Guardian (24 page)

Abdel-Aziz had finally worked his ship back to the natural break in the reef that signalled the entrance to the old port of Malindi. Only to confirm, as anticipated, that his was now the solitary sea-going dhow using the almost deserted port. Quartering the area just north of Malindi with some difficulty, they had wasted several days looking in vain for their attackers and the erstwhile Abdullah. Watching with extreme irritation as the last of the identifiable dhows had slid silently past on their north-bound journeys, long, sail-strained spars soaring and dipping in time to the rise and fall of the ocean rollers. Thoroughly enraged by the delay and barely able to contain himself, despite his innate and not unreasonable fear of Ahmed, Abdel-Aziz fought to contain his fury as he contemplated the wasted journey on which he had been sent by his long-time paymaster.

Afraid of him or not, he knew there was no point in continuing to search for someone who, for all anyone knew, was providing a feast for the local crabs since, like many Arab sailors, the fool probably couldn't swim anyway. Either way, abducted or dead, any dimwit could see that wasting further time searching the glittering, empty sea would lead to one thing only: fractious, unhealthy slaves, whose chances of developing devastating diseases or simply dying from fear or thirst were increasing by the minute. And some already had. Which also meant any chance of a profit from this futile voyage was slipping inexorably beyond his grasp. And whoever the scum were who had invaded his ship, neither Ahmed nor Abdel were prepared to accept that all the mayhem had been the work of just one white girl, teamed with a couple of companions who hadn't even come aboard. Despite the crew's vehement protestations to the contrary.

And in the Captain's view, whether by day or by night, keeping a slow-moving, heavily laden and lightly armed dhow meandering around just off the coast offered easy pickings to any one of the flimsy yet highly manoeuvrable local fishing boats. Particularly if the original, miserable pirates took it into their heads to return for another attack. So, anchored back at Malindi and with all hope of finding Abdullah now gone, he had found that fury had begun to get the better of fear (and common sense). And since Ahmed also lived in a degree of fear over his scheming aunt, he was prone to strike the nearest offender without warning when things failed to run to plan. Especially where money was concerned. Something Abdel-Aziz would have done well to remember.

Yet it remained a mystery to Abdel-Aziz as to why, with a cargo of prime slaves at stake, Ahmed had persisted in demanding the search for his cousin continue. Even the most amateur of sailors knew the southerly monsoon only blew for a limited period each year, after which it was pointless trying to take a cargo north. And that meant Abdel remained firmly wedged between a rock and a hard place. He had no wish to run out of wind off the Somali coast and be forced to beach in that waterless, godforsaken hole. On the other hand, no longer able to guarantee a successful voyage north, it was he, not Ahmed, who faced financial ruin. Or, if he refused to set sail, possible death at Ahmed's cold-blooded hands. Still cursing silently, Abdel had dropped anchor as close as he dared to the short stone quay of the old harbour without tempting the now thoroughly bored police with an invitation to visit. Which had left him wavering between barely suppressed but growing outrage, and abject fear as he waited for the recently alerted Ahmed to come aboard. Doubtless, without any suggestion of compensation. Sullenly, Abdel contemplated the only course left open to him. Try to find a buyer here in Malindi for a few of the better female slaves, an action fraught with danger in itself, given the ubiquitous police presence, or dump the lot of them overboard and let the sharks clean up. But even to do that he'd have to put well out to sea again and try to claw his way east, sufficiently far away from the coast line to afford even less chance of making it back to a reasonable mooring. And without that, there would be unbridled danger until the north winds took up and he could head back home, due south.

“Aziz!”

The sharp, imperious call brought Abdel abruptly out of his reverie. Ahmed had managed to arrive without being spotted and was even now standing in the ship's waist, right leg still trailing over the port rail and left hand clutched firmly around a trailing line.

“So, I hear you've failed me, you useless son of a whore. You will not move from this stinking tub until I give you permission. Is that clearly understood?”

