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  ‘How can I help?’

  Ibrahim gestured at the Mukhabarat report on the coffee table. ‘Take this. It’s yours. Daoud has given you the Jerusalem bid document. Use them. You are a writer. Write. Not for the Ministry, for the newspaper. The editor of The Jordan Times is expecting your call. You know him already, I think. I am sorry to have been, is it presuming? But I made the arrangement.’

  ‘Presumptuous. But it’s okay. Of course I’ll do anything I can to help. I’ll call him first thing in the morning. I hope it works.’

  It seemed like a good time to leave. I picked up the document and walked to the door. Ibrahim’s voice from behind me sounded casual as I turned the lock.

  ‘Oh, Paul. Maybe it is a good idea to let your friend from the British Embassy to know about this document as well.’

  A thrill of fear, alarm and shame burned through me. I paused and then walked through the door without looking back.

  I sat watching Gerald Lynch drink Turkish coffee from a tiny cup. The nightclub was empty except for the owner, Nadim, who had let me in when I knocked on the garish door under an orange and red striped awning. A fat, sweaty man with jowls and constantly darting eyes, he brought coffees and an ashtray, mumbling and grinning in a subservient dance for Lynch before leaving to sit in his back room.

  My head throbbed with the start of one of the violent headaches which had been part of my world since the nightclub bomb. The air smelled faintly of alcohol, cheap perfume, sweat and stale smoke. Lynch sniffed.

  ‘Place is a dump, but it’s safe. Nadim’s a twat but he knows which side his bread’s buttered on. Coffee’s good. Try it.’

  I took a sip of the strong, sweet coffee.

  Lynch flicked ash into his saucer. ‘We got the documents. Thanks.’

  I looked across at him, his unshaven face was pale and his blue eyes bloodshot from lack of sleep – there was no hint of alcohol on his breath.

  ‘I’m not doing any more for you.’

  Lynch nodded wearily. ‘Here. Something for you.’

  He shoved an envelope across the chipped Formica tabletop. I opened to find an official-looking document in Arabic.

  ‘What’s this?’

  ‘Your judgement. Don’t bother turning up to court tomorrow. You’ve been found guilty of affray and have a three-month suspended sentence. The fine of five hundred Dinars will be paid to the court in the morning. Judge Khasawneh will say you were unfortunate and have a good past record and he will hope you have learned your lesson.’

  I shook my head in slow disbelief at Lynch’s arrogance.

  ‘So that’s it?’

  He nodded, his hands deep in his jacket pocket as he sat back on the cheap metal chair. ‘That’s it, Paul. All over.’

  ‘And what about the Israelis and their bombings?’

  ‘What Israelis, Paul? The Mukhabarat report says they found American explosives. They could have been nicked by any old raghead. We’ve double checked it all with our sources. There’s no clear evidence of Israeli involvement in the Nai bombing.’

  I swirled the black grounds at the bottom of my cup.

  ‘Daoud Dajani is in danger.’

  Lynch glanced around him, his face screwed up in distaste. ‘Daoud Dajani? He does stuff with his money we don’t like. His brother was a suicide bomber. He spends time on the playground with some very unpleasant little boys. And his madcap water scheme is nothing short of incendiary. There’s a very real danger it’ll end up pitching this whole region into another stupid war it doesn’t need. Whichever way you look at Daoud Dajani, he’s bad news. So fuck him actually, Paul. And his safety.’

  I frowned. ‘He’s a businessman, not a bomber.’

  Lynch leaned forward, his clear blue eyes fixed on me. He raised his finger. ‘You don’t know what he is, Paul, and you don’t know what he isn’t.’

  I dropped my eyes as Lynch got to his feet.

  ‘You did a good job getting that bid document, Paul. We thought we had a pretty good idea of what Dajani was up to with the water thing but we’d only scratched the surface. We couldn’t work out why the Izzies were going so bonkers over him. Now we’ve got a pretty clear idea. He’s going to pull millions of gallons of water out of the system. Sharon threatened war against Lebanon for splashing about in the Litani River, so imagine what they’ll do if the Jordanians award a contract to Dajani and his merry men authorising them to suck Tiberias dry.’

