A Single Source

by Peter Hanington

  ‘I used to like to eat at the Marriot but these days there is nothing decent there for a man to close his jaws upon. The last time I visited with them, I was given an empanada. It tasted like an English shoe.’

  Mr Akar led a short chorus of laughter from the handful of staff who had arrived in the room. Carver glanced around; Zahra was not among them and he was grateful for that.

  ‘Some say that the Hilton has better food than here but I have always preferred the Seti. You know how to run your kitchen, Mr Akar.’

  The hotel manager blushed and practically folded himself in two with the bow he performed. Carver watched. It was obvious that Akar was Colonel Balit’s creature. His lapdog.

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  ‘You still serve the special dessert, I hope?’

  Mr Akar lifted his head just high enough to speak and be heard. ‘Not for some time, but this evening, of course.’

  Balit gave a nod and glanced meaningfully at his empty shot glass. Akar hurried to the colonel’s side, filling the glass with slow-flowing icy vodka. Balit tossed the glass down in one. Carver saw a shiver of pleasure move his shoulders; he caught Akar’s eye and glanced at his own glass but Akar ignored him. It seemed that the frozen Stolichnaya was for the colonel only.

  The guest of honour turned to Jean. ‘I am sorry it has taken a little while to arrange this meeting, Miss Fitzgerald. I’ve been rather busy. I’m sure you understand?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘I’ve been looking forward to seeing you again.’ He eyed his guest from her waist up and down again, settling on her cleavage. ‘I see that time has been kind.’

  Jean responded with a smile that Carver thought could have taught the sphinx on the mantelpiece a thing or two.

  After supervising the initial filling of his plate, Balit reached into his tunic pocket and took out two mobile phones, placing them next to his collection of wine and water glasses. Occasionally the larger of the two phones would emit a low hum and Balit would glance at the screen and then ignore it.

  The first dish to take the colonel’s fancy was a sticky couscous with raisins that he started to eat with a fork but when that wouldn’t transport the food in the quantities and at the speed required, switched to using his fingers. ‘What are we to talk about then? The weather perhaps?’ He lifted a pair of bushy grey eyebrows in Jean’s direction while pushing handfuls of the couscous into his greedy maw.

  ‘Well, Colonel Balit, perhaps we should start with the political situation.’

  Balit tutted. ‘How unimaginative – the weather would be more interesting.’ Balit glanced at Akar who laughed again, lapdog and loyal audience.

  Jean persevered: ‘The protests are getting bigger every day. Tahrir is full to overflowing. How do you reckon the President will respond?’

  Balit kept eating. ‘To what?’

  ‘To the demands of the people, Colonel.’

  Balit shook his head. ‘The demands of some people, not the people.’

  Jean shrugged.

  ‘You need to remember that Egypt is engaged in an existential battle – with radical Islam and other enemies.’ The colonel made a list of these enemies: the Muslim Brotherhood, the Iranians, Hamas, the Israelis and other unnamed foreign forces and infiltrators.

  As Carver listened he wondered how much of this Balit actually believed and how much was simply well-learned lines he felt obliged to repeat, regardless of the audience. Carver had done his research: Colonel Balit was not just the President’s right hand and his enforcer, he was also the man who made sure that the one and a half billion dollars that America paid to Egypt every year arrived safely. It was the colonel whom the President trusted to do the quiet deals with Israel too. Yet here he was warning about the influence of foreign forces. When Balit finished listing the many forces ranged against Egypt, Carver cleared his throat.

  ‘Those are your enemies, Colonel, but isn’t the real problem now your friends? Are the Americans still taking your telephone calls these days? Are you worried that they might be about to choose democracy over stability?’

  Balit smiled. ‘An interesting question.’ He pointed a greasy finger at Carver. ‘That is an interesting question.’ He took his napkin from its ring and wiped his hands. ‘It seems to me that the Americans, you English, all of Europe – you are hypnotised by this Arab Spring. You are in love with it. In love like a teenager is in love … with no limit and no intelligence.’ The colonel lifted his plate, which Akar duly filled with lamb. ‘What else am I to think when I read that the American President would like some boy who works for Google to be the leader of Egypt? The American President says this!’ He shook his head. ‘You said it yourself, Mr Carver, some have decided to place democracy before stability. Fortunately not everyone, but some.’

