The Abrupt Physics of Dying (44 page)

Clay looked down at the Glock, back up at Crowbar. His calves quivered, flight triggers firing. ‘What are you going to do, Koevoet?’

Crowbar stood staring at him, hands clenched at his sides, the weapon pointing to the floor. ‘You do this, Straker, our friendship is over.’ Crowbar raised the weapon, palmed the barrel, handed it to Clay grip first.

Clay weighed the gun in his hand, checked the safety, pushed the Glock into the waistband of his trousers. ‘
Danke
, Koevoet. I’ll remember that.’ He peeled off eight fifty-pound notes, and put them on the listing coffee table.

Crowbar grabbed the money and stuffed it into Clay’s shirtfront pocket. ‘Keep it. From what I hear, you’re going to need it.’

‘Maybe.’

‘There’s a price on your carcass,
broet
. A hundred thousand pounds. A lot of people are looking for you.’

Clay paused, took a breath.

‘And that friend of yours, Moulinbecq. They know she’s here in London. Whoever is angry at you has friends in customs. They picked her name up coming into the country. Looks like the lag is about a day,’ he said in Afrikaans, tossing an extra mag onto the couch.

Clay’s heart rate stratosphered. ‘Medved.’

Crowbar nodded. ‘If you need to disappear, come here,’ he said, handing Clay a key. ‘We’ll get you to a place I have in Cornwall. Very quiet. On the sea. Good direct access to the continent.’

Clay reached down, grabbed the extra mag from the couch. They shook hands. Outside, the clouds had closed in and the rain had started to fall. He ran to the station, and as he sat on the Tube watching the people flash by, the darkness of the tunnels, the faces reflected like ghosts on the window glass; he wondered again about those fifty people, so many of them children, and what they might have been.

A Place You Can Go

The next day, the day of Medved’s launch, Clay and Rania walked into the lobby of the Mansion House Hotel in Hammersmith. It had rained all morning and the air was fresh with the smell of wet summer pavement. Rania made for a table in the lobby café, where a man in a dark suit was sitting alone reading a broadsheet. Clay followed, scanning the café, the patrons.

Rania tended a gloved hand. ‘Thank you for meeting me.’

The man opposite took it, searching her face.

She wore dark sunglasses and a silk headscarf that completely covered her hair.

‘This is my friend, Monsieur Greene.’

Clay shook the man’s hand. He had a firm grip, businesslike, had that distinguished just-greying look, tanned and fit.

Rania reached for Clay’s hand. ‘
Chéri
, this is Monsieur LeClerc, chief editor of Agence France Presse.’

They sat. Clay called over the waiter, ordered coffee, tea for Rania.

LeClerc ordered espresso, checked his watch. ‘Please, Madame. I do not have long. You have information for me?’

Rania reached into her bag and pulled out a manila folder, opened it, withdrew a sheaf of four typewritten pages and handed it to LeClerc. He took them, started reading. His eyes flashed back and forth. He flipped over the first page, the second, raised his eyes up to Rania, went back to reading. Finally he put the papers down on the table and looked hard at Rania. ‘I know this writing,’ he said. ‘Where did you get this?’

Rania reached up and untied her scarf, took off her glasses,
thickrimmed librarian’s frames. She had dyed her hair a dull shade of fair, wore a fawn blazer and skirt that flattened her curves. She looked like a university sociology lecturer, or a bookkeeper in a factory that made kitchenware, like someone else.

LeClerc blinked, looked left and then right, leaned forward, staring into her face. ‘Rania?
Mon Dieu
.’

A long conversation ensued in French, rapid, hushed. LeClerc reached across the table and took both of Rania’s hands. His face was flushed. ‘
Oui
,’ he kept saying. ‘
Oui, je comprends. Certainement
.’

Rania nodded to Clay. He reached into his pack and pulled out two file boxes. Inside, copies of everything. The report he’d delivered to Ali that day in Yemen, signed by Parnell and Karila, both now dead. The photos of the massacre. Perry’s dossier. Champard’s letter, Clay’s painstakingly recreated field notes. He handed them to LeClerc. ‘It’s all in here. The whole story.’

