Strangers (20 page)

It was a fortnight before Damien was discharged from the hospital. For the first few days, he drifted in and out of consciousness, surfacing to headaches so intense he was glad when the feeble grasp he had on reality loosened and spiralled him away to a world of nightmares and more pain.

The room was banked with flowers. He was at a funeral. In his dream-state, he saw his ex-wife by his bed, looking down at him. ‘Yes, that’s my husband,’ she said. ‘That’s Damien. Bury him.’ Her face was cold.

‘Catherine, please…’ Then he was standing by a crib, looking down. The bedding was rumpled, a soft toy was discarded on the floor. The crib was empty, and somewhere, he could hear a woman crying. ‘Catherine?’ he said. But he and Catherine had never had children.

A face, beautiful, and shockingly unveiled, watched him from an upstairs window. As he stared back at her, he saw a tear trickle down her
cheek. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I can’t help you. I can’t do anything.’ He woke up with a start and the nurse who was adjusting his drip looked at him in surprise.

‘We thought we were going to lose you,’ one of the doctors told him cheerfully as he began to come round, as the world solidified into the reality of the hospital room, the routine of doctors’ visits, therapists’ visits, boredom and mundanity.

‘You’re a hero,’ a nurse explained later, when he asked about the flowers.

They had come from all over the city, sent by ex-pats, by people he barely knew and didn’t much want to know. As soon as he could take control, he asked for them to be taken away. ‘Give them to someone who hasn’t got any,’ he said. There was only one card he kept. It was from Roisin Massey and said simply,
Thank you
.

He was a hero because he had saved Roisin Massey’s life. He couldn’t remember the moment when his brain had put the images it had seen together–the open gate, the car that had stopped in the middle of the drive, the girl standing behind Nazarian, her phone in her hand–but he could remember the moment when he knew that the low wall by the door where they were standing was the only protection within reach, and he could remember the crack as his head had hit the ground. After that, there was nothing.

Murder had walked the streets of Riyadh that night. In a separate incident, Joe Massey had been
dumped by the side of the road in the desert, his throat cut. The aftermath of the two attacks was still causing waves in the ex-pat community, sending the security services on high-profile exercises as they worked to reassure people that all was safe, all was well.

And that same evening, or sometime during that same day, Majid and Yasmin’s baby had been stolen from the hospital ITU, and had vanished, so far without trace. Given the child’s precarious health, it was probably dead by now. If the kidnapper–whoever he was–had made it out of Riyadh, then the child’s body could be anywhere in the vast desert that was the Kingdom. It might never be found.

As soon as he could, he asked for a phone and called Majid. There was no reply. He left a message–it was hard to find the words:
I’m sorry…anything, anything at all, that I can do
…But he was helpless, isolated in his hospital bed. All he could do was think.

And his brain felt slow and sluggish. He knew there had to be a connection, but he couldn’t find it. The bomb, the murder and the kidnapping–they had to be linked. A sign kept flashing in his head, a big neon sign with candy colours and exploding fireworks:
Night life in Riyadh!

But why use a bomb when Joe Massey was already bleeding to death in the desert sand? Why kidnap Majid’s child? His mind turned the images over and over, but nothing would come into focus.
He knew there was more, but he couldn’t see it. And for now, there was nothing he could do. He just had to wait as his shattered system recovered, and hope that, gradually, he would be able to work out the whole story.

He picked up Roisin Massey’s card again.
Thank you. Roisin
. He’d tried to call her as soon as he was alert enough to understand what had happened, but by that time she had gone. She’d come to Riyadh with a new marriage, a new job and a new future stretching out in front of her. She’d left with her life in pieces.

And he was in for months of hard work before his recovery was complete, if it ever was. His doctor, an English consultant, had been blandly evasive in response to Damien’s questions. Damien got one of the Saudi consultants to come and talk to him. This man was honest. The Saudi rules of courtesy might make social interaction a minefield, but they saw no necessity in wrapping up the truths of life and death for their patients. The news was better than he expected. ‘You are making a full recovery from the head injury. You are lucky. It could have been more serious. Your hand and arm are less certain. We think we have saved the hand, but the injury was very severe.’

‘Will I get anything back?’ Damien was more and more aware of the numbness, the immobility of his fingers, the feeling of something dead at the end of his arm.

The doctor assessed him with a speculative eye.
‘It’ll never be what it was,’ he said. ‘Do you want my prognosis?’

Damien was glad the man was prepared to be honest.

