The Abrupt Physics of Dying Page 16

  Dunkley ran a hand across his shiny pate, tapped at his keyboard, peered at the screen. ‘The invoice is with Parnell. Until he signs off, no payment. Sorry, Straker.’

  Clay looked down at the floor, back up at the accountant. ‘It’s been three months since I submitted the invoice to you, Dunkley.’

  ‘It’s on his desk, Straker. I put it there myself. That’s all I can do.’

  ‘When?’

  The accountant looked up over the rim of his glasses. ‘When what?’

  ‘When did you put it on his desk?’

  ‘The day after you submitted it.’

  ‘Maybe it got lost.’

  ‘He knows it’s there. We review all outstanding payables regularly. He was looking at it just last week.’ Dunkley wiped his glasses on his shirt tail, perched them on his nose. ‘Ever think maybe he just doesn’t like you, Straker?’

  ‘Almost every day.’ Clay turned to leave. He was at the door when he looked back over his shoulder. ‘Say, Dunk. I’m trying to track some payments going back to November 1st last year. Any chance you could help me out?’ He said it as casually as he could.

  Dunkley narrowed his eyes. ‘What kind of payments?’

  ‘Lab work we did.’

  ‘What’s it for, Straker?’

  ‘I’m using the data in my report,’ he lied. ‘I want to tally the cost of the laboratory analysis.’

  ‘Tell me what you’re after, specifically, and I can check when I get a moment.’

  ‘Just let me have a quick look at the accounts, can you? I only need a minute.’

  Dunkley leaned forward, planted his elbow on a pile of papers. ‘You know I can’t do that, Straker.’

  Clay tore a sticky note off the pad on Dunkley’s desk, jotted down the name of the Aden laboratory company. ‘OK then, for a start, can you have a look for any lab payments made on or around April 22nd of this year? I’d appreciate it.’

  Dunkley looked down at the paper. ‘I’ll get to it when I can,’ he said.

  Clay reached over and pasted the yellow tab to the top of the accountant’s head. ‘Thanks, Dunk.’

  The accountant snatched the note from his head. ‘Bloody smart arse.’

  By the time Clay got back to the guesthouse he had already missed dinner, so he grabbed a sandwich and a beer from the kitchen and sat at one of the tables set out on the veranda. Just outside the throw of the floodlights, two armed guards squatted by the main gate, working on big wads of qat. The lights of Little Aden glowed in the distance. A breath of air flowed through the compound, the scent of iodine and salt, an undertone of sewage.

  Atef appeared, a plate of cut fruit in his hand. ‘Something for after, Mister Clay?’

  ‘Thanks Atef.’

  ‘I should make your sandwich. Much better.’

  ‘Next time, brother.’

  Atef wiped his hands across the white expanse of his apron. ‘I can help you.’

  Clay put down his beer, looked both ways. Atef sat beside him, leaned in, lowered his voice. ‘My brother-in-law works in accounts. Also Zamalek supporter. I got him job here.’

  The young man he’d seen today in Dunkley’s office. ‘Go on.’

  ‘You need information from accounts, he told me.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Tell me what you want.’

  Clay told him. Printouts of all payments made two months either side of 30th November, delegations of authority, personnel records for the same period. Clay reached into his pocket and peeled a fifty-dollar note from his depleted roll and squeezed it into Atef’s hand. ‘Can you do that?’

  ‘Yes, Mister Clay.’

  ‘Be careful, Atef. And do it quietly.’

  ‘Of course, Mister Clay. Do you want both sets?’

  Clay looked up. ‘Both?’

  ‘My brother-in-law says they are keeping two sets of accounts.’

  He should have guessed. Clay stood, put his hand on Atef’s shoulder. ‘If you can, Atef, great. Mumtaz. But please, only if your brother can do it safely. I don’t want him to put himself in danger.’

  ‘No danger, Mister Clay. He is very clever.’

  Atef returned to the kitchen, left Clay alone again on the veranda. He sipped his beer, warm now. Rania had been right. Ali had refused to help, slammed the door in his face. Neither he nor his team were equipped to carry out the testing required, and Ali was savvy enough to know that you didn’t mess with the Ministry of Oil. Clay was pretty sure that Ali didn’t even read the reports he submitted, just filed them away and ticked the box – complete. Of course the executive summary and the early chapters of the report Clay had just submitted had mentioned nothing of the problems, just glowing accounts of the benefits of the project to the community and the country, with any and all harmful impacts designed out.