  I looked up. Lynch had his back to the stage lights and I couldn’t read his expression. ‘Try to kill him, perhaps?’

  ‘You’ve been reading too many Bond books, Paul. Governments don’t assassinate people bidding for contracts. But it’s obvious Israel will defend its national interest if Jordan starts to drain its water resources. There’s a perfectly good British consortium making a sensible bid which will help Jordan to better manage its water without jeopardising regional stability. It’s in everyone’s interest they win the privatisation. You want my advice? Stay away from Daoud Dajani, Paul.’

  Lynch patted my shoulder as he walked past me. I sat looking at the scratched black tabletop in front of me. A shuffle and a high-pitched cough to my side revealed Nadim.

  ‘Some more coffee, seer?’

  I shook my head and he cleared the cups away. I lit a cigarette and drew the smoke deep into me, tapping the tabletop and trying to work out who I could possibly believe in.

  TWENTY-TWO

  I slipped into Aisha’s office and kissed her, stifling her surprised greeting. Her soft lips tasted of coffee. She pulled back with a fearful glance at the door.

  I laughed. ‘It’s okay, there’s nobody else out there.’

  There was only a faint hint of colour on the side of her face and she had covered up any other remaining marks with foundation. My own pains had pretty much subsided apart from the headaches, although I still had a few scabs from the glass cuts on my side. It didn’t hurt anymore to kiss her.

  ‘What are you doing up here, ya Brit? Shouldn’t you be down in the dungeons working on your magazine?’

  ‘Zahlan asked to see me. What time will I pick you up tonight?’

  ‘Eight?’

  I leaned forward and kissed her again and this time we ignored the door and the dangers of discovery. The woody, heady scent she wore made me ache for her with an intensity reflected in her widened eyes. I left her reluctantly and made my way to Abdullah Zahlan’s office.

  Zahlan was dressed as a young business leader today, his ever-changing wardrobe once again signalling his mood. He smiled, lifting his internal telephone handset.

  ‘Aisha? Can you join us please?’

  He gestured to the chair in front of his desk. ‘Sit down, Paul. How are you?’

  ‘Well, thanks, Abdullah. What gives?’

  He tossed a copy of The Jordan Times across to me. ‘You have seen this, I suppose?’

  I certainly had. In fact, I had written it. Teddy ‘Bear’ Smith, the newspaper’s legendarily foul-mouthed editor, had been delighted with the piece and had even insisted on paying me for it. A growling, chain-smoking Mancunian with a sardonic, grim sense of humour, Smith had whistled and cackled his way through my story. He’d insisted on seeing evidence and grilled me for three hours about every assertion in the piece, finally running it as a three-part special in The Jordan Times and its sister paper, the Arabic Al Rai. The newswires had picked it up and I was glad I had used a pseudonymous byline. The story was running on CNN.

  Aisha came in and sat opposite me. I looked at the paper Zahlan had tossed. The final part of the series was splashed across the centre pages with pictures of the remains of the bombed nightclub.

  ‘Yes, I have.’

  ‘Do you know this Simon Trent?’

  I glanced up at Zahlan, but couldn’t read his expression. I avoided looking at Aisha. ‘No, should I?’

  ‘It’s just that you’re a journalist. I thought you might have met him.’

  I shook my head, gesturing at the piece. ‘Sorry, Abdullah
, never even heard of him. What do you think of this?’

  Zahlan sighed heavily and wheeled around on his chrome-armed black leather executive chair.

  ‘It’s obviously caused a huge row. Our government has threatened to break off diplomatic relations with Israel. You know this, right?’

  I shook my head and tried desperately to stay calm as the surge of adrenaline pulsed through my body.

  ‘No, I didn’t.’

  ‘Yesterday. Israel has withdrawn its ambassador for consultations. They have threatened grave consequences if we proceed with the privatisation and the Jerusalem Consortium wins. Daoud Dajani is under police protection.’

  I was sweating. I’d known this feeling before; it comes with the job. The phone call from the guy whose business has failed because of the article you wrote, the woman whose husband has left her because of your news story. Or, in my case, the head of the borough council you have accused of having an affair with another councillor who turned out to be helping her deal with cancer. End of career.

