Birds of the Nile (15 page)

A flabby paunch hung over the belt of his trousers – these policemen lived well. But unlike Mrs Biltmore (who was large for no discernible reason) he carried his weight with purpose as though he might at any moment use it to impose himself on others – big in character as well as in body, he dominated space rather than simply occupying it.

He shortly reached through the rear window of his vehicle and brought out a loud-hailer of his own.
Coals to Newcastle
, thought Blake. And he was right, for whatever message the policeman sought to convey was hopelessly lost amidst the general cacophony of noise. The crowd were unimpressed and carried on chanting and if they understood a word of what he’d said they gave no sign. The policeman nonetheless insisted on
finishing his address before climbing back into his car where he began shouting his commands into the mouthpiece of a two-way radio.

Twenty minutes elapsed before the reinforcements he’d called for arrived. Blake guessed they were part-time volunteers and it would have taken them some time to assemble and equip themselves with the helmets, shields and batons with which they finally appeared. The police station (as he later discovered) was located half a mile away down Sharia Abtal, a turning off the square to their left, and the makeshift force had probably run all the way as they emerged into view at the trot. They formed up in the space between the cars and awaited their instructions.

The fat policeman got out to welcome them. He’d swapped his megaphone for a swagger stick which he brandished like a fly swat, pointing firstly at his troops and then at the opposition. His thick lips worked furiously and Blake imagined the savage words of exhortation – had he been standing close enough he might have felt the spittle landing.

The police chief gave a final flourish of his stick, then stepped aside and urged his men forward. They shuffled together to form a phalanx in front of the parked cars and on the command of their officer in charge they made their move. At neither a run nor a walk, but using the same steady trot with which they’d entered the square, they advanced toward the protestors in determined fashion.

Their intention was probably to drive a wedge through the crowd, split it in two and gain access to the ringleaders on the steps of the Governorate. If so then it was doomed to failure – there were simply not enough of them to achieve their objective and their initial charge was met with stiff resistance and immediately petered out. The cry of
Down with the police!
rose up once again and the crowd began pushing back. Now it was the police who were under attack and they responded by raising their
batons and raining down blows on those in front of them. The officer in charge soon became lost in the crush and without his orders, what had begun as an orderly advance deteriorated into a melee. Scuffles broke out as groups of police tried to bring the protestors under control. Sticks were wielded like baseball bats, striking at what they could find. Yielding under the pressure, sections of the crowd began to break off and rushed for the exits. On the steps of the Governorate, the protest’s leadership realised the game was up and abandoned their position, melting into the throng. At its edges the gathering was losing cohesion and like an old garment frayed at the hem, the protest was slowly unravelling.

Trapped outside the shuttered frontage of the café, Blake and his party continued to fret. With the scene before them descending into chaos, it was now impossible to escape without becoming embroiled. Reda had still not signalled they should take action, although the calm that had earlier pervaded his face had turned to a worried frown. If things did not improve soon, thought Blake, the young Egyptian would have a lot to answer for.

Out in the square, the gathering had finally fractured beneath the weight of the police reprisal. The general chanting had ceased, although here and there odd pockets of resistance carried on with their cries. Most were fleeing as best they could, running like mad to escape, then stopping occasionally to look back as if waiting for a friend before hurrying on.

Figures rushed by on either side. Immediately to their right, two young men sprinted toward a side street. Suddenly one stumbled, his sandal stubbed against the kerb, and he sprawled across the pavement. His companion close behind fell straight on top of him and before they could scramble to their feet, the policeman pursuing them was upon them. Standing astride the pair lying prone beneath him, he raised his heavy baton and brought it crashing down. The figure on top lifted an arm to
protect himself but the policeman smashed it aside and continued his beating. Like a butterfly emerging from its chrysalis, the figure below succeeded in dragging himself clear and continued his flight into the darkness.

In front of the café there was a sharp intake of breath.

“Good Lord,” said Keith, stiffening in his seat.

“Oh my!” said Mrs Biltmore, speaking for the first time since the episode had begun.

