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  Rob studied the permanent secretary’s profile. His face was of a shape and pallor that brought to mind certain church gargoyles – not the monstrous kind, more the comic sort. Mariscal felt sure that he’d seen the civil servant’s stony twin on the side of an Oxfordshire church: bulbous eyes, wide nose and fleshy mouth. He hadn’t mentioned this to his boss.

  ‘Where was I? Ah, I remember, I was telling you how important you are to us, Robert. The best head of comms we’ve ever had, that’s what I told the Secretary of State.’

  ‘I’m very grateful.’ Mariscal wondered whether he might take advantage of his newly acknowledged importance to leverage another five grand. Now was probably not the right time to raise the matter, but maybe later. ‘By the way, I saw the previous Secretary of State stalking the corridors on my way up here. I thought for a minute the Prime Minister had changed his mind – decided to give her another go?’

  Craig snorted and walked back to his desk. He took a pair of half-moon glasses from his breast pocket, balanced them on his broad nose and examined a sheet of headed notepaper. Underneath the departmental crest and that day’s date was a list of his appointments. ‘No danger of that, no second chances for her. But yes, I see that I’m due to meet with her later.’

  ‘At twelve forty-five for fifteen minutes.’

  Craig looked up sharply. ‘How the devil do you …?’

  Rob jutted his chin in the direction of the list of appointments. Age and every available excess had taken a toll on Mariscal in many ways, but his eyesight was still twenty-twenty and he’d always been able to read text as easily upside down as the right way round. It was not a particularly useful talent; rather like being double-jointed or speaking Esperanto but Rob was proud of it anyway.

  ‘Just because you retain some of those shady journalistic skills, it doesn’t mean you should practise them. Especially not on me.’

  ‘Sorry, old habits …’

  Craig turned his list of appointments over. ‘I’m seeing the former minister at a quarter to one. My guess is that she’s arrived early so she can sit for her portrait.’

  ‘Her what?’

  Craig smiled. ‘I don’t believe you’ve been with us long enough to observe the tradition. Every serving Secretary of State at Defence is asked whether they’d like to have a portrait done, captured in oils once their term in office is complete.’

  ‘You’re kidding? That’s fucking ridiculous.’ The permanent secretary flinched at the profanity and Rob chided himself for using it. ‘I’m sorry, but a portrait? What a waste of public money.’

  ‘Yes, that’s what most of the ministers say when I tell them about the tradition. Still, so far none has refused to sit – when the time comes.’

  ‘What happens to the pictures?’

  ‘Well, we hang them on a stretch of wall near the canteen for a few weeks and the old minister comes and takes a look; usually they bring their family and a photographer from their local newspaper. After that, we put them into storage. We’ve got scores of them in bubble-wrap and brown paper, somewhere in the basement.’ Craig pushed his glasses up his nose. ‘A couple of the better ones are still hanging – here and there.’

  ‘The better ones? Better ministers?’

  ‘No, Lord, no – the better painters. We used to have some rather renowned artists do the job. Now we just use whomever the Society of Portrait Painters pushes our way. There’ve been some dreadful efforts recently; hopefully this latest fellow they’ve given us will be better. I know the minister has said that she’s happy to sit for as long as necessary.’

  This was not a surprise to Rob; in his experience, sitting very still and worrying about the world was the former Defence Secretary’s absolute forte. If the artist in question wasn’t confident about painting her, then maybe he could just trace her? Rob decided to keep this idea to himself.

  ‘A picture of every politician, I had no idea. I’ll look out for the good ones while I’m doing my rounds.’

  ‘Do. You have to go back a fair few years for anything of quality; keep an eye out for frock-coats and telescopes is my advice.’ The civil servant took another look at his list of appointments, and it seemed that the meeting might be over. Mariscal was on his feet when Craig cleared his throat. ‘One more thing, Robert, before you go.’

  ‘Certainly, I’m sorry, I thought we were done.’

  Craig smiled. ‘Not quite. I wondered whether you’d mind taking a look at something for me?’

