script between sips of whisky and occasionally checking his phone.
Patrick noticed. ‘Are you expecting a call?’
‘Jean mentioned we might meet up. No big deal.’
Patrick took a glug of his beer. ‘Have you tried calling her?’
‘No. Like I say, it’s not a big deal.’
Patrick shrugged. While William was finishing his script he scrolled through Twitter checking the latest news from Tahrir.
@tsquarelawan
Heard police on radio ‘eiwa ya basha’. The tear gas is coming.
@tsquarelawan
Bring gloves. Throw the gas back when you can and keep the old canisters … EVIDENCE!
‘It sounds like they’re having quite a party down there.’ He held the laptop out for Carver to read. ‘Have a look.’
@tsquarelawan
Come to the square to collect your new passport! It will read …
@tsquarelawan
Name: citizen. Place of birth: Tahrir Square. Religion: Egyptian. Occupation: Revolutionary!
@tsquarelawan
A couple will have their katb el ketab (marriage) in Tahrir Square tonight. All welcome!
Carver nodded. ‘Sounds like it’s hotting up again. Let’s get this piece finished, then you can head back to Tahrir.’
‘You’re not coming?’
Carver shook his head. ‘Nah, I reckon the newsgathering monkeys will have all that covered. But you should go take a look. Sounds like it’s more for the likes of you and Zahra anyway. Bliss to be young in that new dawn and all that.’
Patrick smiled. ‘Wordsworth. He’s one of Rebecca’s favourites.’
‘She’s got good taste.’ He glanced at Patrick. ‘In poets anyway. Chuck the duvet over me, I’ll record my links and then you can bugger off.’
Carver recorded his script with the duvet draped over his head to dull any echo or buzz from the air conditioning. Patrick mixed the radio report and filed it.
‘Are you sure you don’t want me to stay?’ He glanced at Carver’s glass.
Carver shook his hea
d. ‘Yes I’m sure. An early night will do me good. And don’t worry, I’m not going to drink any more, I’m done. I’ll see you tomorrow.’
Walking to the lift, Patrick decided to call Rebecca. It was late but he hadn’t spoken to her for almost twenty-four hours. She picked up on the second ring, her voice full of sleep.
‘Hello, stranger.’
‘Hello.’
‘It’s late, everything okay?’
Patrick reassured her that everything was fine, told her about his day and asked about hers. She enquired about William.
‘He’s fine, I just left him in the hotel room. He’s mixing whisky and Wordsworth.’
‘It’s a good mix.’
‘Bliss to be young or something like that.’
‘Philistine. Let me remember: Bliss was it in that dawn to be alive, but to be young was very heaven! That’s one of his French Revolution numbers. Does Cairo feel like a revolution?’
‘It’s starting to. It feels different from Tunisia. Wilder, more hopeful somehow.’ He stopped at the lift. ‘I’ll get Carver to use a bit of Wordsworth in one of his reports.’
‘He won’t buy that, too flowery for William.’
‘He might. Give me a bit more, will you?’ Patrick loved Rebecca’s voice.
‘Okay: Earth is all before me. With a heart joyous, nor scared at its own liberty.’
‘Brilliant. You’re my muse.’
‘Yeah? Well, I’m a tired muse who’s got to get up at six and teach thirty-five ten-year-olds, so go away.’
‘Okay.’
‘I love you.’
Patrick heard the line click dead and then an automated voice in Arabic informing him that the other person had cleared. He pressed the lift button and watched as it made its way down from the top floor to his. As the doors slid open he saw panicked movement from the four men standing inside. One of them, an Egyptian man so huge that he had to stoop to avoid hitting his head, placed himself in the centre of the doorway blocking any attempt at access. The other two men surrounded the fourth who had turned away and was standing in the far corner of the lift, his nose against the gold-mirrored glass. Patrick’s view was obstructed but he saw the back of the hidden man’s head and in his hand, hanging loosely at his side – a thick cigar. The gorilla in front just stood, shaking his neckless head and Patrick wasn’t going to argue. He took a half step backwards.
‘I’ll get the next one.’
The doors on the golden lift slid slowly shut. They weren’t as soundproof as they looked; as they closed Patrick heard a voice, tight with fury.
‘Which one are you?’
‘I am Panya, sir.’
‘Next time I tell you to get the pass-key for the lift, Panya – get the fucking pass-key. You understand?’
‘Yes, sir.’
It was an English accent. The type of accent that Rebecca would describe as proper posh. Patrick watched the indicator above the door count down as the lift moved past the lobby and then the lower ground, coming to a halt at basement level.
PART TWO
@tsquarelawan
We are acclimatised – tear gas is like fresh air, rubber bullets are like drops of rain, sticks are like Thai massage.
12 A Man. A Plan
DATELINE: Embankment, London SW1, January 28 2011
It was an old 1970s maroon-coloured Jag. As it pulled away from the kerb, Leslie Craig settled himself on his half of the back seat and sniffed. The upholstery reeked of cigar smoke; he leaned forward, away from the seat and tried to breathe through his mouth. The car crawled up the side of the Ministry of Defence and turned left on to Whitehall. He glanced at the man sitting next to him. Bellquist wore his blond hair slicked back, his eyes were blue, his eyelashes white. Craig studied his chalk-stripe suit: the tailor had done his best but there was no getting around the fact that Bellquist was an odd shape – thick and muscular in his top half but scrawny, almost underdeveloped, from the waist down.