  But deep inside the report, in a section entitled ‘Discussion’, Clay had buried a detailed description of the health impacts he had seen at Al Urush, along with what little data he had collected, an analysis of various possible causes, and a statement to the effect that the company had decided not to investigate the issue further, or to put risk mitigation measures in place. He had taken a chance, bet on the fact that Karila and Parnell wouldn’t read the detail. Now there was a formal record, a written indictment, signed by Karila and Parnell. It was only a matter of time until someone in the company actually read it, and then the blade would fall. That afternoon he’d faxed the relevant pages to Rania in Sana’a.

  He drained the beer and searched his conscience for the relief that he had only half-expected, but had not come.

  Fourteen hours, maybe a bit more. That’s all he’d had with Rania, the walk on the crater, the sojourn in Sana’a. Daughter of a French father and Algerian mother, she had grown up a devout Muslim in Algiers, speaking French at home, Arabic at school and on the streets, a pied noir. Her father had died when she was young, but she wouldn’t say any more about it. She had studied modern literature and language at the Sorbonne in Paris, and joined AFP after graduation to become a journalist. Camus and Sartre, not surprisingly, were her favourites, Rimbaud, too. After a year in Morocco, she had applied for and been posted to Sana’a. That’s all he knew about her. That and the fact that he had never met anyone like her. He had never felt skin so soft. He searched the memory of his movie crushes, drunken bar pursuits, all the hopeless distant admirations destroyed by proximity, but could find no equal. Four times that night they’d made love. At first she had been timid and tense, he clumsy and over-eager. After, he’d fallen into a deep dreamless sleep, only to be woken by her insistent mouth, and she was everywhere, surrounding him, enveloping him, and each time it was better, closer, gentler. And lying there with the ceiling fan turning above them, the shutters bathing their naked bodies in laths of pale city night, he knew that it was more than the desperation, more than the loneliness and the fear and the heartache that was making him burn.

  It had been her first time. She hadn’t said it, but he knew. And when he woke that morning to go back to Aden, he’d tried to kiss her and it was as if something inside her had snapped. She turned away and got out of bed and locked herself in the bathroom and he knew everything had changed. He dressed and waited for her, bewildered, his arousal choking on ash. After a time, she emerged, and she walked downstairs with him, silent, robed, a black headscarf pulled down tight and severe about her face, stood in the hotel entranceway and watched him go without a word. Twice since returning to Aden he’d called her hotel and left messages. There had been no reply.

  A metallic rap at the main gate broke his reverie. One of the guards rose and opened the side door. There was a brief discussion in Arabic and a man appeared in the courtyard. He was dressed in a leather jacket and jeans, a black-and-white keffiyeh wrapped around his head. A burning cigarette hung from his lips. The guard pointed up towards the veranda. The man walked across the courtyard and up the stairs onto the veranda and stood before him.

  ‘Jesus,’ said Clay. ‘You.’

 
The man offered his hand. ‘My name is Hussein.’ It was the man from the PSO interrogation, Himmler’s sidekick, the chain-smoker. ‘May I speak with you?’

  Clay gestured towards the empty chair.

  ‘Not here. I have a vehicle waiting. Do you feel like a drink?’

  ‘I guess I don’t have much of a choice.’

  Clay followed the man out to the street, across the rutted dirt to a white Pajero sitting in the moon shadow of a razor-wire-topped wall. Clay recognised the vehicle registration number immediately. The car that had tailed to him to Sana’a.

  Fifteen minutes later they were sitting in a dark corner of the bar at the Mövenpick Hotel. The place was packed. On stage a tiny Filippina singer in a short green dress and massive platform shoes was destroying ‘Imagine’ in broken English. She was the only woman in the place.

  Hussein waved to the waiter and leaned across the table. ‘Are you aware of the current political situation here in Yemen?’

  ‘I always remember I am a guest here,’ he said. ‘I don’t get involved in politics.’

  Hussein smiled. ‘My colleague can be a bit, well, nerdy, at times.’

  ‘I’ve got nothing to tell you.’

