‘What’s this all about then, Rob?’
Mariscal frowned. ‘What? No – hello, how are you? How are the kids? None of that?’
Carver shrugged. ‘How are the kids?’
‘I’ve no idea.’
‘How are you?’
‘Oh, you know, I live a life of well-remunerated pain. I oversee the turd production line, polishing turds from nine ’til nine.’
‘Is that some kinda poem you’re working on?’
Rob smiled, despite the circumstances; he’d been looking forward to seeing William. ‘Yeah, well, more of a ballad actually. “Ballad of a Government Communications Man”. I’m going to get Bob Dylan to record it. It’ll break people’s hearts. It’s broken mine already.’ Rob finished his drink and called for another. ‘Blended for me please, Mags. With ice.’
As they waited for the whisky, Rob’s mobile lit up in the gloom and started vibrating across the table. On the screen was a young woman with very white teeth.
Carver glanced at it. ‘How is … er.’ He sifted his memory for the name of Rob’s girlfriend. ‘Luci?’
Mariscal shook his head. ‘Luci is my former missus. Lindy is the girlfriend.’
‘Sorry.’
‘Don’t be. Stroke of genius on my part, hooking up with a woman whose name is almost the same as the ex-wife. I mix them up myself – last month I managed to do it halfway through a drunken fuck. Obviously, Lindy loved that.’
Carver smiled. ‘How did Luci feel about it?’
‘Ha. Yeah, I haven’t told her yet, maybe I’ll save that for her birthday.’ He let the phone ring out then stuck it back in his pocket. ‘I’m having a baby. With Lindy.’
‘Congratulations.’
‘Thanks.’ Maggie handed him his whisky and he took a gulp. ‘Expensive business, babies.’
‘I’m sure.’
‘The other kids aren’t cheap either – private school, tutors, holidays … alimony.’
Carver got the impression that Rob ran through this list quite regularly.
‘Then there’s Lindy’s bloody walk-in shower.’
‘What?’
‘Never mind.’ He leaned forward, cupping his drink with both hands. ‘So listen, how about you do everyone a favour and drop this tear gas thing?’
Carver stifled a laugh. ‘How about I don’t?’ He stared at Rob – his old colleague, his old friend. ‘Who are you working for these days, Rob?’
‘You know who I’m working for.’
‘I’m not sure I do. The Ministry of Defence – but not just them? Maybe Quadrel Engineering as well? Is it Victor Bellquist’s turds you’re polishing or flushing or whatever it is you’re trying to do here?’
Rob’s hand went to his collar; he undid the second button and felt better for it. ‘It’s complicated.’
‘Try me.’
Mariscal tried. He explained that a good part of the MOD job was helping British companies compete. ‘Win our share of those big international contracts. Create jobs and make money that ends up back in the public purse – paying our pensions and all of that. Maybe you haven’t noticed, William, but we’re not making a lot of widgets these days. We need the defence industry.’
Carver nodded his head. ‘Weaponry and usury.’
‘What?’
‘That’s what you used to call the arms trade and financial services industry. Back when you didn’t think they were the be-all and end-all. When you were doing your old job.’
‘I don’t remember saying that.’
‘You remember your old job though, don’t you, Rob? You remember what you were. Before you were this?’
Mariscal took another slurp of whisky, the ice from the drink rattling against his teeth. ‘Vaguely.’
Carver shook his head. ‘I was worried that this was what you were going to ask me, Rob. Though I’ve got to say, I thought you’d be more persuasive.’
Rob looked at William over the rim of his glass. ‘I’m not finished yet.’
Jean and Patrick’s plan had been carefully thought through. Patrick arrived at the Café Riche late morning; he was shown to his table by an old fellow in a dark blue robe with gold trim. Jean knew this man – something of a local legend who had started working at the café on the day that the battle of El Alamein ended. He’d agreed to seat Patrick just behind the colonel’s usual table and to leave him there untroubled. Patrick’s rucksack was underneath his chair, with the digital recorder and directional microphone on top, pointing back towards the table behind him and hidden beneath a thin linen shirt.