It was the contempt dripping from Ahmed's voice that proved the last straw. What had been a mere fantasy at the back of Abdel's mind hardened suddenly into a lethal decision. He, Abdel-Aziz, knew himself to be many things that, whether he acknowledged it or not, were generally rather less than flattering, but ‘magnanimous' was not listed among them. By Allah, blessings be upon him, men had died for lesser insults and there was no way he was prepared to accept such a contemptuous dismissal in front of his crew. Turning slowly to face the source of his frustration, Abdel fixed Ahmed with the same basilisk stare that others had reason to regret, before spitting ostentatiously over the side in a bid to give himself time to slide a surreptitious hand towards the small handgun nestled against his thigh. A sudden and uneasy silence gripped the ship and it didn't take a genius to understand that something was about to blow. Unfortunately for Abdel, Ahmed was also one of those who got the picture. A lot sooner than most and with reactions to match. Abdel had barely begun to bring his now full hand up from within the folds of his loose-fitting outer robe when the flat crack of a rather more robust handgun rolled around the narrow deck and Abdel's left leg seemed to fold in upon itself as he followed it down to the dark, sea-stained planks. Desperate, he rolled to his right, trying to reposition his useless leg whilst bringing his own weapon to bear. But even before he'd stopped moving, Ahmed had covered the gap between them. And he was in no mood for reconciliation. His right foot stamped down hard on Abdel's gun hand, while his left lined up Abdel's now useless leg. The subsequent connection with the bloodied hole where the bullet had entered causing Abdel to scream involuntarily, before biting back the agony through clenched teeth. But he need not have bothered. A merciless hand grasped him by the beard, jerking his head backwards to expose his throat. Swift as thought, the razor-sharp knife, which had seemed almost to jump into Ahmed's hand as it replaced the still-smoking gun, was now drawn quickly and expertly across the jugular from left to right. And such was the power of the pulsating flow of arterial blood that it probably took Abdel less than thirty seconds to die. Slowly, Ahmed wiped the blade on Abdel's clothing, before straightening himself and turning towards the cowed crew.

“Raise the anchor, tie this dog to it then tip the lot overboard and if anyone else wants to get involved, I guarantee they'll join him.”

For a brief moment, not a muscle moved amongst the crewmen. But no one doubted Ahmed would be as good as his word and none of them had the slightest wish to follow their captain into the water, alive or dead. Awkwardly and as one, they stumbled forward to do Ahmed's bidding, not knowing what would happen to them now they were leaderless. And acutely aware of the despairing moans filtering up from the illegal cargo chained below decks.

Slowly, lazily, I rolled over, luxuriating in the warmth of the hollow we had fashioned out of the sand, well away from the little collection of African huts and half hidden behind a neighbouring stand of palms. It was a part of the beautiful shoreline that we had come to regard as virtually our own over the previous heady days and nights. Lying comfortably nose to nose, I had been gazing deep into Roz's eyes, and together we had been mapping out a glorious future, paying little if any attention to the recent past, or the complications that were bound to follow our eventual return to the real world. After all, if ever we thought about it, we knew anyway that we were bound irrevocably, awaiting only a priest to do the honours and thus were ready to sink or swim together, whatever the consequence. And happy for it to be so.

However, it wasn't just the predictable difficulty with the law that faced us; it was the far greater danger that lay ‘somewhere out there', in the shape of one of the most threatening gangsters in the country. A million miles away from our happiness he might be, but even in the bliss of our wayward beachcomber existence, neither of us was so foolish as to imagine he would entirely give up the chase. We had caused too much trouble, knew too much, to be easily passed over (and to my great delight, I now realised I'd even cost at least one of them a considerable outpouring of effort, not to mention a substantial sum of money). Even today, when I think back over those wonderful, innocent moments, I know it wasn't just our surroundings that left us feeling utterly detached from reality – safe in our hideaway (although safety was exactly what those surroundings did give us most of the time). No. It was more to do with that simple daily pleasure, the sheer joy of being together. There was an innocence, an excitement, a pure and simple enjoyment to every touch, every shared thought, and every mutual promise. And it took very little to leave us euphoric with excitement, every nerve thrumming, every precious moment together conspiring to shut out reality. I recall that only once in that fortnight did we properly consider the future, an exercise in anxiety as we thought first of our families and then of friends and how each might be reacting to the complete lack of any news. Should they be told? But I confess the only tangible effect of that brief foray into reality was simply to strengthen my determination to stay out of sight and carry on enjoying my lover's company to the full, prolonging that simple act by enticing her to continue absorbing the sybaritic beauty of the coastlands that stretched out all around us. Utterly naïve, but utterly right for the time.

