The Abrupt Physics of Dying (15 page)

But what had Zdravko been doing with the Army at Bawazir? What had sparked the killing? Karila and Parnell hadn’t even twitched an eyelid. Was Zdravko working behind the company’s back? And if so, to what end? More immediately, had he recognized Clay as the man who stood up on the cliffside and tried to stop the killing? If so, he was in real danger. Clay took another swig of whisky. His head was spinning. He closed his eyes. All that blood soaking into the parched ground. The broken bodies twisted like pretzels, the young chief dead on the ground, his white robes splattered with gore, the women wailing as they moved among the corpses, long plumes of dust spiralling away behind the fleeing vehicles into a sky so blue it crushed your eyes. He opened his eyes, shook his head, but all he could see were the sores on little Mohamed’s arms, open and weeping, and Abdulkader’s grizzled hand, hacked off God knew how, withered, dead.

He reached for the bottle.

There was a knock at the door. He stood, steadied himself a moment, walked across the marble floor and unbolted the lock.

Karila held up a bottle of schnapps and two glasses. ‘Do you have a minute?’

They sat outside on the balcony and looked at the lights flickering around the bay. Karila poured out two glasses and lit up a cigarette. ‘Don’t worry about Vance,’ said the Finn. ‘He’s not as bad as he seems, really.’

Clay took a sip of the alcohol. It was aspartame sweet, oddly artificial. ‘He’s a pompous son of a bitch and you know it. All that crap about moving the ball, as if this were some kind of game. Abdulkader is a prisoner, if he isn’t dead already. And Parnell won’t do a thing about it.’

Karila sipped his drink. ‘Leave it with me, Straker. I’ll talk to him, see if we can do something.’

Clay looked at the Finn. His pale eyes were haloed red. ‘Let me do the testing at the villages, Nils. If we do it quickly, Al Shams will let Abdulkader go.’

Karila waved his free hand. ‘You heard Vance. It’s out of the question.’

Clay filled his lungs, held the air, exhaled slowly. ‘OK then. Five thousand dollars ransom would do it, Nils. It’s the going rate.’

Karila put down his glass, pondered this for a moment. ‘That’s a lot of money, Clay.’

‘22,500 barrels a day,’ said Clay, not trying to disguise the anger in his voice. ‘World price twenty-one dollars a barrel, give or take. Cost of production and royalties, what, seven dollars? That’s a net profit of 315,000 a day, Nils. A day.’

Karila glanced up and to the right.

‘I’d pay it myself if I had the money.’ He glanced at Karila. ‘But I haven’t seen a cent for three months.’

Karila frowned. ‘I’m sorry you’ve had to wait so long, Straker. We’ll get that sorted out right away.’

‘Maybe I should start charging Medved interest,’ he said. Both his offshore accounts in Cyprus were overdrawn, and the banks were screaming. He hadn’t sent anything to Eben’s parents in months. ‘I really need that money, Nils.’

‘I will look after it personally.’

‘And Abdulkader?’

‘I’ll do my best.’

‘
Inshallah
,’ Clay said.

‘Things are going well, Straker. Let’s keep it up and get this past the regulators and finished. Finish the report so we can review it and sign off. Work your magic with the authorities. They trust you. There’s a bonus for you if you finish on schedule. And then there is another big piece of work I would like you to do for us – a baseline assessment for a new exploration block further North in the Empty
Quarter – sole source, no bidding. We’ll extend your contract immediately at 900 a day. How does that sound?’

Clay emptied the glass and put it back down on the table, calculated the money it would bring in. In a couple of months he might actually have his head above water, ever so slightly. ‘Hundreds.’

Karila pursed his lips. ‘What is that supposed to mean?’

‘It means good. Just pay me what you owe me, OK?’

Karila fiddled with the bottle, twisting it in place on the table, grinding glass on stone. ‘Go to accounts first thing next week and Dunkley will have a cheque for you. And Clay …’ He had never used his given name before. ‘… the PSO called me today, asking about you.’

Clay’s stomach lurched over the apex.

Karila cast a sidelong glance and refilled his own glass. ‘They say you’ve been talking to the Press.’ Karila lit another of his French cigarettes and inhaled deeply. ‘That’s a bad idea, Clay, from everyone’s perspective. You know the rules.’

Clay tried to avoid the plume of blue smoke. ‘Jesus, all I did was have a drink with a girl by the pool.’

‘Yes, that LaTour woman. I heard. Stay away from her, Clay.’

Clay sat a moment, quiet, thought about this. Then he said: ‘Didn’t tell her a thing, Nils.’

‘Good. And stay clear of the Mövenpick. That’s an order. The management called me about your little altercation in the lobby. They are very unhappy that our people are engaging in “unruly behaviour”, as they call it.’

‘It was nothing, Nils.’

