Birds of the Nile (16 page)

Blake closed his eyes and let the sounds wash over him. What more could he have done? He’d given his warning as best he could. Anyone who’d looked at his memo to the First Secretary
and read between the lines could see that.
The day approaches my brothers –
those were the words he’d heard used. It was as though they were expecting a second coming. He’d feared some violent terrorist act – even another 9/11 – and yet, what they’d actually been planning was a peaceful revolution.

He wondered whether he should feel triumphant. If he could only see the First Secretary now he would have every right to be as he’d been proved correct. He ought to have felt some sense of vindication but he did not. The nation was too precious for that and he was worried for its future. A wind of change was blowing through the Middle East and North Africa and stirring up the desert sands. Egypt, the county he’d adopted, the country he’d loved and lived in, the country he’d planned to grow old in, was about to be transformed. Where would it all lead?

An hour later, a chill in the room forced him awake and he found himself lying on his back, fully clothed, the remote control in his hand and the bedside lamp still on. He yawned and looked at his watch. It was a quarter to two. In the far corner, the noise from the TV had abated and the screen had reverted to a fuzzy blank. He turned it off and got undressed, then slid into bed and turned out the light.

Then it was morning and the first glimmer of daylight was creeping into the room. Propped in the corner next to the doorway he could discern the shadowy shape of his telescope and tripod, and as the light grew stronger it grew more and more distinct. This was usually the signal for him to get up and go out on deck to continue his exploration of the world of birds. There would be a sunrise to watch (he’d still not seen the flight of Glossy Ibis) and the sandbanks would be teeming with life – godwits, sandpipers, stints, all scuttling across the mud. But today the call was weak and for the moment he’d lost interest. How could he think of watching birds when the world was in such a state? He could hardly go out on deck and pretend that nothing had happened.

The events of the previous evening seemed surreal. Perhaps he’d imagined them, perhaps it had all been a dream, and to convince himself of their existence he got out of bed and went to turn the TV back on. But he was no more than halfway across the room when he realised he’d no need – he already had a reminder right in front of his eyes.

Reda’s mobile phone and wallet lay on the desk where he’d left them the night before. They proved the point and confirmed the reality of things but their unlooked-for presence bothered him. Why were these foreign objects in his room? What was he supposed to do with them? They didn’t belong to him, he had such things of his own. And yet he’d invited them into his life.

He wondered what had induced him to pick them up. He’d no need of further proof regarding Reda’s involvement – the quick look he’d taken at the young Egyptian’s computer had been enough. Nor did he want to pry further into his affairs and the thought of opening them up and perusing their contents was not an option. But he recalled that as soon as Reda had set them down, he’d lifted them from the table and hidden them in his
pocket. The young man had deliberately placed them in front of him – it was as good as him saying
I trust you, Mr Blake. I want you to look after these for me
. And, like a fool, he’d taken the bait. Now he’d assumed a responsibility he was not at all sure he wanted. He got back into bed and lay there until it was time to get ready for breakfast.

After he’d washed and dressed, he slipped the wallet and phone into his pocket and took them with him as if he’d convinced himself that by removing them from the room it might somehow lessen the burden. If left, they were bound to be there on his return – away from his cabin, there was a chance they might be got rid of.

He thought he’d gone down early but he found the dining room full and in a state of chaos. Only half the normal breakfast was on offer – there were no fresh rolls and no hot buffet, although someone had hard-boiled some eggs. A rumour was circulating amongst the guests that most of the kitchen staff had absconded during the night and gone back home to be with their families. If true, although inconvenient, it was quite understandable.

Other than Joan, whose purpose in life was to complain, the rest of Blake’s table had adopted an attitude of stoic resilience. A wartime spirit prevailed and with it, the thought that they could overcome any obstacle.
We’ll manage. We’re used to this sort of thing. We’re British
.

Rather unsurprisingly, Lee Yong had not come down to join them.

They reconvened at 10am in the Forward Lounge to hear the captain’s news. Their first meeting had been good-natured and relaxed but this one was accompanied by an air of tension. The curtains had been drawn back as before and the place was packed with almost every passenger attending. All the seats were taken and those who arrived last were obliged to stand at the back. The
babble of conversation exceeded that in the dining room and here and there, heated debates broke out amongst those of a more Latin temperament. In front of the plate-glass windows, a middle-aged man clasped his wife to his chest as she burst into tears. Her mournful lament could be heard by all.

