He bought the handset at Paddington and then waited for a group of Japanese tourists to take photos next to the row of red phone boxes outside the station before calling the Seti Hotel. When Zahra picked up, Carver kept it businesslike and so did she. He read his new phone number out twice to be on the safe side, told her that he hoped she was well and hung up.
He was back at home, sitting on the sofa watching the TV news with the pay-as-you-go phone balanced on the armrest next to him when it rang. The unfamiliar and overly loud sound made him jump.
‘Hello?’
‘Hey there, Billy, how you doing?’
Carver felt his pulse quicken at the sound of Jean’s voice. ‘I’m good, absolutely fine. Never mind me. How’re you? How’s Zahra?’
‘We’re okay. Battered but unbowed is what we are.’
‘What’s with the whole new phones thing?’
‘We had some trouble today. Only explanation I can think of is our phones are bugged – mine, Zahra’s, yours too I guess. But that’s not the headline. The headline is we’re making progress, I think you’ll be impressed.’
Carver was more than impressed. Jean told him about Nawal’s missing messages, how they’d found the stash of batons and bullets and crucially the other gas canister. They also had a witness, albeit an unwilling one. ‘They’re keeping the murdering bastard in a lock-up on the edge of the city. That seemed like a better idea than handing him over to the police or the army.’
‘Agreed, especially since he’s probably working for one or both.’
‘Zahra’s got a couple of Nawal’s football hooligan friends keeping an eye on him.’
‘Any clue exactly who might have hired him?’
‘Not yet, but he might feel more like talking when he starts getting hungry. Zahra’s told them no rough stuff.’ She paused. ‘So, what do you think?’
‘What do I think? I think you’re brilliant.’
‘Wanna come back and show me how grateful you are? Pick up where you left off?’
Carver coughed. ‘I do want to do that. But not quite yet, I’m making progress here too.’
‘Tell me.’
Carver told Jean about the time he’d been spending at Quadrel’s headquarters, about the kid he’d met who was trying to be helpful. ‘I think I’m beginning to get under their skin.’
‘I don’t doubt it. You can be bloody annoying.’
‘And there’s something else. An old contact of mine at Caversham. The listening station?’ He gave Jean a rough outline of the material McCluskey had given him.
‘This is turning into a proper dot-to-dot puzzle, isn’t it?’
‘I wanted to ask another favour, Jean, but I don’t want to take the piss.’
‘Bit late for that, Billy. Ask away, I’m fine. A bit of old-fashioned digging and a dose of hope is doing me more good than any of those pills I’ve been taking all these years.’
‘It’s about that priest of yours, Rumbek.’
The Way of Sorrows (xiv)
Forty-seven nautical miles SSW of Lampedusa
On the morning of the second day the engine failed. Neither the Ethiopian who’d been put in charge of the outboard nor anyone else in the dinghy seemed able to fix it. They began to drift in a direction different from the one they knew they needed to be heading in and an argument began over whether or when to make a distress call. Some of the people on board were scared of being ‘rescued’ by the Libyan coastguard and returned to Tripoli and prison or who knew what.
Gebre argued that this was unlikely; he remembered what Wanis had told him about the Libyans wanting to send a message to Europe – how they were the message. Even if the Libyan coastguard heard their distress call, he thought it was unlikely they’d answer it and more likely that they’d pass the problem on to the Italians or Greeks or someone else.
In the end a compromise was reached: the passengers agreed Gebre should try and call the Sudanese priest again. He made the call and Solomon read the coordinates from the navigation system to him twice and listened carefully as he repeated them to the priest. When he had finished the call he nodded and smiled at those close to him. ‘He knows where we are now, he will speak to the Italian coastguard and they will send help. He believes they will bring us to Italy. He says we are not to worry, we will be fine.’ Gebre turned to his brother. ‘He said he would try and get a message to Grandfather too. He’ll tell him and our mother not to worry.’
