A Single Source Page 13

  ‘What kind of story?’

  ‘Someone selling the Egyptians stuff they shouldn’t.’

  ‘Tear gas? British?’

  Carver hesitated. ‘Could be.’

  Jean smiled. ‘Don’t worry. Like I said before, I’m not your competition, I’m no kind of newshound anymore.’

  ‘What are you then?’

  ‘I’m a house pet: features and interviews, shit like that. You know the kind of stuff I do these days, Carver.’

  ‘So why’d they send you here?’

  ‘I’m going to do some human interest stuff. Profile some of the protesters and maybe the other side too …’ Fitzgerald paused; now they were getting to it. No one other than her editor knew the real reason she’d been sent to Cairo, but she didn’t mind telling Carver, he was a good man with a secret. ‘I interviewed him once.’

  ‘Him? Who? The President?’

  Jean nodded.

  Purple shirt brushed the dust from his jeans and grinned. The fact that his victim had been too frightened to run obviously amused him. Nawal raised her hands in a placatory gesture; she was about to speak, to beg even. Before she could, the man took a fast step forward and punched her hard in the gut. The force of the blow folded Nawal in two. She gazed down at the pavement, swallowing for air, her mouth filled with a sour-tasting bile; she spat and dribbled and tried to draw breath. She could hear the old lady’s dog, its low growl on the other side of the thick wooden door behind her. Her attacker heard it too and it seemed to unsettle him; he grabbed a handful of Nawal’s hair and yanked it upwards. She lifted her head, straightening her body and stretching her neck against this new pain. The man pulled her higher, holding the scalpel close to Nawal’s throat as he did so. When suddenly he let go of Nawal’s sweat-wet hair and her head dropped, the blade drew blood.

  Purple shirt kept the scalpel close to her neck while, using his free hand, he frisked her, reaching into Nawal’s pockets and emptying them – keeping what he wanted and throwing the rest away. He had been hired to do a job but this girl had already been more trouble than he’d expected and he wanted to make it worth his while. Any money or valuables the girl had on her were his to keep. Once he’d taken what was worth taking from her pockets, he turned his attention to the rucksack. Nawal gripped the bag tight; she’d decided that she would not give up the rucksack and its contents, regardless of what this man did to her. He was trying pull it from her hand when there was a noise: a key turning in the lock.

  Nawal felt movement at her back and someone pushing against her, forcing the door open, only a few inches, but enough – the dog squeezed through. Glancing down, Nawal saw the animal at her side, teeth bared and barking with a volume out of all proportion to his size. Her attacker panicked and dropped his knife; he grabbed again for the rucksack but still Nawal would not let go. He kicked at the dog but missed and the dog locked his jaws firmly around his flailing ankle. He swore, shook the dog loose then slammed Nawal’s head hard against the door and ran, sprinting down the street, the dog chopping at his heels.

  Nawal felt every ounce of strength leave her; she slid to the floor and out of consciousness, her hand still gripping the rucksack straps.

  ‘I spent a few days with him – at the Presidential Palace and his place in Sharm El Sheikh. It was a while back, but my boss at the Express thought I might have a shot at a follow-up.’

  Carver stared at Jean. ‘I can’t believe I never saw that. What was he like?’

  Jean paused. ‘Interesting, not the sharpest knife in the drawer but he had a good sense of humour, he liked to gossip about other world leaders; and he liked a drink – whisky. I remember it got a little out of hand after the whisky.’

  Carver waited, he knew better than to rush Fitzgerald when she was working up a yarn.

  ‘He chased me round the furniture for a while. Told me a few things he probably shouldn’t have.’

  ‘Did you get a news line?’

  ‘I got more than that, I got a front page lead. Plus he offered my dad a dozen camels and a villa in Sharm.’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘For my hand in marriage, you idiot. What else? He said he wanted me for wife number three.’

  ‘Tempted?’

  ‘Sure I was, three’s not bad. Marrying dictators is like buying Microsoft stock: you’ve got to get in early.’

  ‘But you said no.’