‘If you don’t give yourself a chance to heal, you’ll lose the hand. We’ve done what we can, but the nerves were damaged. The best outcome you can expect is that you’ll get some limited use back.’ He inspected the room. ‘Your flowers have gone.’

‘I didn’t want them,’ Damien said. ‘They were sent–on a misunderstanding.’

‘You saved your friend’s life. People admire that bravery.’

But Roisin Massey wasn’t a friend. He barely knew her. Damien had no illusions about his courage. He’d pulled Roisin behind the wall because she was the only person he could reach in time.
Sauve qui peut
.

The tributes he didn’t want kept pouring in from the ex-pats, but there was no word from Amy. Maybe it was stupid, maybe it was a mark of weakness, but he’d expected her to contact him when she heard that he’d been hurt. But there was nothing.

And there was no news of his Saudi friends. He thought about Majid, wondered how he was, how he was coping with the loss of his child, with the nightmare of uncertainty and the cruelty of hope. If the child wasn’t found, Majid and Yasmin would live all their lives in the unreasonable,
impossible expectation that one day their child might be restored to them.

He didn’t tell anyone when the day came for him to leave the hospital. He didn’t want other people to see his weakness until he’d tested his limits out himself. His taxi left him at the entrance to the narrow lane where his house opened on to the street. As he pushed open the door, he expected the musty smell of abandonment to meet him.

Instead, the air felt cool and carried the fragrance of spices. The shadows of the ground floor were welcome after the recycled air and relentless brightness of the hospital. The house was silent. He went through to the kitchen where everything was in order, everything clean and put away. There was a net on the table, and under it, bread and fresh dates. There was coffee in the cupboard, milk in the fridge. Somehow, Rai had found out the day of his release and had worked to ensure his return would be welcoming and comfortable.

Slowly, he climbed the stairs and saw that the cushions had been placed where they would have been sheltered from the day’s sun, and his chair was by the window, the shutters closed so that the light dappled the stone floor. The book he’d been reading lay on the table. He picked it up.
One Thousand and One Nights
, open at ‘The Sleeper and the Waker’, the man who thought that his reality was a dream.

He sat down in the chair and tried to read, but the print blurred as his eyes filled with tears. He didn’t do anything to stop them from falling.

Roisin told herself every day that she’d go down the stairs and knock on the door of old George’s flat. She dreaded having to tell him what had happened–each telling was a reliving of the moment she realized that Joe was dead–but she couldn’t put it off any longer.

When she had told George back in October that she was leaving, he had grunted an acknowledgement. All he had said was, ‘What you want to go out there for?’ Then he’d turned away so that she wouldn’t see his face, and shuffled back into his flat, Shadow looking back at her as the front door closed. She’d written to the old man twice from Riyadh, but he hadn’t replied. She hadn’t expected him to.

When she woke up that morning, she decided she couldn’t put it off any longer. After she’d had coffee, she pulled on her coat and went down the stairway. The familiar route down the steps and along the walkway brought back that morning just a few months before. It had been a day like this when she had first met Joe. If she closed her eyes, she could conjure it up in sharp, stark detail, the leaden grey of the canal, the icy wind channelled by the high walls, Shadow tugging at his lead or dancing in and out of the undergrowth and Joe, just a figure in the distance, running,
running, coming closer and closer to the moment when…

If she hadn’t gone running on the tow path that day, if Shadow hadn’t made him fall, if he’d decided against phoning her, would those simple changes have altered what had happened? Maybe if they hadn’t met, he would never have considered going back to the Gulf state that had killed him. And if he were alive now, somewhere on the face of the planet, then one day, one ordinary day when she was going about her business, a tall man with an easy smile would come up to her. ‘I’ll take the opportunity to introduce myself,’ he’d say. ‘I’m Joe.’

She dug her nails into the palm of her hand and forced her mind to stop. If she wanted to survive, she had to stop thinking like this. She had to stop trying to turn the world into a place where Joe still walked the earth somewhere.

She knocked on George’s door. It was thrown open at once by a young woman with a thin, pale face and hair that was bleached almost white. As she opened the door she said, ‘It’s about time…Oh.’ Her expression changed when she saw Roisin. ‘Yeah?’ she looked doubtful.

‘I was looking for George.’ The girl’s face became wary. ‘Who?’

‘The old man who lives…who lived here. I’m from upstairs, number 31,’ Roisin explained. ‘I used to walk his dog for him. I’ve just come back from…I’ve just come back.’

