He adjusted the electronic zoom on his binoculars and focused them on Sabir’s face. The man was rigid with fear. That was good. If Sabir was to survive, this fear of his would stand Bale in good stead in his search for the manuscript. He could use it. Such a man was manipulable.
The girl, on the other hand, was more of a problem. She came from a defined culture, with defined mores. Just like her brother. There would be parameters. Lines she would not cross. She would die before telling him of certain things she considered more important than her life. He would have to approach her in other ways. Through her virginity. Through her desire to be a mother. Bale knew that the Manouche gypsies defined a woman solely through her ability to have children. Take this away and the woman had no centre. No meaning. It was something he would bear in mind.
Now the girl’s cousin was walking away from Sabir, the knife in his hand. Bale adjusted the binoculars again. Not a throwing knife. That was bad. The weight would be difficult to gauge. No balance. Too much drift.
Ten yards. Fifteen. Bale sucked at his teeth. Fifteen yards. Forty-five feet. A crazy distance. It would be hard even for him to hit a defined target at such a divide. But perhaps the gypsy was better than he suspected. The man had a smile on his face, as if he felt confident about his abilities.
Bale swung the binoculars back towards Sabir. Well. At least the American was putting on a good front for a change. He was standing straight up and facing the knife-thrower. The girl was standing over to the side, watching him. They were all watching him.
Bale saw the gypsy draw back his hand for the throw. It was a heavy knife. It would need some power to take it that distance.
Alexi swung forward, driving the knife in a long, looping arc towards Sabir. There was a communal gasp from the onlookers. Bale’s tongue darted out from between his teeth in concentration.
The knife struck the board just above Sabir’s hand. Had it touched? The blade was curved. There couldn’t be much in it.
The Bulibasha and a few of his minions were moving at a leisurely pace towards the board to inspect the position of the knife. All the gypsies were converging on the Bulibasha. Would they kill Sabir straight off? Make it a communal effort?
The Bulibasha pulled out the knife. He flourished it three times around his head, then reached towards Sabir’s arm and cut through the leather straps. Then he threw the away from him disdainfully.
‘Oh, what a lucky boy,’ said Bale under his breath. ‘Oh what a lucky, lucky boy.’
25
‘The police are watching you.’
Sabir raised his head from the pillow. It was Alexi. It was obvious, however, that if Sabir expected any mention of – or even an apology for – that morning’s proceedings, he would have to wait a very long time indeed.
‘What do you mean, watching me?’
‘Come.’
Sabir rose and followed Alexi out of the caravan. Two children, a boy and a girl, were waiting outside, their faces tense with suppressed excitement.
‘These are your cousins, Bera and Koine. They have something to show you.’
‘My cousins?’
‘You are our brother now. These are your cousins.’
Sabir wondered for a moment whether Alexi was having him on. By the time he had gathered his wits together and had realised that no sarcasm was intended, it was too late to offer to shake hands with his new family, for the children had gone.
Alexi had already started walking towards the periphery of the camp. Sabir hurried to catch up with him.
‘How do you know it’s the police?’
‘Who else would be watching you?’
‘Who else indeed?’
Alexi stopped in his tracks. Sabir watched as his face gradually changed expression.
‘Look, Alexi. Why would the police bother to keep me under observation? If they knew I was here they would simply come in and pick me up. I am wanted for murder, don’t forget. I can’t see the Surete playing a waiting game with me.’
They had reached the ridge behind the camp. The children were pointing towards a gorse bush.
Alexi ducked down and wriggled his way underneath the bush. ‘Now. Can you see me?’
‘No.’
‘You come and do it.’
Alexi made way for Sabir, who eased himself beneath the thorns. Straight away he encountered an indentation which allowed him to slide down underneath the bush and emerge, head forwards, the other side.
Sabir instantly saw what Alexi was getting at. The entire camp was within his line of vision, but it was a virtual impossibility for anyone inside the camp to see him in turn. He backed awkwardly out of the den.
‘The children. They were playing panschbara. That’s when you draw a grid in the sand with a stick and then throw a bicycle chain into it. Bera threw the chain too far. When he ducked down to collect it, he found this place. You can see that it is freshly made – not a blade of grass to be seen.’
‘You understand now why I don’t think it’s the police.’ Sabir found himself trying to weigh Alexi up. Estimate his intelligence. Judge whether he might be of use in what lay ahead.
Alexi nodded. ‘Yes. Why would they wait? You are right. They want you too badly for that.’
‘I must talk to Yola. I think she has some explaining to do.’
26
‘Babel was a drug addict. Crack cocaine. Some of his Parisian friends thought it would be amusing to make an addict of a gypsy. Our people rarely touch drugs. We have other vices.’
‘I don’t see what that has to do…’
Yola placed her fist against her chest. ‘Listen to me. Babel also played cards. Poker. High stakes. Gypsies are crazy for card games. He couldn’t leave them alone. Any money he got, he would go straight to Clignancourt and gamble it away with the Arabs. I don’t know how much he lost. But he didn’t look good, these last weeks. We thought he was sure to end up in jail, or badly beaten up. When we heard about his death, it seemed at first that the gambling must have been the cause. That he owed money and that the maghrebins had gone too far in punishing him. Then we heard about you.’ She transformed her fist into an out-turned palm.
‘Did he really have anything to sell? When he wrote that ad?’
Yola bit her lip. Sabir could tell that she was struggling internally with a problem only she could resolve.
‘I’m you’re brother now. Or so I’m told. Which means that I will act in your interests from here on in. It also means that I promise not to take advantage of anything you tell me.’
Yola returned his gaze. But her eyes were nervous, darting here and there across his face – not settling on any particular feature.
Sabir suddenly realised what her brother’s betrayal and death might really mean to her. Through no fault of her own, Yola now found herself locked into a relationship with a total stranger – a relationship formalised by the laws and customs of her own people so that she might not, of her own volition, easily end it. What if this new brother of hers was a crook? A sexual predator? A confidence trickster? She would have little recourse to any but partial justice.
‘Come with me into my mother’s caravan. Alexi will accompany us. I have a story to tell you both.’
