#31. ROOM 1212, INTERCONTINENTAL HOTEL, AMMAN, JORDAN
Monday July 20, 13:31
IT WAS strange being back at the Intercontinental after all these weeks, Ali thought as, sitting in the sunshine on the balcony, he enjoyed a late breakfast of scrambled eggs, fruit and fuul, mint tea and mango juice. He had just finished a soothing, cleansing soak in the deep brown bathtub and was loosely wrapped in the complimentary yellow bath-robe.
Hamza Madani had delivered him back to his starting point at around two a.m. A doctor had set his fractured arm in a sling, put a brace on his knee, given him a shot for the pain then one to help him sleep. It had worked. He had slept for ten hours straight.
He still felt tired and his knee was sore. The cuts on his face were already healing but, when he looked at himself in the mirror, it was clear he had been in a pretty fierce fight.
Uthman had been cremated, his ashes scattered in the desert. Al-Sekem's bones, gnawed clean of meat, had been dredged from the piranha pool and also had been burned. Hisham had been buried in a military cemetery. Hamza had suggested the corpse be returned to the mother in Damascus but Ali had counselled otherwise. Hisham's mother would find the grief hard enough. Seeing the mess the body was in would be utterly unbearable. Reluctantly, Colonel Ibrahim had agreed and the ceremony had taken place on Saturday. Ali had cried, more from exhaustion than genuine grief, but it had caused him a momentary reflection on the misery and the madness he had encountered. What happened to turn boys like Anas and Hisham into men like Al-Sekem, Talal Hafez and Moussa Bashir? It was a sobering consideration.
And Ali himself?
A tiny voice in his mind told him that he too had become a killer, motivated mainly by revenge: Hamza Madani's strictures had echoed in his head.
Katya Kinkhladze had disappeared. Ali was initially disappointed. He had shed some of his childish squeamishness, overcome some adolescent fears in the aptly named pump-room, almost become a man but perhaps, in the end, it was for the best. Fatima would almost certainly disapprove of the buxom Georgian and, alongside the wonderful moments, there were still some painfully embarrassing ones he preferred not to revisit.
He mixed olive oil, cumin and some chopped raw onion and green pepper into the mashed fava beans. The mission was over. Operation Flashlight was finished. What was he to do now? Go back to Baghdad? How could he settle into an ordinary life now?
Hamza Madani had told him he would never be able to let it go, that adrenaline rush, that excitement, that living-on-the-edge that came with being a spy. The saturnine agent had hugged him close and wished him well before driving away to Damascus in the battered old Golf.
So what would he do?
The answer arrived with Colonel Ibrahim, dressed smartly in a charcoal grey suit and white shirt, a dark red tie secured by a golden pin. Ali started to get up but the Colonel waved him to sit still.
''Sleep well?'' He hovered between the bedroom and the balcony.
''Like a log.'' Ali drank some tea. ''I thought I'd hit the gym later.''
''Good,'' said Colonel Ibrahim. ''You have to keep your fitness up and develop your fighting skills. I want you a black-belt by the end of summer.''
''Oh,'' said Ali, wondering what it meant.
''Anyway,'' the Colonel continued, ''I have a surprise for you. Well, two, actually, but the first is here, waiting for you.'' He called back through the room. ''You can come in now.''
The door burst open and Fatima raced in, shouting his name over and over, bouncing across the carpet like an excited puppy. Now Ali did stand up.
Crying, she flung herself into his arms and he was crying too and they held each other for several minutes just crying and hugging and crying some more.
''Oh, Ali,'' she said, ''I thought I'd never see you again.'' Standing back, she looked him up and down. ''What happened to your arm? Why is your knee in a brace? And what are all those cuts on your face?'' She tutted disapprovingly. ''Ali Hassan! Have you been fighting?''
''Just a little,'' he grinned at the Colonel over the top of her head. ''But you, look at you. Last time I saw you you were in a hospital bed.''
