It was Sandrine, and even in the dim light Christopher could tell that her eyes were wide and there was a slight tremor in her hand.
“He’s gone,” she said. “He went out the window.”
“Let me… give me a minute.” Christopher dressed and followed her outside, into the hotel next door, and to the room where Sulaiman was supposed to be sequestered.
“He kept saying ‘ana araby, ana araby,’ over and over, and when he stopped I thought he had finally gone to sleep,” she said.
The curtains flapped in the night breeze, the glass of the window absent. Christopher checked the floor and looked out. No fragments. It looked like someone had installed a window frame, but no actual window.
The wall was warm on that side.
“It’s not my fault. Nobody said he was a flight risk.” She had the hint of a whine in her voice.
Sulaiman used to be a slave. He was liberated, unlike most of the modern slaves who benefited from the mass-manumissions of 2032. He was set to give evidence and they were babysitting him. Nigeria loved to house at-risk individuals in Rosewater because it was not a legal entity, and therefore the usual human rights opposition to torture could be… overlooked while any damage done could be healed in an Opening. They like to use local talent, which is how Christopher came to be part of the detail. Emeka had called him a traitor.
Christopher’s watch had been uneventful and Sandrine had yawned and barely listened to the report.
“Do you know that language?” asked Sandrine.
“It’s Arabic,” said Christopher. “I quit.”
He dropped his ID and backed out of the room.
“Wait.” Sandrine had both hands on the door frame. “What was he saying? What does it mean?”
“It means ‘I am an Arab.’” But if the Arabs found Sulaiman or if they were the ones who took him, they would flay him alive.
Christopher lit a cigarette and sought out Kudi. Her bright coloured hair and her loud personality would make her easier to find. There would be crowds to fight through, but he could do that. Where Kudi was, Emeka would be.
And it was Emeka he wanted.