  I had pushed Lynch’s warnings to the back of my mind as I got on with the job of documenting Daoud’s tale. I had made my decision, sitting there in the stink of the nightclub. But I hadn’t considered the reaction would be this big.

  Aisha’s full voice was bright and neutral. ‘The Israelis have denied they were involved in the attacks, no, Abdullah?’

  ‘They have. The Americans are mediating.’ Zahlan ran his hand through his hair. ‘It’s a mess, to be honest.’

  He pushed his chair back and went to the window. ‘I have just been with Harb. He’s spent the morning with the Prime Minister and HM. It’s been decided.’

  He turned to face the window as he spoke, his hands held behind his back.

  ‘We’re going ahead with the privatisation. It’s an open and transparent process conducted fairly and to international standards. It’s a matter of sovereignty that we have control over the resources and assets of our own country. We will not be bullied.’

  Aisha stood, her eyes shining and a huge grin lighting up her face. ‘That’s fantastic news, Abdullah!’

  Zahlan sat back at his desk, picking up a pen and waggling it at us both. ‘The Minister would like you both to go down to the Dead Sea tomorrow to be ready for the conference. He has asked if you could write news releases for us as well as working on the magazine through the conference? The Ministry will pay you for the additional work, of course. We want to get blanket coverage for this and explain to the world why it is a critical issue for Jordan. HM’s press people and the Petra news agency have both agreed to issue our releases for us. Can you do it?’

  ‘Of course, Abdullah. No problem.’

  ‘Great. Aisha, try and get Paul access to as many stakeholders as you can so he can create as much volume as possible. We need to get our story told.’

  We left Zahlan’s office and went together into Aisha’s, where she closed the door and kissed me and told me what a terribly clever Paul Stokes I was and how much she owed me for helping to save her brother’s life.

  The knock on my front door came just after I arrived home from the celebratory dinner at Aisha’s house. I was thinking dreamily about the next morning’s drive down to the Dead Sea for the conference. We planned to take the long way round so I could see Kerak, the crusader castle mentioned in TE Lawrence’s Seven Pillars of Wisdom. Of the many books I had accumulated in my attempts to come to some sort of understanding of Jordan and its people, Lawrence’s account of the Arab Revolt had woven its magic and I had nagged at Aisha until she had agreed to the detour. I wandered over to the door and pulled it open. Lars waited on my doorstep, his face a picture of sick misery and his arms crossed against the late night cold.

  ‘I am glad you’re back, Paul.’

  The cold and Lars’ grim face chased the warmth and laughter out of me. I stood aside and he walked into the kitchen. I got us a beer from the fridge.

  ‘What’s the problem, Lars? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’

  ‘Yah, maybe I have. I’ve been busted.’

  Lars hadn’t opened his beer. Sitting down, I sipped at the froth that welled up from my can.

  ‘How busted?’

  ‘There was an internal investigation at the telephone exchange. They turned up here today and ripped out the IP telephony equipment and terminated my DSL line. My buddies at the telephone company have been sacked. I’m being transferred to Saudi Arabia.’

  ‘Shit. How did they find out?’

  He ran his hand back through his thin blond hair, shaking his head. ‘That’s what beats me, I can’t for the life of me work out how they knew. This stuff is pretty much untraceable. But they did. They’re talking about fining me thousands of Dinars. My company’s getting me out of here fast to avoid the embarrassment. I guess I’m lucky they didn’t sack me as well.’

  ‘When are you going?’

  Lars laughed, a bitter, short explosion of anger. ‘Tomorrow. First plane out. A great deal. No relocation, no weighting on the salary. Go to Saudi Arabia, do not pass go, do not collect the money. Count yourself lucky.’

  ‘I’m sorry. Is there anything I can help with? Anything I can do?’ I put my can down on the table carefully as I felt the heat of Lars’ glare.

  ‘Don’t you think you have done enough, actually, Paul?’

  I looked around the kitchen before I finally managed to meet his eyes.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Lars opened his beer with a savage little tug at the ringpull, his eyes still on mine. He held the can up to me, his finger pointing from its lid into my face. ‘I think you know exact what I mean.’

  ‘I didn’t tell anyone about the telephone, Lars,’ I said, looking up at him as he drank from the can.

