The Abrupt Physics of Dying (13 page)

Clay continued down wadi, knowing now that Al Shams was long gone. Fifty metres on he reached a clutch of ancient stunted trees, a spring welling from a fissure in the base of the cliff, traces of a camp nestled there. Flattened shoals of sand and a partially burnt tree limb stumped into a blackened fire pit were the only testaments to recent occupation.

It was gone nine when he reached the Land Cruiser. He opened the driver’s side door and reached into the vehicle to retrieve his water bottle. Standing in the glow of the interior light, he took a long drink, wet a corner of his headcloth and dabbed at the scrapes and cuts on his arms and legs. He had just rinsed the cloth when something hard jabbed into his back.

‘Do not turn around.’

Clay froze, heart hammering.

‘You were followed.’

‘No,’ he said. ‘I was careful.’

‘The PSO followed you.’ He knew the voice, the diction. ‘I followed them.’

Jesus Christ.

‘Why did you return?’

‘To find my friend, ask for his release. He is a good man. He does not deserve this.’

The object jammed harder into his back. ‘Only Allah decides what we deserve.’

‘Please.’

‘You delivered our message.’

‘Yes.’

‘And now you have seen the evil.’

‘At Al Urush, yes.’

‘The boy, Mohamed. You are his friend.’

‘You know him?’

‘Of course. What afflicts him?’

‘It’s some kind of disease. An illness.’

‘Our people are being poisoned.’

‘I think …’ Clay stopped himself, filled his lungs, exhaled long.

‘You think it’s from the CPF.’

‘That is what you must determine.’

‘I have done what you asked. Let Abdulkader go.’

‘I must know the truth. You must help us.’

Clay pivoted on one foot but a firm hand grabbed his shoulder before he could turn and face his assailant. He steadied himself against the car door. Suddenly he felt very tired. ‘We had an agreement.’

The pressure in his back was gone, the hand removed. He could hear footsteps in the sand moving away.

‘Turn around.’ Al Shams was alone, a carved walking stick at his side. ‘You are trained, you are a scientist, so you told me the first time we met. You must find the truth. We cannot protect ourselves if we do not know what is happening.’

Clay looked up at the night sky and back at the misshapen face. ‘It’s going to take time. Dozens of air and water samples, chemical analysis. And money. Thousands of dollars in lab work alone.’

Al Shams stood unmoving. ‘Then you must begin now. But do it quickly, Mister Claymore. You have until the moon is new.
Eight days, no more. When you have the answers we need, go to Al Bawazir, find the young chief there. He is my nephew. He will give you instructions. But I warn you, if you bring the Army or the PSO, it will end very badly for your friend.’

‘You’re not listening to me, god damn you. It can’t be done. Not in a week. The company won’t have it.’

Al Shams sighed and shook his head. ‘We each have our concerns, our priorities. You have yours, I have mine. My duty is to the people of the Masila. You have seen with your own eyes the tragedy that befalls them. Without knowing the cause of this illness, we are powerless to protect ourselves. No one else can help us. I will do what I must, Mister Clay.’

‘Like killing Thierry Champard.’

‘I have only one eye, Mister Claymore, but you are blind.’

Clay baulked, stepped back. ‘Abdulkader is one of your own people, for god’s sake.’

‘That makes his complicity worse.’ Al Shams sighed and stepped back into star shadow.

‘Do you know what I think?’

‘Go on, Mister Claymore. Be frank.’

Clay was shaking now, the words coming on their own. ‘I think you’re a fucking hypocrite. You talk about caring, about justice. All I see is kidnapping, murder, and greed.’

Al Shams drew a dollar symbol in the sand with his stick. ‘Greed.’

‘You want the oil money. That’s what this is about.’

Al Shams looked down at the ground, erased the symbol with his sandalled foot.

‘Do you know Sharia law, Mister Claymore?’

Clay nodded.

‘From those who take, something is taken.’ Al Shams looked up to the sky. Then he reached into the satchel at his side, pulled out a small bundle of rough cloth and tossed it to Clay.

Clay caught it with both hands. ‘What’s this?’

Al Shams said nothing, just stood staring at him with that dark
eye. Clay folded back the sack cloth, damp and tacky in his fingers. A stale odour flooded his nostrils. It was a human hand, withered and dark, crisped into a half-formed fist, severed at the wrist.

