The Hidden Oasis (18 page)

The wallet contained some German banknotes, a couple
of credit cards, a wad of receipts – all dating from 1986. And there was an identity card. It showed the wallet’s owner: a handsome, blond-haired man with a heavy scar cutting across his chin beneath his mouth.

‘Rudi Schmidt,’ she read aloud.

The name meant nothing to her. A friend of Alex’s? A colleague? After repeating it a couple of times she returned the card to the wallet and moved on. She examined the clay obelisk with the curious motifs inscribed on each of its sides, the film canister, the camera, which had another roll of film still inside its chamber, all but two of its pictures used up according to the exposure counter. Finally, she opened out the map, pushing the other objects aside and spreading it flat on the table.

It was Egypt, the western half of the country from the Libyan border to the Nile Valley, 1:500,000 scale. The paper was crumpled, the creases where it had been folded starting to split from overuse.

She gazed down, her eyes drawn to the bottom left-hand corner where a circle had been pencilled around the words Gilf Kebir Plateau. She frowned. Wasn’t that where Alex had been working? She cocked her head to one side, trying to remember what her sister had said about it in her letters, then looked back at the map, bending over it, examining the diagonal line that extended north-east from the Gilf towards the nearest patch of green, Dakhla Oasis, which had also been circled. Five small crosses bisected the line, starting near the Gilf and extending about a third of the way to Dakhla, each cross accompanied by a pair of numerals: a compass bearing in degrees, and a distance in kilometres. While the bearing was always the same, 44 degrees, the
distances appeared to diminish the further the crosses moved away from the Gilf – 27 km, 25 km, 20 km, 14 km, 9 km.

The record of a journey, that was Freya’s immediate impression. A five-day journey, on foot to judge by the relatively short distances covered, starting at the Gilf and continuing for ninety-five kilometres before ending abruptly amid the blank yellow emptiness of the open desert. Who Rudi Schmidt was, what he was doing out there, whether the map was in fact telling an entirely different story – these were questions she couldn’t answer. What she did know was that it didn’t feel right. None of it. Why should her sister be interested in these things? Why should she pay money for them? The more she thought about it the more odd it all seemed. She found herself going over Alex’s suicide again – her paralysed left arm, her horror of injections – and the doubts of earlier that day started to creep back in. All the explanations she’d been given suddenly seemed unconvincing. She wondered if she should return to the police station – that nice detective had told her to get in touch if she had any further concerns – but then what could she say? Someone turned up at my sister’s house with a dead man’s belongings? It sounded so paranoid, so … flimsy. And anyway, the detective had told her he was only in Dakhla for half a day and would probably be on his way back to Luxor by now. Which meant that she would have to start from scratch not only with someone else, but in a language none of the other detectives seemed to speak properly. Maybe she should call Molly Kiernan? Or Flin Brodie? But again, what was she supposed to tell them? That she thought something suspicious was going on?
Christ, it made her sound like a character in some schlock B-movie.

Freya stared at the map for a while longer, then folded it up and started returning the objects to the canvas shoulder bag, trying to decide what to do, wondering whether her doubts were valid or not. She paused for a moment to gaze again at the miniature obelisk – some sort of souvenir or good luck charm, she assumed – before dropping that in as well, followed by the camera, compass, and, finally, the plastic film canister. Once everything was in she started to do up the bag’s buckles. Almost immediately she undid them again, brow furrowing as if she had been struck by a sudden thought. Delving in she retrieved the canister and camera, weighing them in her hands, pondering. Several seconds passed, then, with a nod, she reached for her knapsack and placed both objects inside it, tucking them down into the fleece she kept there. She retrieved the compass as well, wanting to keep it with her, a connection, however tenuous, with her sister and better days. Leaving the canvas bag on the table, she closed up the house and set off back towards the main oasis, hoping the Kodak shop in the village would still be open. That whatever was on the films in the canister and camera might offer some clue as to who Rudi Schmidt was, why he had been wandering around in the middle of the Sahara and why on earth her sister should have been interested in him.

The Bedouin remained in Dakhla long enough to refill their water-skins, collect firewood, and purchase a goat and
other provisions. Then, preferring to keep their own company, they withdrew into the desert and set up camp about a mile outside the oasis, beside a tangled clump of acacia and
abal
bushes that had somehow found purchase amid the surrounding emptiness.

By the time their leader returned from Alex’s house the camels were tethered and munching on heaps of fresh
bersiim;
the goat had been slaughtered and was roasting over a fire and the men were sitting in a circle around it, singing an old Bedouin song about an evil desert
djinn
and the boy who cleverly outwits him. Tying his mount with the others the leader joined the circle, his companions shuffling around to give him room. His rich sonorous voice took up the song’s verse while the others came in with the chorus, the first evening stars twinkling in the sky above, the air heavy with smoke and the rich, fatty scent of roasting meat. When the song was finished they passed round cigarettes and fell into a discussion about the route they should take on the journey home. Some argued that they should go back the way they had come, others urged a more northerly line around Jebal Almasy and the top end of the Gilf. Their voices became increasingly loud and animated, rising and clashing until someone shouted that the meat was ready, and the tension evaporated. Hefting the goat away from the fire, they drove one end of the spit down into the sand so that it was standing upright and started to hack at it with their knives, slicing off long, slippery chunks. They ate with their hands, their voices dying away until all that was left was the crackle of the fire, the rhythmic sound of their chewing and, from somewhere away to the north, barely audible, a puttering, droning sound, like the flight of some enormous insect.