  ‘Certainly, Permanent Secretary.’

  ‘It’s a copy of next year’s budget, a draft of what I plan to send over to the Treasury.’

  Rob nodded. ‘You mean my part? The communications department budget?’

  ‘No, I mean the whole budget – the Ministry of Defence budget.’

  ‘I see.’ Mariscal was aware that his boss was watching him, gauging his response to this unusual request. He had no idea what sort of test it was that the permanent secretary was setting him but he knew better than to ask.

  ‘Well of course, I’d be happy to take a look.’

  ‘Good, ask Miriam for the file on your way out and we’ll talk about it at our next routine.’

  ‘That’s tomorrow.’

  ‘Yes, tomorrow. Problem?’

  ‘No problem.’

  The main purpose of the meeting done with, Craig relaxed, leaning back into his chair.

  ‘What sort of story did you spin around the ex-minister’s removal, by the way? I didn’t see much mention of her in the news.’

  Mariscal smiled. ‘No, there wasn’t meant to be. I’ve been preparing people for her sacking for a while now, dropping hints: Not across the brief … struggling with the detail … that sort of thing. She’s got teenage kids too – that helped. No surprise equals no news.’

  The civil servant nodded. ‘Very clever. You have a talent for stories, Robert.’

  Mariscal shrugged. ‘It’s obvious really: people are busy, there’s a lot of competition for their attention. If you tell them one good story about someone, then they’re usually happy to take it.’

  ‘And believe it?’

  ‘Why not?’

  Craig stood and walked towards his office door, opening it for Rob. ‘What one story would you tell about me? I wonder.’

  Mariscal shook his head. ‘I wouldn’t be so presumptuous, Permanent Secretary. You’re a very complicated character, I’m not sure one story would do the job.’

  The civil servant made a barking sound that Rob had come to recognise as laughter. ‘Craven flattery, Robert, craven flattery. Take the file from Miriam, have a good read and we shall talk about it tomorrow.’

  On the way back down to his desk, Rob saw the sacked minister again; she was standing outside the Secretary of State’s office, watching a man in blue overalls scratching her name from the office door. The gold leaf came away easily. There was one story that helped explain the permanent secretary: it was a story that his secretary had told Rob not long after he arrived in the job. Leslie Craig was born and grew up in Belfast, where his father was governor of the Maze Prison and as a result his name was right at the top of an IRA hit list. Monday through Friday, Governor Craig would drop little Leslie at school on his way into work at the prison. It wasn’t a long car ride but it was a potentially dangerous one and from the age of seven it was Leslie’s job to hold his dad’s old service revolver while his father drove the car. He had his instructions, he knew what he had to do if there was trouble: a hold-up or an accident of some sort. His father made it very clear.

  ‘If you’ve got the gun, Leslie, and you can shoot them, you shoot them, you understand?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But if they take me, if they are dragging me off, shoot away, son. I’d rather be shot than taken. Repeat that to me please.’

  ‘I shoot away, Da. You’d rather be shot than taken.’

  ‘Good boy.’

  Craig’s secretary had told Rob this story with a tear in her eye and Rob had reacted accordin
gly. But for Mariscal the moral of the story wasn’t that Leslie Craig should be pitied, it was that he should not be underestimated.

  4 Dreamers

  DATELINE: The Taxi Café, Asmara, Eritrea, January 26 2011

  The air is hot, the light brilliant. Gabriel Hassen sits in the window of the Taxi Café watching the city he’s known all his life vibrate in the haze. Asmara is unique – despite all the effort Mussolini and his fellow fascists took to make it seem like somewhere else, the Eritrean capital looks only like itself.

  Gabriel Hassen will tell you the story – if you sit down with him and drink a beer he’ll give you chapter and verse.

  ‘Our Italian masters wanted La Piccola Roma but they ended up with something much more interesting than that.’

  In Gabriel’s version of Asmara’s history, architecture is key. He always began his tours by explaining how Il Duce’s imperial ambition led to some of Italy’s most ambitious architects arriving here at the very north of the rift valley. ‘An architect’s playground, that’s what we were. Neo-classical, Novecento, Monumental – do you know these terms?’

