By the time the permanent secretary arrived back inside the White Tower, the cello player had been replaced by a red-haired harpist, playing ‘Norwegian Wood’. Craig had had enough and was keen to find Rob, retrieve his coat and leave. Back at their table, Bellquist was gathering a group together for a private tour of the Crown Jewels and cracking jokes. He was standing behind one of his Saudi guests, hands on his shoulders and a broad smile on his face.
‘Do you know how much the Saudis spent on UK-made kit last year?’ Heads shook. ‘One point eight billion! Pounds not euros and you know what they say? With friends like that – who needs Yemenis?’
The table laughed obligingly.
Craig and Mariscal made their way back across the ramparts and away from the Tower in silence. Rob saw a raven hopping about on the grass, close to the gravelled path. The bird was pulling a coil of gut from something dead, a cat or rat. He didn’t have the stomach to stop and work out which.
His boss mumbled something: ‘A clean corner.’
‘I beg your pardon?’ Rob glanced at Craig, bundled up against the cold in his thick overcoat and scarf.
‘That was my only ambition: to keep my corner clean – like the man said.’
‘I see.’
‘And I have tried, as God is my witness I have.’
Rob nodded. ‘I’m sure.’
‘But it isn’t easy.’
18 Lions
DATELINE: The Seti Hotel, Cairo, Egypt, January 30 2011
Carver had agreed to meet Patrick at the lion statues at Kasr Al Nil bridge and do some interviews there, talking to a few of the middle-class Cairenes who were making their way to Tahrir for the first time. This was Patrick’s idea but William was happy to go along with it – he owed his colleague one. Patrick had covered for Carver for the whole of yesterday, while William was confined to his room with a nasty-sounding stomach bug. Patrick had offered to call in at a chemist and get them to recommend some kind of treatment but William refused the offer. Apparently Jean had something that appeared to be working.
After he’d finished with Patrick and London got off his back, Carver planned to try and meet up with Nawal so he could record her version of how she came across the Brit-made tear gas canisters. He’d feel better once he had that in the can. Carver checked his plastic bag and decided to chuck in another box of batteries alongside the MiniDisc recorder, his notebook and pens. He dug around in the bottom of the bag in a fruitless hunt for an inhaler and took another five minutes searching various jacket and trouser pockets before he found one buried at the bottom of his suitcase. He was sure he had two or even three but there was only one left. Carver gave the blue device a shake and got a half-full-sounding rattle in return – good enough. He dropped it in the plastic bag, took one more look around and left the room.
Steve clocked Carver the moment the lift doors opened and kept a close eye on him as he walked across the lobby.
‘Tahrir Square today, is it, Billy?’
This nickname was both unwelcome and unconvincing – the former Special Forces man’s tone was less than friendly.
‘Possibly.’
‘Right, well then, you’re going to need the flak jacket for starters.’
Carver waited while Steve selected the right size for him from a leaning tower of Kevlar jackets he’d constructed next to the stone sphinx. He pulled the blue vest on over his shirt; it was heavy but not nearly as bad as the old jackets used to be. He pulled the front flap down over his groin and then waited while Steve studied his clipboard.
‘I need to ask whether you want to take the respirator?’
‘No.’
‘I thought that’s what you’d say. You’ve got your inhaler though?’
Carver nodded.
‘Plenty of Salbutamol in there, is there? Mind if I take a look?’
William handed the giant his plastic bag and waited while Steve found the inhaler and gave it a shake.
‘Looks like you’re good to go then, Billy-boy.’ Steve stuffed the inhaler back in the plastic bag and handed it over. ‘Take care.’
There was a long queue of people waiting for taxis outside and not a cab in sight. Carver decided it would be quicker to walk than to wait. He took it slow, but the flak jacket – which had felt light to begin with – became increasingly burdensome. It took him over an hour to reach the bridge and the walk had taken its toll; looking down he saw a sweaty tide mark under each arm. Carver realised that he hadn’t agreed with Patrick which end of the bridge to meet at. He moved into the shade of one of the huge lions and tried his phone but there was no signal. Either the government had pulled the plug again or the network was just overloaded.