37 Missio
DATELINE: The Royal View Hotel, Tahrir Square, Cairo, Egypt, February 11 2011
@bigbeartahrir
It is departure day for the President.
@egyptismtahrir
Freedom loading: 99%
@mohammedktahrir
The people and the army. One hand.
Patrick looked up from his laptop; Jean Fitzgerald was standing smoking on the balcony outside his room.
‘Twitter seem to think today’s the day. What does it look like down there?’
Jean shrugged. ‘It’s full to bursting.’ She stared down at Tahrir; there was a carnival-like atmosphere without a doubt. She could hear speeches and music coming from different corners of the square. She turned to Patrick, who was sitting cross-legged on his bed. ‘Carver said he thought Tahrir could end up being the prettiest military coup he’d ever seen. You think there’s something in that?’
Patrick shrugged. ‘Most people still trust the army. Did you hear about the football match? The game between the protesters and the soldiers?’
Jean had heard about this, Carver had mentioned it, but she was interested to hear Patrick’s account. ‘Were you there?’
‘Yeah, I was recording it for a piece. They called it people versus army and they agreed a prize: whoever won, would win a tank.’
‘And the protesters won?’
‘Yeah, the people won, but they refused the prize. They said that winning was enough. Good story, huh?’
‘It’s a good story. Carver must have heard your piece, Patrick, he mentioned it too.’
‘What did he say?’
Jean smiled. ‘He said he thought the people should’ve taken the tank. He said he’s got a feeling they might end up needing it.’ She stubbed her cigarette out on the balcony railing and stepped back into the room ‘Any mention of my elusive priest on Twitter or Facebook?’
Patrick shook his head. ‘Nothing yet. You want to try the phone again?’
‘Nah, I’ve been calling him for days. I think Muhammad’s going to have to go to the mountain on this one – or whatever the Catholic equivalent of that is.’
They found Father Rumbek not far from the Tahrir Square cinema. Patrick was the first to spot him – a tall man in a dark suit and pristine white dog collar, busily arranging a gaggle of Coptic Christians into a protective ring surrounding a group of Muslims as they performed their lunchtime prayers. As they got closer, Patrick noticed that there were also several TV crews in attendance. He pointed this out to Jean, who nodded.
‘He’s a bit of a boaster, our Father Rumbek. I’m sure the telly people aren’t here by accident.’ She walked straight up to the priest and tapped him on the shoulder.
‘Miss Jean! What a joy to see you.’
‘Really? I thought maybe you were avoiding me?’
‘Not at all. Just so busy. No rest for the wicked nor for the good.’ He smiled. ‘What are these additional questions that you want to ask me?’
Jean told the priest that her newspaper wanted to syndicate the article she was writing about him, to sell it to American papers as well as publishing it in the UK. She wanted to clarify some of the religious terminology and a few other things. By the time she’d finished, Father Rumbek was nodding vigorously.
‘Of course, of course I do not want to confuse our American cousins. We will talk. But first I must hold mass. You will wait?’
‘Yes, happy to. That’s why all the TV crews are here, is it?’
‘It is.’ The priest caught something in Jean’s voice
– a change in tone. ‘The Holy Father himself often reminds us that Jesus used every method to spread the word. I am simply doing as he would, were he here in Tahrir.’
Father Rumbek smiled and went off to tend his flock and the expectant TV crews. Jean and Patrick watched from a short distance away as he arranged everyone. When he was done, Patrick nudged Jean’s arm.
‘He’s got a good eye for a wide shot.’
‘Yeah.’
Father Rumbek was in place and all ready to go when something crossed his mind. He removed his suit jacket and rolled up his sleeves and Jean had to admit that this added a certain something. Rumbek looked like he was off to chop wood, just as soon as he’d finished saying mass. The priest looked around and caught Jean’s eye.
‘Would you be kind enough to look after my jacket, Miss Jean?’
‘Sure.’
