The Abrupt Physics of Dying (25 page)

Clay felt his diaphragm hollow out. He picked up the paper, not quite believing the words:

Clay looked up at Rania and Hussein. They sat watching him, their faces grave, expectant, as if waiting for some reaction, a rebuttal. He looked down at the paper again, re-read the article, slowly this time, deliberately, marvelling at the power of words to distort, to subvert truth, to try and convict. He slammed the paper down onto the table. ‘You wrote this?’

Rania sat implacable.

Hussein shrugged and got to his feet. ‘They’re scared.’

Clay could feel the fury boiling in his chest, black, pure. ‘You think so?’ He looked at Rania. ‘Jesus Christ, Rania. You said you would help me.’

Hussein strode to the door, turned to face them. ‘Be ready to leave at sunrise,’ he said. ‘Bring everything. We are not coming back here.’

‘You’re leaving?’ said Rania.

‘I have business in town. Don’t leave the apartment. You’re safe here. I’ll see you in the morning,
inshallah
.’ And then he was gone.

The Illusion of Commitment

Rania stepped out onto the balcony, stood with her back to the railing, dress billowing in the land breeze, the lights of the town flickering along the coast behind her. Clay followed, stopped at the threshold, stood there looking at her, trying to understand what she had done, trying to see through the anger collapsing in on him.

She moved towards him, put her hands on his chest and turned her face up to his. Her eyes were closed, her lips parted.

Clay caught his breath, took a step back.

She opened her eyes. ‘Please, do not be upset.’

‘Abdulkader is dead. And now you’ve just convicted me of murder.’

‘I am a reporter, Clay. I report.’ She stepped closer, reached out for him.

He pushed her away. ‘No, Rania.’

‘Two press releases. I reported them, that is all.’

Clay looked out over the sea. ‘You know I didn’t kill those people.’

‘I cannot let my personal feelings …’

‘Yeah, I know. You can’t get involved. Well, don’t worry, we’re not involved, Rania. I’m a source, that’s all. Your big mistake. I gave you information about the massacre, about the poisoning at Al Urush. But you didn’t write about that.’ He turned and pointed at the newspaper sitting on the tabletop. ‘Instead you published
this
.’

‘Please Clay, try to understand. I cannot write about Al Urush, not without facts to back it up.’

‘Facts?’

‘Verifiable truth.’

Clay could feel the frustration rising in his chest, out of control. ‘What about Petro-Tex?’ he shouted, regretting it before he’d even done it. ‘Do you think they’re waiting for the facts, Rania? Jesus Christ Almighty.’ Clay lined up the table and let go a side kick. The table flipped over and crashed in a heap, legs in splinters.

Rania jumped back, covered her mouth with her hand, stood staring at the broken table.

Clay slumped against the window frame. He was shaking, suddenly cold, the fury gone. He looked down at the broken furniture. Shame flooded through him, bruise hot, straight from childhood, ridiculous.

She was close to him now. Her breast brushed his arm. Heat poured from her neck and shoulders. She smelled sweet, like before, citrus and wildflower. He closed his eyes, overcome. He wanted to tell her how good it was to see her, how much he had missed her, how he wanted to make her understand what he couldn’t understand about himself, now that he had lost his job, now that he was broke, now that he was someone else. And a part of him wanted to grab her and shake her, throw her down, overpower her, possess her, force her to the flames and hold her there.

He turned away, terrified of himself, of what he knew he was capable of doing. He walked to the kitchen and poured himself a whisky. Outside, the sounds of night: the surge of the waves against the breakwater, a solitary vehicle clattering along the coast road, the silence of ten thousand slumbering souls. He drank. Felt the deadening work of the alcohol. Caged it all back inside.

After a while she came and sat across from him. The whisky was almost gone.

