Sphinx (12 page)

‘Do you believe in ghosts?’ I asked him. It wasn’t even late afternoon and I was on my third whisky.

‘Mate, I believe in everything except mountain trolls in red caps and bells. Although having said that, I have actually seen a few trolls in red caps and bells - I just didn’t believe in them. I’ve never seen a ghost, though, not drunk, stoned or on the stairway to heaven. Why?’

I finished my drink. The whisky’s trickling warmth hit the back of my skull and then coursed down to my stomach. I needed anaesthetising, even if it only made me forget momentarily.

‘Nothing. But do you think there may be a psychological reason why someone would think they’re being haunted?’

Barry looked at me. ‘I dunno . . . guilt, grievance, a sense of unfinished business? But if this is to do with Isabella, forget it. It’s more likely her sudden absence has left a shadow; a presence you still expect. I used to get a lot of that back in San Francisco when I was tripping. Also, you have to take into account that time is not linear.’

My heart sank; it had been foolish to expect any empirically based explanation from the Australian. ‘So tell me about this journalist,’ I asked wearily. Barry accepted the change in the subject of the conversation without comment.

‘She’s the Middle Eastern correspondent for
Time
magazine. She’s here covering the Carter-Sadat-Begin dialogue, got some absurd idea that Sadat might actually take the initiative on the peace process. Some bright spark told her I was the bloke for the local gossip.’

‘Probably terribly earnest and naive as all hell,’ I suggested cynically.

‘Who cares as long as she’s buying?’

Just then a visible ripple ran through the male diners in the restaurant, the kind of reaction that indicates the arrival of an attractive woman. Barry and I looked up. A glamorous small blonde woman in a black cocktail dress stood at the door, scanning the tables. In an instant Photios was at her side. He pointed out our table to her and she began weaving her way towards us. We both watched, a little amazed.

‘Stone the crows, she’s a looker. Tuck the bib in, Oliver, we have company.’ Sweeping his great mane away from his face, Barry sat up straight in his chair.

As the journalist drew nearer, her face came into focus. To my utter astonishment I realised I knew her. It was like seeing a phantom from the past, and I couldn’t suppress a shudder of emotion at the sight of a face I had once been obsessed by. She arrived at our table and reached out to shake hands with Barry. She obviously hadn’t recognised me yet - but then, it was nearly twenty years ago that we had been lovers.

‘Barry Douglas?’ Her familiar deep rich voice sent a ripple of memory through me that was almost painful. I couldn’t tear my eyes away. She still hadn’t looked in my direction.

‘It might be,’ Barry joked.

‘Rachel Stern,
Time
magazine.’ They shook hands.

Barry turned to me. ‘And this is Oliver Warnock, the best geophysicist in the oil biz. He’s a bloody great mess at the moment so I hope it’s all right if he joins us?’

Rachel Stern met my gaze and I watched the flood of recognition sweep across her features. To my satisfaction she blushed briefly.

‘But we know each other. Oliver, how are you?’ Rachel’s expression now indicated nothing but a smooth diplomacy. She was older - a wrinkling at the corner of those dark blue eyes whose slant betrayed a faint Mongolian gene somewhere in her Russian heritage - but the rest was as I remembered: the strong nose and chin, the disproportionately full mouth, the play of humour around her lips, the same shock of fuzzy blonde hair that stood out triangularly from her head. However, a sharp intelligence and tangible confidence had replaced the air of curiosity that had defined the young woman whom I’d known as a student.

‘Rachel Stern?’ I asked.

‘Stern’s my married name -
was
my married name.’ She sat at the table and called the waiter over. ‘Can I get you boys another bottle?’

After a quick glance at my dazed expression, Barry said to the waiter, ‘Johnny Walker Black Label and a plate of olives, please.’ He turned back to Rachel. ‘I trust it’s courtesy of
Time
magazine?’

Rachel smiled. ‘You bet.’

I tried not to stare; I still couldn’t quite believe it was her. Perhaps it was the fact that I was already quite drunk, perhaps it was the surreal nature of coincidence, but it felt as though another strange twist of fate had just punctuated my life.