Comprehension dawned on the girl’s face. ‘Oh,’ she said. ‘The old guy. Yeah. He went into a home. I’ve just moved in.’

‘Into a home?’ Roisin could see George turning away as he pulled the door closed behind him. ‘Where?’

‘Up Bromley way,’ the girl said. Past her shoulder, the hallway ran back into the familiar old flat, but the way through was blocked by a pram. Unfamiliar coats hung on the pegs. She could see boxes piled up in the room beyond, all the indications of a recent move. ‘I think he must have been senile. You should have seen this place.’ She shuddered.

The flat had been dingy, but clean enough, apart from the constant, faint smell of dog. She could hardly bear to ask the next question. ‘Shadow? His dog?’

‘No idea,’ the girl said.

‘Did he leave an address?’

The girl looked round vaguely. ‘Somewhere.’

‘I’m Roisin, by the way.’

The woman gave the remark the same quick assessment for hostile intent, then smiled for the first time. Her thin, rather sharp face was suddenly pretty. Roisin wondered how old she was–sixteen? Seventeen? She looked very young. ‘I’m Mari.’ There was the sound of a baby’s cry, then silence, then it started again in earnest. She sighed. ‘If you don’t mind, I’m a bit…’

‘Of course. If you could find me that address…?’ ‘Yeah, yeah, I’ll dig it out.’ The door swung shut.

Damien went back to work the day after he left hospital. He knew he hadn’t fully recovered–he was aware all the time of an unaccustomed stiffness in his movements, and a weariness in his bones that he had never felt before. This must be the harbinger of old age. Worse, there was a reluctance, a wariness in his mind, as if something had erected a barrier between him and the people he’d lived and worked among for so many years.

The director of the agency was surprised to see him back. ‘Are you sure you’re ready for this?’

Damien wasn’t sure at all, but he wasn’t going to admit it. He knew he was needed. They wouldn’t argue for too long. ‘I’m sure.’

He spent the morning at his desk, working his way through the routine tasks that had built up, letting his mind go over everything he’d discovered since he’d left hospital. Rai had been his eyes and ears, but what he’d found out had only confused the picture more.

The first theory about the kidnapped child—that it had been stolen from the hospital by some bereaved mother whose desperation for a child had driven her insane–had now been dismissed. The kidnapping had been too carefully planned, and there was evidence of something dark and malicious at work. The baby had been taken for a scan late that afternoon. All the papers had been correctly completed and signed, and a nurse had handed the child over to a porter at the ward entrance. Somewhere between the ward and the X-ray suite, the child had vanished. The porter claimed he had handed the child over to a nurse at the entrance to the suite. He was unable to identify the nurse, who had been fully veiled. On questioning, he hadn’t been able to confirm his initial assumption that the veiled figure had, in fact, been a woman. They hadn’t spoken. The nurse had checked the paperwork, signed the forms and the porter had left. The child had never arrived at the scanner, and had not been expected. The forms were simple forgeries, easy enough to do for anyone with a knowledge of hospital procedures. The incubator in which the child was being transported was found in a service corridor near an exit.

And here there was evidence of a co-conspirator. The incubator had been sabotaged–the life-support systems were disabled. The extra oxygen that should have assisted the child’s struggling lungs had never been switched on. The tank was
full. The drip that had been set up to deliver fluids to help the compromised blood supply had seeped uselessly into the bedding on which the child had been lying. Of the baby itself, there was no sign.

Damien hadn’t attempted to contact Majid since he’d left the message. He didn’t want to intrude on whatever Majid was going through. But now he needed his professional help. Joe Massey, an ex-pat recruited by the agency had died, and Damien had a duty to find out what had happened. Massey had been called to a meeting at the hospital when the child’s disappearance had been discovered. He had arrived at the hospital–the CCTV had picked him up leaving his car in the car park–but somewhere between the car park and the meeting, he had disappeared, until his body was found by the roadside the following day.

Damien wasn’t sure if Majid would be working, but when he dialled the direct line, a familiar voice answered.

‘Majid, it’s Damien. How are you?’

There was a moment of silence, then Majid said, ‘I am well. And you?’

‘I left hospital yesterday. I’m very sorry…’

Majid cut in before Damien could finish. ‘I am pleased you are recovering.’ His voice was formal and distant. Taking his lead, Damien kept the talk to business, and made an appointment to see Majid in his office later that day. This was something he’d done often enough before when ex-pats had become entangled in the coils of Saudi law, but
this time, Majid seemed reluctant and Damien had to apply some pressure to get the appointment.