On the far side, Joan sucked hard on her latest cigarette while behind her, Janet finally let go of the frame of her chair – but only so that her hand could fly up to her face and cover her mouth. It was as well that she stifled her cry – no-one wanted to attract attention.

There was a movement to Blake’s left. Lee Yong had instinctively grabbed hold of the sleeve of his linen jacket. She continued to stare straight ahead and with all her fortitude, it seemed that even she was not immune.

While they were registering their shock, the fallen protestor managed to escape his assailant and staggered off into the night clutching his shattered arm. Elsewhere the action continued and they’d barely recovered their breath when a second and more telling incident demanded their attention.

Another man was running from right to left in front of them. Older and smaller, he wore a dirty white galabeya and a traditional wound turban. He too tripped and fell, but before his pursuer could begin the inevitable beating, he rose to his knees and looked up, pressing his hands together in supplication. The officer stood over him, ready to strike, but the old man was saying something that stopped him, his mouth working furiously against the clamour. He began to look around in desperation, then his eyes alighted on the café and he turned toward it, pointing,
There!

A shiver of recognition descended Blake’s spine. The face that now looked in their direction was unmistakable. Old, wizened
and with a straggly beard and blackened teeth, he remembered it from the meeting in the field the day before. Common amongst the rural poor, it was not the kind of face you could forget. Here too was the hazy figure he’d seen with Reda on the riverbank. Ancient Egypt was still alive and had come to betray them.

Reda had remained seated calmly on Blake’s right. He pushed back his chair and slowly got to his feet. For a moment Blake thought he might run like the others, but he soon dismissed the idea. Whatever the crowd might do, that had never been part of Reda’s plan. Even if he’d been so minded, it would have done him little good – with his stout frame he was not the athletic type and he’d soon have been caught. Rather than surrender his dignity in some ungainly chase, the young Egyptian had elected to give up his person more quietly. He carefully removed his wallet from his pocket and together with his mobile phone placed it gently on the glass table top in front of him.

“It would appear that the police would like to ask me a few questions. My apologies for any inconvenience this may cause you my friends, but please do not concern yourselves on my account, I beg you. Look after each other,” (he looked briefly in the direction of Keith) “and when this dies down, as it will, go back to the ship. I will join you there later.”

He then walked slowly out into the square to address the officer confronting him.

“It’s me that you want. These people are tourists.” He indicated the group behind him. “They have nothing to do with this.”

The officer responded in a thick Arabic accent which Blake could barely understand. Beneath his feet, the old man still cowered on the ground, his ancient eyes flicking anxiously back and forth as he nervously awaited his fate. After a brief exchange, the officer swung a boot in his direction and he took a heavy blow to the backside before struggling upright and hobbling off toward the souk.

Blake was on his feet now, as were the others. They’d all got up, either to get a better view or, as was more likely, to be ready to make a swift escape. Lee Yong still had hold of his sleeve and as the officer laid hands on Reda, her grip on him tightened still further. Her face had become pale and drawn, and in the artificial light of the street lamps it looked as if she’d lost her natural colour. And yet, despite her pallor, she still seemed as beautiful as ever.

“No!”

She let the word out under her breath, then finally relinquished his sleeve and started forward. Blake instinctively extended his arm to hold her back.

“Wait – that will only make things worse. Trust me, we’ll have to be patient.”

Even in the heat of a moment such as this, his old tendency not to interfere still guided him.

Lee Yong took heed of his words as she continued to press against his outstretched arm but did not attempt to push past.

The others remained static – they had no desire to get involved – and they watched and waited as Reda was taken away. Encouraged by the regular prod of the policeman’s baton, he walked stoically toward the line of the white police cars. One of the rear doors was flung open and head bowed, he was bundled into a back seat. The officer who had taken him leaned in, no doubt to make some fatuous comment –
This one’s no trouble, he didn’t put up much of a fight –
then slammed the door shut.

No sooner had Reda been closed in than the car roared away, siren blaring, and to the accompaniment of honking horns and the jeers, shouts and waving of fists from the drivers pulled up on the sidewalk, it set off at high speed along the Corniche.

