A Single Source

by Peter Hanington

  ‘Your hobby?’

  ‘Yes, this is the correct word?’

  ‘A hobby, a pursuit.’

  ‘Yes, something for pleasure. An Englishman like you gave me this word – he gave me his hobby: I watch the birds.’ Akar pointed at the table, on which sat a pair of binoculars in a battered brown leather case and a copy of the Collins Field Guide to the Birds of Britain and Europe.

  Carver recognised the book; its blue cover was familiar, and he had a vague memory of his mother owning the same edition.

  Mr Akar picked up the book and handed it to him. ‘I write all the birds I see.’

  Flicking through the pages Carver saw that Akar had ringed many of the neat little illustrations: egret, Egyptian nightjar. ‘Many different birds fly here and stop, beautiful things you can see. The Egyptian people believe that the gods appear to us as birds. I believe this.’

  Mr Akar was interrupted by a tentative knocking at the window behind him. Carver turned to see a large man in chef’s whites standing in the doorway holding a silver tray. The man pulled the door open with his free hand and glanced around nervously before addressing his boss.

  ‘Sir, you tell me to bring the Tutankhamun here?’

  The hotel manager nodded. ‘That is correct, chef, put it here …’

  He moved the binoculars and the big man set the tray down gently and stepped back so that his boss and his guest could admire his creation. There on the tray, on a bright white serving plate, stood a golden pyramid, constructed entirely from spun sugar. Inside the pyramid was a coffin-shaped object, a miniature version of Tutankhamun’s tomb made from dark chocolate, milk chocolate mousse and gold leaf. Carver bent down for a closer look. The detail was meticulous, the overall effect impressive.

  William had heard about the Tutankhamun dessert but he’d never seen it himself. The Seti Hotel had invented the dish back in the 1970s and it was mentioned in guidebooks. The Tutankhamun was obviously a novelty rather than a significant culinary breakthrough but it had helped put the hotel on the map and made it a lot of money down the years.

  ‘Thank you, chef, you can go.’

  The chef’s shoulders slumped at this lukewarm reception but he left without complaint. Once its creator was out of earshot, Mr Akar felt free to lavish it with praise.

  ‘It is a special thing, is it not? I have not served this dish for some time, but I wanted to see if the chef was still capable and I thought that you would appreciate it.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘You must eat.’ Akar encouraged William to sit. ‘We will test it together.’

  ‘Test it?’

  ‘Yes, I am expecting an important guest, a friend to me and this hotel who I think will visit soon. When he comes, he will want the Tutankhamun.’ Mr Akar sat and unbuttoned his suit jacket; he lifted his tie and draped it back over his shoulder. There were two forks on the tray and he handed one to Carver and took the other. The hotel manager broke a careful hole in the sugary pyramid and excavated a forkful of chocolate.

  Carver followed suit on his side of the pudding with more serious consequences both for the pyramid and the crypt. He shovelled a mix of dark chocolate and gold leaf into his mouth and washed it down with a swallow of whisky.

  Akar watched him. ‘It is good?’

  He nodded. ‘It is.’ It was delicious.

  ‘Yes, my chef can still make this dish well. We should celebrate this.’ Akar left Carver eating and went inside to get his glass and the bottle; on his return he poured them both a generous double. ‘You appreciate good whisky and you appreciate good food, you are a man of appetites. We are similar I think …’

  Carver ignored this, concentrating instead on what was left of the tomb; if he had one complaint, it might be that the coffin was a little on the small side.

  ‘And we both appreciate beauty too.’ Akar retrieved the binoculars and handed them over. ‘Look, please …’

  Carver put his fork down somewhat reluctantly and took the glasses. He trained them on the highest of the tall pine trees that flanked the pool and adjusted the focus. The magnification and clarity were impressive but he saw no birds.

  ‘Some evening I will see the African swallows, sparrows, jays. I can see all of those.’

  ‘Not much around right now.’