  Carver would have liked to have pursued this point but he was struggling with a particularly stubborn lump of gristle.

  ‘They believe we have outstayed our welcome.’ Balit paused. ‘And perhaps a few of us have.’

  Carver swallowed the chunk of half-chewed meat. ‘The President?’

  Balit pushed his plate to one side and pointed at his bowl. Akar arrived with the bouillabaisse and filled it to the brim with the rich, red dish. The smell of fish and spice filled the room.

  ‘The President might decide that he has no option but to step aside. This might happen.’

  There was silence for a time, Jean and Carver weighing the colonel’s words.

  ‘Then you would have to go as well.’

  Balit shrugged. ‘Not necessarily. The people that you talk about – the young people cluttering up Tahrir Square – they hate the politicians, they hate the police but they do not hate the army. Egyptians love the army and even when they do not love it, they know they need it. Myself, I have always been more a soldier than a politician.’ Balit pointed at his vodka glass and Akar filled it. ‘Thank you, Mr Akar.’

  ‘You are welcome, my Colonel.’

  Mr Akar moved away and back to his position alongside the grandfather clock. Carver had noticed that the clock was gaining time and in between his other duties, Akar occasionally had to push the minute hand backwards.

  ‘Take this uniform that I am wearing.’ Balit pointed a thumb in the direction of his army tunic. ‘The jacket was my father’s jacket. These uniforms last for ever – even when the men who wear them crease or fray or die, the uniform does not. You understand? The army endures and whatever happens next here in Egypt, the people will need to be led.’

  Balit sipped at his vodka. ‘We Egyptians have had a Pharaoh or a man much like a Pharaoh for five thousand years and that is not an accident. The President is old, maybe he will step aside. But if that happens, we will simply replace him with a new President, a new Pharaoh. It is what Egypt wants – it is what we need.’

  Carver was shaking his head. ‘If the protesters get their way then there will be elections.’

  ‘I do not fear an election.’

  William stifled a laugh, the penny had dropped. ‘You would stand?’

  ‘If called upon.’

  ‘And you think people would vote for you?’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Well, I think you may have tortured a few too many of your fellow citizens to win a popular vote.’

  Balit slammed his vodka glass down on to his empty plate, breaking it cleanly in half. Jean saw the cabling in Balit’s neck harden and watched him wrestle with his temper. At that moment, the smaller phone rang – a loud and urgent sound. Colonel Balit grabbed the phone, picked up the vodka bottle and strode out on to the terrace with Mr Akar scuttling after him. The hotel manager returned a few moments later and glared at Carver.

  ‘It is a great honour to sit down with the colonel, you need to show respect.’

  William looked at the hotel manager; his beady eyes shone. The man was a mongrel – part lapdog, part attack dog.

  When the colonel returned from the terrace, the vodka bottle was empty; he thrust it back into
its ice bucket and called for a glass of wine. He drank this at the mantelpiece, staring at the wall. Carver looked at Balit’s broad back and listened to the clock tick. Eventually the colonel turned and took his seat.

  ‘I think it is time for the dessert.’

  Akar left the room and returned moments later, carrying a huge silver platter and, on it, the Tutankhamun. He placed it in front of the colonel and turned the silver plate, then moved some candles around until he was happy. The sight of the Tutankhamun had a calming effect on Abdul Balit; he took a sip of wine and stared at the spun sugar and gold leaf, glinting in the soft light of the candles.

  ‘I grew up in a mud-brick house on the bank of the Nile.’ He addressed these remarks to no one in particular, as though he were reminding himself. ‘The meal I ate most often was porridge made from camel milk and flour.’ Balit tapped gently at the spun sugar pyramid with his spoon. ‘I have eaten this dessert many times now. I ate it once – right here in this room – with the American Secretary of State.’ Balit looked at Jean. ‘Henry Kissinger.’