‘So you don’t deny it.’

‘Why should I? It was after hours. It’s none of the company’s business.’

‘Nothing, you say, Straker? The man you assaulted worked for one of our contractors. He was flown to hospital in Europe this morning with a broken arm and a fractured jaw, for God’s sake.’

Clay said nothing.

‘You’re lucky he’s not pressing charges.’

‘He’s the lucky one,’ said Clay.

Karila frowned. ‘Why do you have to be so difficult?’ He sighed. ‘Just remember what I said. We’re counting on you.’

Clay leaned forward and grabbed Karila’s wrist. ‘And Abdulkader is counting on
you
.’

The Finn’s cigarette butt fell to the floor. It glowed there, browning the tile. Karila looked at Clay’s hand on his wrist, then back up at Clay. ‘I said I’d do what I could.’

Clay let go.

Karila stood, crushed the cigarette with a twist of his shoe, gathered up the bottle and the glasses, and stood up. ‘Trust me on this, Straker,’ he said. Then he turned and disappeared into the hallway.

Clay closed the door, walked over to the window, opened the whisky and swigged a mouthful, and then another, trying to wash the cloying taste from his mouth. Trust. He put the bottle down and walked down the hall to the communications room. It was empty. He picked up the sat phone receiver and punched in a number.

‘It’s Clay Straker.’ The satellite connection hissed and warbled behind the echo of his voice. ‘What are you doing this weekend?’ he said. ‘I need to talk to you. It’s important.’

In Paradise

Clay woke early the next morning, the city still shrouded in sea mist, the streets empty. He dressed, threw a water bottle into his pack, checked his wallet and passport, locked the door to his room, and walked down the guesthouse stairs. He was opening the front door when Atef called his name.

The big Egyptian was standing in the doorway to the kitchen, his hands covered in flour. ‘Telephone, Mister Clay.’

Clay looked at his watch. Not yet six o’clock.

‘Here, in my kitchen.’

Clay closed the door and followed Atef into the kitchen. The air was thick with the smell of yeast, dough, rising bread. Atef handed him a flour-patched receiver.

‘Clay Straker here.’

‘You wanted to know about Champard.’ The line was bad, the voice hollow.

‘Who is this?’

‘Look, I don’t have long.’

‘I’m listening.’

‘It wasn’t Al Shams who killed Thierry.’

Clay said nothing, waited.

‘November 30th. That’s the day Thierry was killed.’ As if he could forget. ‘Check the personnel records, Straker, the accounts.’

He could hear the Southern accent. ‘Jim, is that you?’

‘Dig, Straker.’

‘Who killed him?’

‘I don’t know. But it wasn’t Al Shams. Figure it out, Straker. But do it fast. They’re on to you.’

‘Why was he killed?’

The line hissed. Clay could hear breathing at the other end. ‘Don’t let them do to you what they’ve done to me.’

‘Do what? What are they doing?’

‘Someone’s coming. I’ve gotta go.’ The line went dead.

Clay stood for a moment, receiver in hand. Atef was watching him, sleeves rolled up over thick forearms, kneading a big lump of dough. ‘OK, Mister Clay?’

‘
Tammam
,’ he replied, unsteady. He replaced the handset in its cradle on the wall. ‘Did you know Champard, Atef?’

‘Oh yes, Mister Clay. A very nice man, a good man. Always polite. When he stayed with us here he always left money for the staff. Very sad what happened to him.’ The cook thrust a freshly baked croissant and a steaming mug of coffee into his hands. ‘Before you go,’ he said.

By early morning Clay had left the wide sweeping Southern plains behind and came into the fertile uplands of Ta’izz. It was just outside of Ad Dimnah that he first noticed it: a white Pajero, newish, with a dented front quarter-panel, tracking behind. At first, he paid it no attention. But as other vehicles came and went, the Pajero followed like a faithful dog, falling back as the miles clicked by and then surging closer again, always behind. An hour later he was in the mountains, the country here green, terraced from valley to peak, the narrow road twisting through mountain passes with purple rivers and foam-white rapids threading through the dark volcanic rock far below, the Pajero still following.

A road block just outside Ibb slowed traffic to a walk for miles in both directions. Clay inched along behind a dilapidated Toyota Hi-Lux heaped with fresh vegetables and sacks of grain. The vehicles in front stopped. He waited. After a while he killed the engine and got out to have a look. Ahead, every vehicle was being pulled over and searched. Soldiers swarmed over big eighteen-wheelers, opening
cargo containers, inspecting documents. Two tanks, an armoured personnel carrier and a dozen heavily armed soldiers watched over the scene, weapons ready.