  ‘No, no. But even without birds there are things to see.’ He paused. ‘You and Zahra for instance.’ He laughed – an unconvincing sound.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘Please, do not be embarrassed. Zahra is a very pretty girl.’ He licked his lips. ‘But she is not the right girl for you. If you are looking for a younger girl then I can—’

  Carver had heard enough. ‘I have no interest in Zahra, not in that way. She helped with some translation, a little local knowledge, that’s all.’

  Akar fell silent and stared at the table. Carver waited while he absorbed this information.

  ‘I see. I was mistaken. Misled, I should say. I suspected as much but I wanted to give her the benefit of the doubt. I apologise.’

  Carver waved his apology away. ‘Zahra’s smart, hardworking, you are lucky to have her.’

  Akar nodded. ‘She is the best employee I have – a woman of all work I used to say. I have known her since she was a little girl. I know her family well, her father and mother. When one thousand people want a job, I give it to her.’

  Carver nodded. ‘Good choice.’

  ‘Yes, I made the good choice, I did a good deed. I do many good deeds for Zahra and her family but she is not so grateful. Not anymore anyway.’

  ‘She works hard. Isn’t that enough?’

  The hotel manager shook his head. ‘We all have to be grateful – grateful to the people who help us. That is how the world works.’

  Carver studied Mr Akar. Until now he’d considered the hotel manager to be a simple crook – a crook and a creep. He was beginning to think that he might have underestimated him.

  ‘I have looked after Zahra for a long time, I have kept her safe. But I cannot do it for ever. She needs to be careful.’

  ‘Careful of what?’

  ‘Careful with the company she keeps, careful what she does when she is not here – under my protection.’ Akar took a swallow of whisky; his face twitched at the strength of the drink. ‘Would you like me to tell you what is going to happen here in Egypt, Mr Carver? Isn’t that what you and all the other news people want to know?’

  ‘I guess.’

  Akar poured another inch of whisky into both glasses. ‘The President will wait until you all get bored of Egypt, until you’ve packed up and gone home and then he will teach the demonstrators their lesson. In a few weeks, all these young people you see on the streets will be in jail or in hospital. Or dead.’ Akar delivered his prediction in a very matter-of-fact way.

  Carver shrugged. He did not want to debate with this man. ‘Perhaps. You could be right.’

  ‘I am right.’ Akar finished his drink and placed his glass down a little sharply on the cast-iron table. ‘You say that Zahra does these things for you. Translation and information and so on. What does she receive in return?’ Akar tried his best to make this sound like a casual enquiry but his face betrayed him.

  ‘She receives money. I pay her, like you.’

  ‘Is that so? She hasn’t asked you to help one of her troublesome friends? Or look after something for her?’

  Carver shook his head. The hotel manager had tipped his hand and both men knew it.

  ‘Who’s asking, Mr Akar? Not you, I think.’

  ‘Of course me. I ask you so I can help Zahra.’ He pointed a shaky finger at Carver. The last whisky had been one too many – he was drunk. ‘I care for her, not like you. If all you people would go away then I could keep her safe. I could …’ He shook his head. ‘It doesn’t matter.’ Akar looked at his watch. ‘What is done is done.’

  Carver rushed back to his room. Whoever had searched it in his absence had been thorough. From what he could see, every drawer and cupb
oard, bag and pocket had been checked. He switched his mobile phone back on and called Zahra.

  Carver lay back on the bed with a cold, damp flannel over the left side of his face. He had a hard headache behind that eye. The tap on his bedroom door was so light that at first he didn’t hear it; the second knock was firmer and Carver walked over in stocking feet and put his good eye to the peephole. His encounter with Mr Akar and the knowledge that his room had been searched had unnerved him. He saw a round-faced version of Zahra on the other side and opened the door. She strode in.

  ‘What did Akar want?’

  Carver noted that she had dropped the honorific. No longer Mr Akar, just a surname. He decided on a straightforward chronological telling: he told Zahra about her boss’s fondness for bird-watching: ‘birds and whatever else he can see from that terrace …’ He told her that Akar had seen the two of them talking and assumed that Carver was propositioning her. ‘Ridiculous of course, insulting in fact.’

