‘Maybe I can lip-read as many languages as you can do accents, Foyzi,’ she replied.
‘Never,’ he said.
A little later she took Foyzi’s advice and began to look around. From the buildings clustered on the rock plateau in the south to the northern end, the island measured about three-quarters of a mile. At its widest point it was about five hundred yards. The banks were covered in dense shrubbery, but at the centre there were citrus groves, palms and several large dark green trees which bore fruit Herrick didn’t recognise. There were also a few square fields cultivated with strips of lucerne, bananas, maize and flower crops, mostly roses and marigolds. Between these grazed tethered water buffalo, goats and a lone donkey.
There was very little noise as she walked – the rustle of a lizard over dead leaves, a bird call or the cough of buffalo – and because she barely glimpsed the river, the only sense she had of it was the smell of heated mud banks and an occasional distant whoosh caused by the current tugging at an obstacle on the bank. In a glade at the northern end she came across the old bread maker, who had made his way there along a more direct path, and was contemplating a wall constructed of drainage pipes and mortar. From the openings spilled swarms of bees that hung in the sun like skin pelts drying. He lifted the swarms with a stick, talking to them in a falsetto.
She made her way back and found a spot where she could see all the buildings and realised they had been designed to look like the blunt prow of a ship forging up the river. They were almost completely hidden from both banks of the Nile by vegetation, and even from where she stood they appeared deserted, a ruin from a colonial past.
She continued walking, deep in thought. She had never been so impressed by the beauty and stillness of a place, yet was aware of its dangerous isolation. The Chief had planned it this way, she was sure. He expected something to happen, some revelation to occur. And when it did, he wanted Loz and Khan away from the world and unable to communicate.
She went to Khan’s room and saw that he was still asleep.
‘I think you had better wake him,’ she told Loz.
He shook his head. ‘We’ve tried.’
She looked at Harland who nodded to agree with Loz. ‘I want him conscious by midday,’ she said, ‘even if it means throwing water over him. Is that understood?’
‘We will do our best,’ said Loz.
‘Just get him to the point where he can answer my questions, ’ she said, and turned on her heel. Harland followed, leaving Foyzi to watch them.
They walked to the most shaded part of the island in the east where a tree grew out into the river. Herrick perched on a low branch.
‘So now you’re going to tell me about this woman?’
He looked at her for a while, then shrugged. ‘She left six weeks after nine-eleven,’ he said. ‘November first to be precise. Just vanished. No letter, message or phone call; no activity on her checking account; no record of her having left the United States or having bought a plane ticket in her own name. Nothing.’
‘Had you been together long?’
‘About a year. I fell for her nearly thirty years ago. That didn’t work out, then we got together a couple of years back. It was after the business in the Balkans. You probably heard about it.’
‘I know it did for Walter Vigo – at least temporarily. You had a son together?’
‘Yep. When he died it was a very deep shock to her. She moved to be with me in New York but never settled down. She didn’t know anyone there and turned in on herself. My job took me away. It was difficult.’
‘And you tried to trace her?’
Harland nodded. ‘She knew how to disappear. She did it once before when we were young.’
‘Where is she?’
‘In Tel Aviv.’
‘She’s Jewish?’
‘Yep, though it was never particularly important to her, apart from the fact that her mother’s family in Czechoslovakia was wiped out in the Holocaust. Her mother was the only one left.’
Herrick thought for a moment. ‘Maybe she was reclaiming her Jewish ancestry. Trying to put herself in some kind of context.’
Harland nodded. ‘Something like that.’
‘How did they find her?’
‘Spotted her at Heathrow, followed her and then traced her to Israel.’
She thought, he’s holding something back. Either that, or there’s something else he doesn’t understand.
‘So you’ll try to see her?’
‘Yes, I’ll go directly from here. I’ve got work in Damascus anyway.’
‘And you have to go now?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I’ve got a bloody job to do.’
By the early afternoon the mercury in an old enamel thermometer in her room reached the 105-degree mark. Nothing moved. The leaves on the trees hung limp and the birds and insects had long ceased to make any sound. In search of some movement in the air, Herrick climbed to a covered turret and looked across the swathes of green either side of the river to the unforgiving mountains in the west and east. Harland spotted her and shouted up that Khan was awake. She rushed down the narrow stairway and went to the room with him.
‘How are you?’ she asked, approaching the bed.
‘He’s doing very well,’ said Loz.
‘That’s good,’ she said, smiling at Loz.
‘I was just telling him that he must have lost forty pounds since I saw him last,’ said Loz. ‘I can’t believe he’s still alive.’ There was certainly love in his eyes but also an expectant look.
‘Have you explained that we have to ask him some questions? ’ she asked.
‘It is too soon,’ he replied. ‘I don’t think he has the strength.’
She crouched down so that she was at eye level with Khan. ‘We know you’ve suffered terribly,’ she said softly, ‘but I was wondering if you wouldn’t mind talking to us for a little while?’
He glanced at Loz. ‘That will be all right,’ he said. Again the perfect English she’d heard in Albania surprised her. ‘I can try to help.’
She put the notepad and digital recorder down and touched his hand. ‘I’m really sorry about this, Karim. The moment you feel too tired you must tell us.’
‘It’s okay,’ he said. ‘But there are some things that are… not very clear at the moment.’
‘He’s on very strong painkillers,’ Loz interjected.
‘Can I ask you about The Poet?’
‘I’ve already told you about him,’ said Loz.
‘I know, but we really do need to find out more about him.’ She turned to Khan. ‘The Poet, who is he?’
‘The Poet was a man in Bosnia. But this was only our name for him.’
‘What was his real name?’
Khan shook his head helplessly.
‘You know that a man calling himself The Poet went to see Dr Loz in New York to ask him for money? He mentioned your name and after Dr Loz had given him the money he gave him a photograph of you. Mr Harland has it here.’ Harland delved into his shirt pocket and handed it to her. ‘Is that you?’
‘Yes, this is me… but I thought…’ he looked towards Loz doubtfully.
‘What?’
‘I don’t know… I’m confused.’
She waited. ‘Who took the picture?’
‘A man in Afghanistan. I don’t know his name.’
‘Did you give the picture away? How did it get into the hands of the man calling himself The Poet?’
He shook his head. ‘I do not remember… I’m sorry.’
