Cloak of Darkness Page 9

  ***

  Claudel left l’Univers one minute before nine thirty. Its restaurant was beginning to function, its bar already crowded. Some able-bodied seamen, perhaps deciding that if they couldn’t have a night on the town, they’d have the drinks they liked among people who talked in recognisable languages, were mixing with the Italians and French and their amiable women. Other hot and bone-weary seamen were about to enter, groups from various ships docked at the port. Outside, the taxis were already in line. What was a couple of hours spent in waiting when a bumper harvest was in sight?

  Alexandre was on time, parked discreetly away from the crowd. His brother, in a loose white shirt, was his replica— neat-boned face, large eyes, a small moustache over a wide mouth, dark-skinned—but taller and even thinner. There was a flash of white teeth in greeting, but no word spoken.

  The grave silence continued until Claudel gave directions. “Don’t drive directly to the house. Let us take the road to the airport for ten minutes. Then come back through various streets.” Alexandre’s brother nodded his approval. The Frenchman was discreet. “And when we near the Old Arab’s house, do not enter its lane. Park the car around the corner.”

  “The lane is ill-lighted,” Alexandre’s brother observed. He turned his head to look at Claudel’s dark-blue shirt, long-sleeved; dark trousers, too. The Frenchman had come prepared for shadows, he decided, and said no more.

  “But safe enough. If I need help, I’ll yell,” Claudel added lightly.

  “Safe enough,” Alexandre’s brother agreed with some pride. “Only the cars are in danger.” There was a plague of small-time thieves: an unattended car, even in daylight, could lose its radio and cassette player.

  Was that why Alexandre wanted his brother along? wondered Claudel. No robbery possible when Alexandre was in that candy shop near the corner of street and lane, where a tantalising variety of sweetmeats was for sale? We’ve all our own little plans, he thought, and laughed.

  “It is,” the off-duty policeman said in grave rebuttal to the laugh, “the most serious problem we have in Djibouti.”

  “Really?”

  “Without a doubt.” Alexandre’s brother plunged into a series of statistics and examples, which brought them all the way to the Old Arab’s lane.

  It was a quiet street, narrow and short. The Old Arab’s doorway was scarcely fifty metres away. All the houses seemed asleep, a delusion fostered by the blank plaster walls that were broken only occasionally by barred windows, one here, one on a floor above, built at random: the outside world, in Arab tradition, was to be ignored.

  But once through an ornate wooden door, large enough for men on horseback to enter—another tradition remembered from another era—there was a paved courtyard with windows all around, and a stone staircase that led to the upper floor of the Old Arab’s house. Instead of horses, there was now a car in the centre of the yard. Claudel followed the venerable servant, black face looking even darker against his lengthy white shirt, who had opened the door before Claudel could even knock. Neither spoke. The man, quite impassive, led the way upstairs, gestured to him to wait at a low narrow door and disappeared inside. There were women’s voices from other rooms; the smell of cooking and spices drifting up to the narrow balcony where Claudel stood, the sound of sad music from an Arab radio station. Apart from that evidence of life within the house, it was a cold, bleak place, dimly lighted by meagre bulbs. But above the courtyard, in a square of ink-blue sky, there was a brilliance of stars to lift one’s heart along with one’s eyes.

  The silent servant gestured. He could enter. Claudel ducked his head to pass through the doorway into a small room; into another very small room; into a third where the Old Arab sat among rugs and cushions and soft lights. The formalities were brief, polite: your health, my health, a small cup of coffee served—and Claudel had to mask his astonishment—by a tall, thin beauty in a long, loose dress with chunks of gold forming necklace and bracelets. This couldn’t be another wife, Claudel reflected as he praised the comfort and opulence around them—the Old Arab had outlived his allotted four. And a girl who wasn’t even half Arab? Originally an Afar nomad, way back before city lights and city ways had brought her family to town. Poor little Emilie, he thought, once more an outcast, the quarter-breed granddaughter tolerated when the old man was completely widowed and needed a companion for his declining years. Declining? The eyes were shrewd and watchful, the hawk face ready to strike. Fortunately, he had taken a liking to Claudel last year. They were wary friends. Fortunately, too, he had liked Interintell’s check discreetly deposited in his Cairo bank account.