He glanced back along the queue and caught sight of the Pajero six cars back. Glare on the windscreen obscured any view of the driver. Zdravko usually drove a new-model black Land Rover, but that meant nothing. He could readily have switched vehicles to disguise himself. If it was him back there, Clay could use the roadblock delay between them – five vehicles to be inspected, five drivers to be questioned – to get a head start and hide in the hinterland off the main road. He considered strolling back along the queue to get a clear view of the driver, but thought better of it, got back into Abdulkader’s Land Cruiser.

After a while, the queue moved forward. Clay started the engine, moved a few more car-lengths towards the road block. Another halt, longer this time. Again, he shut down the engine, got out, leaned against the Land Cruiser’s passenger door, and looked up along the line of vehicles towards the makeshift roadside village festering around the checkpoint. He glanced over his shoulder. The Pajero was still there, a lone figure behind the wheel, a dark shape through the glare. Clay looked at his watch. An hour wasted here already, an hour he didn’t have.

He was about to get back in the car when a detonation split the air, loud and close. Clay’s knees gave way autonomously, pure reflex. Before he had time to register the noise, he was on the ground. Adrenaline burst through his heart, pounded into his feet and hands. Up ahead, more gun shots, two quick pops, a shout, the death rattle of an AK, then silence.

Clay looked up. Soldiers emerged from huts, clambered down from the tank, and gathered around one of the vehicles. Clay stood, brushing the dirt from his clothes. He watched as the soldiers pulled two men from the vehicle. They were limp, their clothes covered in blood. The unfortunates were dragged through the dirt and deposited at the roadside to lie open-mouthed with the rest of the
detritus, the plastic bags, the animal carcasses, the rotting scraps and peels, the hulks and husks. Another man was marched away at gunpoint by two soldiers. His hands were tied behind his back and he was bareheaded. He slowed, stopped. The soldiers were shouting, pushing him forward. The man stumbled, fell to the ground. Unable to break his fall he rolled side-on to take the impact on his shoulder. One of the soldiers grabbed him by the back of his shirt and hauled him to his feet, pushing him along with the butt of his weapon. Clay watched the man disappear into a sandbagged bunker. Soldiers pushed the bullet-riddled car to the side of the road.

Finally, almost two hours after joining the queue, he reached the barrier and was directed to the side of the road. He offered his papers to an officer in a camouflaged jumpsuit and black beret.

The officer leaned in through the open window and scanned the inside of the car with flicking, nervous eyes.

‘What is your business here?’ asked the officer in English, staring at Clay’s passport, the smell of booze heavy on his breath.

‘
Inshallah
, I am going to Sana’a to visit a friend.’

‘Get out of the car.’

Clay drew breath, held the air in his lungs, then let it go. It took ten or eleven long seconds. Then he opened the door and stepped down onto the smashed rubble of the shoulder.

The officer’s head tilted back as Clay stood to his full height. His eyes narrowed and he took two full steps back, his hand reaching for his holstered sidearm. ‘What are you doing in Yemen?’ he said.

‘Petro-Tex,’ said Clay. That was usually enough.

The officer nodded, waving two bare-headed conscripts forward. The youths started going through the Land Cruiser, flinging open doors, peering under seats.

‘It is not a good time to travel,’ said the officer. ‘The border may close at any time.’

‘Border?’

‘
Inshallah
, not.’ The officer flipped through Clay’s passport, looked at the photo page. ‘However, I suggest you turn back.’

‘It is only for a short time.’

‘Go back. And consider leaving Yemen soon.’

‘Sir, may I ask a favour?’

The officer put his hands on his hips, mulled this over. It was probably the first time he had heard that one today.

‘May I take something from the car?’

‘Please,’ said the officer. ‘Slowly.’

Clay stepped to the car, reached under the seat, pulled out a plastic bag containing two bottles of Jack Daniels and handed it to the officer.

The officer took the bag, looked inside. He stood a moment examining the contents. Then he closed the bag, looked up along the road and back, put the bag at his feet. ‘I hope the one you will visit in Sana’a is a good friend,’ said the officer. ‘There will be many checkpoints.’

Clay grinned. ‘
Inshallah
, she will become a very good friend.’

The officer looked up, smiled. ‘If you wish to return South, do not stay more than one day in Sana’a.’

Clay jutted his chin towards the bullet-riddled car at the side of the road. ‘What happened?’

‘Southern extremists trying to come North. They killed one of my men.’

Clay frowned.

‘He is in paradise.’

‘Al hamdillulah.’

The officer flicked up an eyebrow, stood staring at Clay. Then he repeated the invocation, thanking God. ‘Go,’ he barked, handing Clay back his passport, waving to the guards to raise the barrier.

‘
Shukran
.’ Clay started the Land Cruiser, and put it in gear. ‘The white Pajero, six back,’ he called to the officer as the Land Cruiser started to roll forward. ‘You may want to check it.’ Before the officer had a chance to react, Clay was through the barrier and accelerating down the road towards Sana’a.