  ‘Yeah, though sometimes I wonder why. I could be living the life of Riley. Rather than the life of Fitzgerald, which I can tell you is no bloody picnic these days.’ She saw him glance again at his watch. ‘You need to be somewhere else?’

  ‘I want to check this tear gas out ’fore I meet Patrick down at Tahrir.’

  ‘Go. We’ll do that proper catch-up later. I need to work anyway.’ She patted the laptop computer. ‘I have to message the President’s man and tell him I’m here, hassle him some more.’

  Carver stood and tucked his shirt-tails into his trousers. ‘Who are you dealing with?’

  Jean paused before answering. ‘Abdul Balit.’

  ‘You’re kidding.’

  ‘Nope. I got to know him a little too. He was never far from his boss’s side. I try to keep all my old contacts warm: the odd email, a Christmas card. You know Balit too?’

  Carver shook his head. ‘Only by reputation, I’m not sure I want to know him any better than that.’

  Colonel Balit was an enigmatic figure in Egyptian politics. The President’s chief security adviser, fixer and right hand for many years, Balit was thought to wield a good deal more power and influence than politicians whose names were far better known internationally.

  ‘What’s he calling himself these days?’

  Jean opened her laptop and looked at her emails. ‘Colonel Abdul Balit. Head of Egyptian Security and Presidential Chief of Staff.’

  Carver nodded. ‘You know what most Egyptians call him these days, do you?’

  She shook her head. ‘They call him the Torturer in Chief.’

  Jean nodded. ‘I’ll be careful.’

  ‘Do.’ He stood. ‘You’ve got friends in high places, Fitzgerald, I’ll give you that.’

  ‘Some in high places, others in low places. That’s how it always used to work. I know some things have changed but I don’t suppose that has.’

  When Nawal came to, her hands were empty, the rucksack gone. She panicked and tried to move but the pain and dizziness were immediate and extreme. She lay very still and gave the light fittings and floor a chance to stop spinning. She was lying on her side in what looked like a hallway; the wall in front of her was a textured wallpaper painted with a thick layer of brown lacquer. She turned her head and a long pink tongue swept across her face, Nawal grimaced and tried to focus. The dog was a dusty brown colour with a red collar. She’d seen the dog before. The details of what had happened came back piecemeal. The dog pushed his muzzle up towards Nawal’s face; she felt his blunt whiskers on her neck, as he unfurled his tongue and gave her another long lick.

  ‘Ow.’ She winced and her hand went to her neck then stopped; she poked gently at the wound – an inch-long cut. Examining her fingers she saw congealed blood mixed with a viscous white antiseptic cream; as she considered the meaning of this, the dog took another lick. Nawal pushed him away. ‘La!’

  She worried briefly about the wound – about rabies and disease – before remembering her grandfather’s absolute belief in the healing power of dog saliva. There was a thick rope of spit hanging from the corner of the dog’s mouth. Nawal wondered whether her granddad’s rule applied to all dogs. She hoped so. The animal sensed Nawal’s change of mood and leaned into her side, lifting his muzzle so she could return the favour and scratch his chin and bony chest. This done, he gave Nawal another lick and lay down in the crook of her arm. The dog had saved her, but not the dog alone. Nawal pushed herself up into a sitting position and took a proper look around – whoever had come to her rescue had managed to drag her off the street but only as far as the hall. The
door to the ground-floor flat was closed but as she looked a strip of yellow light appeared at its base and she heard the rattling of keys; the dog left her and moved to greet his owner.

  The old woman who opened the door wore a black jellabiya and headscarf; the sight of Nawal sitting up and staring at her startled the woman and she stopped. The dog sniffed at her slippers before taking up position at her side.

  Nawal nodded. ‘Hala.’

  The woman did not respond; if anything her brow became more furrowed. An informal hi was not the correct greeting and Nawal tried again, ‘Marhaban.’ The woman nodded and encouraged by this Nawal put her hand to her chest and continued: ‘Shukran, shukran Madaam.’

  The woman stepped back into her apartment then quickly reappeared carrying a gold tray, and shuffled into the hallway and placed it on the floor a foot or so from her guest. On it, to Nawal’s considerable relief, was her rucksack as well as her phone, some scraps of paper and coins and also the scalpel, with its dirty gaffer-taped handle. Nawal’s hand went again to her neck.