  Zahra didn’t seem surprised, nor particularly interested – not in Carver’s reputation nor her own. ‘Could he have seen Nawal from where you stood? When she came to meet you? Is there a clear view of the storeroom?’

  William tried to remember. ‘You can see the pool and the bar. But not the storeroom, I don’t think so anyway. If I were you, Zahra, I’d be worrying less about Nawal and more about yourself.’ The flannel felt warm now, the same temperature as his swollen face. He dropped it on the floor. ‘Akar obviously has some idea of what you’re up to – you and Nawal. He told me you need to be careful.’

  Zahra had remained standing and now started to pace between bed and bathroom. ‘Careful. Careful, hadhdar … I have heard this word all my life, ever since I was a small girl. First I learned to say mother, then father and then they taught me careful.’ She stopped pacing. ‘Nawal says that the time for being careful is over. It is time to be brave.’ She stared at Carver, daring him to contradict her.

  ‘You can be brave and still be careful.’ Carver wasn’t sure he believed this, but it felt like the right thing to say anyway. He told Zahra about Mr Akar’s ham-fisted attempt to find out if she’d given him anything to look after. ‘I don’t think Akar knew what he was asking for, it felt like a fishing exercise.’

  Zahra nodded.

  ‘And then when I got back here afterwards, my bloody room had been searched.’

  He waited for the gravity of this news, the seriousness of the situation to impact on Zahra but she simply stood and processed the information.

  ‘Did they find the gas canister Nawal gave you?’

  ‘No. Jean has it.’

  ‘That’s good. None of this will have been Akar’s idea, he will have been following orders.’

  ‘Whose orders? Who do you think is doing the ordering?’

  Zahra paused. Before she’d arrived, Carver had been worried that telling her about the meeting with Akar, his veiled threats against her and the searching of his room might frighten her. In fact, she’d shown no trace of fear – none until now.

  ‘Colonel Balit.’

  ‘You’re joking?’

  Zahra shook her head. ‘It does not worry us. Soon it will not matter. Akar and Abdul Balit and all the others will be gone – swept away with the change; everything will change.’

  Carver felt the way he always did when confronted with absolute conviction: both impressed and at the same time completely unconvinced. ‘Perhaps.’

  Zahra shook her head. ‘Not perhaps – certainly. You haven’t heard what has happened this evening. Tahrir is full; the police had no choice but to withdraw. The square is ours. Only the army are there and they are with the people, they will side with us against the President. Look …’ Zahra handed Carver her phone.

  On it Tsquare Lawan’s Twitter feed – written by Nawal, translated by Zahra and read now by nearly two hundred thousand people. Carver scrolled through a few of the most recent postings. The tweets they believed heralded a great change.

  @tsquarelawan

  News just in: the laundry workers have joined the protests! And the Tora cement factory workers!

  @tsquarelawan

  No plan to march on presidential palace, embassies, ministries, state TV. Not yet! Just pack Tahrir.

  @tsquarelawan

  These past few days we have won battles. This evening we will win a war!

  William skim-read the tweets and handed the phone back – he got the idea.

  Zahra looked at him. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘I think you should use the exclamation mark more sparingly’ – Zahra glanced at her phone – ‘and I think you should dial down the excitement. It’s still too early to know what’s going to happen here. Much too early’

  She nodded. ‘Nawal says exactly the same. She says revolutions take weeks or months – not days.’

  ‘And the rest. Where are we meeting Nawal by the way? I need to tape that interview soon as.’ His encounter with Mr Akar and the searching of his hotel room made recording Nawal’s story seem all the more urgent.

  ‘It is all arranged. My shift finishes in a couple of hours and then we will go.’

  23 Traitors and Heroes

  DATELINE: Ministry of Defence, Whitehall, London SW1, January 31 2011

  ‘Walk with me, will you, Robert?’

  The permanent secretary had arrived unexpectedly at Mariscal’s desk, causing a hush to fall across the open-plan office.

  ‘Of course.’

