Birds of the Nile (7 page)

The atmosphere in the Forward Lounge had altered significantly since the meeting that morning. The room was effectively deserted and although the windows had been left open for air, the curtains had been redrawn to ward off the heat of the afternoon sun. It was dark inside and here and there a few of the table lamps had been turned on to provide a dim and eerie light. The general impression was that of a nightclub the morning after the night before.

Reda was in attendance as promised. He’d removed his jacket and tie, loosened his collar and was now sitting in one of the booths along the far wall. On the table in front of him lay a plate containing the remains of a hastily eaten lunch while next to it a cigarette smouldered in a glass ashtray. Smoking was a habit Blake deplored, but one to which Egypt was unfortunately addicted. After his striking performance that morning, he instinctively marked the young man down.

He was hunched over the illuminated screen of an open laptop and as Blake approached, he quickly shut the lid. In the half-light of an adjacent lamp, Blake caught a glimpse of a web page with pictures and a bold headline. He was left with the impression that Reda had been doing something he should not, or at least something he wanted to keep private. ‘Inappropriate use of the internet’ sprang to mind, but with his boyish looks and rotund frame, it was hard to imagine him as the type. Even so, he appeared embarrassed at being caught unawares, stubbing out his cigarette and standing to greet his visitor.

“Hello? Can I help you?”

“I hope so. I was thinking about going on one of the tours tomorrow.”

“Aha! May I recommend the Nubian Village?” advised Reda. “It’s a fascinating place.”

“Really?”

“Oh yes. The Nubian Village is a living museum. You will see much of the culture of the region there. And Nubia forms an important part of the development of Upper Egypt. In fact, some of our greatest Pharaohs were Nubian. In particular, during the 12
^th
dynasty…”

Blake cut him short. He’d heard enough history lessons the day before and was in no mood for another.

“Actually, I’m more interested in the boat trip. My understanding was that it’s primarily a nature tour.”

“And indeed it is – but the Nubian Village has other, interesting features…” Then, seeing that Blake was not to be persuaded, he assumed a resigned look and motioned to an adjacent chair. “Please take a seat.”

Blake made himself comfortable while Reda sat back down and shuffled his papers.

“And you are?”

“Blake. Michael Blake. Room 23.”

Reda stopped shuffling and glanced up. His expression of disappointment had changed and now there was an interested glint in his eye.

“Ah yes – the gentleman who looks at birds. Aren’t you what they call a ‘twitcher’?”

“No, actually, I’m not.”

Blake’s response was rather snappy. ‘Twitcher’ was a description he abhorred – he thought it placed him in the same nerdy category as ‘train-spotter’. He would have preferred to have called himself an amateur ornithologist but that sounded overly pretentious. All the same, he left Reda in no doubt that he’d touched a raw nerve.

“I’m a bird-watcher – there’s a big difference.”

“Sorry, I meant no offence.”

“None taken.”

Although it was a sure way of getting off on the wrong foot.

Where had that information come from? Someone must have
told him, it wasn’t on his file. Surely that wasn’t what he and Lee Yong had been discussing? Didn’t they have better things to do?

“You will enjoy this trip very much I think,” resumed Reda. “There will be many birds – many, many birds.”

The statement aroused Blake’s curiosity – it seemed out of context.

“You’re coming on it?” he asked.

“Oh, no no no!” Reda’s hands waved back and forth in enthusiastic denial. “No, Mr Blake, you misunderstand me. I know nothing of such things. My interest and expertise lies purely in the history – I leave matters such as wildlife to others. There will be a guide, a very good guide, and he will look after you. But no, I am afraid I will not be joining you.”

“Ah…”

The young Egyptian began preparing the necessary paperwork and rather than let the conversation lapse into silence, made a typically polite enquiry.

“You are English?”

“Yes, but I’ve lived in Cairo for many years.”