  ‘Indeed. Well then let me tell you. Relations between North and South have between deteriorating for some time now. A group of powerful Southern politicians and military men are agitating for more autonomy and a greater share of oil revenues.’ He spoke fluently with a refined American accent – Ivy League, Yale perhaps, based on the T-shirt he had been wearing at the interrogation. ‘They are orchestrating public protests, violence. Day by day the government is losing control. People are taking sides, declaring loyalties. It is a dangerous time.’

  Clay nodded, said nothing.

  ‘You have seen how dangerous,’ said Hussein.

  Clay looked the man in the eyes, tried to keep his expression neutral.

  The waiter placed a bottle of Jack Daniels and two tumblers on the table. Hussein took his time pouring out two large measures. ‘I never said thank you, by the way.’ He raised his glass, took a sip, smiled.

  Clay raised his glass to his lips, swallowed a mouthful. ‘Don’t know what you mean,’ he said.

  ‘The very nice officer you bribed at the checkpoint outside Ibb. Poor guy, someone had suggested that he should take extra care searching my vehicle.’

  Clay said nothing.

  ‘When he found out who I was, he was so worried that he offered me a bottle of Jack Daniels.’

  ‘And who exactly are you?’ said Clay. At least it hadn’t been Zdravko tailing him. Maybe that meant he hadn’t recognised him that day on the slope, although Clay doubted it.

  ‘You were at Al Bawazir four days ago,’ said Hussein, ignoring his question.

  ‘I was …’ Clay looked down, up again. ‘I was taking water samples.’

  ‘Three samples. Yes, I know.’

  Clay took a deep breath, decided to keep quiet.

  Hussein pulled out a cigarette, made a whole production of lighting it, dragging out a deep lungful, blowing the smoke towards the ceiling. ‘Ansar Al-Sharia killed twelve villagers,’ he said.

  Clay swallowed a mouthful of bourbon. ‘They may have done the shooting, but the Army set it up.’

  For a moment he thought he saw a look of surprise flicker across Hussein’s face, but then it was gone. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘They just stood by and watched. What kind of place is this where the Army goes around slaughtering its own people?’ As soon as he’d said it he realised the irony, wished he could take it back.

  Hussein’s mouth twisted into a wry smile. ‘The question is, whose Army? Petro-Tex has been very clever.’

  ‘Explain.’

  Hussein tilted his chin up in the direction of the entrance. ‘Do you see that man over there, the big Yemeni in the dark suit at the main table?’

  Clay went to turn but Hussein reached for his arm and held him fast. ‘Slowly,’ he said.

  A grey-haired Arab in a dark double-breasted jacket and tie sat at the head of the table, surrounded by Western businessmen. On his immediate left sat Rex Medved.

  Clay bit the inside of his cheek, turned back to face Hussein.

  ‘That is the Minister of Petroleum of the national government, one of the leaders of the Southern rebel cabal. The man with him is the President of Petro-Tex. He is here negotiating new exploration leases in the Southern oilfields.’

  Clay sipped his drink. ‘Look,’ he said to the stranger across the table, ‘if there is a point to all of this, get to it. I’m sure that you didn’t bring me all this way to talk politics.’ Clay drained his glass and wiped his mouth with the back of his forearm.

  Hussein slid an envelope across the table towards him. He tapped the paper with the tips of two long fingers. ‘I believe these are yours.’

  There was a burst of laughter from the Minister’s table. Clay looked over. The Minister stood and embraced a heavyset crew-cut man in a black suit. The two men touched cheeks on one side and then the other and stood shaking hands. The man beamed at the Minister, pumping his hand, booming a laugh across the room.

  ‘Jesus Christ,’ said Clay. It was Zdravko.

  Hussein looked at him and back at the Minister’s table. ‘Do you know him?’

  Clay swallowed a mouthful of whisky and then another, but did not answer.

  He flipped open the envelope. There were three pages, the lab reports from the Al Urush and Bawazir samples, dated. He scanned the columns of figures, cross-checking the pages, annoyed that they could so easily end up in this man’s hands. He was about to ask just how this had been accomplished when he saw Zdravko striding towards him, a big smile on his face, his double-breasted dark suit moving like reptile skin over his lithe bulk.