Jean would make sure that the colonel sat in the seat facing the mic and with luck the machine would pick up enough if not all of what he said. Jean’s other job was to encourage Balit to say something interesting. She was sure that the colonel’s men would check the café before their boss arrived and had ordered Patrick to ditch what she called his baby war corr outfit and dress like a tourist. He’d bought a T-shirt with a cartoon camel on and a pair of shorts from the market. While waiting, he flicked idly through his copy of the Rough Guide to Cairo. Patrick thought he’d nailed the look and was particularly pleased with the T-shirt. He’d bought it in XL so that Rebecca could use it as a nightshirt when he got back to London. Patrick checked his watch – Jean and Balit would be here soon.
‘They asked me to offer you something.’
‘Who did?’
‘Bellquist. He asked me whether you were biddable money, property.’
Carver shook his head. ‘And you told him what?’
‘I told him no. But no isn’t something that people like him hear very often. He gave me this …’ Rob pulled a folded A4 manila envelope from his jacket pocket and placed it on the table.
William eyed it warily. ‘What is it?’
‘It’s a list of all your personal passwords. Plus a copy of your hard drive. He can access everything, any time he likes. If you don’t give this up, then they’ll stuff every device you’ve got with the most horrible shit they can find – proper paedo stuff – and then they’ll tell the police.’
‘That’s not very nice.’ Carver opened the envelope and, ignoring the memory stick, pulled out a couple of sheets of A4. Sure enough, there was an alphabetical list of every password he could remember and a fair few he couldn’t.
‘You should think about buying a new computer. And sorting out your passwords’ – Rob pointed at the piece of paper – ‘especially the passwords: William123? I mean, fucking really?’
Carver shrugged. ‘I only use that for my banking.’ He’d lost interest in the list of passwords and was looking at the other sheet of paper. It was a handwritten list of some sort and the writing was like Rob’s. ‘What’s this?’
‘I’m not sure. It’s either the broken remains of my moral compass, or it’s my suicide note.’ He took a gulp of watery whisky. ‘Actually, come to think of it – it’s probably both.’
Patrick felt the phone buzz in his pocket. He put his guidebook down and looked around. He had a strong suspicion that the middle-aged Egyptian in a striped business suit sitting two tables to his left was watching him. He finished his mint tea and called for the waiter. While the old fellow was taking his order – more mint tea, the chickpea salad with some bread and oil – Patrick sneaked a look at his phone. It was from Jean: she was on her way from the hotel, coming on foot. He texted her back a simple okay.
‘If you won’t take the bribe and you’re not bothered about the blackmail then you might need that other stuff.’
‘Okay.’
‘It’s not from me. Not really …’
Carver gave Rob a questioning look.
‘You asked me who I’m working for.’
William nodded.
‘Well, the bloke who gave me the job, the person I’d prefer to be working for is Leslie Craig.’
‘The permanent secretary.’
‘That’s the one. He wanted me to give you this. At least I think he did.’
‘Why?’
‘He wants to keep his corner clean.’
‘Eh?’
Rob had remembered a surprising amount of the information he’d read – upside down – in the papers on Craig’s desk. Product names, quantities and costs.
Carver ran an eye down the list. ‘There’s enough here to kit out a whole army.’
‘Several small armies.’
‘Fighting where? Against who?’
‘Sub Sahara mainly. Each other probably. It doesn’t matter where or who. People like Bellquist don’t really care who’s fighting who, over what.’
Carver glanced at Rob. This list, together with what McCluskey had given him and what Jean and Zahra and Patrick had got … it could be enough.
It was the sports holdall that was making Patrick nervous. The middle-aged Egyptian had a suit and tie on, polished shoes. He should be carrying a smart leather briefcase or one of those laptop bags – not a tatty nylon sports holdall. Patrick didn’t like the way the bloke kept checking his bag either – checking it for no good reason as far as Patrick could see. Then there was the noise, the sound of a crowd gathering, close to the café. Patrick got out his phone and checked his Twitter feed.