  As well as these things there was a cup of black coffee. ‘Shukran.’ The old lady stood with her hands folded in front of her, twisting her wedding ring and waiting for the visitor to finish her drink, gather her things and go. Nawal took a sip of the sweet, bituminous coffee and felt immediately better. The brown dog wandered back to Nawal, sat at her side and allowed himself to be petted. The old woman smiled for the first time, a gentle smile that softened her features and changed her face. The dog’s good opinion clearly counted for much.

  ‘Eghsilly wajhaki.’ The old lady lifted her hands to her face, miming a washing motion, stepped back into her apartment, held the front door open and ushered Nawal in.

  The flat was cramped but impeccably clean; it smelled of bleach and rosewater. There were two of almost everything: two large lumpy armchairs, each with its own piecrust-top side table; two high-backed dining chairs either side of a dark wooden table; two sets of drawers, one with an old Bakelite telephone on top. On the walls, no paintings just a simple mirror and a gallery of framed photographs, all but two of them black and white. The faces that stared out from inside the silver frames were of varying ages but Nawal recognised the old woman in most, usually standing alongside a well-dressed man with a moustache. The dog cropped up in both of the colour pictures: in one he was a scrawny-looking puppy cradled in the woman’s arms; in the other he was leaning hard against the man’s leg.

  The old lady returned from the kitchen with a basin of steaming hot water, a hand towel and a block of soap. She placed them down on the dining table and encouraged Nawal to sit and wash her wound. While she washed, turning the soapy water a pale pink as she did so, the old lady made herself busy moving around the flat, talking quietly to herself or to the dog.

  She brought another cup of sweet coffee and put it next to the basin along with a tube of white cream – the same antiseptic that she had applied earlier – a small square of gauze and some tape. She muttered something, pointing at Nawal’s neck before returning again to the kitchen. As she dressed the wound Nawal tried to recall as much detail of the attack and her attacker as she could and to work out what it meant. It had not been random, she knew that; the man had followed her from the hotel. It was not a straightforward robbery either – he wanted her rucksack more than he wanted her expensive phone or any money she had. He wanted the bag despite not knowing what was inside it. Or did he know? Or he’d been hired to steal the bag by someone else who knew what was in it? It was this explanation that rang most true and once Nawal knew this she also knew that she couldn’t risk being back on the street, still carrying her collection of gas canisters, bullets and batons.

  The old lady was still in the kitchen, muttering endearments to the dog. Nawal looked around the room; it was obvious which armchair the old woman sat in and which belonged to her dead husband. Nawal unzipped the rucksack.

  The Way of Sorrows (ii)

  Asmara, Eritrea

  Gabriel was keen that the brothers meet with a couple of their fellow passengers before the day of departure. Strength in numbers was his explanation.

  ‘The smugglers who will take you across the desert will try and divide you, so it is better if you have made a connection.’

  Sitting across a table in the almost empty Taxi Café, Gebre had his doubts. He knew the two, at least by reputation: Titus and Dumac had been students at the same school as the brothers but they were a couple of years older than Solomon and had left the school as soon as they were allowed to. The pair had been trouble while at school and had remained troublesome ever since; both had served short prison sentences – not for political crimes but for pick-pocketing and theft. They were banned from most shops in Asmara and unemployable anywhere. It was no surprise that they wanted to leave the country. After some awkward introductions and a little small talk, the five men sat in silence around the table nursing their drinks; it was Titus who spoke first, directing his question at Solomon.

  ‘The cycling did not work out for you then?’

  Gebre felt his brother bristle slightly.

  ‘Not as I hoped.’

  ‘Shame. Still, you two have family connections here, your grandfather looks after you, why do you need to leave?’

  ‘For the same reasons as you, I think: for a better life.’

  Titus flicked a quick smile in the direction of his friend. ‘Some people will never be happy, eh?’

  The suggestion that he and his brother were a couple of poor little rich boys was too much for Gebre. ‘What is your reason? You have stolen from every shop in Eritrea so now you have to find another country to steal from, is that it?’

