Angel in the Shadows Page 19

  Paul looked at Edward. When his uncle nodded to say he was ready, Paul pressed ‘play’.

  The first thing they saw was a passing shadow. The image was too fleeting for them to tell who or what it was. But Paul had his suspicions. The moment the shadow passed, the picture shook, violently, as if they were watching footage shot from a ship in rough seas. The person filming was doing so on a mobile with an unsteady hand, probably trying to be as unobtrusive as possible. There was something voyeuristic about it all. They were looking at things they weren’t supposed to see. They were sharing a secret.

  Paul recognized the man in front of the camera, who was now pressing the barrel of his gun against the girl’s head.

  Arseni Vakurov.

  The girl beside the camera was muttering. ‘Pozhaluysta,’ ‘Please, have mercy.’

  Vakurov leaned towards Farah and pointed to the camera lens. Then he yelled at her in an atrocious Slavic accent: ‘Look at this!’

  She raised her head and stared at the camera.

  Vakurov carried on spewing his gibberish. ‘Now say what I want you to say, bitch. And do it convincingly.’ He produced a piece of paper. ‘Repeat after me!’

  Paul was almost surprised to discover that old Arseni wasn’t illiterate. He barked the lines he wanted Farah to repeat, while keeping the barrel of his gun pressed against the girl’s head.

  Farah moved her lips in an effort to repeat Vakurov’s words. But she appeared to be incapable of producing a sound. Her vocal cords were paralysed.

  Not a word, not a sound came out.

  Vakurov made a show of cocking the gun and planting its barrel back against the girl’s head. The girl flinched, muttering, praying, begging, sobbing.

  Vakurov roared, ‘I’ll kill her if you don’t say it right now. I’ll kill her, you hear?!’

  But nothing came out. Farah appeared to have lost her voice completely. She was on the verge of hyperventilating. Suddenly a flash of lightning crossed the screen, followed by a rain of pixels that rendered everything invisible. Then the screen turned black – right before the moment that the media all over the world had focused on. That one isolated moment when she’d shouted: ‘I, Farah Hafez, support the jihad against President Potanin’s criminal regime.’

  At the start of the second fragment, the girl was lying on the floor, broken, as though Vakurov had shot her in the head. Paul heard Farah swear. In Dari. He understood her words and smiled in spite of himself.

  Vakurov stomped over to Farah and swore back, calling her every name under the sun, at which she kicked him in the shins. So hard he buckled forward and landed on top of her.

  That’s the moment the second pixel storm erupted and the screen went black again.

  The sound that the third fragment opened with was bone-chilling. It was Farah shrieking. Vakurov’s behaviour was monstrous: in that moment he was less noble than a Neanderthal. He yanked Farah by her hair and dragged her behind him. At that point, the man whose shadow had slid past in the first fragment reappeared on screen. Paul recognized him by his fatigues, the Kalashnikov in his hand, the munition belts slung across his chest and the big gun in his holster.

  Chalim Barchayev. Self-styled brigadier general of the Smertniki suicide squad, one of Moscow’s most wanted terrorists.

  He yelled something at Vakurov in a mixture of Russian and Chechen. And then the unexpected happened. Vakurov hit back. His Russian words were unequivocal.

  ‘If you start interfering, my boss will have you and the rest of this bunch taken out immediately. This is our operation. I’m giving the orders around here.’

  And off Vakurov marched.

  Barchayev stayed put, taken aback. He turned to face the filming mobile, which promptly swerved down and went black.

  Paul’s heart was pounding like crazy.

  For a while they sat there, speechless, staring at the black screen, each deep in thought – astonished and agitated.

  It was Edward who spoke first.

  ‘Bloody hell.’

  Then they let the silence speak for itself again. Paul’s head was full of noise. Thoughts, hypotheses and conclusions criss-crossed his mind, touching, connecting, setting off sparks.

  ‘This doesn’t just prove Farah’s innocence,’ he muttered. ‘This shows that the whole hostage-taking was a pretence.’

  ‘The casualties were real.’

