Spoils of War, page 13
‘Is there any possibility that your daughter was somehow involved in an attempt to smuggle some of that out?’
‘Of course not! I heard the same rumour, that some of the gold had gone missing. So what? As far as we are concerned, it is for those clowns in Baghdad to replace it.’
Jack hadn’t expected to hear any different. He said: ‘So there’s no hope for Fadel?’
‘That’s not for me to judge. His case will be dealt with by our state security courts as impartially as all the others. And certainly I do not intend to get involved.’
As Jack stood up, Hamadi suddenly gave his familiar melancholy smile and clasped both of his visitor’s hands in his own.
‘As salaam alaikum,’ he said. ‘May God’s peace go with you, my dear Jack.’
11
He got to the bank half an hour before it was due to close for the afternoon, but there was a long queue outside again and he wondered whether he would make it to the door in time. While he was dithering he felt a hand plucking at his sleeve and found Mr Latif beside him. It seemed the assistant manager had been alerted by a phone call to expect him, and under the baleful gaze of the waiting merchants he was ushered into the bank. Wasta to the rescue again.
Latif took him to the far end of the main counter and produced a paper-clipped set of documents. There was a second sterling bank draft for eight thousand, eight hundred and twenty-four pounds, representing the balance being released from his two accounts together with the interest that had accrued to them. There was a cheque for fifty thousand US dollars drawn in his favour on the account of a company called Hamadi Overseas Realty, Inc., at a Fifth Avenue branch of the Chemical Bank of New York. Receipts for both of these had been prepared for Jack’s signature, together with a debit note for the amount withdrawn from his accounts and a form authorizing their closure.
He was about to sign this last document when a woman’s voice interrupted him.
‘Might have known you’d be in the VIP channel.’
Dale Griggs had approached from the direction of the tellers’ windows. She stood watching him with a slightly sardonic smile.
‘Dale! What brings you here?’
‘Money, what else? Or rather the lack of it. I’m owed half a year’s salary and all I get are promises.’
She was wearing black leggings, flat shoes and a loose-fitting yellow sweater, and she had a bulky leather handbag slung on a strap from her shoulder. Her hair looked newly washed, fluffed out to provide a wider frame to her features. She said: ‘How’s your work for the good doctor progressing?’
‘Slowly.’
‘It seems to give you status, anyhow. I saw you getting priority treatment while I was standing in line with the plebs.’
‘Not my idea,’ he said apologetically. He paused and made a decision. ‘Listen, I’m glad I’ve bumped into you. If you’re not in a hurry, there’s something I’d like to talk to you about.’
Conscious that Latif was silently waiting, he scribbled his signature on the form. The Palestinian gathered up the documents, leaving only the two cheques on the counter. Picking them up, Jack was aware of Dale’s glance sliding casually over them.
He said goodbye to Latif and strolled beside her to the door. ‘I’d offer to buy you coffee,’ he said, ‘if anywhere was open.’
‘As it happens, I know a place that is.’
She led him down a side street next to the Gold Market. She stopped by a door between two shuttered jewellers’ shops and opened it to reveal a tiny, dim, nameless coffee house he had never known existed. Their arrival brought a dead halt to the conversations of the dozen or so male customers, but the owner came from behind his counter to give Dale an enthusiastic greeting in Arabic. He showed them to a table, wiping it vigorously before bustling off to fetch coffee.
‘A friend from the resistance,’ Dale explained. ‘He managed to keep this place open right through the occupation. We used it as a message centre.’
‘I heard you were pretty actively involved.’
‘Guns under my skirt? You’ve been listening to little Tewfiq,’ she said dismissively. ‘It wasn’t that exciting. It could be scary; at times it could even be boring. There was a lot of waiting around. What I did mostly was courier work, keeping the various cells in touch with each other. Keeping out of sight of the Mukhabarat. And finding ways of sending out reports on Iraqi troop dispositions to the spooks waiting across the border in Saudi. I’ve begun to wonder what it was all for, frankly. To put the same old fat cats back at their feeding bowls, as far as I can see.’