This qualification was not strictly necessary, but Blake felt he wanted to differentiate himself from the ‘others’. And it was not just in Reda’s eyes that he desired to make the distinction – his purpose was universal. He was not – and never would be –‘English’ in the conventional sense of the word. He’d been away too long for that.

“Really? Whereabouts?”

“Dokki.”

It was a suburb on the west bank of the city, known primarily for its plush villas and private hospitals. It was also a place of mixed social class. Reda would probably assume he lived in the fashionable area near the sporting club, whereas in fact he’d chosen an apartment in the poorer market quarter to the southwest. It had felt more in keeping with his desire to be thought ‘Egyptian’. The explanation as to why would involve
more than he was presently prepared to give so he elected to turn the question around.

“And you? Where do you come from, Reda?”

“I too am from Cairo – the Old Town. My mother still lives there. She has a small flat just off the Sharia Salah Salem. You know it?”

“Yes, I do.” Blake nodded. In fact, he knew it well – he’d once had a place there himself.

“Then you will know how crowded and hectic and dirty it is, Mr Blake. And in the summer, the heat is almost intolerable. I have tried to persuade her to move on more than one occasion, but she insists on staying there.”

“A true Cairene then…”

“Precisely.”

“As stubborn as the mule that passes by her
window…”

It was an old Arabic saying. In one form or another, it was one Blake had heard many times and in many places. He risked the wrong interpretation, but it was intended to show empathy rather than give offence. He waited for a reaction.

Reda’s eyes narrowed as he considered the line. For a moment it looked as if it had gone awry, but then he gave a smile of appreciation.

“Aha! I see you know something of us Egyptians, Mr Blake. We are a strange people, are we not? Full of – what do you English call them? Contradictions? We are a proud race but we have so much humility.”

“Indeed.”

Blake was well aware of the Egyptian character.

“So…You’re English…” mused Reda. “I should very much like to visit your country some time.”

Blake gave a sardonic grin. He didn’t really think of it as his country anymore and besides, the cynic that lurked inside his head told him that this was what every tour guide said to their guests – it was a way of ingratiating themselves. How to win
friends and influence people – pay them compliments. And the bigger the compliment you paid them, the bigger the tip you could expect.

His reaction made Reda quick to qualify his statement.

“No, really,” he protested. “It’s something I’ve always wanted to do. My father (may he rest in peace) dreamt that one day I would go to Oxford for my education. He said it was the greatest seat of learning in the world and that’s where I should aim to be. Sadly, he is no longer with us, but one day I have every intention of honouring his memory and going there to study.”

Blake paused before replying. Mention of Oxford had set him on edge – he himself was a Cambridge man. He’d already resisted entering into the same debate with Mrs Biltmore and did not want to be drawn into a discussion about the merits of ‘the other place’. He decided on a safer response.

“I’m sorry to hear about your father.”

“Thank you, Mr Blake. It was a great sadness – both to myself and to my mother. It broke her heart and she has not been the same woman since. But as my father himself would have said, it was the will of Allah and we could do nothing.”

“Of course. What was his profession?”

“He taught at the university – in Cairo. He was a great believer in the power of learning – it was the idea that sustained him. He said that learning was what separated civilised people from the rest of humanity.” Reda assumed a serious look. “You see, civilisation is not something you inherit, Mr Blake – it’s something you have to teach yourself. We Egyptians should know that above all people. Look at our history and what we have inherited – and look at us today. His great ambition was to see Egypt re-educate itself – it was how the Egyptian nation would raise itself up from the depths to which it has fallen. We were once a great country, Mr Blake. But now…” He shook his head with dismay. “We are nothing more than the sand that surrounds us – ground into dust…”

He stopped short, as if he were afraid of giving too much away. That morning he had delivered his speech in a neutral tone from which Blake had gleaned nothing, but now there was a touch of bitterness in his voice. He paused as if to compose himself and then continued.

“But I shouldn’t burden you with the troubles of my country, Mr Blake. I’m sure you’re well aware of them already.”