LeClerc nodded, opened the top of the first box, pulled out the envelope containing the photos, folded back the flap. His eyes widened as he flicked through the prints. ‘
Mon Dieu
,’ he whispered, replacing the photos.

Clay slid a ticket across the table. ‘Your invitation,’ he said.

Leclerc nodded, stood, emptied the last of his coffee, folded the story lengthwise and slid it into the inside breast pocket of his jacket. ‘By the way,’ he said. ‘I thought you would want to know. Northern troops captured Aden early this morning. The war is over.’ He smiled at Rania, nodded to Clay. ‘Monsieur Greene, a great pleasure.’ And then he was gone, through the mid-afternoon crowd and out into the rainy London streets.

Clay and Rania jumped into a black cab, went straight back to the Churchill. Medved’s event was due to start at nine pm. All they had to do now was wait. Clay shook out his jacket, hung it over the back of a chair. Rania sat in front of the mirror and started brushing out her hair. She held the brush in her left hand, used the right to catch and fold the thick, soft mass.

‘Is there somewhere you can go?’ he said. ‘Somewhere safe?’

She put down the brush, turned to face him. ‘What do you mean?’

‘It’s done. LeClerc has the story. In a few hours, the whole rotten
opfok
will come crashing down. I want you to leave now. It’s safer.’

‘What about you?’

‘I asked if there was somewhere you could go, Rania.’

She bit her lip, started braiding her hair. ‘The chalet.’

‘It’s not safe, Rania. Medved has friends in the French government, inside the DGSE too, most likely. Your cover has been blown.’

‘The DGSE did not set me up there, Clay. I took my own precautions. They are still paying rent for Lise Moulinbecq’s flat in Marseilles. No one knows about the chalet.’

‘Medved knows about your change of name. Crowbar says there’s a day’s lag on the information Medved gets from customs. They know you’re here in London. They probably figure we’re together. Go via Spain or Italy. Germany, even. You can be home before they even find out you’ve left.’

Rania frowned, didn’t answer.

‘It’s going to get hot here, Rania. I want you to leave. Tonight.’

She stood, unmoving, glaring at him.

‘Are you going to answer me?’

‘It wasn’t a question, Clay. It was an order.’

‘Please, Rania.’

‘What do you mean
it’s going to get hot
?’ she snapped. ‘What kind of silly language is that? What are you going to do, Clay?’

‘I’m going to stay here and finish it. I’ll join you after.’

She shook her head. ‘No, Clay. No.’

‘Jesus Christ, Rania. You’ve done your bit. There’s a travel office in the hotel lobby. You can book a flight and be out of here tonight.’

Rania stood, folded her arms across her chest, glared at him. ‘Done my bit? Is that what you call it? Listen to yourself, Clay. I am not your wife. I do not take orders from you.’

Clay took a step back. Would it change anything if you were my wife? He didn’t say it.

She closed the distance between them, reached up and touched
his face. ‘Please, Clay. I know you are trying to protect me. And I love you for it,
chéri
. But I want to stay with you.’ She put her arms around him, buried her face in his chest, held him tight.

Clay stood rigid. Didn’t raise his arms. He wanted to but he didn’t.

She looked up at him. Her smile was as big as the Rhub Al Khali, the Empty Quarter, as sun struck.

‘We’re going to do this together,’ she said.

The Things He Would Never Do

They arrived shortly after eight. Clay and Rania fell in behind a group of businessmen in dark, rain-spattered suits. The men had wet hair, carried glistening umbrellas. At the main doors, a pair of heavily-built security guards checked invitations, searched bags and briefcases.

The ballroom was filling up fast. Clay and Rania slipped into the back row of seats, close to the door, and sat watching the people file in, men in suits mostly, and find seats. Clay could see LeClerc talking to someone in the front row. Technicians scurried around the raised podium, the lectern, the huge backlit screen. Clay looked at Rania, unrecognisable in her librarian’s guise, took her hand. She squeezed hard.