  While Rob struggled into his suit jacket, Craig surveyed the mess that was Mariscal’s desk. Rob was reaching for his overcoat, which was hanging on a nearby stand, when his boss stopped him.

  ‘You won’t be needing that, we’re staying inside.’ Craig was aware that his deputy and Rob’s line manager, Mr Fielding, was watching them from his cubicle across the aisle.

  Eventually he plucked up the courage to speak. ‘Perhaps there’s something that I can help you with, Permanent Secretary?’

  ‘No thank you, Mr Fielding.’

  ‘I see. You seem to be taking a strong interest in our communications strategy these days. Judging by the amount of time you’re spending with Mr Mariscal.’

  Craig shot his deputy a warning glance. A warning that Fielding chose to ignore.

  ‘Perhaps I should remind you, Mr Craig, that I am Rob’s immediate superior.’

  By this time any low-level chatter in the open-plan office had ceased. Craig stared hard at his deputy.

  ‘Immediate and superior.’ He paused. ‘I must say that when I think of you, Mr Fielding, neither of those words come to mind.’

  If a collective intake of breath can be loud then this one was.

  ‘Are you ready, Robert?’

  They took the lift to the top floor of the ministry and then walked to the far end of the building where some renovation work was being done. Craig strode across the building site, pulling clear plastic curtains aside as he went. They ended up at a dust-covered window overlooking Whitehall.

  ‘They’ve ripped out pretty much everything on this floor, I believe. Including the bugs …’ He looked around. ‘Or we must hope so anyway.’ He smiled at Rob. ‘So I need to ask you something.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘A hypothetical.’

  ‘Sure.’

  Craig asked Rob to imagine that a British arms company had sold some equipment they shouldn’t to a country that was currently subject to export restrictions

  Rob took a punt. ‘A country like Egypt? Hypothetically speaking?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Great. So dob them in.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘Throw the book at them. The timing’s perfect – we make a big song and dance of it and people see the MOD doing the right thing. It’ll lend weight to our case against the budget cuts.’

  Rob waited for Craig to acknowledge this stroke of genius but his boss seemed unimpressed.

  ‘That won’t do.’ The civil servant lifted his finger and drew a line down the d
usty window. ‘This company, their interests and ours … overlap.’ He looked at Rob, who was staring back, eyebrows raised. Craig tutted. ‘I wish you didn’t get that lupine look to you every time I tell you something vaguely confidential, Robert.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘This isn’t some silky conspiracy we’re talking about. It’s simply how things are – for now at least. So dobbing them in, as you put it, won’t work. I’d like you to try and think of something else.’ He examined his finger, took a handkerchief from his breast pocket and wiped it clean. ‘How often do you see your old colleague William Carver these days?’

  Craig’s tone suggested that this was an innocent enquiry but Rob knew better. The permanent secretary didn’t deal in non-sequiturs.

  ‘Not very often.’

  ‘But now and again?’

  Craig was pushing at one of Rob Mariscal’s few sore points. ‘As far as William’s concerned I betrayed him, our profession and every principle he holds dear. So, no, we don’t speak now and again. We don’t speak at all.’

  Craig nodded. ‘Right, well we might have to revisit that.’

  ‘I take it that it’s Carver who’s got wind of this story then?’

  ‘It looks like it, an element of it anyway.’

  ‘Then I hope your hypothetical friend is ready for the fight of his life.’

  Craig met Mariscal’s eye. ‘I fear he is.’ The civil servant looked at his watch. ‘Remind me of the name of the young woman who replaced you at the Today programme – the coloured lady? Holder is it?’

  Rob stared at his shoes. ‘Naomi. Naomi Holder.’

  DATELINE: Tahrir Square, Cairo, Egypt, January 31 2011

  Nawal had asked her followers to pack Tahrir and packed it was. How many? A hundred thousand? Maybe more. She’d heard Al Jazeera reporting over a million but that was just TV people getting over-excited. There were reports of soldiers deserting and government ministers tendering their resignations but she didn’t re-tweet any of that – not until she was sure of her facts.

  @tsquarelawan