‘I have done some research,’ she said, putting a dossier on the table. She opened the folder, flipped through the pages. ‘Petro-Tex seems to specialise in operations in unstable countries with minimal internal regulatory capacity,’ she said, her voice calm and sure. ‘Bottom feeders, you might call them. The company is registered in Cyprus, part of a conglomerate owned by Rex Medved, Russian oligarch, self-styled playboy philanthropist.’

Clay looked up at her face, the delicate upturned tip of her nose, the long dark eyelashes. ‘I’ve met him.’

Rania raised her eyebrows, continued. ‘The son of a wealthy Russian émigré and a British society woman, he was raised with the best of everything: Marlborough College, Cambridge, father’s villas in France and Spain.’

‘And a jet.’

‘The parents died about ten years ago under suspicious circumstances. Medved and his sister inherited everything. Before Perestroika they reconnected with Russia, and then, as the USSR came crumbling down, they leveraged private money to buy up stateowned assets at fire-sale prices – steel, oil and gas, pipelines. Medved is very well connected, particularly in political circles. And to top it off, he acts as patron to several high-profile charities, and makes certain that the world knows it.’

‘Do the right thing.’

She raised her eyebrows, a question.

‘Something he said to me.’

She looked at him for a moment then continued, all business. ‘But the allegations that follow him are persistent and nasty: systematic intimidation of opponents, extortion, bribery, several open cases where members of the press and local community groups who have opposed his ventures have disappeared or been found dead. None have been proven, of course. He is a very controversial figure, hailed by some as a champion of free enterprise, a golden boy of philanthropy, vilified by others as a dangerous, unscrupulous operator. His sister, Regina, actually runs the operation. She makes all the big decisions. By all accounts she is completely ruthless, driven, psychopathically cruel, and terminally ill. Apparently, they hate each other. She resents his fame, his looks, his health – he her power. A lovely family.’

Rania paused, looked up at him a moment as if to check he was listening, continued. ‘Petro-Tex is only one of the companies in the Medved empire. Its recent history includes an infusion of capital
from Russian and European investors to develop the Yemen oil discoveries, exploration licences in Iraq and Libya, and widespread interests in oil and gas assets across the most remote and pristine parts of Siberia. There is also a Western partner, another Cyprus-registered company called Hurricane Resources, Canadian-owned. There is a Norwegian connection, too – several of the senior people involved in running Petro-Tex are based in Norway, and there seems to be some channel for funds from the Oslo stock exchange, but I do not know how or from whom. Cyprus is a common thread.’

‘That’s how I started working with them,’ said Clay. ‘Cyprus is a tax haven. I set up there three years ago, met some of the Hurricane guys at a reception. The Chairman, a guy called Redmond Perry, was there visiting. He got me onto the Petro-Tex bid list.’

Rania pulled a glossy corporate prospectus from the dossier. ‘Hurricane has an environmental and social policy statement, if you want to read it.’

‘No thanks.’ He’d seen it and dozens just like it, all the same, full of statements about working with stakeholders, conforming to local laws and standards, about ‘aspirational targets’ for improving environmental and social performance, targets that they might reach someday, but not now, and not tomorrow. All in language carefully crafted to provide the illusion of commitment without actually promising anything. It had been his job to make sure they never did.

‘I have also heard from a good source that Petro-Tex is colluding with the Rebel leaders for exploration rights for a series of major leases throughout the Masila.’

Clay shifted in his seat. Hussein had said the same thing.

‘That is only the start,’ she said. ‘I have reason to believe that Petro-Tex has also bought an insurance policy. Because securing the new leases depends on the rebels taking power, they have paid for the leases with weapons. Small arms, missiles, electronic equipment, even fighter jets. Everything the rebellion needs to succeed. A good example of Regina’s touch.’

‘Where are the weapons from?’

‘According to my sources, it is all ex-Soviet equipment, Russian, Romanian, Bulgarian.’

‘Zdravko,’ Clay said.

‘Who?’