  ‘How were they to know? The commandos were ordered to eliminate the terrorists.’

  ‘We need to make this public as quickly as possible,’ Edward said.

  ‘Not this film material,’ Paul said. ‘Not yet. We ought to keep this under wraps for now. These images are our trump card. This matter reaches all the way to the Kremlin. We’re not ready for that yet. Farah is our first priority.’

  He turned to Edward. ‘I’d like you to organize a press conference for me. So I can release the photos I’ve just shown you. I bet these and the story behind them will be picked up around the world. And their impact will be big enough to convince everyone that Farah is the victim in all this and Lavrov the manipulator.’

  ‘You’re right,’ Edward said. ‘We mustn’t overplay our hand. Lavrov is coming to the Netherlands in two days’ time. He and Minister Lombard are due to sign the contract for the construction of an underground gas hub in Bergermeer. I think that may be the ideal moment for your press conference.’

  The two men fell silent once more. Edward swore a couple of times. ‘With this you’re finally following in your father’s footsteps. You do realize that, don’t you?’ he said.

  Paul felt his uncle’s large hand on his shoulder. How often had he felt it there, how often had he heard the older man’s encouraging words? Edward had been like a father to him since Raylan’s death, had always believed in him. He’d shown him that when you lose a father you’re not necessarily left to your own devices, abandoned, unsettled, beside yourself with anger. He’d shown him more affection than his frequently absent father had ever done. Raylan had been primarily interested in himself, in the revelations, the spectacular reports from Vietnam with which he’d surprised friend and foe alike. No, if there was anything Paul didn’t want it was to follow in his father’s footsteps. Though he’d probably been doing this his whole life, resulting in broken relationships and pointless conflicts with colleagues, editors-in-chief and the big bosses. In fact, more than once it had cost him his job.

  He thought of the reproach his most recent girlfriend, Susanne, had hurled at him during their final row, months ago in Johannesburg. ‘It’s about you,’ she’d yelled. ‘About your life with those ghosts you’re always chasing. Because you want to prove to everyone you’re as brilliant a journalist as your father.’

  He was jolted from his thoughts by his buzzing mobile. He answered and instantly picked up on the tension in Anya’s voice.

  ‘Did you watch it? What do you think?’

  ‘I’m here with Edward,’ Paul replied. ‘I’m going to put you on speaker phone, okay? Shall we switch to English? Edward’s Russian isn’t what it used to be.’

  ‘Hello, Anya. I’m very proud of you,’ Edward said in broken English and laughed.

  ‘You sound like Sean Connery,’ Anya said with a hearty chuckle.

  ‘Why do you think that woman filmed the whole thing?’ Paul asked.

  ‘I’m hoping to find out,’ Anya replied. ‘Maybe she did it to prove what a dirty game my government is playing to justify waging war against breakaway republics. I don’t know.’

  ‘I reckon we shouldn’t use it until we have more evidence. I want to start with the photos and focus on Farah’s story. See what kind of impact it has.’

  ‘How do you aim to do that?’

  Paul told her about the plan for a press conference.

  ‘You do realize, don’t you,’ Anya warned, ‘that by doing this you’re putting yourself on the radar of the Russian security services and, of course, Lavrov himself? The moment it comes to light that you took those photos you’ll have to look
over your shoulder day and night.’

  ‘Sure, but what’s the alternative?’ Paul replied. ‘I want to do everything in my power to get Farah out of the hell she’s ended up in. I promised her.’

  ‘Do you agree, Edward?’

  ‘I’m one hundred per cent behind this. As a journalist you can’t run from the truth, however threatening it might be.’

  ‘Then it’s my turn now to be proud of you,’ Anya said, laughing again. ‘I’m going to find out more about that Estonian woman and what she was doing in the Seven Sisters. Let’s keep in touch.’

  After she ended the call, Paul stood up and walked trancelike to the window, surprised at the speed with which night had caught up with them. IJkade, which earlier had been full of people strolling up and down and going in and out of the trendy bars and restaurants, was deserted now, save for a handful of night owls tottering towards the ferries.