Clay let out a groan and dropped the hand into the sand. He looked down at Abdulkader’s silver ring. For a moment he stood, unable to breathe, leaning against the side of the car, trying to process this information. Rage rose in his chest. He stood to his full height and moved towards Al Shams, fists closing. ‘You bastard,’ he shouted, closing on the Arab, crouching into an attack stance. He was within striking distance when Al Shams levelled a pistol at his abdomen.

‘Please, Mister Claymore. You are no good to me, or to your friend, dead.’

Clay jerked to a stop and stood fists clenched, the straight right kick to the torso now just an imagined echo. ‘You’d do it, wouldn’t you, you heartless bastard. You’d kill him. Maybe you already have.’

Al Shams moved back further into shadow and lowered the weapon. He stood for a moment, there beneath the cliff tops, a grey shape in the darkness. ‘One man’s life is nothing. Not yours, nor mine. Eight days, Mister Claymore.’ And then he was gone, vanished into the rock itself.

The Rest of Your Life

The next day, Clay stood at the edge of a cluster of brown mud huts huddled against the cliffs and looked down into the gaping sinkhole in the limestone caprock, the dark surface of the water ten metres below: the
ghayl
at Al Bawazir. Above, an empty sky stretched away to the edges of the universe. Looking up, he could almost
feel
eternity.

Beside him stood the chief of Al Bawazir, the same man who had spoken from the back of the room during the audience with the
mashayikh
two days ago, the
mashayikh
’s son, Al Shams’ nephew. He was dressed in the same flowing white robes as before. Close up he looked much younger than Clay remembered, late twenties perhaps, his face almost girlish, with razor cheekbones, dark eyes and thick black lashes. ‘You have been speaking with my father,’ he said in near-perfect English, his voice deep, almost musical.

Clay nodded.

The chief’s eyes flashed. ‘My father is a fool. Do not interpret his weakness as mine.’

Clay said nothing.

‘
My allegiance is only to those who fill my hands with silver coins
…’

Clay looked at the chief, a question.

‘An old Yemeni verse. My country will never progress so long as it sells itself to the highest bidder. We must stop fighting each other and turn our energies to the true path. Only then can we take back our country.’

‘You speak like your uncle.’

‘I have many uncles.’

Clay paused, looked into the man’s eyes. ‘I meant the one who is threatening to kill my friend.’

The chief looked up at the sky. ‘I agree with his aims, not his methods.’

‘Then help me,’ said Clay. ‘Ask him to release my friend.’

The chief turned and faced him. His dark eyes reflected the water below, ripples of sky. ‘It seems we need each other. My village, my family, are also threatened with this poisoning. Help me to protect them, and I promise to do what I can for your friend.’

Clay didn’t have many options, and he needed allies. He offered his hand.

The chief blinked twice, shook Clay’s hand. His grip was strong, sure. ‘
Inshallah
,’ he said.

Yes. God willing. It could be no other way. Like so much in this place, even trust was subject to divine approval, and, as so often happened, instant and random repudiation. What else could it be in a country that, until the year Clay was born, was known as the Mutawakkilite Kingdom of Yemen: the Kingdom that depends on God?

The chief extended a long finger towards the
ghayl
below. ‘Look. The water in the
ghayl
has fallen. You can see from the lines on the rock. The old men say never has it been this low. It began falling after the new oil well was drilled.’ He pointed up towards the escarpment and the plateau beyond. ‘There, at the CPF, near to the wadi. We have seen it.’

Clay rubbed his thumb over the embossed calligraphy of the ring weighing on the baby finger of his right hand. ‘Who has seen it?’

‘My son.’

Clay hadn’t heard about any oil discoveries at the CPF itself. The facility had been positioned midway between the two original fields, Kamar and Haya, over 150 kilometres apart. The new discovery, the one that was driving the expansion, was even further away. He doubted the man’s son could have seen anything. The plant itself was locked down, heavily guarded, ringed by electric fences and barbed
wire. Locals were strictly forbidden anywhere near. Even he, a contractor, had been allowed access only once, early in the development programme last year. ‘Are you sure?’

‘He has seen the drill.’

‘It must have been an exploration well.’

‘No,’ said the chief. ‘There is a pipeline to the well now, a generator.’

‘How did he see this?’

‘He is a small boy, but strong. He has found a way through the fence, near the Bedou well in Wadi Urush, close to the facility.’ The chief motioned towards the
ghayl
. ‘
Fa’ddar
,’ he said. Please. Clay thought now how much he looked like Al Shams, how Al Shams might have looked if God had been kinder.