I’d first met Rachel Rosen, as she’d been then, at a cocktail party in London in the early 1960s. The host, a mutual friend, was a caustic but erudite Marxist I knew through the Imperial College branch of the Socialist Party of Great Britain. I was in the second year of my degree and Rachel, several years older, was completing her Master’s degree in International Relations at the London School of Economics. We began our relationship after an argument about Stalin and we had lived together for over a year. My first older woman and first real love, Rachel had steered me towards all kinds of cultural sophistication and some of the friends she’d introduced me to then were still friends now. But I was very young and very intense and, finally, I suspect it had been this intensity that drove her away. The affair finished when she left abruptly for New York because of family issues - at least, that had been her excuse. But I was eternally grateful for one thing: Rachel had been the only person at that time who really believed in me, both as a professional and as someone able to transcend his background. And that, to a twenty-three-year-old with a huge working-class chip on his shoulder, had proven invaluable.

As the waiter placed the fresh whisky bottle in front of me Rachel turned to me, her expression composed but open. ‘How nice to see you, Oliver. I heard on the grapevine that you’d ended up working in the Middle East, but I didn’t expect to find you in Alex.’

‘I’m working at the Abu Rudeis oilfield. I’d be there now, except . . .’

My voice faltered; I couldn’t actually say the words.

‘Oliver lost his wife recently - a bloody tragedy,’ Barry said bluntly.

‘Oh, I’m so sorry.’

The concern in Rachel’s voice was genuine. I turned away, frightened that I might actually cry. The room swayed slightly. Despite knowing I was drunk, I couldn’t repress the urge to tell Rachel about the drowning, as if telling someone from my past might somehow put Isabella’s death into perspective. Before I could help myself I’d launched into an explanation.

‘Isabella is - was - a marine archaeologist, top of her field. She was conducting a series of dives in the harbour. She was obsessed with this astrarium, a ridiculous piece of tin. I could-n’t stop her from making this dive . . .’ I downed my fourth whisky. ‘I was with her when she . . . when she drowned.’

Barry coughed and the spell was broken. Rachel reached out and squeezed my hand, then let it go.

‘I can’t even begin to imagine how terrible it must have been for you,’ she said. ‘And so far from home.’

‘Home? I travel so much I don’t even know where that is any more.’

I couldn’t keep the bitterness out of my voice. I poured myself another whisky.

Barry put a hand on my shoulder. ‘Mate, don’t you think you should take it easy?’

‘Not tonight - tonight I intend to forget who I am.’

‘Fair enough, but I reckon you should sit on that drink for a while.’ He turned back to Rachel. ‘So Henries, that silly English bugger, told me you’re reporting on the Egyptian reaction to Carter’s peace-brokering? I tell you what, President Sadat’s a brave bastard even to be talking to the Israelis. Do you know how unpopular that is with the locals? Half of them lost sons and brothers in the last two wars. And let’s not mention the Saudis and the Syrians - they’d have Sadat’s head on a stick if he made peace. There’s a lot of mad bastards out there who would give up their mothers to sabotage such a thing, and they’re going to go to all sorts of extreme measures to make sure it doesn’t happen. And what about young Colonel Gaddafi over in Libya? We’ve got the Eygptians demonstrating outside the Libyan embassy and the Libyans storming the Egyptian embassy in Libya. Trust me, I’d be very careful if I were you before I started poking around. The whole region’s a time bomb just waiting to explode.’

‘Sounds like I’ve got the right guy. You willing to help me?’

‘Tell you what, come over on Thursday night when the old fellas play their backgammon and I’ll introduce you to the local elders. Big respect for guru Barry.’

‘I’ll do just that.’

They clinked their glasses together in a toast. I watched, vaguely aware that the alcohol had started to make me feel belligerent.

‘You can’t be naive enough to believe that Carter will actually achieve anything?’ I leaned toward Rachel, swaying a little.

‘I really think the players are committed this time,’ she replied cautiously. ‘That’s half the battle.’

‘You and I both know that Sadat and Begin need their people behind them. The Israelis don’t like Carter.’

‘And they didn’t like Kissinger. Listen, Carter’s talked to Sadat, Hussein and Rabin. Next week he’ll be with the Syrian president in Geneva. Camp David will produce results. Sadat wants peace. He’s an Egyptian nationalist; he’s not into pan-Arabism. He’s a practical individual, not a sentimentalist. There are economic reasons why Egypt would seek peace with Israel.’