***

Standing awkwardly, Ahmed warily observed the wrinkled old matriarch seated directly in front of him, surrounded by her sycophantic attendants, each of whom was clearly aware of his subtly changed status in the family hierarchy. It was easy enough to confirm the exasperating shift. A covert glance at the closed planes of their faces, and Ahmed knew beyond shadow of a doubt that his standing had been seriously weakened. A spoiled lothario, unused to any censure whatsoever, he seethed inwardly. ‘
You sneer now
', he thought vengefully, ‘
but one day every one of you bitches will pay with your life'
. He, Ahmed, who on any previous visit to the family firm needed only to lift a critical eyebrow to inspire a certain reassuring alarm, found himself apparently counting for little. His aunt, the power on the family throne, now sat silent. Controlled malice evident in every line of her body. And judging by the intensity of her imperious scowl, probably engaged in weighing up her preferred method for dispatching him. Permanently. Albeit not until after he'd provided a satisfactory and preferably believable explanation for her loss.

Ahmed was fully aware that he was in trouble on two counts. Abdullah, her favourite grandson, was missing, presumed dead, and right now he couldn't return even one dirham of her stake money, never mind show any profit on her investment. Capital supplied for the supposedly straightforward function of purchasing and exporting yet another lucrative cargo of good quality slaves. And Ahmed had every reason to be uneasy. Buhaysah had a very clearly defined sense of what was acceptable or not in her world and it didn't include failure. Moreover, money was her number one idol. Actually, it was his, too, but even with his agile brain, he could think of no suitable explanation on either count and he was only too aware that she was utterly ruthless, never having been known to give quarter or thought for anyone who had fallen within her definition of failure.

Well, now he had a choice. Say nothing and trust that somehow he could ride out the storm, even if that meant he might lose face permanently (which would also mean he would probably lose all hope of ever taking over the family business), or promise to produce Abdullah and at the same time get his cargo far enough north to find a buyer from whom he could obtain at least some return. Either action was fraught with difficulty, but right now the latter had the distinct merit of getting him out of his aunt's presence, a proximity that was beginning to unnerve him. And an action promised had the added advantage of postponing the inevitable day of reckoning. Perhaps even long enough to get him off the hook. Anyway, passivity wasn't in his nature and he remained, as ever, supremely confident of his own abilities. So, drawing himself to his full height and ostentatiously shaking out his white thobe
⁽¹⁾
, Ahmed motioned abruptly with his hand, silencing the women grouped around his aunt.

“Most illustrious Aunt, I understand why you are concerned for Abdullah. Nevertheless, if he is dead, God has willed it. If not, I will find him and, while I am doing that, I will sell the slaves and reimburse you with interest. That I can promise you.” But even as he said it, they both knew it to be a lie.

Israfel was entranced by Heaven's ever-changing, always refreshing beauty. Such was the ambiance, it was difficult not to break into a dance as he strode the crystal pavements leading him through the ‘City of the Redeemed', stepping across a material that reminded him so strikingly of that more recent human invention, glass. As ever, he found himself stopping regularly, simply to greet his many friends, both Angelic and human. How often had he spent delightful hours in the company of great heroes from the humans' Bible, listening in wonder to their fascinating stories? Laughing uproariously over a thousand humorous incidents. Amazed and humbled by the degree of quite unmerited love the Father had shown to His special creatures all down the ages.

Love, that amazing proposition, central to Heaven's every activity. Certainly, he'd often read the Bible, known in Heaven as ‘Father's love letters' (indeed, angels tended to prize and read them more than pretty well any of the intended recipients), but it was when the redeemed men and women brought personal reminiscences to bear that, for him at least, the chronicles took on their greatest significance. In the distance he noticed a long-standing acquaintance, Elijah (known to his own people as ‘the prophet'), hurrying about some errand or other. Now there was a man with a purpose. Always on the go, even here in Heaven. It had been precisely such individuals, throughout Israfel's undergraduate years, who had done so much to successfully prepare not just him, but many of his colleagues for their initial Earth posting. And now here he was, a postgraduate back in Heaven for the first time since taking on his new project. A place he'd certainly missed since being assigned to Paul but, truth to tell, he had enjoyed every minute of the appointment to the hilt. Earth had so many new sights, sounds, experiences, even smells to offer. Not just the prized opportunity to look after a human, but the chance to hone his fighting skills where they really counted. Taking down fallen angels who had ignored the ground rules. As in desperation they frequently did (to his mild gratification). And now he had been called to a briefing with the Archangel Michael. Who would not be overwhelmed with the thought of meeting that mighty and renowned warrior in person? He, Israfel, had only ever seen him at a distance. Since he knew he hadn't messed up, it could only mean one thing. He, or his human charge, was being singled out for something special. And whichever way it went, he was going to be in the thick of it. Things didn't get any better.