''I'm great,'' she said. ''They gave me a plastic leg. It's not as good as my old one but at least I can stand up now and I'm learning to walk really well.''
One shoulder was higher than the other and, together with the prosthetic foot, made her a little lop-sided. Otherwise she looked well.
''Still the same poor taste in clothes,'' Ali remarked. She was wearing pink jeans and a My Little Pony T-shirt.
''And you still like eating,'' she returned, indicating the breakfast.
''Second surprise.'' Colonel Ibrahim held out a black suit. ''Put it on, and this nice yellow tie that Fatima chose and some decent shoes. You're off to a meeting.''
Half an hour later, they were cruising through the streets of Amman in the back of a limousine, past the King Hussein Mosque and the Roman amphitheatre, sweeping round the base of Citadel Hill and heading through the black and golden gates of Raghadan Palace.
Fatima squealed. ''Ali, we're going to meet the King and Queen!'' She punched his bad arm in her enthusiasm and made him cry out. Then she apologised and got tearful and Ali said it didn't matter and then the car was passing into the courtyard between two British cannons from the First World War and drawing up before the Palace.
Colonel Ibrahim led them up the stone steps, through the central of three arches, under the Jordanian Coat of Arms, through the wooden front doors and into a smart, plush corridor with red carpets and gilded mirrors and men in uniforms saluting as they passed.
Ali fiddled anxiously with the knot of his yellow silk tie. He wasn't used to wearing one and Colonel Ibrahim had tied it for him. The black suit was tailored to his slim build, the white shirt crisply new, the golden cufflinks gleaming, the black shoes highly polished but he still felt incredibly nervous and self-conscious with his left arm in a sling, especially when a small, white door opened and they were ushered forward into a breathtakingly beautiful room.
Everything was turquoise, green and gold, long, green, velvet curtains, twinkling gold-leaf edges, golden candelabras suspended from the ceiling, and what a ceiling. It was green, turquoise and gold with calligraphic inscriptions of verses by Saleem Hanafi dating from 1926 all around the inside of the dome.
''Sit,'' hissed Colonel Ibrahim.
Ali kept scratching his throat. Inside the sling, his arm itched. His knee ached. His stomach kept flipping, like a burger on a griddle. Fatima, on the other hand, bouncing on the edge of the beige leather sofa, seemed really excited. Ali tugged again at the knot of his tie.
A group of people came through a glass-and-wood door. Ali recognised the Minister of Culture, Dr Seif Hazem from the Arab League and, dressed in a light grey suit, King Abdullah himself. He was accompanied by Queen Rania, who wore a shimmering pale green dress and a sparkling diamond tiara. She was every bit as beautiful as Fatima had imagined. They were surrounded by advisors, soldiers in military uniform, servants in livery and white gloves, and accompanied by two teenagers, curly-haired Crown Prince Hussein and Princess Iman.
''Colonel Ibrahim Radwan,'' announced a servant.
The Colonel bowed as the King held his hand and murmured something which made the Colonel's pear-shaped head seem to swell.
The servant called again. ''Mr Ali Hassan Al-Amin. Miss Fatima Hassan Al-Amin.''
Ali bowed awkwardly. Fatima curtsied as she had done a million times back home in Baghdad when she had played Princes and Princesses with her Fulla dolls or her friends.
''Come closer, children,'' murmured the Queen, stroking Fatima's cheek. ''Oh, they're so young, so vulnerable.''
Fatima seemed about to burst.
''Young man.'' The King took Ali's hand. ''I believe we owe you a great debt.''
''It was nothing, sir,'' Ali stammered, unsure what to say.
The King laughed. ''Nothing, he says.'' Everyone in the room laughed. ''Breaking up a school for suicide-bombers,
getting the evidence to close down a chain of terrorist cells, stopping Al-Sekem killing thousands of people in the most horrible fashion, saving my son…''
The Crown Prince, looking at the carpet, shuffled his feet in embarrassment.