  Zdravko was almost at the table now. Clay nodded to him, made to stand. All he could do was play it out, greet him as if nothing had happened, as if he hadn’t seen what he’d seen. Zdravko smiled that big smile of his. Clay relaxed, offered his hand.

  But then Zdravko’s expression changed. His mouth set hard, a flat line. He glanced at Hussein, eyes narrowed, and then fixed his pale gaze back on Clay, accelerating towards them. Five metres from the table he changed course towards the exit. Ignoring Clay’s outstretched palm, he raised his hand in the shape of a pistol, aimed at Clay’s head, and cracked off a round. Bang, he mouthed, you’re dead. He winked and was gone.

  Clay sat a moment blinking, unsure of what had just happened. Then he leaned back in his chair, finished his drink, folded the papers and slid them into his jacket pocket, trying not to look shaken.

  ‘Friend?’ said Hussein.

  ‘I wouldn’t say that, no.’

  Hussein pushed back his chair and stood. ‘And now,’ he said, butting out his cigarette in the ashtray, ‘we are going to take a little journey together.’

  Why You Do Nothing

  It was the grey hour before dawn. Overnight, the city had been turned into a bastion. They passed through three Army road blocks in as many miles, the guards waving Hussein through by sight. Free of the city now, the Land Cruiser rattled along the crumbling two-lane coast road into the ancient heart of Arabia Felix. Pastel beaches and Aeolian dunes sprinkled with burnt scrub stretched away before them.

  Clay pulled the envelope from his pocket and unfolded the three lab reports. He scanned the columns of figures, concentrations in milligrams per litre. The Al Urush sample showed elevated salinity, as he had measured before at the cistern, but there were more dangerous signs: significant concentrations of heavy metals, cadmium and lead, elevated organics, traces of barium. The numbers burned themselves into his brain. None of these things belonged. This water should be as pure as Evian. The Bawazir sample, taken just before the massacre, showed the same effects but at lower concentrations.

  Hussein pulled over to the shoulder and switched off the engine. They walked to the top of a dune and looked out across the ocean. The water here was blue and clear, the beach alive with
thousands of crabs that scuttled back and forth as the waves surged and retreated across the white sand. Sea birds wheeled and flicked in the breeze.

  Hussein lit a cigarette, fuelled its embers and exhaled into the wind. ‘Have you been up to the CPF before?’ he asked.

  ‘Only once. Last year, working on another project, I bunked in the camp for a few nights. Since then it’s been locked down.’

  ‘How many people work there, at any given time?’

  ‘A hundred, maybe less. I’m not sure.’ He looked at Hussein. ‘What is it that you do, exactly?’ He tried to sound casual.

  ‘I am with the government.’

  ‘What do you do for the government, other than take foreigners sightseeing?’

  Hussein flicked the cigarette end into the dune. ‘We should go, hit the road as the Americans say.’ He turned away and walked back to the car.

  Fifty kilometres west of Al Mukalla they stopped at a roadside teahouse. They left the vehicle and climbed the steps to a covered terrace overlooking the sea. A dozen wood plank tables were arranged under a wire-mesh and palm-frond roof that fluttered and crackled in the sea breeze. In one corner a group of tribesmen sat on a straw mat drinking tea. They looked up as Clay and Hussein entered. A loud conversation ensued. Clay and Hussein installed themselves at a table in the far corner. Hussein called for tea. After a while three of the men stood and wiped their hands across their sleeves, reached for their weapons and walked across the terrace to where Hussein and Clay sat.

  Hussein greeted the men and offered them each a cigarette. They declined. Clay recognised one of the men from the first meeting with the sheikh. His face was like pitted andesite, weathered by who knew how many years of sun and labour. But it was his eyes that were unforgettable: blue as the sea, they glared out at Clay as the man spoke in rapid-fire Arabic, his tone rising, his hands tightening around the pistol grip of the rifle slung about his neck. Never once did his gaze waver – he was addressing Clay personally. Hussein listened, finishing one cigarette and lighting another, cool as a Highveldt winter’s night. The man was shouting now, spitting out hard consonants. Clay stared back into the depth of his eyes, not daring to break contact. Finally the man slammed the butt of his Kalashnikov down on the tabletop and was silent. The other tribesmen murmured in agreement. Hussein stood and gestured to the men to please sit. They hesitated, looked back at their comrades at the other table, and sat. Hussein called for food and more tea.