‘What is that?’ asked one of the men. ‘A water pump?’

No one answered as the sound grew steadily louder.

‘Helicopter,’ said their leader eventually.

‘Army?’ asked another of his companions, frowning, relations between the Bedouin and the military never having been particularly good.

The leader shrugged and, laying aside his food, rose to his feet. He gazed north, hand clasped around the grip of his knife. Thirty seconds passed, then he raised an arm and pointed.

‘There.’

One by one the others stood, peering into the distance. They watched as a vague, juddering smudge slowly extricated itself from the twilight gloom, its outline gradually hardening until it could be made out clearly – a black helicopter, long and sleek, arrowing through the evening sky just a few hundred metres above the desert surface. It came straight at them, nearer and nearer before sweeping directly overhead, the downdraught of its blades causing their robes to billow wildly and sending sprays of sand into their faces.

The helicopter swung around, pivoting in an impossibly tight arc and flying back over them. Lower this time, forcing the Bedouin onto the ground, their cries of protest lost within the clattering hammer of the rotors.

The moment it had passed, the leader sprang to his feet and raced to the camels, untying an old bolt-action rifle that was lashed to one of the saddles. The chopper circled back again, surging forward before abruptly rearing up and dropping to the ground. Shadowy figures leapt out and ran towards them.

The other Bedouin were now up as well. Tugging away the last of its ties, the leader threw the rifle to the nearest of them. The man caught it two-handed and, in a single fluid motion, cocked the bolt and swung towards the approaching figures, raising the muzzle and aiming. Before he could pull the trigger there was a crack of gunfire and he spun, the rifle flying out of his hands, his arms flailing as he wheeled around and smacked face down onto the desert. A black stain spread across his robes like ink through blotting paper. There was more gunfire, the sand jumping and spitting around the Bedouin, forcing them to freeze where they were. As they stood motionless the men from the helicopter came up and arranged themselves in a line beside the fire, submachine-guns held in front of them. For a moment the two groups faced each other, silent, an acrid metallic stench mingling with the sweet aroma of roasted meat. Then the newcomers shifted slightly and parted to make room for two figures who had come up behind. Squat and brawny, they were identical in almost every feature, their neatly slicked ginger hair, grey suits and El-Ahly football shirts wholly out of place in the wild desert setting.

‘You found some things,’ said one of them, his tone matter-of-fact, unfazed by the violence of a moment earlier.

‘Out in the desert,’ said the other.

‘Where are they?’

No reply. The twins glanced at each other, then, as one, raised their guns and opened fire on the nearest camel. The Bedouin cried out in horror as the bullets tore into its neck and flank, shredding the flesh. The shooting continued for five seconds, then ceased, the crackle of gunfire fading
away into intense, shocking silence. Calmly the twins broke out their empty clips and slotted in new ones.

‘You found some things,’ repeated the first brother, his tone exactly the same as it had been before.

‘Out in the desert.’

‘Where are they?’

‘
Taala elhass teezi, ya kalbeen
,’ spat the leader of the Bedouin, eyes glinting in the firelight. ‘Kiss my arse, you dogs.’

Again the twins glanced at each other. Again they opened fire, dropping two more camels before turning their guns on the man standing closest to the leader. The force of the fusillade lifted him off his feet and threw him backwards onto the sand where he twitched a moment before going still.

‘He took them away!’

The voice was shrill, terrified. One of the Bedouin had stepped forward, arms raised above his head – a small, wizened man with a scrawny beard and heavily pockmarked face.

‘He took the things away,’ he repeated, motioning towards his leader, hands trembling. ‘I saw it.’

The twins eyeballed him.

‘It was me who called you,’ the man whined, waving his mobile phone to prove the point. ‘I am your friend. I help you!’

The Bedouin leader gave a snort of disgust and his hand moved towards his knife, then quickly pulled away as more bullets chewed up the sand at his feet.

‘Your mother always was a whore, Abdul-Rahman,’ he spat. ‘And your sister a dog-fucker.’

The man ignored him and moved forward another step.

‘I was promised money,’ he said. ‘If I called. Mr Girgis promised me money.’

‘In return for the objects,’ said one of the twins.

‘Where are they?’ asked the other.

‘I told you, he took them away. They were in a bag and he took them away.’

‘Where?’

‘Into the oasis. He gave them to someone. I don’t know who, he wouldn’t say. I’ve done what I promised. I want my money.’

‘Fuck you.’

A thunder of bullets punched into his face and chest, killing the man instantly. His body was still crumpling to the ground as the twins turned on the other Bedouin, slaughtering all of them save for their leader, who alone was left unharmed. He stood where he was, weighing his options, the heavy desert silence once more enveloping them, the fire’s embers glowing an angry red as twilight slipped into darkness. Then he snatched the knife from his belt and launched himself forward, letting out a high, ululating yell of fury and defiance, thinking to take out at least one of the attackers before he himself was killed. As he did so men swarmed around him, seizing his arms, tearing the knife from his hand, punching and kicking him, dragging him across to the fire where they forced him to his knees and yanked his head back, mouth and nose streaming blood. The twins leant over him, one to either side.

‘You found some things.’

‘Out in the desert.’

‘Where are they?’