Fatima's eyes were wide as saucers.
''You have acted with honour and courage beyond your years. We thank you on behalf of all the people whose lives you saved through your bravery, determination and resourcefulness.''
He addressed the room. ''When Doctor Seif and Colonel Radwan asked permission to form the Special Operations Section, I thought it an excellent idea and gave them my full support. When they asked permission to recruit a boy as a secret agent, I thought it a crazy idea. But they chose wisely and they proved me wrong. I have never been happier to be proven wrong.'' His advisors laughed indulgently. ''Doctor Seif, you are a credit to the League of Arab Nations. Colonel Radwan, you honour us by your work and tireless dedication to our security.''
It was the Colonel's turn to look embarrassed and he mumbled something as he accepted the accolade.
''As for you, young man,'' The King returned to Ali. ''I too am a soldier. I trained at Sandhurst, served as an officer in the British Army and commanded Jordan's Special Forces. I have read Colonel Radwan's report. You could be one of us. You are one of us.''
Ali blushed as the King removed from his pocket a small box covered in blue velvet.
''This is the Order of the Hashemite Star,'' he said. ''It is awarded for heroic acts in the face of the enemy.'' Opening the box, he showed Ali a beautiful medal, a six-pointed white star set on a gold laurel wreath and attached to a crimson ribbon. At the top of the star, just under the bar, was a golden crown.
''The Order of the Hashemite Star was created by my father in 1971 and it is our honour and privilege to admit you, Ali Hassan, to that Order.''
The King pinned it onto Ali's lapel. More applause rang round the room. The King shook his hand again. Fatima's mouth had now fallen open. Colonel Ibrahim was beaming broadly and brushing away what might have been a tear.
''I am…I…'' Ali stuttered. ''Thank you, sir.''
The Queen now shook his hand. Everyone seemed to shake his hand. People slapped his shoulder. He felt uncomfortable and out-of-place and did not know what to say. The Crown Prince was thanking him too and thumping his good arm.
''What did you do?'' hissed Fatima.
''Nothing really,'' said Ali modestly. ''Just stopped some maniacs wiping out Jordan.''
The King was speaking again. ''And now we need to reward you properly. We believe you are orphans.'' The Queen clucked sympathetically. ''Do you wish to return to Baghdad?''
''No, sir,'' said Ali. ''There's nothing for us there. We would like to return to school.''
''And you'll need somewhere to live,'' added the Queen, touching Fatima's cheek. Fatima looked ready to faint, especially when Princess Iman whispered something in her ear.
But everyone was looking at Colonel Ibrahim and Dr Seif who smiled and said ''Of course, sir,'' and the audience was over.
''It was like a dream,'' breathed his sister. ''They were so nice.''
''They had to be,'' said Ali, suddenly cocky. ''I saved their country.''
Fatima told him not to be ridiculous. How could he, a mere boy, save a country?
Ali smiled to himself. The medal bounced on his lapel. It really was the most beautiful thing he had ever been given. A soldier at the door saluted him. Saluted him, Ali Hassan!
''Wonder what mother and father would say,'' Fatima murmured.
''And Hussein and Mohamed,'' Ali added. ''Who's the 'ickle weed now, eh? 'Ickle weed got the Order of the Hashemite Star.'' He felt so proud. Was this really him? Had this really happened to him? To Weedy Ali, Hassan's scrawny runt of a son?
The medal gleamed confirmation.
Colonel Ibrahim rejoined them and they sped away to Surprise Number Three. He led them through a small garden crammed with roses and wild flowers and up the stairs of a five-storey building on top of a hill near Circle Two. Ali could see the tower of the Intercontinental Hotel a few streets away.
''This is Flat Nine.'' The Colonel handed Fatima a key. ''Open it up, little lady, and explore your new home.''