Father Rumbek was halfway into the Eucharistic prayer when his phone began to vibrate inside his pocket. Jean let it ring out a couple of times but on the third call she stepped back into the crowd and took the phone from his jacket pocket. The screen showed several missed calls and one unread message. There was something vaguely familiar about the repeat caller’s number. Jean stared through the crowd at Father Rumbek, who was in full flow. ‘What would Jesus do?’
She got her notebook out.
The Way of Sorrows (xv)
Thirty-eight nautical miles SW of Lampedusa
Gebre was the first to hear it. The faintest sound – an engine, he thought, and so hopefully a ship? He stood up slowly, using Solomon’s shoulder for balance, and scanned the horizon but saw nothing. Still he felt sure the noise was getting closer; what’s more he was sure he’d heard this type of engine before. He shaded his eyes with a thin hand and turned a slow three hundred and sixty degrees. There it was – not the sound of a propeller churning through water, but of blades chopping through air: a helicopter. It was approaching from the west and as it got closer it blocked out the sun, darkening the sky. Gebre could see a man with binoculars looking in their direction.
Having reached them, the helicopter stopped and hovered directly above the dinghy. People shouted up with joy and in desperation women held their babies and small children above their heads so that they might be better seen and sooner saved. Gebre soon became worried about the dinghy turning over; too much movement and they would tip over and there was no way eighty-one people would fit inside one helicopter. He and Solomon started urging people to be still.
‘We are saved now, sister, but we must stay in this boat a while so we need to sit down again.’
Gebre knew the dull green colour meant that this was some kind of army helicopter but he could see no clue as to which military it belonged to. A man in uniform pulled open the side door of the helicopter and took pictures of the boat and the people on his mobile phone. As they waved up at him, he threw down some biscuits but when Solomon and others shouted for water in a variety of languages and mimed their thirst, he shrugged apologetically. After taking a few more pictures and turning away to consult with his colleagues the man waved once more and pulled the side door shut. The helicopter rose higher, circled the dinghy again then flew away, back in the direction from which it had come.
The people on the boat stared at each other in confusion; some shouted hopelessly in the direction of the red tail-light, disappearing fast into the distance.
Gebre got to his feet again and raised his voice: ‘They could not take us all, the helicopter is too small. They have gone to get a ship to rescue us. They will tell others where we are and soon the ship will come.’
Solomon nodded as his brother spoke and soon other heads were nodding too, but once the boat was calmed Solomon nudged Gebre’s arm.
‘They could have taken some, they should have taken the children.’
‘Maybe, but you cannot blame them’ – he looked around the boat – ‘it was not a big helicopter, probably they did not even have room for all the children. The boat they will send will have room for everyone.’
At that moment the Ethiopian man who had been put in charge of the outboard motor did something that seemed to defy all logic or explanation. As Solomon watched, he took the phone and the navigation device from the clear plastic bag and, quite casually, dropped them over the side of the dinghy.
Solomon grabbed his arm. ‘What are you doing? Are you mad?’
The Ethiopian shook his head. ‘It was what the smugglers told me to do. Once we are found, drop the phone and the navigation into the sea. If the authorities find us with those then they will accuse me or you of being the smuggler and we will end up in jail. They told me to do this.’
Solomon uttered an oath but let go of the man’s arm and looked over at his brother.
Gebre shook his head. ‘Don’t worry, Sol, they know where we are now. They will come.’
38 A Little Light Journalism
DATELINE: The Cardigan Arms, Hyde Park, London W2, February 11 2011
‘Your phone rang. Both your phones in fact.’
‘Oh yeah?’ Carver finished zipping up his flies and sat back down at the table.
His lunch companion was using a napkin dipped in water to try and remove a soup stain from his Quadrel tie. ‘How many phones have you got?’
‘At the moment, two.’
‘How come?’
‘It’s complicated. Give me a mo while I listen to these messages, will you? Go and ask the barman for some soda water for your tie.’
‘That works better, does it?’