He told her about his evening with Zdravko in the guesthouse, seeing him again in the Mövenpick with Medved. It all made sense. Zdravko was helping Medved secure the arms he needed. Perhaps he was even the supplier. ‘And you can prove this?’

‘My source is very reliable.’

‘I won’t even ask.’

‘No.’

Clay finished off the last of the whisky, let it settle. ‘How did you know I was here, Rania?’

‘I waited until evening for you at Dhamar. When you did not arrive, I knew something must have happened. A few days later, Hussein came to my office in Sana’a. He said he had a message from you, that I should meet you here, that you needed my help. And so here I am.’

‘I didn’t send you a message, Rania. I was in a black hole somewhere. Do you know who this guy is? He’s with the PSO. And if he’s not, it’s something worse. What are you doing here Rania, really?’

‘It is my job, Clay. This is a career-making opportunity.’

‘What do you mean? What did he tell you?’

‘That you would get me an interview with Al Shams.’

Clay stood and walked to the balcony and looked out at the lights of the harbour and the stained-glass opium surface of the bay. And then she was there behind him with her fingertips touching his shoulder but he didn’t turn to face her, just stood and stared out at the dark horizon of the Indian Ocean.

Missing Octaves

The next morning Hussein returned as promised. Soon they were trundling along a dusty road, the escarpment looming before them, this part of the world so familiar now to Clay in its mute scale, its naked desolation. Rania rode in the back seat, covered head to foot in black, silent, a desert away.

By the time they reached Al Urush, the sun was high. Hussein took the wadi track as far as it would take them, then they got out and walked. The sun was a physical weight on their bodies as they scrambled up the loose scree towards the cliff face. Hussein walked ahead, bent at the waist, his face turned to the ground as if leaning into a driving storm. Rania struggled to keep up, encased in the long black
burqa
. Clay led them up Mohamed’s hewn-rock passageway to the ledge.

They looked down at what had become of the oasis. The pools were recognisable only by their shapes, the smallest furthest up the slope, almost perfectly round, the others tiling down successively longer and larger, like a pyramid of rounded river rocks stacked and then pushed over. The largest lay just below them.

It was if nature’s palette had been tipped over into a negative of itself. What had been lush, green and dark was now white like scored bone. Even the hardiest halophytes, the salt-tolerant palms that had anchored the soil for decades, stood naked and brown, their once verdant crowns limp and dead. The pools sparkled in the sunlight, the black richness of before replaced by a clear acid sterility, each now noosed with a thick necklace of white crystals that glinted in the sunlight.

They climbed down to the first pool and stood gazing into the water. A child’s plastic doll floated face-down near the far edge of the pool, its naked torso covered in small pink blisters. The barest hint of a breeze moaned in the rocks overhead.

Rania removed her hood and veil. Her face was flushed and red, her hair matted and soaked with sweat. She gazed at the miniature corpse. ‘The water looks so clear,’ she said.

He crunched the layer of salt at the edge of the pool with his boot, then dipped a finger into the water and let a drop fall onto his tongue. ‘That’s because it’s dead.’

He opened the small aluminium case, took out the electrical conductivity meter, switched it on and checked the calibration. The digital display flickered as the instrument stabilised. Rania crouched nearby, watching.

‘This water is over twenty thousand years old, according to the isotope studies,’ he said. ‘It fell as rain on the plateau when the Neanderthals were around, been making its way here ever since. The rocks filter and purify it. Normally, it’s purer than Evian.’ He paused as the numbers stabilised. ‘But this is hyper-saline – saltier than the ocean.’

He checked the electrodes and the connections. The instrument was functioning properly, but the readings didn’t make sense. Even without dilution, the formation water pumped out with the oil wasn’t nearly this saline. Dilution with the normal flow from the spring should have made it less saline, not more. He opened the fieldbook, leafed through a couple of dozen pages packed with dense cuneiform script and scribbled down the reading.