Reda’s departure was met with a stunned silence. In the square the crowd had all but dispersed. The police had succeeded in clearing the front of the Governorate building and had moved on to the process of mopping up. Any ‘action’ had been transferred to the side streets where small groups of protestors, pursued by the law and hemmed in amongst the narrow walkways, turned to face their attackers. Apart from these occasional eruptions, things had quietened down and for the first time since the conflict had begun it was possible to hear yourself think. They’d been struck dumb by the proceedings but suddenly they all had something to say and everyone started talking at once.

“What on earth was that all about?” Keith turned to face the others. “You speak the lingo, Blake – what was going on with Reda?”

“He’s been asked to assist the police with their enquiries.”

“You mean he’s been arrested.”

“If you must put it that way – yes.”

It was a word Blake had wanted to avoid. Lee Yong might find it distressing and he regretted the fact that Keith had used it. Better to soften the blow.

Keith, however, persisted.

“What exactly does that mean?”

“Probably a night in the cells, at least.”

“And then?”

“Who knows…”

Blake shrugged. This was Egypt. Anything was possible. The long-standing emergency law and its enforcement was an arbitrary affair. Its introduction had given the police unlimited powers. People could be ‘arrested’ for no good reason and held without trial for an indefinite period. Their release depended upon a complicated system of paperwork and usually the payment of a bribe and the intervention of some high official.
Sometimes, in the absence of either, they remained in prison and eventually disappeared without trace. Conversely, known criminals who were prepared to pay for the privilege were allowed to roam the streets. And all the time, it was the police who grew fat and arrogant on the proceeds.

“Did someone say Reda’s been arrested?”

David had picked up on it and much to Blake’s annoyance, it was now public knowledge.

“That poor boy,” said Janet. “Whatever did he do wrong?”

“If you ask me,” said David, “I think he had something to do with the riot.”

Unlike Janet, who was quite prepared to give Reda the benefit of the doubt, Joan was scathing in her view.

“Typical! I might have known he couldn’t be trusted.” Her comment harked back to the conversation they’d had at the dinner table on their first night together. She’d either forgotten the service Reda had performed for her regarding her jewellery box, or she’d dismissed it as a one-off occurrence. This latest act of apparent treachery played to her agenda. “Well, he’s left us in a fine mess I must say,” she added, and hurriedly lit another cigarette.

“Anyway, it wasn’t a riot” said Keith. “At least, it wasn’t until the police arrived.”

“Did you see how that young man got beaten up?” said Janet. “Right in front of our eyes. It was appalling – I couldn’t bear watching, I had to look away.”

“Well, I’m sorry but he won’t get any sympathy from me.” Joan remained hard-hearted. “If you come on this sort of thing you’ve got to expect trouble.”

Apart from Blake, Mrs Biltmore was for once the quietest of the group. Her posture was still causing discomfort and as she’d presumably never been arrested or involved in a riot, she’d no cause to make comment. This, combined with her evident shock, reduced her to repeating the single phrase “Oh my…” over and
over. Even Ira had more to say on the subject.

“Darnedest thing I ever saw…”

Lee Yong slumped back onto her chair as if her body had collapsed like a deflated balloon. Her complexion had not improved and was, if anything, worse and it seemed it was as much as she could do to prevent herself from bursting into tears. Blake’s hand found her shoulder as he tried to give her comfort.

“Don’t worry – it’ll be alright.”

Although if pressed, he didn’t quite see how.

They all fell back into a contemplative silence which lasted until Joan stubbed out her latest cigarette.

“So what do we do now?” she asked.

The question had been at the back of everyone’s mind, although the answer was obvious – their first priority was to get back to the safety of the ship.

They elected to take the direct route and go back the way they’d come. While the demonstration was in full swing, Blake had considered the alternative of slipping off down a side street and finding his way through the back alleys – but that was now the more dangerous option. The situation had significantly changed. The last of the police cars had moved off elsewhere as the wail of sirens could be heard across the city, but the square itself was relatively peaceful. It had been cleared of protestors and was empty save for a small gathering of police who had regrouped in the centre. Some of them had removed their helmets and were sitting smoking.