The lights dimmed. A hush fell over the assembled. Music filled the ballroom, catchy soft rock with a rousing guitar hook, a U2 rip-off. The screen exploded into life, a kaleidoscope of images: cars streaming by, planes soaring, bullet trains slicing through the countryside, cities lit up at night, and then oil rigs, tankers sailing on clear blue seas, refineries, oil workers in blue coveralls and white hard hats walking towards the audience in slow motion, smiles everywhere, high-fives, then the ancient mud skyscrapers of Marib, camels moving through sun-painted dunes, smiling Yemeni tribesmen, and, then, landscape rushing past, a helicopter’s view, and Clay was looking down from the air at that same desert he loved, swooping down into those virid green valleys and rocketing back up above the lip of the canyon, the audience letting out an involuntary gasp,
the music building to a crescendo, pounding now, the barren beauty of the Hadramawt flashing below, the colours impossible, primary.

The ballroom doors were closed and the two security men took station just inside.

‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ announced a booming voice. ‘The Chairman and President of Petro-Tex International, Mister Rex Medved.’

The crowd broke into applause and Rex strode up to the podium, spotlights following. He stood on the platform, let the applause wash over him for a moment, looked bashfully at the floor, then raised his hands for quiet, that same demeanour Clay had seen in the office in Aden. Medved was smiling now, pointing to people he recognised in the crowd, acknowledging them with a mouthed ‘hi’ or a nod, connecting, accessible, a man you could like, a man you could trust.

‘Thank you so much to everyone for coming this evening, despite the, ah …’ he smiled, paused, wiped imaginary raindrops from his shoulders, ‘… atypical English summer weather.’ A ripple of laughter moved through the audience. ‘And thank you to our very talented, if not somewhat, well, over-enthusiastic marketing people for that introduction.’ More laughter. He nodded to the sidelines, put his hands together. Polite clapping from the audience.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, I am here today to invite you to join in a unique investment opportunity in one of the world’s last true frontiers.’ Scenes of Yemen flashed across the screen. ‘Over the past few months, Petro-Tex engineers have confirmed and detailed the discovery of one of the largest reserves of light, high-quality crude oil on the planet. Here, in the South of Yemen.’ Images of Yemen were replaced now by charts and graphs, production curves. Medved went on to provide reserve estimates, expected revenues, profit projections, investment requirements, and details of the private offering now available.

Finally, he walked to the podium and signalled to the technicians. The lights came up, and he stood, hands clasped before him, head bowed. He looked up at the audience. ‘If anyone has any questions, there are investment packs available at the back to take with you
before you leave, and of course, we would be pleased to address any specific queries you may have now.’

For a moment there was silence, as if the audience was contemplating the gold rush laid before their feet. A man raised his hand, stood. Medved pointed to him. ‘Sir.’ A skirted attendant with auburn hair and long shapely legs rushed to hand him a microphone.

The man fiddled with the device, blew into it. ‘Charles Barclay, Diamond Equity. Thank you for that quite excellent presentation, Mister Medved. Can you please confirm that the EBIT estimates in your, I believe it was, fifth slide from last, are indeed 50 percent?’ The man handed back the microphone, sat down.

Medved stepped forward, smiled. ‘Glad you asked me that, Charles. Wasn’t quite sure that everyone had picked up on that. Indeed, this is a conservative estimate. We expect major investors can have their money back in the first six months. Where else can one achieve comparable returns?’ A murmur ran through the audience. Another man stood, heavy set, dark suit, grey hair, and took the microphone. Another question about finance, reserve estimates, production. More Medved back, charming, honest, compelling. Nodding from the audience, note-taking.

Then LeClerc stood. Rania was squeezing Clay’s hand so hard he thought she would grind his knuckles into paste. A cameraman stood, too, switched on his lights, brought them to bear. The girl handed him the microphone. LeClerc turned and faced the audience, reached into his pocket and withdrew the papers that Rania had given him. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, I have here a story that, come tomorrow morning, will run in newspapers across the globe.’

It was Rania’s story, and Clay’s. And it was Hussein’s story, too, and Abdulkader’s, and Al Shams’. Perhaps, mostly, Clay thought as he watched LeClerc, it was Mohamed’s story, a story he would never get to tell himself, just one of all the other things he would never do.