  The Old Arab waved a hand. The tall, thin beauty, as hard-eyed as ever, bowed and floated away. Once the door closed, he said, “Husayn is here. Shaaban, too.”

  “They came together?” Surprise mixed with doubt was in Claudel’s voice.

  There was a reassuring nod. “Husayn is now in the room from which you entered. Shaaban waits elsewhere. He will be brought to speak with you when Husayn leaves.”

  “With your permission,” Claudel said, rising from the uncomfortable mass of cushions, and, with a small bow, left for Husayn. The Old Arab will hear everything we say, he reminded himself. There was a certain trick to the construction of some rich Arabs’ houses: voices in an enclosed space could be heard, even a whisper, by anyone who stood in a certain corner of an adjacent room. The Old Arab was in that corner right now, Claudel was willing to bet; if not standing, then sitting.

  Husayn’s face was friendly even if its features were hard, thin, strongly pronounced. There was a welcome on his lips, but his eyes were uncertain. So were his replies to Claudel’s questions. Yes, he had delivered coffee on his last voyage to Aden, and taken it right into one of the training camps. Yes, there were Europeans. Yes, one had escaped from India. Yes, there were some Cubans, too. No, he hadn’t heard of any quarrel between two Cubans and the European from Bombay. (How did he know there were two of them? Claudel thought: I only asked about Cubans in general. And I never mentioned Bombay.) Yes, the European had left camp. He was now dead. Yes, that was definite.

  “Are you certain?” Claudel asked, his voice gentle and unchallenging. “Could the man not leave in a dhow? Sail to Africa? The distance is short.”

  Husayn agreed. The distance was short. But the man had not travelled it. The man was dead. So Husayn had heard. So everyone had said.

  And so am I to believe. Claudel’s face was expressionless. I’ve lost a good agent. Who doubled him? Or was it Asah, his father, who had influenced—commanded—him? Simple people had complex loyalties: complete obedience to the head of their family who was obedient to his sub-tribe, which in turn was obedient to the tribe; and the tribe itself was obedient to the main group which dominated all. The tight hierarchy of these Hamitic peoples was something hard to comprehend, and certainly difficult to deal with. Claudel pitied his friend Georges Duhamel. “One more thing, Husayn. When you visited the South Yemen camp, did you hear that some men there were of very different political beliefs? Men who were of two extremes: one to the right, the other to the left?”

  There was visible relief on Husayn’s tight face. What had he expected? A question about the weapons he had seen in the camp, or where did they come from? “To the right? To the left?”

  He knows damn well what I meant. He’s stalling. Afraid to give away his new political sympathies? “Do the men now in the camp all hold the same beliefs as the Cubans and the Yemenis?”

  “Some keep apart when they eat and sleep. Very few. Three. No more.”

  “Thank you, Husayn.” Claudel rose, signifying the end of the meeting, and gave a tactful handshake concealing a roll of Djibouti francs. It disappeared into Husayn’s ankle-length shirt.

  Husayn hesitated. “There was trouble at the port today.”

  “Oh?”

  “None of the labourers have left the docks. That is strange.”

  So Husayn had heard no details about the actual opening of the crates, but he�
�and his family—had fears about the delayed delivery to Asah’s warehouse. Did Asah’s sub-tribe know of his dealings? Or was he acting alone, without their authority? Then who can be backing him? Someone he sees as powerful enough to protect him? Some nation with an eye on the port of Djibouti? Claudel’s pulse heightened, but he kept his face disinterested. “Strange? They are working overtime perhaps. Is that unusual when many cargo ships arrive all at once?”

  “Many cargo ships? You saw them?”

  “I saw their seamen all over town today. Didn’t you?”

  “They make the Somalis work while they play.”

  “They unload, but they don’t work on the docks. The Somalis wouldn’t give up that job. Would they?” Claudel asked gently and added, “Good night, Husayn.” Good night and goodbye, he thought as he watched Husayn bow and stalk out of the room. No mention of seeing me again, not even the polite formula for a safe journey home.