Looking to his left he saw that the next bridge along was where the real action was. Several lines of police were massed at one end of the October Sixth Bridge, facing an angry-looking crowd at the other. The police were trying to block any more people from reaching Tahrir Square and missiles were being thrown. Carver was considering whether the crowd noise he could hear from his position was worth recording when he felt someone at his back and turned. A homeless man, with fleshy stumps where his hands should be, was struggling with a slab of stinking foam – attempting to wrestle the makeshift mattress he’d slept on last night back into a black plastic sack. Carver wondered where the man had been sleeping; underneath the bridge he guessed. He put his bag down, found some money and after an awkward exchange during which he realised the man had no obvious way of accepting the notes, pressed the cash into the man’s filthy jeans pocket. The man dropped the foam mattress to the floor, covered his heart with one stump and bowed.
‘Shukraan.’
Carver nodded. The crowd around him was growing now; demonstrators frustrated by the blockade on the neighbouring bridge were attempting to reach Tahrir Square using this route. But there was still no sign of Patrick; either he was late or he was at the other end of Kasr Al Nil. Carver set off across the bridge, trying to stay as close to the side as possible and away from the crowd. He heard a familiar popping sound and looking over at October Sixth saw that police in riot gear had arrived and were firing tear gas. A light wind carried the gas in Carver’s direction – down on the river he could see smoke from the canisters drifting towards him across the water.
He concentrated on his breathing: in through the nose, out through the mouth but he could feel his throat starting to tighten. He glanced down at his bag but kept walking – best to save the inhaler for when he really needed it. He caught sight of an old woman who was moving among the crowd handing out halved onions to protect against the gas; Carver took one of these and gave it a sniff. It delivered a jolt of something – a sharp hot stink like smelling salts, but the relief was temporary. He pulled away the brown papery skin and tried again, pressing the onion hard against his nose and mouth, inhaling deeply. It wasn’t helping and the gas had reached him now.
William felt like he was being strangled, his windpipe slowly crushed; the panic that came with that feeling was hastening the process.
‘Fuck it.’
He reached into his bag for the inhaler, his hand scrambling around among his stuff trying to find it. But it wasn’t there. He patted at his pockets, although he was sure the thing had been in his bag. He crouched down and checked the contents of the plastic carrier. He saw boxes of batteries, his MiniDisc recorder, notebooks and pens and a sandwich he should have thrown away days ago, but no inhaler. He struggled to his feet, coughing violently as he did so. William felt like someone was standing on his chest. He stood and patted at his pockets again but found nothing. People moved past him and pushed into him, carrying him forward against his will. Carver was too far in to go back. And he was suffocating.
The Way of Sorrows (iv)
Near Keren, Eritrea
The yellow taxi pulled into the petrol station forecourt, slowed and stopped. The station attendant was sitting on a wooden folding chair outside his office. The taxi was the only vehicle he’d seen in several hours and
he observed it with interest. The cabbie jumped from his seat – leaving the engine running – and started dragging his passengers’ luggage from the boot and dropping it on the ground. The attendant walked over, clearly hoping to sell some fuel or at least give the windscreen a clean in return for a few coins but the driver waved him away. Gebre was standing and stretching out his back when he realised that the cabbie was back behind the wheel and ready to drive off without a word.
‘Hey, what do we do now?’
‘Wait.’
‘For how long?’
The man shrugged, pushed the car into first gear and was gone.
The four young men wandered around for a while before settling in a thin strip of shade at the back of the garage, backs against the whitewashed wall. Solomon passed the time playing cards with Titus and Dumac while Gebre dozed. The stench of cigarette smoke and the sweat of his fellow passengers had made sleep impossible during the journey from Asmara but he slept now, slept and dreamed.