‘Do you mind if I look after your mobile phone, Leslie?’ The question was rhetorical, Bellquist had his hand out.
The permanent secretary took his government-issue smartphone from his inside pocket and passed it over. ‘It’s switched off.’
Bellquist ignored this and, using a hair clip, swiftly removed the chip from inside Craig’s phone and dropped it together with the handset into a compartment underneath the armrest.
‘Lead lined.’ He pushed the armrest back down and it closed with a reassuring click. ‘Just because your phone’s switched off, doesn’t mean it’s not tracking you.’ He took an old model phone out of his pocket. ‘I use this old Nokia when I’m out and about. When that’s off – it’s off. We don’t want the Russians knowing our every movement, do we? Or the Chinese … or the wife.’
The civil servant waited for Bellquist to finish chortling at his own joke before he spoke. Craig didn’t particularly like this man and wanted to keep the meeting as brief and businesslike as possible.
‘Did your trip go well?’
‘It was a bit of a curate’s egg, truth be told.’
‘Tell me about the good parts.’
Bellquist smiled. ‘I was introduced to a young lady called Fatma, she was most hospitable.’
Craig shook his head. ‘I don’t have time for silly stories, Bellquist. You were there on business.’
Bellquist turned in his seat and met the civil servant’s eye. ‘I’d remind you, Mr Craig, that I am not your employee. You are not my master.’
Craig nodded. ‘Of course’ – Bellquist stayed silent – ‘I apologise.’
‘Apology accepted. So the good news is that our Egyptian friends are still willing to meet, to talk. They still like us – or me anyway, but they’re confused. It was more like a marriage counselling session than a business meeting. They want to know why we don’t love them anymore.’
The permanent secretary sighed. ‘You’ve just been there, presumably you saw some of what’s going on?’
‘Some. As far as our mates are concerned, it’s a little local difficulty. It’ll blow over – like Bahrain, like Saudi.’
‘It won’t. Not in the short term anyway and maybe not ever and no politician likes to end up on the wrong side of history, you know that.’
Bellquist shrugged. ‘Who knows what the right side is? History’s not finished yet.’
‘Of course but—’
‘But we’re hedging our bets, I understand that.’ Bellquist shuffled back into his seat, making himself more comfortable. ‘So we can’t cut them off entirely. That would hurt that famous Egyptian pride of theirs.’
‘We haven’t cut them off entirely. Several blind eyes have been turned.’
Bellquist smiled. ‘And they’re grateful.’
Craig shot Bellquist a look.
‘I’m grateful too, but that’s small beer. Our friend says the Russians and Chinese are already offering to step in and fill any gaps that your export bans leave. They’re offering very favourable terms.’
Craig nodded. ‘I’m sure. But they’d still rather deal with us?’
‘For now, yes.’
‘Good. I have a plan and the right man to carry it off, I think.’
Bellquist smiled. ‘A man, a plan … does he have a canal in Panama?’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Palindromes, I love a good palindrome. Fair enough, despite all this hypocritical hand-wringing, they’d still rather deal with us. Do you know what our Egyptian friend told me about his last meeting with the Chinese?’
Craig shook his head.
‘He said: We know what the Chinese want to do with us Egyptians – with all of Africa. They want to fuck us with their billion tiny little dicks.’
Craig winced. Bellquist’s laughter was so loud that his driver turned to check his employer was okay.
Craig gave him time to recover then spoke quietly. ‘So you will speak to him again, reassure him?’
‘Of course. I can give you a progress report at the arms fa
ir dinner. You are coming, aren’t you?’
Craig gave a reluctant nod of the head. There was no avoiding the damn dinner now.
‘One last thing, Permanent Secretary?’ Bellquist was drumming his fingers on the hand rest.
‘Yes?’
‘Your boss is four-square behind this strategy, isn’t he?’
‘The new Secretary of State is absolutely on board.’
Bellquist laughed. ‘Not the new minister. Of course he is, otherwise he wouldn’t be the new minister. I mean the main man – the Prime Minister.’
Craig nodded gravely. ‘This whole strategy is of the Prime Minister’s making. I wouldn’t be asking you otherwise. You won’t hear him say that of course – not in private or in public.’
Bellquist smiled. ‘Course not. He was a sneaky bugger at school and he’s only got sneakier since.’
Craig glanced out of the window; they’d crossed the river twice and were back on Whitehall. He pointed at a bus stop, twenty yards up on the right. ‘I’d be grateful if you drop me just there.’
The permanent secretary was keen to bring the conversation to a close. He had learned from bitter experience that once these men started talking about their ridiculous school it was almost impossible to stop them.
DATELINE: New Broadcasting House, Portland Place, London W1, January 28 2011
Rob Mariscal paced up and down the piazza working on his spiel. Not that the spiel needed much work. ‘The Story of the Sodding Ship’ as he’d come to refer to it was more or less perfect. A powerful tale designed to appeal to the emotions, interests and prejudices of whoever heard it. He was in a nervous mood; returning to his former place of work always put him on edge and he went and smoked a quick cigarette round the back of All Souls Church before returning to the piazza.
Mariscal was always on the lookout for fresh evidence to support his belief that God – or whoever – had flung the gears of evolutionary progress into reverse. Most of this evidence arrived in human form but he was willing to consider it however it came and this morning it was bricks and mortar. Standing in the shadow of the new BBC extension, he wondered how a civilisation capable of building something as glorious as the Regency church at his rear had decided it would rather spend time and money making glass and steel monstrosities like the one in front of him.
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