Clay descended the steep, time-worn track down to the water, the steps hewn from the rock, worn concave smooth by the feet of generations. He reached a wide, flat ledge where the trail ended. The porous cave-ridden walls of the sinkhole were stained black from this point down to the water level more than a metre below, like exposed rock at low tide. He tied a length of rope to a bailer and dropped it into the water, retrieved it full.

Suddenly the air exploded above him. A MiG in desert camouflage flashed low overhead, wings heavy with finned cylinders: rockets and bombs. The black maws of the engine intakes gaped against its sky-grey underbelly. The jet pitched up as it passed over and clawed its way into the sky, afterburners searing the air with orange flame. A strong smell of kerosene blanketed him as the jet climbed off towards the plateau.

He worked quickly, calibrating the instruments, recording the data in his notebook. The salinity was higher than it should be, according to the long-term records, but nothing like the levels he had just measured at Al Urush. He scooped up a water sample and stashed it in his pack.

A voice echoed around the rock walls of the sinkhole. He looked up.

The chief stood at the lip, waving his arms. ‘You must go.’ His voice was deep and strong. ‘Hurry.’

Clay stowed his equipment and raced up the track. It took just a few seconds to reach the top. Beyond a low ridge that ran from the escarpment towards the sea, a thick streak of dust cut obliquely into the blue sky. A column of vehicles was approaching at high speed. ‘Soldiers,’ said the chief, pointing towards the escarpment. ‘Go. Hide in the rocks.’

‘I’ll stay.’

‘No,’ said the chief. ‘It is not good for you to be here. Please, go.’

Clay stood for a moment watching the dust spiralling closer. The chief reached out and touched his arm. ‘Please, my friend. It is better for us.’

Clay sprinted to the Land Cruiser and started the engine. The chief pointed to a gap between two buildings. Clay waved and trundled the vehicle between the mud-brick houses and along a raised dyke that ran between two fields of date palms. He looked back. The tyres were raising no dust.

Clay turned the vehicle in the direction of the escarpment onto a widened footpath. He followed the path into a dense field of towering boulders and stopped the Land Cruiser at the base of two massive blocks of limestone. The car was completely hidden from the village. He left the Land Cruiser and moved on foot along a goat track that ran parallel to the fault line and then up a steep shale slope until he came to a small promontory. He lay prone on the rock and looked out over the hamlet below. The convoy ploughed to a stop at the edge of the
ghayl
in a swirl of dust.

There were five vehicles: three Russian-made military transports and two smaller four-wheeled vehicles with mounted heavy machine guns. A group of villagers emerged from the buildings and walked towards the trucks, led by the chief. Green-uniformed troops jumped from the transports and fanned out among the fields and buildings. Half a dozen other men, taller and more heavily armed than the Yemeni soldiers, dismounted the jeeps. They were bearded and
dressed in a variety of camouflage patterns; some wore sunglasses. A Yemeni Army officer with gold epaulettes, and another man, smaller, dressed in khaki trousers, a black T-shirt and cap, approached the villagers. The locals clustered around the officer, waving and pointing. The bearded fighters stood a few paces away, watching, weapons ready.

Clay pulled the telephoto lens from his bag and attached it to his camera. Then he flipped the bottom of his vest up and over his head so that it formed a shaded cover for the lens, and focussed on the man in the black shirt. His face was obscured beneath the peak of his cap. Clay focussed back on the villagers. The officer stood among the throng, waving a paper in the air, a document of some sort. The tribesmen were arguing with the officer. Raised voices echoed from the cliffs, intermittent on the breeze, Arabic, clearly, but something else, too, words and tones he had heard before, but not here.

The chief stepped forward, his white robe rippling in the breeze. He turned to face his comrades and spoke, his voice rising on the wind. There was more jostling and shouting, the officer surrounded now by angry villagers. The man in the black shirt disengaged himself from the throng and faced the chief, pulled off his cap and ran his hands through close-cropped hair. Clay’s heart lurched. He clicked the shutter. It was Zdravko.

Clay shook his head. What the hell was Zdravko doing here? And the Army, these others, these irregulars? Were they searching for Al Shams? Was that why the chief had ushered him away, bid him hide?

Clay didn’t get a chance to be surprised. A shout echoed through the rocks. A blade flashed in the sun. The officer slumped to the ground holding his abdomen and disappeared under a mob of shouting villagers.