  The two older boys stood and squared up to Gebre but when Solomon got to his feet, they quickly backed down. Gabriel tried to patch things up but to no avail. When the pair picked up their half-finished bottles of beers and strode from the bar, Gabriel sent Solomon to apologise. Gebre had to endure his grandfather’s angry silence and then a lecture.

  ‘That was foolish.’

  Gebre shrugged.

  ‘You just fell a little in my estimation, grandson. Sol is the strong one – you are meant to be the smart one. What you just did was stupid. Where you are both going, there will be plenty of people ready to hate you without any reason – no need to give them an excuse.’

  Gebre blushed. ‘I’m sorry, Grandfather.’

  15 Error 404

  DATELINE: The Corniche, Cairo, Egypt, January 28 2011

  Patrick had kept London at bay for as long as he could. His mobile rang again; he checked the caller ID and grudgingly answered it. The sequence of calls to his phone in the last few hours had offered a neat illustration of the BBC hierarchy: first programme producers called him, then senior producers, assistant editors, a deputy editor and now his boss, Naomi Holder.

  ‘What the hell’s going on?’

  ‘William sent me a text about an hour ago saying he’d see me soon but he’s not here yet. The traffic is crazy, almost every street is blocked, I’m sure he’ll be here soon.’

  ‘Don’t make excuses for him. I can reach you on the mobile, why not him?’

  ‘Well, quite a few of the networks are down …’ Patrick heard the sound of an open hand hitting a computer keyboard.

  ‘Shit, I really am going to kill him this time.’

  Patrick waited. He listened as his boss attempted to slow her breathing.

  ‘Okay, so listen, I already promised you’d file for radio bulletins and other programmes. You’re going to have to take the material you’ve gathered and go beg newsgathering for a voice, any decent voice. If you do most of the work, they might say yes. If they don’t, then I don’t know what we do. Head down to the Corniche and see who you can find.’

  ‘I’m already here.’

  ‘Good boy, so go turn on the charm. And Patrick?’

  ‘Yes, boss.’

  Naomi paused; she was remembering now what Rob Mariscal had told her earlier, about Carver losing inter
est in stories after a certain point.

  ‘You’re quite sure William’s just held up somewhere. He’s not gone chasing after something else?’

  ‘What? Sure he’s just—’

  ‘Because there is nothing else. I’m sitting in a newsroom with a hundred different TV screens on and Tahrir is on every single one. There is no other story – Tahrir Square is the only bloody story in the world right now and if I find out that you’re covering for him, I’ll fire the both of you.’

  Carver remembered seeing an internet café not far from the hotel and in the same general direction as the city centre. If Patrick had waited this long, he could wait a little longer. He considered leaving the canister in the room, hiding it somewhere, before deciding he’d feel safer having it with him. He’d buried it at the bottom of his bag, underneath his notebooks and MiniDisc recorder. Walking away from the hotel he felt the warm sun on his back; the cafés were busy, with groups of elderly men sitting outside in plastic chairs playing chequers and dominos.

  The internet café was easy enough to find but it was busy; walking up and down the rows of seats it seemed that every terminal was already in use. The café manager waved Carver over. The man was sitting on a high stool next to an old-fashioned cash register. He wore a white T-shirt and had heavily gelled, spiky black hair, which made him look like an oil-stricken seabird. He told Carver that it was ten American dollars for an hour; this was ten times the rate shown on the chalkboard behind him but Carver paid it.

  ‘Come back to here in two minutes, you will have this machine.’ He pointed at a kid in headphones who was soon to have his game of World of Warcraft cut short.

  Carver stepped outside to wait. Standing on the pavement he heard a low rumbling noise and, looking up, saw an Egyptian army jet flying low across the city. Within moments the F16 was back, making a return pass and this time the plane flew so low and made such a mighty noise that a chorus of car alarms went off in its wake. Back inside the café, he nodded at the owner and made himself as comfortable as possible on the rickety wooden chair. He put his yellow carrier bag down at his feet and got out his notebook and the piece of paper where Nawal had written the list of serial numbers.