Around them lay the scattered remains of the conflict – a shoe lost in flight, a coat torn off and not returned for, pieces of rubble uprooted from the kerbs and pavements for use as weapons. On one of the flowerbeds, an Egyptian flag lay with its pole snapped in two.

Keith led them gingerly round the perimeter, not wanting to venture out into the open for fear of attracting attention. Mrs
Biltmore, relieved that she could at last abandon the discomfort of her chair, still had to be supported, although this time it was neither the terrain nor the heat that afflicted her, but rather the shock which had weakened her legs.

Even Lee Yong was in need of help. At first she was reluctant to leave the café and sat staring straight ahead. Any inner strength she might have possessed seemed to have crumbled beneath the burden of events. Blake offered her an arm.

“Come on. Whatever else has happened, you can’t stay here.”

With his encouragement she raised herself slowly to her feet but continued to cling to him as if he were her only hope.

Behind them, Joan insisted on loading David up with the pile of shopping bags she’d accumulated earlier that evening.

“I’ve spent good money on these – if you think I’m leaving them behind just because a few Egyptians decide to sound off, you’re mistaken.”

Weighed down with his cargo, he grudgingly brought up the rear.

Halfway down the square on their left, they passed the entrance to Sharia Abtal, the street from which the police had emerged. Here there were signs of a struggle, pieces of assorted debris lying amongst the broken shards of a glass bottle. Propped against a wall lay the body of a man, his legs splayed out while blood oozed gently from a temporary bandage wound around his temple. A few feet away, his two companions debated loudly as to what to do next.

At the main road, the cars which had pulled off onto the sidewalk had moved on and had reverted to racing up and down the boulevard, horns blaring. Packed to capacity, their occupants leant out of the open windows, shouting and waving their flags.

The party waited for a lull so they could safely cross. Once on the other side of the Corniche they left the street lights behind and although it was dark, they somehow felt safer.

“Thank God for that,” said Keith, as they finally sighted the
ship.

With their feet planted firmly on the gangplank, they could all breathe a collective sigh of relief and for the moment their ordeal was over.

It was now approaching midnight. Having set off just after dinner they’d been away for almost three hours although it felt like a lifetime since they’d last enjoyed the comfort and safety of the ship. And yet as soon as they set foot on board, they realised things were not as they should be. At this late hour they would normally have tip-toed across the foyer so as not to disturb anyone, but tonight there was no need as the rest of their fellow passengers were already out of bed and gathered in reception. Some were still in their street clothes, some were in their bathrobes and slippers, but the foyer was packed and filled with their animated chatter. The ship was in turmoil.

In the far corner, a group of Germans from the dinner table next to Blake’s were besieging the manager’s desk. Behind it stood the captain himself, Mr Mohammed, his oily skin glistening as sweat dribbled from his temple. While one hand clasped a telephone receiver to his ear, the other was held outstretched, palm forward, as if to fend off his attackers.

“Bear with me, please. A moment, I beg you.”

He pleaded with the crowd, then returned to jabbering into the telephone at high speed in Arabic.

Mrs Biltmore, oblivious to all that was going on around her, sank onto the sofa immediately next to the doorway and lay awaiting rescue. Ira had the presence of mind to fetch a magazine from a nearby coffee table and began to fan her with it, but her only response was to repeat the phrase she’d used earlier.

“Oh my…”

“I think she needs help,” said Janet and went over to offer assistance.

Meanwhile, Keith had made a discovery.

“Here, I think you’d better come and have a look at this.”

He led Blake to the other side of the foyer where a TV monitor hung high up on the wall. The picture it showed was of another square, brightly lit, and of another demonstration, far larger than the one that they’d witnessed. Blake instantly recognised the location. With the tall edifice of the Nile Hilton rising behind it, it was unmistakable.

“Good God! That’s Tahrir!”

“Tahrir?”

“Midan Tahrir. Tahrir Square – Cairo.”

“I thought it must be somewhere important. So what’s going on?”