‘It’s one of those that I wanted to talk to you about. I think I owe you an apology. I’m afraid I may accidentally have dropped you in it with Hamadi this morning.’
‘How so?’
He explained how he had casually let slip to the doctor one of the details of Noura’s departure from the house at Salamiya on the night of her arrest, and how Hamadi had instantly guessed at the source of the information.
‘I didn’t mention your name and neither did he, but we both knew who we were talking about. He certainly seems to have a hang-up about you. He got going about what a bad influence you’d been on Noura, and he hinted that he didn’t expect you to be allowed to stay here much longer. I imagine he’s quite capable of making his own wishes come true.’
‘Oh, he sure is,’ Dale said; but she seemed to be taking the news calmly. ‘Well, I never thought I had much chance of staying, anyway.’
‘All the same, I shouldn’t have drawn his attention to you. He, quote, advised me, unquote, to have nothing more to do with you. But I was going to come out to your place and warn you.’
This was only half true. Jack hadn’t actually decided whether he wanted to risk looking like a bloody fool in Dale’s eyes. He was also afflicted by an absurd self-consciousness over the erotic daydream he had had, almost as though she might somehow have been reading his mind. It wasn’t as though he had knowingly made her into an object of his lust; her sexual attraction arose from the more subtle appeal of the lively, intelligent woman he saw behind her athletic body and her American candour.
‘Thanks, but don’t worry about it,’ she said. ‘Truth to tell, I’m not too sure I want to go on living here. Especially on sufferance. I have a feeling the delay in giving me my back pay is their cute little way of telling me I’m no longer wanted. No job plus no Kuwaiti husband equals no residence permit.’
‘What will you do then?’
Two small finger-cups of strong, sweet coffee had been placed on the table. Dale sipped at hers and shrugged. ‘I’ve been planning to take a vacation in Europe anyway. I need to get away from this place. I did a sabbatical year at the Sorbonne and I have friends I want to look up in Paris. After that, go back home and look for another job, I guess. Not that any good college has a crying need for one more sociologist. Especially, one in her thirties who’s still researching for her Ph.D.’
‘I’m afraid I’ve never had more than a vague idea what sociology actually is,’ Jack confessed.
‘I suspect that neither do a lot of my students. The theory is hard to grasp and the literature is full of jargon. What it comes down to is how people interact with each other. Psychology is about the behaviour of people as individuals, right? But people are social animals, and sociology is about how they behave as groups, and as members of groups. Starting with the family – that’s my own field – and moving right on up to whole populations. In a complex society like ours, most people belong to a lot of separate or overlapping groups. By the ring you’re wearing I guess that you’re married. That means you’re part of a mechanical solidarity group: one based on a sentimental attraction of similarities.’ She gave him a mischievous grin. ‘Does that make you any the wiser?’
‘Not really,’ he said. ‘And that doesn’t sound much like my marriage these days.’
‘Oh. Have I goofed? Well, if it’s any consolation, none of the research I’d done into marriage did anything to save my own from being a disaster. My husband was the sort of Jekyll and Hyde character that some Arab men can be when they have one foot in their own world and another in the West. When I met him in the States he was all charm and urbanity. When I came back here with him he turned into a thirty-year-old patriarch. I made the most obvious mistake of all: I thought I could change him. I guess he must have thought the same about me. You know the four things a Muslim traditionally looks for in a wife? Piety, status, wealth and beauty. And my score was zero in all four departments.’
‘I’m afraid I can’t agree,’ Jack said. ‘Not on the last point, anyway.’
Dale gave an unaffected laugh. ‘I wasn’t fishing for praise. When I look in the mirror I see a pretty haggard stand-in for the Southern belle my mother wanted me to be. But thank you, Jack, you’re good for my ego.’ The green eyes held his gaze for slightly longer than they needed to; there was interest as well as amusement in them. ‘The way you say you’re afraid before you express an opinion . . . is that British politeness again, or your own reticence?’