Blake certainly was – he’d experienced them at first hand. Not only that, he’d written several papers on the subject, both political and economic. But just like his recent memo to the First Secretary, most of them had been consigned to someone’s pending tray, never more to see the light of day. Trying to convince the Diplomatic Service to see the world as it really was had always been an uphill struggle.

“Everyone has their problems – Egypt is no different.”

He had his own views on the subject. One day he might want to share them with this earnest young man – but Reda was as yet an unknown quantity and he would do well to discover more about him before declaring himself. They had only just met and in the dimly lit lounge of a cruise ship drenched in the afternoon sun, it hardly seemed appropriate.

“That’s true – and I shouldn’t complain. But in this country, it’s hard not to.” Reda smiled and tried to lighten up. “Well, you haven’t come here to listen to me talk philosophy, you’ve come here to enjoy yourself – and my job is to make sure you do.”

He rummaged through his papers to ensure everything was in order, then handed Blake his tickets.

“Here you are. Your boat leaves the quayside next to the ship at 8am, give these to your guide. I hope you enjoy your trip – let’s hope you find many interesting birds. And I’m sorry, but now I have to ask you for some money.”

So it only remained for Blake to make payment and withdraw, but he still had questions that remained unanswered – and they were not the kind he could readily put into words. He’d been
unable to shake off the image of the website which Reda had tried to conceal when he’d initially walked in. There was something familiar about it that was bothering him. He waited, pretending to have trouble pocketing his tickets and extracting his wallet, then took out a couple of high-value notes.

“Here, take these.”

Reda inspected them and made a quick mental calculation.

“I don’t think I can cover that – I’ll need to go and find some change. Do you mind waiting for a moment?”

“Not at all.”

The young man rose and made off in the direction of the purser’s office.

“I won’t be long.”

Long enough
thought Blake. He waited until the lounge door had closed behind the Egyptian and then looked round the room. It was now completely empty. If he moved quickly, he would just have time…

The laptop lay, lid down, on the coffee table in front of him. He checked around once more, then raised the lid and pressed the power-on button. The blank grey screen flashed into life and after a few agonising seconds the website reappeared. It was exactly as he’d suspected.

The webpage Reda had been perusing was one he’d been looking at it himself not a few months before. All the same, he’d wanted to make sure. Attached somewhere close by there would be an email account and a host of private messages. But there was no time to go into that and anyway, his intention was only to confirm what had already been revealed – he had no licence to pry further. He reclosed the lid and sat with his hands clasped together, breathing deeply.

He was too long in the tooth to register a sense of shock – it was more like disappointment. Ever since he’d first encountered Reda in the quayside car park concerning the matter of Joan’s jewellery box, the young man had presented a practised and solid
appearance. Now a shadow had been cast over him that seemed strangely out of place.

A noise in the corridor alerted him. He assumed a schoolboy air of innocence and affected a bored look, as if he’d grown tired of waiting.

Reda returned, one hand clutching a sheaf of notes.

“I’m sorry, Mr Blake, but this is the best I can do.”

“That’s fine.”

Blake accepted the offering and packed his wallet. All he wanted to do now was retreat and give himself time to think.

“Well, enjoy your trip.”

“I’ll do my best.”

Then, as if it were for his benefit alone – perhaps because Blake lived in the country and understood, or even as some kind of test – Reda made an addition in Arabic.

“Allah go with you, Mr Blake.”

“And with you,”
was Blake’s automatic reply.

He headed for the door and the light of the outside world. In the dim and artificial surroundings of the Forward Lounge, something had fundamentally changed and for the moment he wanted to be away from it. For all his poise and professional bearing, Reda was not all that he seemed and Blake could not see him in the same way again. But as he was continually fond of telling himself, Egypt was a land full of surprises.