In his dream, he and Solomon were standing on top of a tall building; it was early morning with a ribbon of red sun on the horizon and they were staring northwards. As Gebre watched, his brother grew wings – not feathered or fleshy but good solid, steel wings which Solomon could move as easily as he would move his arms but which were twice as long. Solomon took a few steps back from the edge of the building and encouraged Gebre to climb on to his back and lock his hands around his neck. Once he was sure that Gebre was holding tight, Solomon ran and launched himself into the air. They fell and they fell – and then they flew. When Gebre woke, he told his brother about his dream.
‘Even in dreams I have to do all the work, flapping away while you do the sightseeing.’
After two hours of waiting, a white Toyota flatbed truck pulled up at the front of the service station. The car had no licence plates and what appeared to be a full load of passengers. Gebre counted eight men and three women crushed into the back of the vehicle, all either sitting on or clinging to their suitcases and bags. The driver was a round-faced Sudanese man with a short temper. After noisily relieving himself against the garage wall, he climbed up on to the riser at the back of the Toyota and started shouting and manhandling his cargo so enough room could be found for his final four passengers. Gebre was the last to climb in, passing their suitcase up to Solomon who was standing looking around for somewhere to put it; there was nowhere. The Sudanese driver grew impatient at this further delay and, jumping back up, grabbed the case and thrust it on to the lap of an old man who was sitting squashed in the corner. The man put up no fight, folding his arms across the boys’ bag and giving Gebre a nod of reassurance.
‘I have it, friend.’
‘Thank you.’
The driver performed a quick head count, pulling a scrap of paper from his pocket to check the number tallied. Solomon was sitting closest to him.
‘Where do you drive us to now, brother?’
‘Omdurman.’
Solomon shook his head. ‘We were told you would take us to Khartoum.’
The driver laughed loudly and walked away.
Once out of earshot, the old man tapped Gebre on the shoulder. ‘It is okay. Omdurman is close to Khartoum, just across the Nile River. He is taking us to the right place.’
‘Thank you.’ Gebre remembered his grandfather’s advice about making connections. ‘I am Gebre, this is my brother, Solomon.’
‘An honour. I am Simon.’
Their grandfather had warned the brothers that this leg of their trip would involve at least twelve hours of near continuous driving and their fellow passengers confirmed this. The Toyota had to get them across the Eritrean border at an unguarded point and then through eastern Sudan to within striking distance of the capital Khartoum.
Simon had made the journey before: ‘You have to remove the word dignity from your dictionary, my friend.’
Gebre amused himself for a while by thinking of all the other words he would have to remove: privacy, comfort, space … the list was long. Solomon was less sanguine about the situation; he had folded his large frame into as small a space as possible and it was not long before his muscles started to cramp. More upsetting than his own discomfort was the distress he was causing the woman next to him. Every sharp brake or jolt the truck made pushed him hard against her. She was uncomplaining but that only made Solomon feel worse.
After four hours of driving, the Sudanese man slowed the truck and stopped. His passengers watched him climb from the car with a jerry can of petrol and walk round to fill the tank. A couple of men, Titus among them, pleaded with the man for a few minutes outside the car so they could stretch their legs and relieve themselves.
‘One minute.’
Solomon saw his opportunity; he’d noticed that the passenger seat in the Toyota was empty save for the Sudanese man’s lunch, a couple of mobile phones and a crumpled map. While other passengers stretched their legs, Solomon took the travel documents Mr Adam had given them from the suitcase and approached the driver.
‘Sir, may I ask a question?’
The driver grunted his consent.
‘We have paid for the VIP journey …’ He showed the driver the piece of paper. ‘I do not ask for special treatment for myself but I wonder if you could carry the woman I am sitting next to in the front of your car – for her greater comfort?’ Solomon smiled hopefully.
‘Let me see this.’ The driver took the piece of paper from its plastic wallet and studied it. ‘VIP journey you paid for?’
Solomon nodded.
‘I did not realise. Now I understand.’ He turned and walked a few paces, seemingly reading the letter as he went.