‘A bit of both, perhaps. It’s a habit I should get out of.’
‘No. It’s part of your charm.’
‘I’m sure it’s nothing of the sort.’
His turn to deflect a compliment. A moment of silence followed in which they both seemed to consider the personal turn that the conversation had taken. Jack was a little surprised at his own boldness. He was out of practice at flirting. The next move, if there was going to be one, was hers.
‘How much longer are you staying here?’ she asked.
‘I think I’ll have to leave tomorrow.’
‘Daddy’s work won’t wait, huh?’ There was a definite hint of regret in her voice, but now she chose to end the banter. ‘Well, I guess I have to go now. I have a date with myself at the stadium.’
‘I can give you a lift. I’ve got time on my hands today.’
‘Thanks, but I’m driving a jalopy that came with my squat.’
She spoke easily but with finality. She was telling him that in spite of the attraction that had flickered between them she wasn’t interested in a one-night stand.
They rose to go. Jack signalled to the proprietor and tried to pay for the coffee, but the offer was refused with elaborate gestures and a short farewell speech to Dale.
They walked together back towards the bank. Reduced to small talk again, he asked Dale to tell him about her running career.
‘You don’t follow track, do you?’ she said.
He didn’t know what she meant for a moment. ‘Athletics? Only from an armchair.’
‘I guessed those times I mentioned yesterday didn’t mean much to you. No false modesty: I used to be one of the six fastest women milers in the world. Yes, it’s true,’ she smiled, detecting his surprise. ‘I was due to run the fifteen hundred metres at the Moscow Olympics in nineteen eighty, and then our squad pulled out under political pressure. Goddam Jimmy Carter playing macho man with the Soviets. Running is the main reason I never got round to earning my Ph.D. Louisiana State had a great track team; by the time I got my Master’s I was spending more time training than studying. But I don’t regret it. I broke collegiate and state records; I went on improving my times, and I began to think I could get right to the top. Trouble was, the competition was exceptional. Maybe you have heard of Mary Decker?’
‘Of course.’
‘Mary was the best woman runner of my generation, and it was my ambition to beat her. But she started earlier than I did. She’d broken her first world record at sixteen, and she always stayed ahead. I did run her a close second four times in national meets, but she just had that edge, that extra level of determination that I couldn’t rise to. When you’re looking at margins measured in hundredths of a second, it’s what’s going on in your head that makes the difference. Mary needed to win more than I did.
‘Anyway, I think I lost heart after the Moscow business. I told myself I had more cerebral interests – not that my academic credentials are all that wonderful. A doctorate is almost a sine qua non in the States, even for a humble assistant professorship.’
Jack had been thinking while she talked. As they reached her borrowed car, a Toyota several years old, he said: ‘Since you seem to believe I’m so polite, I’m going to surprise you by asking something that’s probably none of my business. Will you be all right for money?’
She looked at him blankly. ‘Sure. As long as my back pay comes through.’
‘Because I can let you have some if you’re in a spot. I think you saw the size of that cheque I was given. I feel a bit guilty about it, frankly. It’s Hamadi’s money, and I reckon he owes you something.’
A little flustered, she said: ‘You’re right. You have surprised me. It’s very kind of you, Jack, but no. I’ll be OK. Even if I wasn’t, I wouldn’t feel right about taking money from you. We hardly know each other.’
‘Now who’s being reticent?’ he said with a grin. ‘Perhaps we have only just met, but I’d like to consider you a friend. If you change your mind, get hold of me through Vincent.’
‘OK,’ she said, still looking a bit bewildered. Then she thrust her face forward and kissed him on the cheek. ‘Thanks, Jack. You’re a nice man. Good luck.’
12
At eight o’clock the next morning Jack was ready to leave. In what was now an established ritual he joined Vincent for breakfast and they listened for the last time together to the World Service news.