Blake returned to his cabin and sat on the end of the bed. It was heading towards the middle of the afternoon and a quiet calm had descended over the ship. Those passengers who remained on deck were forced to seek the shade while the rest had already retreated to their rooms and the comfort of a peaceful nap. Unlike the previous afternoon, Blake was determined to stay awake, and rather than slump into the chair overlooking the mesmeric flow of the river and risk dozing off, he elected to perch somewhere deliberately less comfortable where he could take stock and give himself time to review the situation.

Despite his interest in the politics of Egypt and his years of extensive research, Blake was quick to acknowledge that he knew little of al-Wasat al-Jadid. Its founder, Abou Elela Mady, had once been a member of the Muslim Brotherhood but had thought their political convictions too narrow and in 1996 had broken away to form his own party. They professed to be moderates and had sought to create a tolerant Islamic movement but its attempts to register as an official party had been rejected a number of times. Under the current emergency laws, they were still a banned organisation and had been brought before a military court on the charge of setting up a party as an Islamist front. To be identified as a member would be to lay yourself open to the risk of imprisonment and possible torture. Why then was Reda so interested in their website, and how deep was his involvement?

In the six or so weeks since his departure from the Embassy, and more particularly in the few days since he had been away from his base in Cairo, Blake had begun to forget what it was like to be at work. The prolonged absence was steadily etching away his memory. What on earth had he found to do all day in that drab and dreary office? How had he managed to fill his working hours? More especially, how would he have reacted to the current situation and what would he have done about it? Had he been in
Chancery he would probably have filed a report, but from his distant position in the Trade Section his only option would have been yet another memo to the First Secretary.
Certain political elements are active in the area south of Luxor…
And after expending considerable time and effort in setting out his views, he would no doubt have received the usual perfunctory reply.
Thank you for this valuable information which I have now passed on to the relevant area
. Then he would have heard nothing. What good had it ever done? Although in the mundane atmosphere of the Embassy, it had always been enough to make life bearable.

But as he kept reminding himself, he was no longer a member of the Service so he could hardly write a memo now. And as he’d quickly discovered, it was a radically different proposition to be confronted with affairs in the field rather than viewing them from the safety of the Embassy. If he was to solve his conundrum over Reda, an alternative approach would be required. He needed more information, he needed to talk to someone, someone who knew what was going on, someone who had their finger on the pulse.

A name immediately sprang to mind and he decided to give Carpenter a call. Carpenter – steady, reliable, British to the core and whose sole purpose in life seemed to be to gaze out of a window and watch the world go by.

The ship’s phone sat on the bedside table in front of him. Blake wondered whether it was purely internal or whether it would have an outside line – and even if it did, he preferred not to risk being overheard. He took his mobile out of the drawer and turned it on, praying for a signal. Fortunately he was able to find an immediate connection, and after the inevitable round of buzzing and clicking, Carpenter’s languid tones came on the line.

“Hello? Trade Section? Can I help you?”

“Carpenter? Is that you? It’s Blake.”

Even after just a few days away, it was a relief to hear a
familiar voice and to know his old world was still there.

“Good Lord! Aren’t you supposed to be on holiday somewhere? I thought you’d be halfway up the Nile by now.”

“I am.”

“Good for you! I trust you’re having a good time, you lucky bugger. I have visions of you lounging on a sumptuous barge, propped up by acres of cushions and being fanned by a cohort of dusky maidens.”

“Not quite – it’s just an ordinary cruise ship.”

“Ah well, one can always live in hope. Anyway, how’s the bird-watching going? Seen any of those dickney whatsits you were telling me about?”

“You mean Senegal Thick-knee. No, I haven’t – but the birding’s fine, thank you.” Actually it wasn’t, but he decided not to elaborate. “Look, something’s come up and I need to ask you a favour.”

“Fire away, old boy. You know me, always happy to help.”

Exactly, which was why Blake had decided to call.

“I can’t go into the details right now, it’s a complicated story, but I need some background information on someone. Do we still have access to the Egyptian Police computer records?”

“I think so – such as they are. Subject to the usual bribe, of course.”