  Three minutes passed. Then Shaaban arrived—strongly built, short in height, his dark flat-featured face beaming with pleasure. He could only report what he had seen and heard around Aden’s harbour. There was talk of a big search for a man who had murdered and stolen. But the man had been too clever. He had slipped away from soldiers and police. Yes, he had escaped. In a dhow. But no one would even whisper the name of its owner, no one wanted to know where it was sailing.

  “The man is alive?” Claudel asked.

  “The man is alive.”

  Claudel studied the wide-set eyes that looked so innocent. Shaaban knew who had brought Erik out of Aden, but Claudel wouldn’t embarrass him with a direct question. “Perhaps he sailed to Djibouti.”

  “Perhaps.”

  And that, Claudel thought, is as much as Shaaban tells. Yes, he knows; but he is afraid of the man who smuggled Erik into Djibouti. Or is this another case of tribal loyalty?

  “To bring him here is a dangerous matter,” Claudel said, and by the way Shaaban nodded, his dark eyes large and anxious, Claudel knew that it could also be dangerous for Shaaban if he had to answer any more questions. The man’s relief was transparent as Claudel thanked him with the usual handshake; his good wishes for a safe journey were long-winded but sincere. Next time, he promised, there would be more news to report.

  One long minute passed after Shaaban had left. Claudel glanced at his watch: almost eleven o’clock. Would he be summoned to the Old Arab’s room for some polite questioning as usual, or had the old boy heard enough from his listening corner? Suddenly, remembering Shaaban’s fear—and the man had courage enough—Claudel drew a sharp breath. Had the Old Arab helped Erik? He was most certainly no Communist; a devout Muslim, his hatred for the atheist Yemenis was now intense. Intense enough to let him hide anyone who was hunted by them? If your enemy is my enemy, then we are friends...

  Another long minute. The Old Arab won’t see me again tonight, Claudel decided. Now he is caught in a predicament: I am hunting Erik, who escaped from the Yemenis, a man he has promised to help. How? With shelter and clothes, obviously. Money, possibly. False papers? To explain to the old man that Erik’s hatred of religion was only equalled by his loathing for all capitalists, Arabs included, would be futile. Erik, true to form, would now be the most devout believer of all Muslims.

  The door from the small outer room opened. It was a sad-faced Emilie who greeted him with stiff politeness. “My grandfather has sent me with his good wishes for a safe return home. He has retired for the night. Let me lead you downstairs.”

  Claudel nodded, followed her onto the balcony, said lightly, “No more jokes, Emilie? No tricks like this morning at the market? You let me search—”

  She touched his arm, drew him quickly past the array of doors, women’s voices, plaintive music. She began to whisper, her plain little face with its thick features looking up at him pleadingly. “Please—you must leave Djibouti. There is danger. A talk of kidnapping. My grandfather will have nothing to do with it. But he remains silent.”

  He stared at her.

  She drew apart, led the way downstairs. Her voice was raised to normal once more. “I saw you at the market. But you were so fascinated by two old ladies—”

  “Not so old. Just lost.” A kidnapping? My God...

  “Lost?” Laughter sparkled in her eyes.

  “Very lost. They didn’t understand a word of French.”

  “Of course you had to help them!”

  “Who else was there?” Kidnapped how? he wondered.

  “Where did they come from?”

  “America—by their voices.” Perhaps drugged and forced onto a dhow...

  “You didn’t ask?”

  “We never got around to that.” Taken to Yemen? Questioned? That would be no bloody joke.

  “Will you see them again?”

  “No. They aren’t my type.”

  She laughed out loud, almost danced across the paved floor of the courtyard. The old servant emerged from behind a pillar, silently opened the heavy door just enough for Claudel to slip through.

  He halted on the threshold. “Please give my thanks to your grandfather. I wish him happiness, a long life.” And I hope the old bastard wishes as much for me—if it doesn’t inconvenience him.

  Emilie’s face had lost its humour, her voice was almost inaudible. “Remember,” she said. Careful, her eyes warned; be careful.

  He nodded, kissed her wrist, stepped into the night.

