Luxor. It is decided. We will leave as soon as we can arrange transport.
To find Eugène, we must find the woman, Jumoke Quarah. Customs records show her arriving in Cairo, just as my friend said, on 26th October, from Paris. With her, as an accompanied minor, was Said Qarrah, aged three years. There were no photographs or video from the airport, but Atef’s friend gave us a printout of the two passport photo pages. I have them here in my hand now, as I write this.
It is him. My little boy. Eugène.
And she … The resemblance is remarkable. As if I had a twin sister.
According to Egyptian government records she obtained a visa to go to France in April of this year and travelled there in September. She went alone. Mon Dieu! How did the authorities not pick that up? Atef’s friend cross-referenced the name in the Egyptian government database, and confirmed that such a person is indeed registered in the Governorate of Luxor. He could provide no address or contact details, however.
Is this the woman who murdered my husband? Was she sent by this group that everyone refers to as the Consortium? Could it even have been the AB? Is it something to do with the court case involving Yusuf Al-Gambal and the Kemetic? Can these things be related? And if so, what could they possibly want with Eugène? Has he become one more example of the ancient tradition of stealing the enemy’s children and enslaving them – if not physically, then ideologically? If he is a hostage, then why have they not contacted me? Perhaps they have been trying, and by running from them I have missed the chance to barter for his life. It is me they want, surely. None of it makes any sense.
I am living a nightmare.
We are at Atef’s apartment for another night. I know it worries you, Claymore. You do not want to expose your friend, as I did not want to expose mine.
Earlier tonight you told me that Jean-Marie was dead. You would not tell me what happened, only that he died helping you. Mon Dieu, it does not seem possible. I wept for a long time. I wept for Hope and her unborn baby. I wept for you, mon amour, for the loss of your closest remaining friend. I cried for us all.
I lie here, unable to sleep, and I watch you as I write this. You are lying on the floor, as you did last night. You are on your side. Your head is crooked in your right arm. You are looking up at me. You have been that way since I started. You are silent. You do not interrupt me, just lie there caressing me with those smoke-grey eyes. I know you want so much more from me, Claymore. I can feel the power of your desire. But you let me write, allow me this time. You are a good man, despite everything, despite what you believe about yourself. You know I need time to come to terms with all that has happened.
I glance up at you now, and you smile at me. It is not a broad smile. I have never seen such a thing from you. It is partial, hesitant, half apology, half acknowledgment, as if you cannot allow yourself the full pleasure of the thing. And yet, for you, it is a smile, and the meaning of it warms me.
For I am cold. Despite the warm November, I shiver. I know I could go to you now and speak to you, instead of writing to you. But I do not. The future frightens me, Claymore, holds me back. And the glowing warmth of knowing that my son is alive – alive! – is replaced now by the chill of the knowledge that he is among strangers, far from home and those who love him. Where are they keeping him? Is he being cared for? Mon Dieu, he is only a little boy. Who could do such a thing? And to what end?
We are animals, Claymore. Base and vile creatures. It is the only explanation. Driven by lust and greed, the basest of instincts, the urge to kill nestles deep within us, encoded in our genes. I know this to be true, now. I would gladly kill again to get my son back, to keep him safe. Gladly. And yet, what is it that makes us human? Is it not our ability to rise above these forces, to aspire to a higher purpose? Is this not the word of Allah, brought to us through the writings of the prophet Mohamed? Is this not the real truth?
‘What is the worldly life except the enjoyment of delusion?’
And so, I deny you your desire, as I deny my own. You will have to wait. I know not how long. Perhaps forever. Before God, I renounce myself to the delusions of this life. For Allah deprives as suddenly as he gives.
The girls are sleeping now, finally. I told them the truth – that their mother is dead. I did not tell them why she died, only than that it was the will of Allah, and that she was a good person, and long-suffering, and a true believer, and so she is now in paradise. They are young, but they seemed to understand this. And yet, something Ghada, the little one, said to me today haunts me. I cannot bear to think about it.
I ask God to look after these orphaned children. He has seen it necessary to take from them both of their parents. I cannot begin to understand the workings of God’s wisdom. Samira is gone, and He has determined that it should be so. Atef and his wife have agreed to take her daughters in. Their kindness, surely, He has noticed and will reward and is perhaps in itself an indication of His grace. And while it was Allah who took Samira, it is you, Claymore, who have ensured that her daughters will be well looked-after for as long as they live. All that death money you got from Cyprus is being washed clean. There is justice in this, although whose I am unsure.
Tonight I called Hope in California. She was with her mother. I did not tell her about Eugène. Only that I was safe. I left it to you to tell her that Jean-Marie was dead. You told her that he had died helping us, that he died doing what he loved, that you were together at the end, and that you buried him as a warrior, with his eyes open. I watched you, Claymore, as you told her. Your face was set hard. Your voice did not waver, even as I wept openly. I saw not a hint of tears, of emotion of any kind. I know you would not have betrayed your friend’s memory with such shows of weakness. Men like you and Crowbar foolishly think emotion is weakness. And yet I know that the things you have seen and done have not completely scoured away your ability to feel. That smile of moments ago is all the proof I need. And, perhaps, if we are allowed the time, I can help you heal, and then, if Allah wills it, you can love me. If these things can be done, maybe I, too, can find solace, and love you as I should. Inshallah.
After Hope had spoken to you, she told me that she had always known this time would arrive. That one day, she would get a telephone call, and that she would know he was dead. She has been preparing for it since before they were married, she said. I wish she were here now so I could hold her, and we could weep together. For I loved him, too, as I know you did, Claymore, in your way.