“Of course. But don’t worry about that, I’ll sort it out with you when I get back. So if I were to give you a name, do you think you could see what they’ve got?”

“I don’t see why not. Anything for a friend.”

“Thanks.”

So far so good. Blake cleared his throat in preparation for what was to come next. He knew he was pushing it a bit but it was always worth a try.

“And you might as well have a look at our own files while you’re about it.”

“Hmm…”

Carpenter baulked a little. Egyptian Police records were one thing – British Embassy files were quite another.

“That’s a bit more tricky – but I’ll see what I can do. Do you want to give me the details?”

Blake extracted Reda’s business card from his wallet and held it out beneath the light of the bedside lamp.

“Here you go. The name is Reda Eldasouky. I’ll spell that for you.” He slowly read out the letters. However helpful he might sound, Carpenter was not renowned for the accuracy of his work. “He’s probably registered in the Cairo area so it shouldn’t be too difficult.”

“Ok, I’ve got it – Reda Eldasouky. Is it anyone I should recognise?”

“Not as far as I’m aware. That’s the point – I need to find out.”

“Alright. So what’s the timescale on this?”

“Well, as soon as you can really.”

Blake was anxious to come to a conclusion for a number of reasons, not least of which was the safety of the passengers and the crew. If Reda had ‘history’ of any kind, he would want to know about it as soon as he could.

“Right. Well, as you can imagine, there’s not a lot going on here at the moment so I’ll get cracking on it straight away. I tell you what – why don’t you call me back at home this evening? You’ve got my number. Probably better than ringing the Embassy again.”

“Thanks, I’d appreciate it. Anything else to report?”

“Well, now that you’ve asked…”

Carpenter launched into a long and protracted description of the latest game of cricket being played in Australia. If Blake’s ‘passion’ was birding, then Carpenter’s was definitely cricket. On match days he would bring his radio into the office and give a running commentary on the score. He seemed to get more calls on the subject than he did about work. Why he thought Blake would be interested was a mystery, but still. After two or three
minutes he rounded off his talk and finished with an incidental piece of news just as though it were of no consequence at all.

“…but I’d much rather have the Ashes, thank you very much, and at least they’re in the bag. Oh, and by the way, speaking of ashes, some silly sod set himself on fire in front of the Parliament building the other day.”

“Yes, I saw that.” It had been headline news a day or so before Blake had left for his trip but he’d yet to catch up with the details. “What was that all about?”

“God knows. The usual, I expect – dissent amongst the masses and so on. Nobody thinks it’s going to come to anything anyway. Other than that it’s been as dull as ditchwater, I’m afraid.”

“Ok. Well, I’ll call you back later on this evening then.”

“Yes, do that. Meanwhile, I’ll leave you to your band of dusky maidens.”

“I wish…”

A picture came into Blake’s mind, but it was not the lithe athletic figure of Lee Yong that lay next to him on his imaginary barge but the plump and shapeless form of Mrs Biltmore. He shuddered and moved quickly on.

“Thanks, Alan. I’ll speak to you later. Bye…”

“Bye…”

He shut off his phone and returned it to the drawer of the bedside table.

Earlier on, in order to make himself heard, he’d turned off the noisy hum of the air-conditioning and the room had grown warm and drowsy. He let out a yawn and consulted his watch. Three o’clock. He wondered whether it was worthwhile going back on deck. There would be nothing to see in the way of birds – at this time of day they would all be resting out of the sun, just like the passengers. He decided he could afford to join them and lay back on the bed with his eyes closed.

Carpenter would take care of things now, Carpenter could be trusted. What harm could there be if he dropped off for an hour?
At least there was no gala dinner he had to look out for.

This time it was the need to visit the bathroom that roused him. He made himself comfortable, then returned to the bedside clock to find out the time. It was now ten to five and he’d been ‘out of it’ for an hour and a half. He’d hardly been away from home for more than a few days and he was already sleeping in the afternoons. Was it wasted time? Or simply that his old and weary body was trying to tell him something?