‘Sometimes. And get us two more pints as well, put it on my tab.’
The call he’d missed on his regular phone was from Rob Mariscal, the one on the pay-as-you-go phone was from Jean. He called her back and heard a long ringtone and then static. He still hadn’t got the hang of the new phone. He fiddled with the side, trying to turn up the volume.
‘… so he’s got Balit’s number on his phone.’
‘Say all that again, Jean.’
‘I wrote all the recent numbers down from Father Rumbek’s phone. There was one I thought I recognised and that’s because it belongs to Abdul Balit, it’s his office line.’
Carver paused. ‘Why would the head of Egyptian security be calling a Catholic priest?’
Jean laughed. ‘Yeah, I’ve been trying to think of a good reason and I’m pretty sure there isn’t one. I thought you might be able to think of a couple of bad ones?’
‘I can.’
‘So here’s what I’m going to do. I’m going to go rattle Balit’s cage and see what falls out.’
Carver could feel a headache building behind one eye. ‘Hang on a second, Jean. I need to think this through.’
‘I’m not planning to do anything stupid. A little light journalism, that’s all. Balit’s agreed to meet me – tomorrow, for lunch.’
‘Tomorrow? That’s quick. Where? In a public place?’
‘I suggested the Café Riche – public as it gets.’
‘Right, even so, I think Patrick—’
‘Patrick’s going to be there too. A neighbouring table is the plan, in case he won’t let me record.’
‘Which he won’t.’
‘Which he won’t.’
Carver heaved a sigh. He checked his watch, wondering if there might be any space left on the evening flight. Or even the first one out tomorrow.
Jean was a step ahead. ‘Even if you arrived in time, it wouldn’t make any sense for you to be there, Billy. You’d scare him off.’ She was right. ‘And you’re making headway there anyway; give me the latest.’
Carver told her about the kid on reception agreeing to make a copy of Bellquist’s appointments. He also told her about the call from Rob Mariscal.
‘What does he want?’
‘To meet. No details yet. He’s already tried to kill the story once so he’s mixed up in this somehow.’
‘You should see him, find out what he’s got.’
‘I guess so.’
39 Meetings
DATELINE: Scott’s Club, Dean Street, Soho, London W1, February 12 2011
Carver glanced around Rob Mariscal’s chosen venue, the private members’ club that Rob had belonged to ever since William had known him. It was lunchtime – surely a peak time in London’s clubland – but the place was not busy. It had always been a mystery to Carver how the owner – the legendary Maggie – managed to keep the club afloat. She’d even paid for some improvements since Carver’s last visit, the old sticky carpet replaced with a new one and an expensive-looking chandelier for the dining room at the front. Looking around, Carver counted three people eating and one lonely soul sitting at the rear of the long narrow room, close to the bar.
Maggie spotted William the moment he walked in and greeted him warmly. ‘Rob’s down at the back.’ She pointed a pink lacquered nail in that direction. ‘He’s been here a while, if you know what I mean?’
‘Thanks, Maggie.’
‘What are you drinking?’
Before he could answer, Mariscal had lumbered up, his arms wide and a broad smile on his face.
‘He’ll have the usual, Mags.’
‘I’ll have a half of cider please, Maggie.’
Rob grabbed Carver’s hand and, having given it a good shake, led him to the back of the club. The assorted armchairs and sofas here were just as William remembered – a motley and threadbare collection of furniture but comfortable. He chose the high-backed armchair opposite Rob’s sunken sofa and stowed his plastic bag underneath the low, glass-topped table that separated them. Maggie brought him the half of cider he’d asked for as well as a double measure of the whisky that he used to drink, back when a rendezvous like this was a more regular occurrence. It seemed churlish to refuse it.
Despite the warm welcome and the single malt, Carver had doubts about this meeting. Mariscal had already tried to persuade Naomi Holder to spike the story once, so the idea that he might now want to help seemed far-fetched.
A Single Source Page 29