‘Sure, we all know how practical. The Yom Kippur War - remember that little peace initiative? Sadat went to King Faisal to convince him to flex the only muscle he knew the region had over Israel and the West.’

‘Right. Well, maybe now he wants to recoup the benefits. Maybe he’s an oilman now, like you,’ Rachel teased.

‘Hey, I just find the stuff. I see it as my vocation.’

‘And what a huge waste of talent. You might know the region but you’re wrong about Sadat. Besides, he lost the Yom Kippur War - even more reason to seek peace.’

I lurched on with the argument, feeling as if I was watching myself from the outside. ‘Egypt only just lost; that war was far closer than you know. People remember. It was only four years ago; a lot of young men were slaughtered - on both sides.’

‘And they’re tired of the killing.’ Rachel finished her whisky. ‘Why oil, Oliver? I’d have thought with your background you’d have pursued something a little more egalitarian, maybe even ecological?’

‘Market forces intervened. Happens to the best of us. Right, Barry?’

‘No, mate. Yours truly has held on to his socialist credentials, not to mention the credo of Buddha.’

‘Bullshit. But here’s to American optimism, anyway.’ I lifted my glass. ‘Long may it reign.’

The others ignored the toast, and I could see from Rachel’s eyes that she’d already passed judgement and found me wanting. But I was beyond caring.

‘You are angry,’ she said.

‘I’m a realist. I’ve been working in the region for over ten years. It’s not enough to get a few politicians to agree - you have to change a whole nation’s prejudices and fears. It’s a complicated mess that’s not going to be solved by a fast-talking peanut farmer.’ I failed to keep the sarcasm out of my voice.

‘Old stories can have new endings. I’m sticking with my optimism. It’s been great catching up - and again, I’m really sorry about your wife. No doubt we’ll bump into each other somewhere soon.’

Rachel turned to Barry and handed him a card. ‘This is my hotel, I’ll see you Thursday.’

Then, to my surprise, she leaned over and kissed my cheek. ‘Bye, Oliver.’ Her perfume transformed me back into the combustible youth I’d once been, desperate to impress.

I watched her leave, her confident bearing so different from that of the over-eager young woman I’d once known.

‘You’ve had enough, mate. I’m taking you home.’ Barry plucked the half-full glass from my hand.

‘We have a past,’ I said.

‘I can see that. For a stitched-up Pommie you’ve got taste.’

‘I’ll assume that’s a compliment. Don’t worry about walking me - I’ll get a taxi.’

‘Listen, before you go . . .’ He pulled me closer and dropped his voice. ‘Last night I came across an old friend, a local. Now it just so happens this bloke used to be the son of the gardener who worked for the Brambillas back in the 1950s, when Isabella’s grandfather ran the joint.’

‘So?’

‘So we got talking about the drowning and he tells me he’s heard that it was Giovanni who killed Isabella.’

‘That’s ridiculous. Giovanni’s been dead for years.’

‘You don’t understand - he told me that the grandfather put a curse on the granddaughter. Marked her for an early death. Apparently he was considered a great sorcerer by the locals.’

‘Giovanni Brambilla?’

‘Mate, I’m only telling you what the bloke said. But put it this way: he was shaking with fear when he told me.’

‘It’s just superstitious nonsense - Isabella’s grandfather adored her. It was an accident, Barry, I was there. A stupid, avoidable accident.’

‘Nevertheless, I’d be asking the grandmother a few questions if I were you. There was something odd about Isabella’s childhood, even for around here.’

I speculated about how well he’d actually known Isabella. Better than I’d realised, I guessed.

‘How long is the carbon-dating going to take?’ I asked.

‘A few days, if you’re lucky.’ My heart sank. I felt I owed it to Isabella to keep a close eye on the astrarium.

‘I’m due back at Abu Rudeis tomorrow.’

‘And if I need to contact you?’

‘We have a satellite phone out on the field, for emergencies. Ibrihim has the number. But, Barry, maybe best to keep a low profile about the astrarium, yeah? Just make sure it’s safe.’

Barry pulled me into another of his bear hugs. ‘Don’t look so worried, mate. You can rely on me.’