Ali did not know whether to laugh or cry. They had a flat, a home of their own, and it was awesome. It had a fully equipped kitchen with a washing machine and a cooker and pots and pans. It had a newly fitted bathroom with a bath and a shower and plastic wrap still on the taps. It had a living room with a sofa, a massive flat-screen Samsung television and DVD player. It had two bedrooms, one for Fatima with a nice wooden bed, a desk and some wooden shelves and one for Ali with a brand-new Dell PC on the desk, a comfortable double bed and a big wardrobe.
''Mrs Roushdie, the landlady, lives next door,'' said Colonel Ibrahim. ''She's a widow in her sixties. She has two grown-up sons and tons of grandkids. She will be your housekeeper and cook.'' He fixed Ali with a stare. ''Don't mess with her. She's a karate black-belt, seventh Dan, and a crack-shot with a pistol.''
Ali laughed. ''Maybe I can spar with her if her zimmer-frame doesn't get in the way.''
''She'd kick your bony behind,'' Colonel Ibrahim said dryly.
Fatima was bouncing on the sofa and squealing ''It's so soft, Ali, so soft!'' Then she bounced into her bedroom. ''I'm going to paint it all pink!'' she declared.
''Sisters, eh?'' Ali said to the Colonel.
''We'll get you some clothes, toys, books and things,'' said Colonel Ibrahim, ''And we'll send a decorator round. We'll take you both to the Iraqi Embassy and the Immigration Bureau to get your documents sorted out. You'll be classed as refugees with political asylum. We have found a nice school just around the corner for Fatima. You, Ali, have been enrolled in Al-Najdawi Boys' Preparatory School. It's just across the main road, opposite the Al-Haboob Supermarket. The uniform is grey trousers, blue and white striped shirt and navy sweater. We'll provide that for you too. The new year starts in September so you have a few weeks to get settled in, and of course Ramadan is coming. We've bought you membership of the Intercontinental Hotel Sports Club so you can keep swimming. You can use the gym and, although you're supposed to be eighteen to use the health spa, the manager will make an exception for you. You will have an allowance of five hundred dinars per month, payable until you are eighteen.'' Colonel Ibrahim paused then added ''Of course the allowance is on the understanding that we might call on your services again. Is that acceptable to you?''
Five hundred dinars per month was a small fortune.
''Well, you know where we are,'' said the Colonel. ''Wadi Insurance. Tell Hala you have come to discuss your home and contents policy if you need us.''
Ali suddenly felt overwhelmed. How his life had changed. He had a flat and an income. For the first time in his life he had a bed of his own. He was a hero. He had a medal. The King of Jordan knew his name. That bomb in Sadr City all those weeks ago really had changed things forever but in ways he had never foreseen. Wordlessly he turned and hugged the Colonel who awkwardly patted his shoulder, cleared his throat a little and muttered something inaudible.
''Thank you,'' said Ali simply.
''Here's fifty dinars.'' Colonel Ibrahim peeled some notes out of his wallet. ''My money, I might add, not the company's. Go get some groceries and treat yourselves to pizzas or something. You can phone for a delivery.'' He seemed reluctant to leave. Finally he forced it out. ''I am very proud of you, Ali. I'm proud of the way you conducted yourself.'' Was that a tear sparkling on the bushy moustache? ''I would be proud to call you my son.'' He kissed Ali on both cheeks. ''Enjoy your evening and I will see you tomorrow.''
''Ali, Ali,'' Fatima was calling from the balcony. ''Come see the view.''
The whole of West Amman spread out before them. They could see right across the higgledy-piggledy jumble of houses to the next hill with its little church, vineyards and low-roofed dwellings all the way to the large blue dome of the King Abdullah Mosque, the busy Bus Station with its bu
sy market and, in the other direction, up the hill to the Second Circle roundabout. Across the street were a small shop, a residential block covered in ivy, several gardens, the Intercontinental tower and the Turkish flag flying over its Embassy. The sun was beginning to set, the Call to Prayer sounding ''Allahu Akhbar'', God is Great, ringing round the Amman streets.