  Gabriel’s main work was buying and selling, acquiring things that most Eritreans found it difficult to come by. His second job and the one he enjoyed significantly more was as Asmara’s least official but most authoritative tour guide. Given the choice he would have quit the buying and selling business and dedicated all his time to tourism but this was not practical – tourists were extremely hard to find and he needed to make money; he had two grandsons and a daughter-in-law to support.

  The last walking tour was a month ago now and it hadn’t gone well. Gabriel knew what the problem was: the tour was too long, but with thousands of historic buildings in Asmara, making the walk any shorter than five hours seemed impossible. The group of middle-aged Germans had asked for a comfort break at the art deco Cinema Impero and then given up altogether after seeing the old Fascist Party headquarters. Gabriel pointed out that he was at least twenty years older than any of them and was walking just as far, but it did no good, they were hot and their feet hurt. They tipped him generously but that in no way made up for the fact that the tour had ended before they had reached the Fiat Tagliero garage. The next tour he led would start at the Taxi Café. There was an excellent view of the Tagliero from here.

  Gabriel stirred some sugar into his dark beer and flicked through the newspaper, starting with the sports section and paying particular attention to any football or cycling stories before working his way backwards through the paper until he got to the Eritrean and international news. He found these pages useful – not as a source of accurate information but as an insight into the preoccupations and psychological state of the government. The protests in Egypt, Tunisia and elsewhere in the north had been given a reasonable amount of coverage in recent weeks and this had surprised Gabriel. Popular protest of any sort anywhere was usually ignored. He had even joked with his grandsons that maybe the official censor had run out of red pencils. However, as the number of stories of Eritreans and other sub-Saharans caught up in the growing chaos grew, it became obvious that for the newspaper’s editor and his political masters the Arab uprising was a useful cautionary tale. Difficult as things were inside Eritrea, outside it was worse.

  Gabriel folded his paper and stared out of the window; a man of similar age to himself but in a wheelchair was propelling himself down the pavement using ski poles. It was too hot for anyone sensible to linger long outside but a group of taxi drivers were sitting in the shade of a date palm, drinking coffee and waiting for a fare. The traffic was steady, with old Volkswagens and Fiat 500s chugging up and down the Dekemhare Road, occasionally overtaken by a Land Cruiser or yellow taxi. Each time a cab passed close by, the driver would toot a greeting to his colleagues who were setting up the board for a game of gebeta to pass the time. Business was slow, everything was slow – the heat was such that it seemed to slow the clock. Gabriel looked at his watch; soon his two grandsons – Solomon and Gebre – would join him for a plate of pizza and some coffee. He looked forward to their regular catch-ups although today’s meeting might be more difficult. He had things he needed to say.

  Gebre sat as close to his girlfriend as the armrest would allow, watching curls of cigarette smoke twist in the projector light. The pair had chosen the back row of the Cinema Impero and neither was that interested in the film: an old Indian musical that the management had screened so many times that the film stock had faded and the soundtrack crackled. Gebre had seen the musical ten times at least but he didn’t mind; the tickets for Indian films only cost a few nakfa and he got to sit in the cool dark next to Martha for two precious hours. His mother referred to the cinema, somewhat dismissively, as a house for dreamers and Gebre didn’t argue. Up on the screen the action shifted from indoors to out and as the auditorium brightened, Gebre stole a sideways glance, admiring the elaborate braiding in Martha’s hair. She smiled and turned her head, and she reached over and took his hand. She pulled it gently towards her and brought it to rest at the point where the hem of her short cotton dress met her thigh. Gebre tried to control his breathing and stared wide-eyed at the screen.

  Solomon shifted gears and kept an eye out for potholes. Cycling through the unmade roads of his own neighbourhood of Godaif was no fun – the one part of his regular training ride he did not enjoy. He rode as quickly as he dared and before long the tin shacks, with bright laundry hanging on lines strung from house to house, were replaced by brick-built two-up two-downs and then much finer properties. The dirt roads became proper tarmacadamed streets that widened as he reached the old European section of Asmara. Solomon shifted down through the gears, increased his speed and put his head down; the honey- and pink-coloured art deco buildings went by in a blur.