  Edward joined him and wrapped an arm around his shoulder.

  ‘Do you remember that time I carried you through the surf?’

  ‘Of course I do …’

  Edward chuckled. ‘You were squealing like a pig. Must have been sometime in August 1974. You were about –’

  ‘Five. I was five. And on television we saw Richard Nixon mounting the steps to his Army One helicopter, turning around and, with that joker grin of his, waving one last time at the cameras and the White House staff. And that’s when you said –’

  ‘An historic day.’

  ‘ “Two journalists have forced the most powerful man in the world to resign,” you said, and I understood bugger all.’

  ‘You were five.’

  ‘And then you took Mum and me to the beach.’

  ‘ “The desert is being eaten by the water!” I can still hear you yelling this.’

  ‘It was the first time I saw the sea. Afghanistan doesn’t have any beaches.’

  ‘When I took you by the hand into the water, you tried to pull yourself free.’

  ‘I was five, I’d never seen a sea before and I couldn’t swim. You knew that, so you lifted me up and said –’

  ‘The water is your friend.’

  ‘That’s what you said, yes, and I flung my arms around your neck and that’s how we met the big waves. And when the first wave washed over us, you let go of me, bastard that you were. I remember screaming and thrashing about in a panic, and swallowing what felt like half the North Sea. But you lifted me up, let me soar through the air and shouted, “The water is your friend –” ’

  ‘ “And the surf your fear!” ’

  ‘And then you let go of me again and I thrashed and flailed my arms about and swallowed whole waves, but every time you lifted me up my fear lessened a little.’

  He leaned over to Edward and looked him straight in the eye. ‘That’s how I’d like us to tackle this. You and me. There’s a danger I’ll drown, and maybe I will, but … I have to do this, Ed.’

  ‘If you go under, I’ll pull you up,’ Edward said.

  Without a word, they looked towards Het Fort, where fires burned on the high, flat roof. Squatters walked around, patrolling the place. The sleeping city and the fires on the roof merged with their silhouettes, reflected in the glass. Paul thought of the old folktale about the dead who came to visit their loved ones in their dreams at night. Farah was alive, but her spirit still roamed around this office.

  ‘What are you waiting for?’ Edward asked. ‘Jakarta is five hours ahead of us. Phone her. Besides, I need to speak to her as well.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘About my plan.’

  ‘What plan?’ Paul looked at Edward in surprise.

  9

  She was awakened by excited children’s voices, rapid, light footsteps and high-pitched laughter from outside. Still dizzy from getting up too fast, she crossed the room to the wall with the children’s drawings. A sun dressed as a clown and stars with funnily distorted children’s faces were among the images on display. It filled her with melancholy and reminded her of Sekandar, of the promise she’d made him.

  I’m here. I won’t leave you.

  A promise she’d broken by fleeing to the other side of the world.

  She heard the sound of a phone and looked around before realizing it was her RedBerry. She snatched it out of her rucksack.

  ‘Farah?’

  His voice – so unexpectedly close. Butterflies scattered, turned into stars on paper. The fleeting kiss on his cheek before she’d boarded the train to Kiev.

  ‘Paul … How are you?’

  ‘Fine. Given the circumstances. Are you still in that hotel?’

  ‘No, I checked out.’

  ‘It wasn’t safe?’

  ‘I don’t know why. But … I just had to leave. I’m somewhere else now.’

  She wanted to be home. Home. With her window open, looking out over the market stalls of Nieuwmarkt and hearing the church bells ringing. Home. At her desk in the AND offices with their view across the water.

  ‘Where are you now?’

  ‘At the Waringin Shelter for Homeless Children.’

  ‘What’s the address?’

  ‘I’ll send it to you later. I’m … It’s a long story.’

  ‘Is it safe there? Are you safe?’

  That’s when it hit her. The realization that she was in a completely unfamiliar place. And last night she’d not only slept beside a complete stranger, but even told her everything about herself. What possessed her? She’d broken their pact by opening up their world to someone else. Should she tell him? She looked around in a daze. She heard children running around outside. Then a woman’s voice telling them to be quiet. Aninda’s voice.