''What did the Princess say to you?'' he asked.
''She said you were cute,'' Fatima said in a tone of disgust.
Ali looked down at his smart new suit, at the medal gleaming on his left lapel, at the sling that cradled his left arm, at his sister leaning her elbows on the balcony rail absorbing the view, and slipped his arm round her shoulders.
''I think we've found our home,'' he said.
She sighed contentedly and snuggled into her brother's chest.
Yes, he thought, I have found my home. But first, I have a letter to write.
THE END OF DEAD BOY WALKING
BUT
ALI SALAWA WILL RETURN
IN
RUNNING WITH SHADOWS
Here is a preview
Left alone, Ali rattled the chain half-heartedly. Of course it would not budge. If only he had the laser-cutter crucifix to cut through the links, but that lay in a corner of the boat-house. He hefted the sharpened stick in his left hand. Perhaps he could use it as a lever, jam it into the links. His knees were sore. The sun pounded his skin. He tugged at the chain again, instantly regretting the dull clanking that resounded mournfully in the still, early-evening air.
A few yards away, a pair of bulbous green eyes and two pitch-black holes rose slowly, agonizingly slowly through the murky grey-brown water, the nostrils sniffing the scent of sun-baked boy. Instinctively Ali shuffled backwards, still on his knees, and gripped the sharpened stick tightly. His throat contracted. His palms were wet and slippery. He was suddenly terrified.
A long, scaly, dark bronze head broke the surface. Ali swallowed hard. The green eyes never flickered. The nostrils, like gun-barrels, focused unwaveringly. Ali froze. Perhaps he could pretend he wasn't there, tethered and waiting like the sacrificial goat in Jurassic Park. He swallowed hard again, tugged at the chain.
The rest of the reptile rose inexorably out of the depths. Black bars marked its back.
The sun slid lower down the rose-pink sky over his shoulder.
The crocodile left the water. Ali was struck by how short its legs were, and how long its body was, some four metres of thick, scaly armour. The mouth, a long slit, looked as though it had been slashed into the beast with a razor-blade. The conical incisors protruding from the edges of its mouth made it look as though it were grinning. The flanks were a dark greenish-yellow and marked with long black bars. The belly was a sickly shade of purple. The reptile considered him, seeming to cock its head to one side. Ali felt his heart hammer against his ribs, and refreshed his grip on the stick. Instinctively again he shrank backwards. The crocodile scuttled forward.
Ali surged to his feet, kicking sand and yelling abuse at the creature. To his surprise, it retreated, backing into the river in a frothing flurry of sand and water. But Ali knew it would return. And he knew it would not be alone. It was simply a matter of time, and in a moment, a moment where his guard dropped because he was tired or hungry or feeling weak, it would pounce, in the blink of an eye, and he would die.
As the sun sank closer to the horizon, the crocodile's light green eyes peered from the rose-pink water. The creature smiled knowingly, almost lovingly.
Ali yelled as an idea struck him. He would dig out the post. If he had time.
Kneeling, he started scooping the sand from round the metal base with his right hand, scattering it behind him. He quickly passed through the warm surface to the colder, more closely packed layer beneath, stabbing and jabbing until he had loosened the sand so he was able to scrape it out in damp clumps.
A snort, almost of contempt, burst behind him. The crocodile was inching warily up the beach, grunting like a pig, flexing its jaws. Two others, hanging back in the lapping shallows, observed curiously.
Ali dug frantically, feeling the muscles of his right arm screaming, feeling lumps of grit digging into the flesh beneath his fingernails, feeling his heart thunder, feeling sweat break on his face, feeling faint and dizzy, feeling the ache in his tightly clenched jaw… suddenly the crocodile lunged towards him.
RUNNING WITH SHADOWS
Coming in 2015
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