  She nodded.

  ‘Secretary Kissinger thought it was very amusing. I remember he ate very slowly: first the sugar, then the gold, then the casket. He eats carefully, Mr Kissinger. I felt like an animal by comparison. I apologised many times but he would not have it, he said that a healthy appetite was good. He said that he wished that he could eat like I eat.’ Balit ate a heaped spoonful of the chocolate mousse and washed it down with more wine. ‘In those times, if America was going to fuck you, then at least you would understand why. The strategy would be clear; sometimes Kissinger would call me himself. Now – nothing. This generation of politicians do not tell you what they are doing, because they do not know what they are doing.’ Balit reached for the wine bottle, getting there before Akar and refilling his own glass. ‘That was one reason I agreed to meet with you, Miss Fitzgerald. I thought it might be worth trying to remind your readers and your pygmy politicians of something.’

  Balit looked up from his plate and smiled at Jean, his grey eyebrows raised.

  ‘What’s that, Colonel?’

  Balit ran a thick thumb round his chocolate-covered plate and licked it clean. ‘You need men like me. We have been useful in the past and we will be even more useful in the future.’

  Jean shook her head. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘We are the guards at your gate. Egypt, Syria, Libya: these regimes you no longer seem to like, it is us who stand between Africa and you. What happens if we open the gate? Let Africa come, let Islam come too? How will you feel about this? Ask your readers and your politicians that for me, Miss Fitzgerald?’

  Jean nodded.

  ‘Thank you. I have another meeting that I must attend but I need a moment of Mr Carver’s time first. Will you excuse us?’

  The Way of Sorrows (x)

  Near Zuwara, northern Libya

  Persuading Solomon to accompany Gebre down to the shore with a spare pair of boxer shorts and an old towel was not easy.

  ‘I have the lifejacket.’

  ‘It isn’t enough, you need to be able to move from here to there’ – Gebre mimed a swimming stroke – ‘from the boat to the land or our boat to a rescue ship. You have to be able to move, not just bob around like a cork from a bottle.’ This argument seemed to be carrying some weight but Solomon was still unconvinced.

  ‘You can drag me to the right place, pull me by my jacket.’

  ‘And I will, if we are together, but what if we get separated?’

  ‘We will not be separated, I will make sure of that.’

  Gebre gave his brother a look of exasperation. ‘Remember what Grandfather said, Sol: the clever ones survive. We have to survive and the clever thing to do is practise some swimming. Ten minutes, that’s all.’

  In fact they were in the water for more than an hour, a lot of it spent with Gebre coaxing his brother out of the shallows into the darker water that he knew was more representative of what they would meet with when the day of the crossing came. If there had to be a swimming lesson then this was the perfect day for it. Although the sea was choppy close to shore, with some decent-sized waves, further out it was smooth with a gentle swell. The brothers stripped down to their underwear, hid their clothes under a pile of stones and waded out – Solomon wearing his bright orange lifejacket. It didn’t take long for Gebre to realise that his older brother wasn’t just uncomfortable in water, he was terrified of it.

  ‘Be calm.’

  ‘I am calm.’

  ‘Be more calm. I am holding you, and the jacket will hold you too.’ Gebre showed Solomon how to do a basic breaststroke, which he mastered without much trouble when it came to the arms but try as he might could not get his legs right. ‘It’s easy, Sol, move your legs like a frog.’

  ‘Why a frog?’

  ‘Because that is how the stroke works.’

  ‘This is stupid. A frog? A frog does not even swim so good.’

  ‘It swims better than you.’

  Solomon sucked at his teeth; he stopped and looked down through the blue water at his thick muscled legs.

  ‘I have a better idea.’ He started pedalling his legs and to his delight, this worked. He moved forward a few feet. ‘I will do my legs like this – the same as when I cycle.’ Solomon pedalled faster, his arms joined in with their beginner’s breaststroke and he was swimming. ‘Forget your stupid frog, I am cycling to Europe. Look!’