  Gebre arrived at the Taxi Café first and so Gabriel sent his younger grandson out on to the street to look for Solomon and hurry him up. Gebre was reaching for his phone when he heard a bike brake hard at his back and turned to see his brother, a broad grin on his face.

  ‘Feel this!’ Solomon grabbed Gebre’s hand and pressed it against his chest. ‘Can you feel it?’

  ‘You sweat like a sow, man, let me go.’ Gebre was grimacing.

  ‘Do you feel my heart?’

  Gebre nodded; of course he could feel it, his brother’s heart was pumping like an engine beneath the bright cobalt-blue cycling shirt.

  ‘I did more than forty kilometres this morning; it took me two hours and my heart was never beating faster than this – one hundred beats in a minute. It is the same as Miguel Indurain.’

  ‘Another cyclist?’

  ‘Not another cyclist, the greatest cyclist. Do not tease me, brother, you know about Indurain.’

  Gebre grinned, he knew.

  ‘Tour winner five in a row. I will do what he did, maybe not five but I think I will do it once. I will cycle under the Eiffel Tower, I will stand on the top of the stage, kiss the pretty girls and spray the people with champagne. You believe me, don’t you?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘I mean, you believe I will do it?’

  Gebre saw the flicker of doubt on his brother’s face, and smiled broadly. ‘I know you will do it, brother. If you put your mind to it, you will do it.’

  ‘Yes.’ Solomon dropped Gebre’s hand and looked across the wide cobbled pavement for a place to chain his bike, somewhere where he would still be able to watch over it from inside the café. His bicycle rarely left his sight; it slept in the same room as the boys, attached to a bracket on the wall above a collage of colourful pictures of their various heroes: footballers and cyclists mainly. ‘Where is the old man? Inside already?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Drunk already?’

  Gebre shook his head. ‘No, he’s okay. He is only drinking beer today.’

  ‘He has a hangover then.’

  ‘Maybe. He went to watch the football at the Impero last night. Manchester United versus someone … I don’t remember who, but he won some mo
ney, a big bet I think.’

  ‘Great, maybe he will be in a good mood then? A good mood means more food and not so many stories … I am hungry.’

  Gebre watched his brother walk the sleek racing bike across the road in the direction of some metal railings. His brother loved Miguel Indurain in part because of his sporting success but also because of his size: the Spaniard was big, like Sol, six feet two and heavy with it – heavy but powerful. Their mother used to joke that Solomon must have queued up twice when God was handing out muscles to his Eritrean children, but because of that he had arrived too late to receive a share of common sense. She would console Gebre with the suggestion that for him, the opposite was true. Gebre tried to remember when their mother had last joked with them like that. A long time ago.

  While Solomon un-snaked the long bike lock and fussed with his machine, Gebre glanced idly into the window of the El Dorado Boutique, a clothes shop one door down from the café and owned by the same family. The window display – old-fashioned ladies’ shoes, dresses and men’s jackets faded by the sun – offered little, except perhaps a rather stark reminder of the hard economic times that Eritrea was enduring. But one item did catch Gebre’s eye: a brightly coloured shawl, wrapped loosely round the neck of a pink-skinned mannequin. The shawl was right at the back of the display, out of direct sunlight and the flowers embroidered across the white cotton had held their colour. It was their mother’s birthday soon. Gebre doubted whether Solomon had much spare cash but he had a little and if his grandfather spoke to the owner and they clubbed together, then maybe they could afford it. His mother’s shawl was ancient and, frankly, so worn that it looked more like an old dishcloth than an item of clothing. She wore it all the time and although it didn’t seem to bother her, Gebre felt embarrassed every time he saw her in it.

  ‘Come, let’s eat.’ Solomon’s big hand landed on his brother’s shoulder, pulling him back to the present and in the direction of the café and their grandfather.