  ‘You didn’t need to, Paul. Did you? Because when they tried to tap your phone they would have found that it doesn’t link to any exchange, wouldn’t they? You know who I mean, ya? Your friends from the embassy? First they beat me up, then I don’t get the message so they do this and have me thrown out.’

  I didn’t answer him and Lars waited until the silence forced me to look up at him.

  His voice dropped to a hushed snarl. ‘You’re a fucking fool, Paul. A crazy fool. Well, I’m off to Saudi so you’re on your own. But you need to get rid of those people, yah? They’ll play with you like a mouse now. They’re crazy. Don’t go on living here with all this shit over your head. Get out, Paul, before something really bad happens.’

  I lit one of his cigarettes, my fingers trembling. ‘You know I can’t leave here now.’

  ‘You have few choices, Paul. You are in a real trouble spot.’

  His idiomatic English made me smile. He snapped, ‘Stop smirking, you fucking idiot. You don’t seem to understand. They will use you until they drop you in the shit and then they will disown you. You’re stuck between the Jordanians, the Brits and the Israelis. You’re going to get screwed, Paul. You’re the little guy. You’re the one they’ll burn.’

  I stared back at him, wide-eyed as he punched the air between us with his finger.

  ‘You think I didn’t know? That you have been playing spies with them? That you wrote that damn piece in The Jordan Times? What, a dumb Swede won’t spot the great journalist’s style? What Brits pay you to start a war, Paul?’

  ‘It’s not about starting a war. It’s about avoiding one.’

  ‘What, you are crusader now? You will save the world, little man with a pen?’

  I didn’t care anymore, didn’t care enough to answer him. But Lars was relentless.

  ‘I know these people, Paul. I knew Andre Sillere, the guy who discovered the damn Roman aquifers Dajani is going to drill into. I know the French guys who are doing the boring work. I drink with them. And I know who your Irish friend is, too. Why didn’t you be the one to tell me who he is, Paul? Why didn’t you tell me he’s a damn spook?’

  ‘I didn’t want to involve you.’

  ‘What, Paul? What? I did not hear that. You
speak quiet these days, no?’

  ‘I said I didn’t want to involve you.’

  He hammered the can down onto the rough pine tabletop. ‘I am involved now, Paul, no? I am fucking involved. They beat the shit out of me, broke my gear and now they have thrown me out of my house and quitted my job because I am involved.’

  ‘That’s not my fault, Lars.’

  He got up. ‘It is your fault, Paul. It is your fault for being a crazy asshole and for trying to box too heavy. So, I go. But listen to me, one piece of advice for you, asshole. Get out of here. Now. Just get out.’

  ‘I can’t leave her, Lars. I can’t do it.’

  His voice wavered with suppressed passion. ‘Then fuck you, Paul. You make your choices. But you think about why someone would want the flat above you empty, Paul? Because they could have acted anytime to stop me stealing some little bandwidth. You get me? This was timed by them, not by me.’

  I sat, immobile, looking up at him. I didn’t dare speak for fear the lump in my throat would turn into tears.

  Lars turned at the door. ‘I have got a spare mobile with a pre-paid SIM,’ he said. ‘I’ll drop it to you. Use the second mobile for calls to people you can trust only. Don’t use it to call your Brit spy. Keep it for her. Don’t use names when you’re calling. You’ll have a secure line.’

  I mumbled thanks, but he waved me silent. ‘Forget it Paul, I should have known you were a jerk before. It’s my problem for not noticing.’

  Ten minutes later, the doorbell rang again and I went over to answer it, but there was just a Nokia box on the doorstep. By the time I got up the next morning, Lars had cleared out.

  TWENTY-THREE

  The early morning sun burnt orange in the blush sky, the rocky outcrops either side of us throwing long shadows across the dusty land as we drove down the King’s Highway, the main road from Amman down to the Red Sea.

  I pushed thoughts of Lars and his leaving far away. We opened windows, the fresh air filling our lungs, Aisha’s luxuriant hair billowing in the wind and her eyes sparkling with the sheer joy of speeding down the desert highway. The old Mercedes bucked as its wheels found the ruts left by trucks in the hot summer months when the tarmac softens.