“I knew we should never have come on this holiday. Now look what’s happened. We’ll all be murdered in our beds!”

Outside, the Nile flowed peacefully by, seemingly unperturbed.

Mr Mohammed appeared, more than ten minutes late and looking rather flustered. The same sweat which had affected him the night before beaded on his damp forehead. Flanked on one side by the chef and on the other by the chief engineer (both no doubt pressed into giving moral support) he hurried to the front clutching a piece of paper and prepared to make an announcement. After a few shushes to quieten the crowd, he cleared his throat and began to speak.

He started by apologising for keeping them waiting but the information he’d been seeking had been late in coming through as the internet wasn’t working. He’d attempted to speak to his superiors in Cairo by telephone but the lines were busy and he’d been unable to get a connection. For the moment he could tell them little more than what they already knew, but as soon as things improved he would update them. All he could confirm was that Mubarak was still president and that rumours of a military coup were inaccurate.

This assurance of stability was welcome but his general lack of news was anticlimactic and greeted with a groan from the passengers. After such a hyped build-up they’d expected something more concrete. A flurry of questions ensued, starting in one corner and running round the room.

“The television says the Government is still in control. How do we know that’s the truth?”

Mr Mohammed shrugged his shoulders. He didn’t know. Nile
TV was controlled by the state and they could say what they liked.

“I’ve heard there’s been looting and some of the protestors have been fired on. What’s the situation in Aswan?”

Mr Mohammed nodded. He’d heard that too. In Aswan, the police were out on the streets (Blake could vouch for that) and this morning everything seemed peaceful. Besides, they were safe on board his ship where he and his crew could protect them.

“But hasn’t half the crew gone missing? There was hardly anyone at breakfast and the boat looks deserted of staff.”

Mr Mohammed tugged nervously at the collar of his shirt. Yes, it was true, some of the crew had indeed gone home. But as they all could see (he indicated the chef and the chief engineer) he was being ably supported by his colleagues and would soon have the situation under control.

“So what exactly are you planning to do?”

Palpably relieved, Mr Mohammed took a deep breath. A plan of action had been prepared and he could give a positive answer. He’d sent out into the town to recover what crew he could and to take on fuel and provisions. As soon as he was ready he planned to sail back to Luxor as per the original programme. He was well aware they had flights to catch and connections to make and he was anxious to get them back safely. Most of the crew came from Luxor and they were keen to go home too. All being well, he planned to leave the following morning.

This last revelation was met by a nodding of heads and general approbation. That they were going to get home in one piece was the first thing they wanted to hear. But it did not satisfy everyone and it was left to one of the more mercenary amongst the passengers to put the query the rest had been pondering.

“What about our trips out? Some of us have paid a good deal of money. What’s going to happen about that?”

Mr Mohammed shrugged his shoulders again. The question of trips out was the least of his worries. For all he knew, some might
be running, some might not. It was a confused picture. He suggested they speak to their tour guide.

Blake pursed his lips – in their case, that was easier said than done.

A few more queries followed, but these were of a minor nature and the questioning soon subsided. Mr Mohammed took out a handkerchief and mopped his brow. At their first meeting he’d pledged himself to their wellbeing – he would fix their plumbing, he would change their light bulbs, he would do this, he would do that, he’d promised them the earth. But when it had come to the crunch, he’d fallen at the first hurdle. He hadn’t banked on having a revolution to deal with and he couldn’t fix that. As to his sympathies in the matter, he’d given no indication of his feelings. It left Blake wondering which side his bread was buttered.

The meeting broke up and everyone drifted down to the foyer where they gathered in their various groups to compare notes. Blake found himself surrounded in front of the notice board while above his head, the TV continued to show pictures of Tahrir Square, still occupied by protestors. He was soon joined by David and Keith, both of whom wore serious expressions.

The events of the previous day had been a shock to them. They’d come expecting a holiday, a break from the drudge of everyday life, and had not been prepared for a crisis. Yesterday their heads had been full of tombs and temples and pyramids – today they were filled with guns and tear gas and screaming people and the deeply unpleasant idea that they might be in some kind of trouble. But now they’d had a night to sleep on it, any sense of panic had subsided and replaced by sober thought and consideration of how they might get out of their predicament.

“What do you think’s going to happen?” asked David.