He waited until the time for noon prayers had come and gone before he set off for the meeting. The police headquarters where Majid worked was in the centre of the city, in the An Nasriyah district. The building had been badly damaged in a suicide attack the previous year, and the damage was still visible as Damien drove towards the gates, aware of the eyes of the security guards, aware of the way their weapons were aimed directly at him. He knew that if he aroused the slightest suspicion, they would shoot.

He handed over his papers and gained admittance through the first gate, where he had his identity checked again and went through a pat-down search before he was allowed through the entrance. All the time, guns were trained on him. Electronic barriers kept him in the small reception lobby where a man behind security glass took his name. He was directed to a waiting room where he sat under the suspicious eyes of the guards and the ever-vigilant cameras. Men in light khaki uniforms moved purposefully in and out, phones rang, the staccato sound of Arab voices filled the air. Time dragged on. He waited forty-five minutes before a uniformed officer gestured to him. ‘You come.’

He led Damien to Majid’s office and ushered him in. Majid was at his desk, his attention focused on the papers in front of him. At first, Damien
thought that Majid was going to keep him standing, was going to use the dismissive Arab technique of refusing to acknowledge a visitor for minutes, or sometimes longer. Damien had often had to soothe the ruffled feathers of ex-pats who had been kept standing in front of the desks of officials who established the power relationship by ignoring them.

‘Majid,’ he said.

He saw Majid’s body stiffen, and then he looked up. ‘Welcome.’ His face showed a flash of concern as he looked at Damien, and then went blank. ‘Please,’ he said. ‘Sit.’

Damien took the chair Majid offered him, trying to conceal the relief he felt as he sank into it. But the barrier was still there. He waited in silence for the other man to speak.

‘I am pleased to see you are recovering,’ Majid said formally. ‘Many people offered prayers for you.’

‘Thank you. I’m doing fine. And you, Majid? How are you?’

Majid’s expression didn’t change. ‘You have business to discuss, I believe?’

Damien watched the other man’s face. Majid met his gaze impassively. ‘I need to know what happened,’ Damien said when Majid remained silent. ‘All I know right now is that someone got a car bomb through the security at that compound, and that Joe Massey was murdered.’ He didn’t name the third crime. Majid needed no reminding of that.

‘You are a victim here.’ Majid’s voice was cool. ‘These things are for the police.’

‘I know. But people in my charge were hurt–died–as well.’ He looked at Majid, trying to see through the mask of officialdom to find the man who had been his friend for so many years. ‘I have information you need. I know these people. I know what they’ve been doing, who they’ve been seeing. It’s my job, Majid. Let me help you. And I want to know for myself. Someone tried to kill me. Tell me what happened.’

Majid’s gaze didn’t waver. The silence stretched out uncomfortably, then he nodded. ‘Very well,’ he said.

Damien felt the tension inside him ease. He waited.

‘We believe that the attack may have been connected with a breach of security relating to one of the guests.’

There was only one person he could mean. ‘Arshak Nazarian,’ Damien said. Majid’s father-in-law.

Majid inclined his head. ‘The breach of security happened at his offices. Someone attacked his computer system. I understand you knew about this.’

‘Yes.’ Damien didn’t elaborate. He hadn’t mentioned it to Majid–it hadn’t been his role. And he was pretty sure he knew who the hacker had been. He had seen Joe Massey in the internet
café the day before Nazarian told him about the first breach. ‘Do you know who it was?’

Majid studied him for a long moment. ‘We have some thoughts.’

The internet cafés. The police would have gone to those as soon as they realized there had been a hacker at work, and Joe Massey’s identity would have been spotted quickly enough.

Could it all be coincidence? Could the murder be simple robbery, the bomb a terror attack, and the kidnapping a separate event altogether? But Massey had breached Nazarian’s security, and Nazarian had nearly died. A bomb in the middle of that party–when Damien thought about what the carnage could have been, he felt cold. As it was, only one person, the girl who seemed to have some link to the bombers, had died. ‘We were lucky,’ he said. ‘Do you know who it was?’

‘No one has claimed responsibility,’ Majid said. ‘We cannot be sure why this has happened.’

Damien looked at him in surprise. Majid was implying that he believed the bomb was not a terrorist attack. In the past the Saudi authorities had turned a blind eye to the obvious evidence and blamed outsiders and gang rivalries for atrocities committed in their midst, until this position became untenable. ‘What does Nazarian say?’