The plight of the Kurds in northern Iraq was growing desperate. Their guerrilla forces had been routed by Saddam Hussein’s army and hundreds of thousands of people were now said to have fled into the mountains along the Turkish border. The radio carried a clip from an interview in London with one of the main Kurdish rebel leaders, Abdel Karim, pleading for the West to intervene and save his people from torture and genocide. Karim, it seemed, was also one of the informants who had helped in the investigation of the thefts of money from the Iraqi treasury by Saddam Hussein and his associates, and he was questioned briefly about it.
Jack listened rather absently. He had been preoccupied since last night with domestic details, sorting through the things in his flat and making ruthless decisions about what was worth keeping. It had been an unexpectedly depressing business, the breaking up of a former home seeming to foreshadow what might happen to his present one. In the end he had given up the idea of saving any of the furniture or other bulky items; he had given a few things to Vincent, and in return the Irishman had undertaken to sell everything else and send on the proceeds. Jack was taking with him only what would go into his luggage.
He locked the apartment and unscrewed the door handle, the absence of which still provided its only protection. He gave the keys to Vincent, and then they carried his suitcases down to the basement and loaded them in the Granada. They said goodbye and promised to keep in touch. Then Jack set off.
Along the road to the border things looked just as chaotic as when he’d arrived. The oil-well fires were still burning. The ubiquitous military traffic slowed his progress for several kilometres, and smoke impeded it further, but when he had passed the Burgan field the fug suddenly lifted to show the desert flooded by brilliant spring sunshine. He took this as a good omen, picking up speed and letting his thoughts drift along positive lines.
He was going home fifty thousand dollars richer. That much was certain. There was another fifty thousand in prospect if he could pull off the deal for Hamadi, and possibly a whole lot more if he could negotiate a share for himself of the one million dollars still blocked in the account in Zurich. These were pretty heady figures; what he couldn’t quite understand was why he was not more excited by them. The money had an unreal quality, something just as intangible as the services required of him in return. The more he thought about these, the less inclined he was to accept Hamadi’s bland assurances about how simple it was all going to be. Something was missing – no, probably several things were missing – from the complicated patchwork of fact, speculation and prejudice that formed the background he had to work against.
Perhaps he shouldn’t let this bother him. He had a job to do; what had gone before it was none of his concern. But despite himself he kept seeing a human dimension to it. He imagined the cruel death of Noura Hamadi in the Nayef Palace, and he heard a doomed Iraqi babbling in his dark cell about stolen gold. He also remembered the tug of desire he had felt for Dale Griggs, and regretted that he was unlikely to see her again. He had come to Kuwait in search of answers about himself; he was leaving, it seemed, with his mind full of questions about other people.
Near the Saudi border he was held up in a line of traffic. An American supply truck had skidded off the road into the sand and a huge towing vehicle was dragging it out. Edging past the scene of the accident, Jack felt his memory jolted. A connection fell into place that was so simple he wondered why on earth it hadn’t occurred to him before.
He crossed the frontier with little delay this time and reached Dhahran early in the afternoon. Half a dozen dogs yapped at him when he rang the doorbell of the Patley penthouse and he got his usual warm welcome from Sylvia, who pressed a late lunch of cold chicken and salad on him. Immediately he had eaten he phoned the local office of British Airways. They told him the direct flight to London the next day was full, but he got a reservation on one leaving for Jeddah in the morning, with an onward connection arriving at five-thirty in the evening.
After asking Sylvia’s permission, he made a call to Alison.
It was midday in England, a time when she had usually finished her morning’s housework and would be relaxing with a cup of coffee and the newspaper. She managed to make it sound inconvenient to talk all the same.
‘I can’t collect you at the airport,’ she said when he told her his plans.
‘I wasn’t expecting you to. I’ll take the train. How are the girls?’
‘They’re both starting colds. I think I’m getting one too.’
These days Alison would never admit to being completely well. He had thought he might cheer her up by telling her about the cheque for fifty thousand dollars he was bringing home, but something stopped him. Why should that have to make any difference to the way she felt? He told her he would be home around seven o’clock the next evening, and after they’d exchanged a few more remarks he hung up.