“It’s too early to tell.” Despite his diplomatic background,
Blake was unsure. “It’ll depend on the army. They’re the ones who pull the strings and they’ve not shown their hand as yet.”

“Hmm…” David looked pensive. Mention of an army gave rise to thoughts of bloodshed and violence. As an old soldier, he wasn’t too keen about the idea. “What are our chances of getting back home?”

“From Luxor? Pretty good I would have thought.” Keith sounded optimistic. “It’s a small regional airport. It might be different if we were trying to get out of Cairo.”

Blake nodded – it would be. His problem was getting back into it.

“How’s Janet taking it?”

“Pretty much as you’d expect. Right now she’s had enough of Egypt. She just wants to get back home in one piece. Last night put the wind up her a bit. Put the wind up all of us, actually.” Keith turned to David. “What about Joan?”

“As you can imagine, her reaction’s been completely over the top. She’s planning a lawsuit against the travel company for ruination of her holiday.”

“You’re joking!”

“No, I’m perfectly serious.”

“That’s ridiculous!”

“I know – but you try telling her that. She had me up half the night reading through our travel insurance.”

“That’s a thought. Find anything?”

“Not really.” David shook his head. “I think ‘revolution’ comes under the heading of General Exclusions. I tried phoning them this morning to check but the captain’s right – you can’t get a phone line for love nor money.” He paused while this registered with Keith. Then, “Shame about Reda.”

“Yes, I wondered about that, you know.”

“What?”

“Whether he’d been set up. That old Egyptian feller seemed to get off scot free.”

“Yes, it did look rather odd. I don’t suppose there’s anything we can do?”

Blake absent-mindedly fingered the contents of his pocket where Reda’s mobile phone and wallet lay next to each other. Caught unawares in Keith and David’s interchange, he suddenly realised the remark was directed at him.

“Are you asking me?” He raised his hand to his chest, then pushed the suggestion away. “I shouldn’t think so…”

It wasn’t his problem.

Keith consulted his watch.

“It’s half past ten. I’m going back to the room. I want to make sure Janet’s alright and I’m going to give the phone lines a try. With a bit of luck I might get through to the airport.”

“Good idea,” agreed David. “If there’s any news, let me know. Shall we meet for lunch as usual?”

“If there is any…Mind you, if push comes to shove, we can always sort ourselves out.”

“I’m sure we can.”

They spoke as if it were something they might relish and moved off in the direction of the stairway, leaving Blake to ruminate alone.

Over at the reception desk, Mr Mohammed had returned to his duties. Faced with a large and disorderly crowd, he’d begun perspiring again.

On the other side of the foyer, Mrs Biltmore had reclaimed her seat on the sofa by the doorway. Ira was with her and so too was Lee Yong. It was the first time Blake had seen her since escorting her to her room the night before. Then, she’d been contemplative and silent and he wondered whether she had recovered some of her former spirit. She’d not been at breakfast, nor had he noticed her at the meeting. Seeing the three of them together, he assumed they’d been among the latecomers crammed in at the back of the Lounge and had only just made their way down to talk things
over. She shortly caught his eye and having given Mrs Biltmore a gentle pat on the shoulder, excused herself and made her way across the foyer towards him.

She’d reverted to wearing her Cuban heels and jeans, although the T-shirt she’d chosen for the day was a little less extravagant than the one she’d had on at the Valley of the Kings. It seemed to suit her mood because as she approached he could tell she was still subdued. For all the time she’d had available to rest (it was now approaching eleven) she looked tired, and when she drew close he could see that her eyes were red. She’d either had no sleep or she’d been crying. Possibly both, he thought.

“Mr Blake?”

“Why don’t you call me Michael?”

Why couldn’t she address him by his Christian name? Was it that she might blush at the idea?

“Michael…There’s something I want to ask you.”

“Fire away.”

“When Reda was taken away, you said you didn’t know what would happen to him. Was that actually true?”

“Well, no – not exactly…”

Now it was his turn to blush.

“Then why did you lie to us, Mr Blake?” She’d very soon dropped the ‘Michael’ – calling him ‘Mr Blake’ enabled her to retain a degree of distance.

“I was trying to protect you, I suppose.”

“Protect me from what? Finding out the truth?”

“Yes, from that. I didn’t want to see you hurt.”

He declined to look her in the eye and inspected the stitching of his slip-on shoes instead. So far, he’d been truthful in confessing his sin – to be consistent, he must also be truthful in confessing the reason.