He went up on deck and realised he’d missed afternoon tea. The weather had changed too. The sun had dipped behind a rare bank of cloud and a light breeze had sprung up, ruffling the sculptured edges of the parasols on the sun-deck. Here and there, scattered on the tables, discarded plates lay empty and on the serving stand at the ship’s rail, the tea urns had been all but cleared away. If he was lucky he might find a half-empty, lukewarm pot…One day, he thought, he would learn to get his timing right.

He wondered how long he should leave it before he called Carpenter back. Was it best after dinner or before? If he’d found something out, there was no point in waiting until after, it might as well be before. He would probably get home around six – give him half an hour to get changed and pour himself a whisky…

Blake resolved to go back to his cabin and write up his notes while he waited. He’d still not finished what he’d begun at the breakfast table that morning. Apart from the name of Lee Yong (which he had attempted to scratch through) his bird list consisted of a few commonplace entries plus the Spur-winged Plover he’d found at the Colossi of Memnon – but he could not for the life of him recall what had come next. With all the distractions, he’d failed to keep up to date and he was now thirty-six hours behind. How could he be expected to remember it all?

He forced himself to think. After the Colossi, they’d gone to Queen Hatshepsut’s Temple. That’s where he’d seen the unidentified
lark – but he could hardly record that. Then it was the Valley of the Kings – but that had been a blank. And as for today, other than Pied Kingfisher, nothing, not even a sniff. Two days of his holiday gone already and hardly any birding done. What on earth had he been doing? Making a fool of himself over Lee Yong, worrying about Reda…

At twenty past six he washed and changed so as to be ready for dinner. Then, on the dot of half past, he turned on his mobile.

The phone seemed to ring for ages before Carpenter finally answered. He sounded out of breath and uncharacteristically under pressure. Perhaps things were different at home than they were in the office.

“Sorry, old boy, I’ve only just got in. Would you believe it but the blighters have had me working late for once. Can you hang on a minute.”

“Of course…”

There was a dull thud at the other end of the line as the receiver went down and then the solid clunk of ice cubes falling into a glass. A minute or two later, Carpenter returned to the phone, evidently refreshed.

“Ah…That’s better. Now where had we got to?”

Blake took a deep breath and attempted to remain patient. As yet, they hadn’t got anywhere.

“Reda Eldasouky – you were going to have a look at the police records.”

“So I was…Well, I hate to disappoint you but there’s not an awful lot to tell. I don’t know what you were expecting but he’s hardly Jack the Lad, you know, your boy. Both the police and State Security have got a file but there’s next to nothing on it – certainly no convictions, although they’ve pulled him in for questioning a couple of times. They suspect he’s a member of this April 6th Youth thing, but that’s about all.”

Blake sniffed. He was sure Reda did have convictions – although it looked as though they were of the political rather
than the criminal kind. As for the April 6th Youth Movement, that came as no surprise. Almost every young person in Egypt under the age of thirty was either in it, or suspected of being in it, especially if they showed any signs of an educated mind – but that in itself would hardly warrant a police record. So if they’d pulled him in for questioning, it must be for something else…

“So let me get this straight – he’s on their radar, but we don’t know why?”

“Ah!” Carpenter’s interjection promised a glimmer of hope. “I think I may have the answer to that.”

“Go on.”

“Well, I managed to get a peek at our files as you suggested.”

“Tell me.” If there was a price to pay, another bribe, then Blake was only too willing if it meant he could get to the bottom of it. “So what did you find out?”

“As far as Reda is concerned, nothing, we don’t have a file. But here’s the thing – we do for his father.”

“Really?”

“Oh yes. Apparently, Ahmed Eldasouky was a founder member of…”

Carpenter halted as he focused on pronouncing what was in front of him. At the risk of stealing his thunder, Blake beat him to it.

“Let me guess. Al-Wasat Al-Jadid.”

“Spot on, old boy! How on earth did you know that?”

“Let’s just say it was an educated guess.”