Solomon and Gebre watched and Gebre suspected that the man was having trouble understanding the words, barely literate in any language.
The man turned back and faced the group; he had the letter in his left hand and with his right he unbuckled his belt and dropped his trousers and boxer shorts, then – crouching in the sand – he defecated noisily before using Solomon’s letter to wipe his backside. He stood and held the shit-covered piece of paper out for all to see before pressing it down into the sand and giving the group a broad, gap-toothed smile. ‘This is what your VIP letter is worth here.’
19 Close Calls
DATELINE: Tahrir Square, Cairo, Egypt, January 30 2011
It was blind luck that brought Carver and Patrick together; they almost walked into each other as several streams of protesters merged into one at the Tahrir Square end of the bridge. Carver spotted Patrick and elbowed his way through a group of men in white robes to reach him, grabbing him by the arm.
It took Patrick a second to recognise the grey-faced Carver; he looked dreadful. ‘Jesus, William, are you all right?’
Carver shook his head; he was reluctant to use his last breath to explain that he couldn’t bloody breathe.
‘Asthma?’
He nodded at his colleague. Patrick turned away and for a moment Carver feared he was about to leave him; he gripped his arm tighter.
‘Don’t worry, I’m just gonna …’ Patrick untangled his rucksack from his Kevlar vest and groping around at the bottom of the bag found a blue inhaler. Carver grabbed it from him and shook it; it was full. He put it to his mouth and fired a puff of Salbutamol as far back into his throat as he could, holding his breath. He took two more long puffs and then stood still, eyes closed, holding hard to Patrick’s arm. After a minute or so the colour had returned to his face and Carver was able to speak.
‘What the hell are you doing with my inhaler?’
‘You asked me to look after it.’
‘Did I?’ William tried to remember. ‘I did, I gave you my spare.’
‘That’s right.’ Patrick pointed in the direction of the Royal View on the far side of the square. ‘How about you go have a lie down in my room? Take it easy for a while?’ He offered to walk over with him if William wanted.
Carver let go of Patrick’s arm and pushed him gently away. ‘I don’t need a bl
oody lie down. I need to think.’
They headed instead for the nearest café and Carver took a seat at one of the outdoor tables. He ordered a strong coffee and a piece of syrupy cake and ate these while Patrick went and worked, collecting the interviews with new arrivals in Tahrir. Carver had another look through his plastic bag and trouser pockets to confirm that the only inhaler he had with him now was the one Patrick was looking after. He stirred some sugar into his coffee and tried to replay the last couple of hours in his mind.
The streets had been busy, the bridge more than busy … teeming. Any number of people could have dipped a hand into his bag and taken the inhaler. It was completely plausible. The trouble was, Carver didn’t buy it. Not for a second.
Carver found Security Steve where they’d parted – standing next to a stack of Kevlar jackets just inside the entrance to the hotel. He strode up to him, his voice raised. ‘You never put that inhaler back in my bag, Steve, did you? You pretended to, but you didn’t.’
Steve shook his head slowly; he reached into his camo jacket pocket and brought out William’s grey inhaler.
‘It fell on the floor, Billy. I went after you, but you’d gone.’
‘You’re a bloody liar. Who asked you to do that? Who are you working for?’
Steve smiled at William. ‘You’ve had an asthma attack, Billy, you’re still short on oxygen. You’re not thinking straight.’
‘Bollocks.’
Steve moved his head closer to Carver’s and lowered his voice. ‘You dropped your inhaler, William. You need to be more careful, you need to be more careful about all sorts of things from what I hear. Or you might get hurt. Properly hurt.’
Carver studied Steve; every part of him appeared hard and impenetrable. The only thing about him that looked soft was his big doughy face. So Carver hit him there, smack on the nose. It was such an unexpected development that Steve made no attempt to move – either to block the blow or to avoid it. He took the punch, which wasn’t a bad one, then lifted his fingers to his face and saw that he was bleeding.
A Single Source Page 17