“I don’t know…”

And yet he had an inkling – the gas beneath the pot he’d watched simmering on the stove had been turned up and it had suddenly boiled over.

Back at reception, Mr Mohammed had at last finished his telephone call and had both hands free to restrain his audience. Even so, he still had a job to persuade them to quieten down.

“A moment please. If you don’t mind. If you would just let me speak.”

The babble subsided and he began to talk quickly – but it was mostly in German with the occasional phrase in Arabic.

“What’s he saying?” Keith strained an ear.

“Shush,” said Blake. “Let me listen.” He began to interpret. “He says there’s been an uprising of some kind. The centre of Cairo has been occupied by demonstrators and the situation appears confused. Much more than that he can’t tell us, although he claims the Government is still in control. He urges us to stay calm and not to worry. He says we’re perfectly safe here and suggests we all go back to bed and get some sleep. He’ll try to find out more and let us know as soon as he can. In the meantime he’s called a meeting for ten o’clock in the morning in the Forward Lounge.”

As the captain’s announcement ended, David returned from taking up Joan’s shopping.

“Just a minute – weren’t we supposed to have an early start for a trip out tomorrow?”

“Yes, I believe you’re right. Let’s go and have a look.”

They went back to consult the notice board beneath the TV monitor which was still showing pictures of Tahrir. The itinerary for the next day had been posted and then crossed through with the word ‘cancelled’.

“Hmm…I’ll bet that’s what’s upset the Germans,” said Keith. David nodded.

“Very likely – although I can’t say I’m all that disappointed. I never did like those early starts.”

“Well, I for one agree with Mr Mohammed. I think we should all go to bed and sleep on it. I can’t see there’s anything to be gained by staying here.” Keith indicated the crush in the foyer. “I don’t know about you, but I’m shattered and I know Janet’s the same.”

“Joan’s already gone up.”

A wry smile crossed Blake’s lips – it would take more than a revolution to come between Joan and her beauty sleep.

They made their way over to the sofa. Mrs Biltmore had recovered sufficiently to be able to get to her feet and with Ira in close attendance, she painfully ascended the stairs.

Lee Yong had been sitting beside her along with Janet. She’d still not made any comment and other than her muted outburst at Reda’s arrest, she’d remained strangely silent. She looked as if she were in a state of shock and even the presence of those she might call her friends couldn’t shake her out of it. As the others departed, Blake volunteered to see her back to her room, but she was in no mood to talk and as soon as he’d bid her goodnight he went straight to his cabin.

The television in his room had not been plugged in, never mind
used, since his arrival on board. He got it working and soon the same images as he’d seen in the lobby flashed up onto the screen. The set was tuned to Nile TV, a station run by the state, so it was known to be biased and provided only limited coverage. The pictures showed the occupation of Tahrir Square but focused on the police. They were designed to give the impression they were in control and depicted the rioters in retreat. He retuned to Al Jazeera which presented a different perspective.

There, it became apparent that the scenes they’d looked at in Cairo and those they’d witnessed for themselves in Aswan had been repeated in varying degrees throughout the country. In the northern cities of Alexandria and Mansoura there had been mass demonstrations and tens of thousands had taken to the streets. In Suez there had been violent clashes with the police and there were reports of casualties. In Tanta, Beni Suef and elsewhere it was the same. Even Abu Simbel, far to the south, had seen protests. The whole of Egypt was in uproar.

Blake lay on the bed and watched as the news unfolded. Some reports seemed to conflict with one another, but bit by bit it became clear as to what had happened. After years of subjugation and suffering the Egyptian people had finally decided to act, and through a massive feat of organisation and with great determination they had risen up as one. Despite the confusion, they had only one purpose – to get rid of their leader. The man they called the lapdog of the West, he who had licked the hands of the Israelis and barked at the so-called extremists – he was the one they wanted rid of. To judge by the extent of the protests, it looked as if Mubarak was finished. The question was whether the army was prepared to intervene. If they did, there would likely be bloodshed, but if not then the will of the people would prevail. After Tunisia, it had only been a matter of time…