For a long time he had thought of time as a destroyer. Of lives and hopes, of civilisations and suns. That was what he’d seen during the war, and since. A person you cared for, loved even, alive one moment, all of the future before them, and then dead in a moment’s glance. Gone. Ended. The decomposition already begun. And then, later, when he came to understand more about the laws of physics, he began to see time’s companion, entropy, as the unmaker of all.
But now he knew that time was not the enemy. It was the gift – the great and only commodity in life. Watching that barren, ancient land sweeping past the window of this north-bound freight truck, he realised that this short treasure of time that each of us is provided can only be used in the present. For it is the present that converts the infinite possibility and potential of the future into a single, definitive past. Eben had taught him that part, about the past always being there. But he’d never told him that the present feeds on the potential of the future, consumes it and fixes it for ever. Every moment, every breath, every ∞ converted into a 1 – this was the only reality.
They reached Aswan a few hours later.
There had been no more roadblocks, and Clay had dozed in the seat with his head rattling against the doorframe as the miles sped by, fragments of dreams folding into reality until one became indistinguishable from the other. Now, as they trundled through the dusty outskirts of the city, the pain in Clay’s side had blown out into a near and shining star.
Mahmoud geared down, turned the big truck off the main road and started down into the river valley, the dark Nile water flowing smooth and calm through the once churning cataracts downstream of the dam. ‘We will stop here. I must unload this cargo,’ he said in Arabic, the first words he’d spoken since the roadblock.
‘I need to find a telephone,’ said Clay.
‘I do not have my own mobile phone. Not yet. But there is a PTT office in the town.’
Clay nodded.
‘I will take you there now,’ said Mahmoud, swinging the rig around a sharp bend, heading towards a cluster of whitewashed buildings near the river. Sandstone bluffs towered in the background.
‘You do not look well,’ said Mahmoud, rolling the truck to a stop. ‘You need a doctor.’
‘I’ll be okay,’ Clay said, wincing as he swung open the door. ‘Where shall I meet you?’
‘Here.’ Mahmoud checked his watch. ‘In an hour and a half. Luxor is four and a half hours away.’
‘See you then,’ said Clay, reaching for his pack. As he did, a spike of pain drove through his side. He groaned involuntarily.
‘Are you sure you do not need a doctor?’ said Mahmoud, staring at Clay. ‘Perhaps it is not wise to enter the PTT as you are. There may be police. There is a phone at my house. Perhaps better to call from there.’
Clay looked down at his side. Blood had soaked through the bandage and had stained his shirt and jacket. Mahmoud was right. He wasn’t thinking straight.
Mahmoud reached behind him and pulled out a dark jacket. ‘Take this,’ he said. Clay nodded and threaded on the jacket.
‘And leave your bag.’
Clay replaced the bag containing his gold, Crowbar’s Jericho, three extra clips for the G21, and two M27 fragmentation grenades on the floor of the rear compartment. He was taking a big chance, leaving all of this with a stranger, going into this highly public, official place. Perhaps he should wait, telephone from Luxor, from the security and privacy of Mahmoud’s home. Clay trusted the guy, but you never could tell. Sometimes the ones you thought would stick hard were gone at the first sign of trouble, and the guys you’d swear would run ended up staying until the end. Four and a half hours away, that was all. He’d waited days already, months. A few hours more was nothing, a twitch. But then again, maybe Mahmoud would take the opportunity to call ahead, have the police waiting for him in Luxor. Here and now though, with the anvil sky pressing in on him, the thought of even a minute longer without hearing her voice was impossible to bear.
‘See you here in an hour and a half,’ said Clay. ‘And thanks, Mahmoud. Shukran.’
The driver smiled and nodded.
Clay clambered to the ground, pushed the door closed. The truck pulled away. Clay pulled his cap low over his eyes, thrust his stump into the jacket’s pocket, hunched to make himself smaller and trudged towards the post-office entrance. The adhan rose above the town, echoing back from a dozen minarets along the valley, calling the debased and the faithful alike to come to God and repent.
Twenty minutes later, he stood in the telephone cabinet and picked up the receiver. Soon he might create a different past from the one that so far had been set out for him. And it would start here, now. With Rania.
The line clicked, connected.
‘Merhaba?’ a man’s voice.
Clay said nothing, held his breath.
‘Merhaba?’
Clay steadied himself. ‘I am looking for Veronique,’ he said in Arabic.
‘Ah, yes. Madame Veronique.’
‘At the moment, no.’ The voice was deep, resonant.
‘How can I reach her?’
‘That depends.’
Clay clenched his jaw, pushed the end of his stump into the wood panelling. ‘On what?’
‘That depends on who you are, sir, and what your business is.’
‘Look, I am a friend. It’s important.’
‘Yes. She mentioned to me that someone might call.’
‘Are you expecting her anytime soon?’ Clay held back, not wanting to sound desperate.
‘She was supposed to meet me yesterday evening, but she did not come. I am worried that something has happened to her.’
‘Is she in danger?’
‘The Consortium…’ he began, but did not finish.
‘The Consortium? Is that who is threatening her?’
‘I am sorry. I cannot say more.’
Clay swallowed down the fear pushing up through his chest. ‘Can you pass a message to her, if you see her?’
‘Of course.’
‘Tell her I will be in Cairo the day after tomorrow. Tuesday. Tell her to meet me at the Groppi Cafe, on Talaat Harb Square. I’ll be waiting for her there at noon.’
The sound of scribbling, a pencil on paper.
‘Tell her it’s Declan.’ The name he’d used as an alias for a while in Cyprus when they were together for those few days, more than two years ago now.
‘It is better if you come here first,’ said the man. ‘We can meet. Then we can come to an arrangement.’
‘Arrangement.’
‘Yes. That’s right.’
Clay swallowed. ‘What do you want?’
‘I only wish to keep Madame Veronique safe. She is very vulnerable.’
Vulnerable. Jesus Christ. ‘How much do you want?’
A pause, and then: ‘A thousand dollars would do well. American. Cash.’
Clay could already see the guy, on the ground, whimpering from a broken jaw. ‘No worries at all, bru,’ he said, working hard to keep the venom out of his voice. ‘Tell you what. Let’s make it two thousand. How about that? Where can I find you?’
The man hesitated. ‘Come to fourteen Othman Road, apartment sixty-one. Just south of the Ring Road in Giza.’
‘See you Tuesday.’
‘Bring cash.’
‘Definitely.’ Clay set down the receiver, his hand shaking. The receiver was wet. Sweat soaked his shirt, covered his forearms and face. The bastard, whoever he was, was holding Rania to ransom. That was clear. Was he part of this ‘consortium’ Rania had mentioned when they last spoke? Had the AB already got to her? Were they using her as bait, trying to lure him in, to finish what they’d started in Zanzibar and fucked up in Somalia? His mind spun through the possibilities, each darker than the next. Was she even still alive?
Clay emerged blinking into the afternoon sun and drifted towards the place where he’d agreed to meet Mahmoud. The ground shifted beneath his feet, the horizon acute, unstable. He stopped, bent at the waist, tried to breathe. Then he dropped to one knee, reached out for the ground, felt his hand sink through the void, the hard surface he knew was there as yet unreached. And then it was as if he was tumbling in a dark well where gravity acted only on the undeserving, and the righteous flew unperturbed in the clear sky above.
‘My friend.’
Clay opened his eyes, looked up towards the voice.
A hand reached behind his head. ‘My friend, come, please.’
Clay’s vision cleared. It was the truck driver, Mahmoud.
‘Come my friend. People will be watching. I must get you to a doctor.’