@bigbeartahrir
Pro Presidential demo in Talaat Harb.
That was where he was. It was a good two blocks from Tahrir and not an obvious place for a demonstration in support of the President.
@bigbeartahrir
Let us show them what a real demonstration looks like!
This explained both the crowd noise outside and the fact that both Colonel Balit and Jean were late; it was ten minutes past the agreed meeting time.
‘Why are you doing this, Rob?’
‘I’ve been wondering about that. I think it might be the baby. It’s another chance, isn’t it?’
Carver shrugged.
‘The little bastard doesn’t know what a fuck-up his old man is yet. And maybe I won’t be. Maybe I can improve?’
Carver nodded. ‘Maybe. Either way, thank you. Or thanks to you and to Craig.’
Rob shook his head. ‘I’m not sure you should be thanking either of us, William.’
‘How come?’
Rob took a gulp of his whisky and winced. ‘Look at those numbers.’
Carver looked at the right-hand column of Rob’s handwritten list.
‘The people who are sending this stuff south, they’re making 20 or 25 per cent on millions and millions of pounds. Anyone who’s got a slice of that is going to fight like fuck to keep hold of it.’ He looked at William. ‘Bribes and blackmail are at the soft end of what these people will do. What I’m saying is – watch your back.’
Carver pushed his unfinished drink across the table and stood. ‘I’ve got to go.’ He grabbed his bag.
‘Fair enough. Are you all right? You’ve gone a bit pale.’
‘I need to make a call.’
Out on Dean Street, a shower of rain had put a shine on the pavement. It was raining still, but not hard. Carver walked as far as the nearest shop awning and pulled his phone from his pocket. He called Jean first but the number rang out. He didn’t bother leaving a message but instead tried Patrick who answered after a couple of distant-sounding rings. He was whispering.
‘William?’
‘Yeah, is Jean there?’
‘Not yet but—’
‘What about Balit?’
‘No, but—’
‘Get out.’
‘What?’
‘Leave there. Find Jean. Do it now, Patrick, just pick up your stuff and leave. I’ll stay on the line.’
Patrick looked over at the Egyptian in the striped business suit; he’d lifted the sports holdall from the floor and was cradling it in his lap.
Carver had his phone pressed hard to his ear listening for something, for anything. But the sounds he heard made no sense. Around him, his fellow Londoners were hurrying through the rain; he saw three people sharing one umbrella, laughing as they ran. On the other side of the street he watched a mother attaching a clear plastic covering to her toddler’s pushchair.
Patrick made it to the door of the café and stopped. Through the window he saw Jean, who was working her way slowly through a crowd of protesters; she was being jostled and had one hand at the side of her head, holding her white headscarf in place. She was wearing a black trouser suit and a little lipstick. Patrick looked to his left, half expecting to see Colonel Balit arriving from the opposite direction – half ready to run back to his seat and continue with their well-worked-out plan. But there was no sign of the colonel. He pushed the door open, raised his hand and waved in Jean’s direction. On seeing him she stopped, a look of confusion clouding her face. Patrick reached into his pocket for his phone: ‘William? You still there?’
‘’Course I’m bloody here. Where are you?’
‘I’m outside the café. There’s no sign of Balit but Jean’s here, we’re both fine.’
Carver heaved a mighty sigh. ‘Good, that’s good. Give me to her.’
The bullet hit Jean in the side of the neck. It tore through the soft flesh, exploding the windpipe and severing the carotid artery.
She took two jerking steps towards Patrick, then toppled forward, her right hand reaching out. Patrick caught her as she fell, dropping the phone as he did so. He sank into a cross-legged position on the pavement and sat with her head in his hands. There was a lot of blood, too much. He took the white scarf from around her head and tried to stem the flow but it was no use.