  7

  In the lane, the houses seemed deeper into sleep. Their lights were out. The scattering of windows had become black patches behind iron bars. There was one lamp fixed to a plaster wall half-way to the street, aiming a bright circle on the unpaved ground. Outside of that solitary beam, deep shadows took over. But the distance before Claudel was short: only two doors to pass before he reached the corner.

  He set a brisk pace, his eyes watching the first door on the right-hand side of the lane. Suddenly, he felt a warning, just a hint of the sickly-sweet odour he remembered so vividly from the marketplace. His eyes switched to his left, to an indentation in the wall of a house, a shallow recess with a door half open, hidden by the shadows as he had approached it. A dark, thin figure leaped out, stick upraised, aiming at Claudel’s head.

  Claudel whirled around, caught the man’s taut wrist, partly diverted the blow’s strength and direction. It fell on his shoulder, a moment of intense pain, but he held on to the wrist, twisting it back, tried to loosen the man’s grasp on the heavy stick. The door opposite had opened; a second man slipped into the street, a third... Claudel saw the glint of a knife and yelled.

  For a moment, the three men stood motionless as the yell shattered the dead silence, reverberated between house wall and house wall. Claudel heard a wrist crack, seized the stick as it fell from the man’s limp hand, aimed a blow that sent the thin figure reeling to the ground. The other two came on, two knives now shining. He backed against a wall, tightened his grip on the stick as he faced the two men, watched the glinting blades. One circled around him, avoiding the stick; the other lunged, gashing Claudel’s left arm as he fended off the knife from his body.

  Running feet. A voice shouting. The knives paused, as the two men turned to glance toward the street. A brief second, scarcely time to draw a breath, and they were gone, vanishing into the doorway opposite, with the third man following at a stumbling run. The door clanged shut as Alexandre reached it, a heavy lock turned.

  “You are hurt?” he asked, coming over to Claudel.

  “Not much.”

  “Blood—”

  “Could have been worse. Where’s your brother?”

  “He had to leave.” Alexandre looked around him nervously. “No use trying to follow these men. That is a spice warehouse they entered; it has other exits.”

  Strange, thought Claudel, now that the danger is over, Alexandre’s fear of this lane is returning. Completely forgotten when he raced down here to help me. “Let’s get out of here,” he said, handing over the stick so that he could grasp the slit in his forea
rm, hold the wound together, staunch the flow of blood. His shoulder hurt like hell.

  “They wanted your money?” Alexandre asked as they walked quickly toward the street. Some people had gathered at the corner. Three curious boys had followed Alexandre halfway down the lane.

  My life, more like it, thought Claudel. “I guess so.”

  “Robbers... My brother would have arrested them. He will be sorry he missed all this.”

  “Too bad,” Claudel said.

  Alexandre looked at him sharply. “There was a call for all police officers to report for duty. An emergency.” Then the defensive note left his voice. “It’s something big. A special raid. Very important. The military will send units, too.” A raid on Asah’s warehouse—a search for previous deliveries of weapons that were being hoarded. For what?

  “Come on,” he urged Alexandre, who was besieged by questions from the curious. They pushed their way through the gathering crowd, the three small boys at their heels telling everyone how they had routed the robbers. Claudel looked at Alexandre’s taxi, standing unguarded. “I tell you what—if your radio has been stolen, I’ll buy you a new one.”

  Claudel entered l’Univers by its service door, reached his room by a rear staircase. He was bathing his arm when Aristophanes entered. “Alexandre told me,” he said, his alarm growing. “Nasty, nasty,” he pronounced as he looked at the wound. “It needs stitches.”

  “Haven’t time.” There’s a report to be prepared for transmission to London, and I’ve to encode it first. Not that ciphers aren’t easily broken by the new wonder machines, but a code keeps messages safe from the casual eavesdroppers—that new breed of radio buffs who listen to the world’s private business with a twist on the dial and hope to make the headlines. Not with my report, thank you.

  “The hospital—”

  “No. I’ll have Interintell’s doctors took at it once I get home.” No strange hospital for me; no quick injections, no truth serum.