A shriek echoed out from the canyon walls. He jumped up, looking for the source of the noise. Hussein spun around and then sprinted off in the direction of the Pajero. Up among the rocks, almost hidden, a small boy in a jacket and red headscarf stood watching them. Hussein was already picking his way up the rocky slope towards the child; he moved rapidly through the jumbled terrain. The boy seemed to fix his gaze momentarily on Rania, as if she were
some rare animal not seen here for decades; then he turned and vanished among the boulders.

Clay opened the case and took out the scintillometer. He watched the readings jump then smooth and stabilise. He swallowed hard. A few days ago he had drunk from this very pool.

‘Don’t touch the water,’ he said. Why hadn’t he thought of this before? The symptoms, everything – it all made sense. ‘It’s radioactive.’

Rama snatched a breath. ‘Is this possible?’ she whispered.

Somehow, formation brine being disposed of up at the CPF was finding its way to the base of the escarpment. That he was now sure of – everything pointed to it. And according to the reading he had just taken, that formation brine was radioactive. How had Hussein known? Clay remembered reading a couple of papers about the phenomenon back at university – naturally occurring radioactive elements found in deep oilfield brines, radium, thorium, uranium. Evaporation at the CPF must be concentrating the radionuclides, creating a potent super-saline solution. He had just witnessed the result – withered crops, poisoned water, dead kids. And it had happened fast. How long had it been since he was here last? A few weeks. The front arrives and everything dies. He felt sick inside.

‘I can’t speciate,’ he said, ‘but you’re looking at over two thousand Becquerels per litre here. That’s at least a thousand times the drinking water standard in most countries. There could be alpha particles – they can’t penetrate a sheet of paper, but get them inside and they cause massive damage. Probably beta and gamma, too. This is only a crude measurement. I need to get samples to a good lab.’

‘My God,’ she gasped.

‘God has nothing to do with it. This is physics, Rania. Put this shit into the water, and it flows, moves. Put it into people’s bodies, and they die.’

‘Is this the little boy’s village, the one you told me about?’

Clay nodded.

Rania was silent. She had replaced her veil and now stood like a
reaper, the funereal black robes fluttering in the breeze. Here was her story.

They worked their way up to the second and the third pools, collecting samples and taking readings. When they reached the level of the fourth pool, Hussein appeared on the rocks below, breathing heavily.

‘The boy?’ Clay called down to him.

‘Ill, like the others,’ said Hussein. ‘We must go. He says there are soldiers nearby. Hurry.’

‘I need one more sample. I’ll meet you at the car.’

Rania and Hussein started back to the vehicle. Hussein carried the small cooler with the samples. Clay measured salinity, pH and activity levels in the fourth pool and recorded the readings in the fieldbook, then he scrambled up to the top pool, turned for a moment to look back down the canyon at the wadi floor, blazing white in the sun. A column of road dust twisted skyward, moving closer – soldiers.

He crouched to set up the instruments. This was the smallest and most sublime of the pools, now like the others, a place of decay and silence. He remembered the children playing, the sounds of the women laughing and the deep resonance of the spring as it surged up from the ground, the thick drip from the rock face above, the rivulets trickling over the grooved limestone, the water scaling in octaves down the pools. He stopped and listened, but heard only the moan of the wind high up on the plateau.

The others were waiting for him in the idling vehicle. He ran down the slope and jumped into the front passenger seat. Hussein put the Pajero in gear and started back down towards the village.

‘The spring has dried up,’ Clay said breathlessly. ‘The flow has stopped completely. No wonder the pools are so saline. There is no dilution at all.’

Rania leaned over from the back seat, put her hand on Clay’s shoulder. The vehicle lurched and crashed over the uneven surface. Clay grabbed the handle above the passenger-side window, and held on. Hussein was pushing it hard.

Soon they were on a single-lane track paralleling the escarpment, heading east.

‘We have to lie low,’ Hussein shouted out, his voice oscillating with each rut and ridge. ‘There are patrols criss-crossing the area. It’s all about to boil over.’