Majid’s face was expressionless. ‘I do not know. He left the country immediately after the bombing. He went to Damascus, and then on to Europe. I have no knowledge of his current whereabouts.’

Nazarian’s daughter was bereaved and ill, and her father had fled the country. Why? Because he was afraid that whoever had done this would try again, or because there were things he couldn’t afford to have uncovered? He looked at Majid. ‘Why has he left?’

‘I do not know.’

He clearly wasn’t prepared to say more, and seemed about to end the meeting. Damien said quickly, ‘And Joe Massey?’

‘The matter is under investigation.’

‘What happened? His wife said he was called away to an emergency at the hospital.’

‘He was. After the…’ Majid’s voice faltered, but when he started speaking again, his voice was cool and steady. ‘After the loss was discovered, the medical team met to disclose what treatment the child would have to have–they thought that it might be possible to locate the kidnapper through the drugs and equipment that would be needed. But Joe Massey never arrived at the meeting. By the time they thought to check the pathology department, all the records and samples relating to…the child were gone.’ Majid’s face was a frozen mask as he flicked through some papers on his desk. ‘His wife told the men investigating the case that he called her from the hospital to say he was held up there. We have no way of verifying this. His phone and his pager are missing.’

Majid had not only suffered the loss, but now
had to sit on the sidelines while others investigated the kidnapping of his son.

‘She decided to leave the party after he phoned. We went to the entrance together to wait for her taxi.’

‘You heard the phone call?’

‘No. She told me.’

Majid said nothing.

‘She–Roisin Massey–she’s left the Kingdom?’ Damien wanted to be certain she was safe.

‘She was interviewed the morning after the attack. She was too unwell to be interviewed fully. She gave them her statement. They thought that they were dealing with a terrorist kidnapping. She had lost her husband. They allowed her to leave. They did not have…the other information, at the time.’

Thank God she’d managed to get out before the Saudi preference for the simple solution had asserted itself. Damien closed his eyes, trying to picture the sequence of events. Joe Massey had been called to an emergency. He’d dropped Roisin at the party shortly after nine and had driven off, ostensibly to attend a meeting at the hospital. He’d arrived at the hospital, but he hadn’t turned up at the meeting. He’d phoned Roisin to say he was going to be longer than he’d expected–where had he been when he called her?

‘Where was he found?’

Majid pointed to the map where a road ran west out of the city towards the Tuwayq escarpment.
‘Here. They killed him where we found him. They must have followed him. Then they forced him to stop, cut his throat, threw him out of the car and left him to die.’

Damien studied the map. The road was a quiet one, especially at night, and there was no obvious location that Massey could have been heading for when he was stopped.

‘They knew what they were doing?’

Majid nodded. His face was grim. ‘Two cuts. One got the artery, the other severed the trachea.’

‘And the car?’

‘We found it at the airport.’

So the killer had gone.

But Damien couldn’t concentrate any more. He could feel the strength leaching out of him. He made a last attempt to break through Majid’s reserve. ‘Please give my best wishes to your family.’

He saw the flicker of pain in Majid’s eyes then his face was blank. ‘Thank you. And now, I have…’

‘You’re busy, I understand. Thank you for your time.’

When he got back to his car, he sank back in the seat. Exhaustion had drained him and he felt dizzy with fatigue. His face in the car mirror was grey, with dark shadows under his eyes. He let the weariness wash over him.

The information he’d got from Majid had only confused the picture more–now he had no idea whether he and Roisin Massey had been the
victims of a terror attack, or of an attempt on Nazarian’s life. And Joe Massey’s death formed a dark shadow in the middle.

The world around him seemed oddly sharp and distant as his mind worked at the problem. The only victims of the bomb had been the girl who had died, himself and Roisin Massey. He and Roisin would have died too if he hadn’t seen the low wall and moved in time. Maybe he had been the bomb’s intended target–but how would they have known he was going to be at the party? He hadn’t decided himself until the last minute. He could have become a target of one of the more fanatical groups who believed in complete separatism. His integration into the community was a living offence in their eyes. But he would have known. He would have heard a whisper. And there were far easier and more effective places to assassinate him than at a party he had never planned to attend.

He felt the edge of uneasiness as the picture he was trying to put together shifted and reformulated. Suppose that Joe Massey’s death hadn’t been an unlucky coincidence. What if the bomb at the party was part of the same elaborate plan?

And suppose the target hadn’t been Nazarian, hadn’t been Damien, hadn’t been Western decadence–suppose it had been Roisin Massey…