Claymore, you still have not returned. The minutes coalesce, accreting seconds like slowly dripping water builds a stalactite in a mountain cave, a centimetre in a thousand years.
I remember visiting such a place in France, once, when I was a little girl. Coloured lights had been installed in the cave, and although it was beautiful, I remember very clearly being terrified, clutching my father’s hand as we went further and further into the mountain. The guide had told us that some of the stalactites were more than fifty thousand years old. I was doing calculations in my head. I knew my father was thirty-six at the time – I had just made him a birthday card. Suddenly, I realised that he was going to die and that these delicate constructions would remain, slowly growing, for long after. By the time we emerged back into the daylight, I was crying.
I could never have imagined how quickly his death did come, in the end, or its manner.
Mon Dieu, I should never have agreed to stay here and let you go alone. After everything that has happened, I could not bear to be separated from you again. I would rather die.
I have just reread this last paragraph. I blanch imagining that you might ever read this. I will never allow it, of course. Am I being hysterical? Would I, literally, rather be killed than live on without you? It is a cowardly thing to admit. In thinking such things, I blaspheme. I exist to worship God, not to indulge my own frivolities. I must be strong. Eugène is depending on me.
My friend from the Directorate just called me, here at Atef’s apartment. We used our usual code. I am his sister. He told me Mother was feeling ill, which meant we needed to speak urgently, and we arranged another line. Five minutes later I called him on the prearranged number. He is taking a big risk every time he speaks to me.
The woman, Jumoke Quarrah, I ran her photo through our database, he said.
And?
The name is an alias.
Who is she?
Her real name is Fatimah Salawi, a Lebanese national.
Mon Dieu.
She was originally from Egypt, a place called Hadayek el-Koba, a suburb of Cairo. Her father was killed when she was a child, under mysterious circumstances. Seems he may have been murdered, but the crime was never solved. He was a union leader in the factory he worked in. After his death, she was sent to live with her uncle in Lebanon.
A lead smelter, I said, feeling faint.
I do not know. But you must be very careful. Fatimah Salawi is a known member of Al-Gama’a al-Islamiyya.
Are you sure? I gasped.
Egypt is not my area. I must be very careful. I cannot dig too far. But from what I am told, the source is rated as highly credible.
Thank you. Thank you.
One last thing.
Please.
The Directorate expects Al-Gama’a Islamiyya to launch a major attack, directed against Westerners, within the next forty-eight hours. And they believe that it will occur somewhere in the vicinity of Luxor.
Luxor. Are you sure?
The intelligence is rated as highly credible.
Luxor. We must hurry.