Jean was trying to speak. Her lips moved but nothing came. Her legs felt cold, then her arms. Then everything felt cold. Terrifying and cold. She tried to focus. She thought about Carver and tried to remember what she’d said to him, the last time they’d spoken. She couldn’t remember and she knew she had to think of other things. She thought about her mother and then, straight away – her dad. Her only dad. Jean was staring up at Patrick, but it was her father’s face she saw. She smiled at Patrick and then she closed her eyes and died.
The soldier shuffled back from the edge of the roof on all fours then stood and stretched his legs. He’d been sitting in the same arse-numbing position for over an hour, his legs were stiff. He looked at his rifle, an old Lee Enfield with a polished wooden cheek rest and ten-round magazine – nine left now. Alongside the rifle were his radio and a roll of black cloth about a foot long containing his scopes, a silencer and two boxes of bullets. Propped against the radio was a passport-sized photograph of Jean Fitzgerald. He picked up the photo, took a lighter from his camo jacket pocket and – turning it face down – set fire to one corner. It burned easily. The soldier sat back down and turned his radio up so he could hear the static and chatter more clearly. He was waiting for his call sign and after that his next instruction.
The Way of Sorrows (xvi)
Forty-six nautical miles SE of Lampedusa
Gebre had promised his brother and his fellow passengers that help would come. But it didn’t. No one came. Not that day or the following day or any day after that. The very young and the elderly died first and every time one among them died, prayers were muttered and the body was covered and lowered over the side of the dinghy and into the sea.
A few days into this ordeal, Gebre opened his eyes and looked around, unsure whether he was conscious or still dreaming. He saw a boatful of people in pietà pose: the weak cradling the weaker, the barely living holding the just dead. After a week, two-thirds of the original eighty-two passengers were dead, the food was gone and there was very little water left. Solomon was entrusted with keeping hold of the five-litre bottle and some nights they managed to collect a little condensation and replenish it, but it was not enough. Some died from drinking seawater to supplement their share of the clean water, others drank their own piss, or tried to keep their mouths damp by chewing on leather belts or shoes. The remaining eighteen all stayed alive for one full day thanks to a tube of toothpaste they found in the rancid, shit-filled fold at the side of the dinghy.
Everything they had
they shared, but every day other than that day, one or more of their number died.
Gebre suspected Solomon of giving him a little more of the good water than any of the other men left alive on the boat, a charge that Solomon vehemently denied.
‘It is just that everything about you is so small, even your mouth. A few drops fill your tiny mouth.’
Gebre smiled and his brother reached over and tugged at his sleeve.
‘I have been meaning to talk to you about this, Gebre. I do not think that you should send for Martha when you get to Europe, she is too tall for you. I saw you trying to hug her outside the cinema once – you looked like a man trying to climb a tree.’
By the fourteenth day only Gebre, Solomon and one other man were left alive and the good water was all but gone. Solomon’s seemingly inexhaustible strength was finally leaving him. It was too hot to move or talk during the day but as the sun began to set he reached over for Gebre.
‘I do not want the birds to eat my eyes.’
Gebre glanced at his brother, then away. ‘Don’t be foolish.’
‘I mean it. I have thought about it. I don’t want the birds to eat my eyes. I want to keep my eyes.’
‘Fine.’
‘When the time comes, Gebre, put me in the water, I would rather lie down there in the cool. When it’s time, I want you to put me down there, not keep me up here.’
Gebre shook his head. ‘It is not relevant, it’s not going to happen, be quiet.’
Solomon reached out a hand and found his brother’s. ‘Say it, say you will put me in the water.’ There were tears in Solomon’s eyes now.
‘I can’t, Sol. I can’t.’
Solomon let go of Gebre’s hand, pushing it away. ‘I do everything for you, I always do everything. I am asking you for one thing.’
Gebre looked away. The sea was so many colours, that was one of the things he had come to know. That the sea was not blue the way it is when you draw it as a child. It is every colour. And right then, it was green, the most beautiful green …
PART FOUR
A Single Source Page 30