  ‘I’m not sure. Did you locate the girl?’

  She heard him clear his throat.

  ‘Yes.’

  Another uncomfortable silence. Was it a delay on the line?

  ‘What did she tell you?’

  ‘The FSB was trailing me. You could say I led them to her. I was detained, questioned and then released again. I was strongly advised to leave the country. I don’t know what happened to the girl.’

  Farah’s head began to pound, her legs grew heavier and the heat was suddenly unbearable. She felt as if the walls were closing in.

  ‘What about the terrorist? The one with the mobile?’

  ‘That’s why I’m calling you.’

  She heard the triumph in his voice and a huge weight lifted off her shoulders, as if an army of children disguised as falling stars had jumped off the paper.

  Speechless, she listened to his story – about the fragments on the Estonian woman’s damaged SD card. With her heart racing faster and faster, she paced around the room, through the morning light with its tiny dust particles. She wanted to know every single detail: about how Vakurov, and not Barchayev, had been in charge during the final few hours of the hostage-taking.

  ‘Lavrov used the hostage-taking as a cover to get rid of you. They played the worst possible trick on you, worse than you led me to believe.’

  ‘Maybe worse than I can or care to remember.’

  ‘I understand. Listen, I’m at the AND, with Edward. And Ed wouldn’t be Ed if he didn’t have a plan of his own. I’ll put him on. Speak soon.’

  ‘Hang on! Paul?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘How’s Sekandar doing?’

  ‘I only just got here. As soon as I get permission from the police I’ll go to visit him.’

  ‘Please do. Promise?’

  ‘I promised you in Moscow. Hang in there.’

  She heard stumbling and fumbling sounds, and pictured Paul pressing his mobile into Edward’s huge hand. Edward hated mobiles. As far as he was concerned, the old Bakelite phones should never have been decommissioned. As usual, he talked louder than normal, as if he still couldn’t quite believe that such a small phone was capable of establishing contact with someone thousands of kilometres away.

  ‘Hafez?’

  Hearing his voice, she had to swallow a few times.
r />   ‘Ed.’

  His voice broke.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Hafez.’

  She’d grown used to his cantankerous style of communication, which was entirely in keeping with his oversized physique. She’d never heard him speak like this. This helpless stammering was unfamiliar territory to her. Man-of-steel Ed was falling apart a world away.

  ‘It’s okay, Ed.’

  ‘God damn it, it’s not okay, Hafez.’

  She couldn’t help but think that this was how teenage boys sounded when they were determined not to cry, yet couldn’t help themselves. It evoked in her what could almost be described as maternal feelings.

  She summoned her most upbeat voice. ‘It’s reassuring, don’t you think? The idea that you’ve got a heart, I mean. That you’re just like any other human being.’

  She heard him chuckle. ‘And you’ve broken that heart, Hafez.’

  ‘Sure. You always manage to twist things so it’s my fault.’

  ‘Jesus, I can still picture you sitting opposite me in the old office. With that Rasta hair and those blue eyes of yours. How long ago was that? Ten years?’

  ‘Eleven. But I never had dreads, and Jesus doesn’t factor into it at all. Go on, tell me about your plan.’

  ‘All right. I assume you’ve read Anya’s report?’

  ‘I have.’

  ‘Independen. Remember that name? The leftist paper that wrote about Gundono feathering his nest illegally.’

  ‘The government has now slapped a publication ban on that paper.’

  ‘It’s still being published underground, but it’s a hundred times worse off than the Moskva Gazeta. I’ve spoken to the Editor-in-Chief, Saputra. He’s an old contact of mine. I had to be extremely cautious about what I told him, because his phone is bound to be tapped. He wants to meet you. He gave me his prepaid number. Paul will text it to you in a minute. Phone him and make an appointment as soon as possible. He’s got information for you. For us, that is. Get back in touch once you’ve spoken to him, all right?’