  Gebre looked, his face a broad smile.

  After the lesson they shuffled out of their pants, set them on a rock to dry and put their spare boxer shorts on. The brothers sat together, staring out at the now slightly less intimidating expanse of sea. Solomon raised his hand in what looked like a loose salute, shielding his eyes against the white sun. Using his thumb and forefinger he measured the thin strip of blue sea between this edge of land and the horizon.

  ‘Half a centimetre.’

  Gebre looked at his brother. ‘Eh?’

  ‘That’s all it is, between here and there. Half a centimetre of sea, that is all we have to cross.’ He showed Gebre his hand, the long fingers all but touching.

  ‘Right. Half a centimetre of sea straight ahead, a thousand miles of sea if we go east or west, enough sea to get lost in for ever.’

  It was an unspoken agreement, one that they’d kept to throughout the long journey: if one brother were being pessimistic the other would be positive and vice versa. It was Solomon’s turn to be the optimist.

  ‘One of the gang told me that the crossing can take just three hours, sometimes closer to two’ – he looked at his brother – ‘if the boat is good.’

  On the horizon, the starboard side of a long, expensive-looking yacht flashed in the sun, a dozen silver portholes winking like eyes. Solomon pointed at it. ‘Perhaps we will travel on something like that?’

  Gebre nodded. ‘Perhaps.’

  27 The Offer

  DATELINE: The Seti Hotel, Cairo, Egypt, February 2 2011

  The look that Jean gave William as she left the room was unambiguous: it warned him to be careful.

  Balit noticed. ‘Miss Fitzgerald worries about leaving you alone with me.’ He grinned. ‘Touching.’

  Carver said nothing.

  ‘My instinct tells me you are more than simply work colleagues?’

  Carver shook his head. ‘Your instinct is wrong, we haven’t seen each other in years. What is it you want, Colonel?’

  Balit sat back down at the head of the table and pointed a finger at his guest’s empty wine glass. Mr Akar grudgingly filled it.

  ‘You believe you know me, don’t you, Mr Carver?’

  Carver shrugged. ‘I know your type. I’ve met plenty like you, in other dark corners of the world.’

  Balit nodded. ‘I suppose that makes us even. I know your type too – arrogant Western journalists. You travel to places you don’t understand and pretend that you do. You raise people’s hopes, whip them up and then, when it gets difficult, when they get hurt, you cry a
few crocodile tears and run away.’ Balit stared at the table, a mess of plates and half-eaten food. ‘Mr Akar, will you clear this table for me, it upsets my eye.’

  The hotel manager nodded and left the room, returning moments later with Zahra at his side. He muttered something and Zahra set about removing the plates, serving bowls and dirty cutlery, keeping as much distance between herself and Abdul Balit as possible. As she moved around the table, the colonel watched her and when she left the room carrying an armful of plates he spoke.

  ‘It’s funny.’

  ‘What is?’

  ‘Usually, towards the end, when the spirit is almost broken, when the pain is too much, they call out for their mothers. Always the mother.’

  Carver looked away.

  ‘But not Nawal al-Moallem. She called out for this one.’ Balit pointed a finger at the door.

  Carver felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise. ‘Zahra?’

  ‘Yes. She asked for Zahra. Why do you think that is?’

  Carver looked down at his hands.

  ‘We both know. I have advised Akar to give up on her but he will not. He has been looking after this girl for years. She is never allowed to attend my special parties’ – he smiled at Carver – ‘although my guests often ask for her.’

  William pushed the glass away. ‘I think I’ve heard enough.’

  ‘No you haven’t. Not yet.’

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘We both have something that the other wants. I want you to give up on this silly story you are pursuing and return the items that were taken. If you agree to that, then Nawal al-Moallem will go free.’

  Carver shook his head. ‘All you’ve managed to do here, Colonel, is confirm that the story I’m working on is an important one.’

  Balit remained silent.

  ‘I won’t make a deal like that. I can’t.’