Zdravko grabbed the chief by the arm, dragged him back, away from the mob. Behind, the fighters closed ranks, raised weapons. They were screaming at the villagers. Through the lens, Clay could see their jaws moving under the butts of their weapons, magazines full, fingers on triggers. He snapped off another picture.

The villagers turned to face the fighters, fists raised, matching them voice for voice. Zdravko and the chief stood in the no-man’s land between the two groups. The chief turned to face his men, palms out, pleading with them. Zdravko drew a pistol, pointed it at the chief’s head. Clay’s heart stopped. Jesus, no.

Clay was about to jump up, scream at Zdravko to stop when a single shot ruptured the air. The chief’s right knee exploded in a shower of pink mist. He crumpled to the ground, a red stain spreading over his robe. One of the tribesmen broke from the group, sprinted towards his chief. Zdravko raised his weapon and fired three times at point blank range. The tribesman toppled into the dust at Zdravko’s feet. By now the fighters had closed around Zdravko, stood with weapons levelled, a mere ten metres from the villagers. Zdravko stood over the chief, screaming at the villagers in Arabic, waving his pistol in the air, pointing it at the chief, at the mob, at his own head. Clay could see Zdravko’s mouth moving, the spittle flying from his lips, his neck muscles straining, the sweat pouring from his face.

The chief was shouting back. Another shot pierced the air. The chief screamed in agony, his other knee smashed. The villagers surged forward but the chief turned to them, head craned back, warned them away. Clay could hear his words on the breeze, the voice strong even now, no, go back, don’t. The villagers stopped short, metres now from their chief, from the muzzles of the fighters’ weapons.

Clay pulled his headscarf up over his face and jumped to his feet. ‘Enough,’ he cried out at the top of his voice, his arms raised over his head, camera still in one hand. His voice echoed through the rocks.

Though he was a good 200 metres away, every face in the group turned at once in his direction.

‘Stop what you are doing and leave now,’ he yelled out.

Zdravko looked up at him for a moment, dropped his shoulders, lowered his pistol, and then turned away as if he had lost interest. Clay’s heart restarted. He stood where he was, exposed, covered in sweat as if waking from a nightmare. None of the fighters had yet
trained a weapon on him. He took a deep breath. Enough, he whispered. Enough.

By now, other uniformed soldiers were hurrying back to the square, attracted by the sounds of conflict. For a moment it seemed as if the fighters, too, would turn away. Zdravko took a step towards the vehicles, another. It was over. Clay exhaled.

Then Zdravko stopped, turned, stood staring up at Clay. Their eyes met. Clay’s face was covered, his cap pulled down low. Even so, there weren’t many foreigners of Clay’s build wandering around this part of the Yemen. He was sure that Zdravko had recognised him.

Moments passed, seconds slowed into drugged minutes as they stared at each other. No one moved. The chief was moaning, conscious still despite his shattered knees. Zdravko looked down at the ground, scuffed his boot through the blood-soaked sand, looked back up. He raised his arm and aimed his weapon at Clay.

At that range even an expert shot with the Makarov would have difficulty hitting a target. Clay knew that as long as he stood his ground, the chief had a chance. Clay aimed his camera at Zdravko, focussed on his face, the handgun big now, pointing right into Clay’s lens, the muzzle an empty black hole in Zdravko’s sunburnt hand. He clicked the shutter, watched Zdravko’s finger squeeze down on the trigger. The bullet would take about a third of a second to reach him, the sound of the gunshot about double that. Clay opened his eyes wide.

‘No,’ shouted the chief.

In one movement, Zdravko swung his weapon down and around, pivoted on both feet, and shot the chief through the middle of the forehead.

The chief slumped to the ground, motionless.

The fighters stood, silent, weapons trained on the tribesmen, looking at each other as if unsure what to do next. Moments slipped by. Then Zdravko opened his mouth. Clay saw it before he heard it. The muzzles of six automatic weapons flashed. The tribesmen, a dozen in all, disappeared. At that range, it was not a scything down
of bodies, but a disintegration, the projectiles tearing flesh and shattering bone, ripping away limbs and faces in a cloud of blood and flying debris. Then the sound, the sickening crack of exploding gunpowder and expanding gases, the metallic clatter of firing mechanisms, the groan of dying men, cried across the rocks and along the cliffs, lingered for a moment in the swirling breeze, and died. Fourteen men lay dead in the sand.