The letter from the Cayman Islands Bank, delivered to him in Geneva, had pulled together the final strands. Written in an elegant longhand on rough tablet paper, it read:

There had been no signature.

Now LeClerc raised the sheaf of papers in his hand. ‘I am chief editor of Agence France Presse. This story, backed by official documents, eyewitness testimony, and scientific data, reveals the extent
to which, under Mister Medved’s direct leadership, Petro-Tex in Yemen has been systematically poisoning and killing the people of the Marib region through unregulated discharge of toxic and radioactive waste, with full knowledge of the consequences.’

A shiver spread through the crowd, a deep murmur. Medved, immobilised at first, shocked, stood open-mouthed. Then he waved to the back. The two security men who had been standing by the main ballroom doors started towards LeClerc.

Clay stood and moved quickly towards the doors, intercepting the security men before they had taken five steps.

‘Let the man speak, gents,’ he said with a smile.

The first one, not as tall as Clay, but built like a rugby forward, tried to push past. Clay grabbed his wrist, spun to the side and slammed his forearm hard into the back of the man’s elbow. His stump was strong now, calloused, a weapon. The man grunted in pain as the joint hyperextended, and dropped to his knees. Clay faced up to his colleague, smiled. The other man stopped, backed away, put his finger to his earpiece, spoke into his collar.

LeClerc continued. ‘The story will reveal definitive proof that Petro-Tex, under the direct control of Mister Medved, has engaged in murder, extortion and bribery to keep this tragedy quiet and to secure the oil leases, the development of which you are being asked to finance.’

The room broke into pandemonium. Everyone was speaking at once. Bankers and would-be investors stood, clustered in small groups. A few were moving towards the stage now to confront Medved. Some crowded around LeClerc so that Clay lost sight of him altogether. But many more were heading for the exits. The ones closest to the back were first, slipping out quietly in the commotion. Soon the centre aisle was choked with guests heading for the doors, anxious to disassociate themselves as quickly as possible from the stain spreading across the hall.

Clay pushed through the crowd and circled back to find Rania. As he did, he saw Medved unclip his lapel mike and slip away behind the screen.

Clay hurried towards the podium, rounded the screen. Medved was gone. Double doors, hidden from the audience by the screen, clicked into place. Rania appeared, took his hand.

‘What happened?’ she said.

‘Stay here,’ he said.

Rania tightened her grip on his hand. ‘Where are you going?’

Clay stood, said nothing.

Rania narrowed her eyes. ‘It is done, Clay. We have done it. As soon as the story hits the papers, Medved is finished. Leave it now, please
chéri
.’

He looked at her a moment, fought back the tide. ‘I want you to turn around now, Rania. Go straight to the airport. Go home. I’ll join you when I can.’

Her face crumpled, tears sheening already in her eyes. ‘Is this what you meant when you said finishing it? Killing Medved? Is that where you are going?’

‘Please, Rania. Now.’

She went rigid. ‘No. I will not. The killing has to end, Clay. Medved is ruined. The French will try him for murder. He will be dragged into a political scandal as deep and nasty as France has seen for decades. He will lose his leases in Yemen. There is no way Saleh will let Petro-Tex continue operating. Not after they aided the rebels. It is over, Clay.’ She tugged at his arm, tried to pull him towards the milling crowd. ‘Please, Clay. It is time to start something new.’

He looked hard into her eyes. He knew she was right. He should let it go, take her away. They could go to Africa. Buy a little sailboat, head south, disappear. Away from everything, the people, the crowds, the bullshit, the diseased economic machine which fed on the poor and the young. An image exploded in his head, a lonely blue sea, a hazy coastline at the edge of perception.

He
knew
she was right. Medved was finished. Soon his enemies would close in, looking for revenge now that he was weakest. He pulled her close and kissed her on the lips, held her there, the seconds skidding away.

But the pull was strong, too strong. That part of him awakened in the dust and blood of Ovamboland all those years ago burned strong in him still. He took her by the shoulders, pushed her away, reached his hand into the deep right pocket of his jacket, and wrapped his fingers around the Glock’s grip. Then he smiled at her and started towards the door.