Swiftly, Israfel picked up the pace. It wouldn't do to be late. Entering the garden where he'd been told Michael would be, he could see his boss kneeling, hands raised in worship, head cocked to one side, as though listening to something ethereal that Israfel could not hear. Stopping beneath a tree clothed in the full vigour of its green and gold beauty, Israfel let his gaze wander for a second or two to admire the iridescent blooms and dark, healthy leaves covering every inch of available space. There was just something about the place that instantly captured his spiritual and emotional attention. And with barely a pause he, too, began to worship the King of kings, rapidly becoming lost in wonder, love and praise. Carried away in ecstasy, he followed his Commander to his knees, rejoicing that he was counted worthy to take whatever task had been assigned, overwhelmed by a sense of well-being and gratitude. Such was his delight, that Israfel didn't remember how long he'd knelt there, until finally recalling he'd been summoned for a purpose. So, remaining discretely on one knee, he coughed politely and waited for Michael to turn and acknowledge him.

“Ah, Israfel, thank you for coming. You seem well.” His Commander's firm but pleasant greeting, addressed to him as though they were of equal stature, quickly set Israfel at ease and it was brought home to him once again how privileged he was to be one of Heaven's elite warriors. “Israfel, we have much to discuss regarding your charge, Paul. Come, sit with me and I will sketch out for you something of his future. He is a chosen instrument of God's who has already suffered much, but who is set to suffer more. However, in due time, all these experiences will draw him towards God and this Kingdom. I can't overemphasise how important Paul is in the great scheme of things. He and others throughout Earth are being prepared for that period that humans call ‘the end times'. The time when their Messiah, our sovereign Lord, will return in person to rule the Earth. So, your assignment is of the utmost significance and it's going to get infinitely more difficult and delicate as Paul's life progresses. I should also tell you that Satan has taken a direct interest in your protégé, as well as in the others involved in this immensely important task. Which means he might even manage to assign one of his more trusted demons to your particular case. At any rate, your main aim is to ensure Paul remains a free agent. Free to do and free to react how he will. But the aim also encompasses helping him with the mission I hope he will soon accept. Heaven has set great store by him and that's why, I will admit, I would normally assign a more experienced Guardian. However, your immediate superior has spoken highly of you and I know you've already shown yourself to be exceptionally astute. Moreover, and perhaps more importantly in this case, you've proved unusually good at reacting to the unique character of your somewhat feisty charge. Hence, I believe you're equal to the task. At any rate, this is your opportunity to shine. So, subject to your continuing to obtain good reports, I am happy to confirm you in post. That said, we can now get down to the details.”

Thrilled, Israfel opened his mind to Michael, inviting him to speak directly into it. In Heaven's rarefied atmosphere, when it was appropriate to pass on precise instructions from God, neither had any need for words. Rather, it made sense to communicate directly at the subconscious level, where nothing would be lost in translation. So, continuing to listen intently, Israfel was both elated and saddened by certain aspects of the incoming information, which, amongst other things, outlined the more obviously difficult circumstances Paul was yet to face. Nevertheless, he was still able to glory in the likely outcome and in the fact that, if only fleetingly, he was being allowed the rare privilege of seeing into the future.

For Paul, there was to be much pain and sadness. For himself, there would be tricky and dangerous moments, but out of the totality of their shared experience would arise a mature, hopefully God-loving and always infinitely precious human being. At any rate, he was eventually going to be allowed to reveal exactly who it was that loved and cared for his charge, whatever the ultimate outcome. And, he noticed with a certain grim satisfaction, there appeared to be a rather tasty conclusion with regard to the on-going row he was having with Arcturus. “Right, Israfel.” With the direct briefing over, Michael's spoken words cut through his deliberations. “I need hardly remind you that it is not normally for us to know the nature or timing of future events. Such matters are for God the Father alone and those to whom He chooses to reveal them. However, don't forget that with the privilege of revelation comes considerable responsibility. Father commands that these things be kept secret – especially from the ranks of our enemies. Any questions?”

Israfel shook his head. His briefing had been comprehensive and succinct. Moreover, he had been given carte blanche to run his own operation, the only caveat being he was to ensure he called on Heaven's resources if and when needed. He was even to be given the temporary acting rank of squadron leader, accompanied by the authority to call upon specific units of legionnaires as and when needed. It was this latter authorisation that gave him the real clue as to how important Paul was in the great scheme of things and the significance of his own role as Guardian.