Strangers Page 10

  ‘It’s…discouraged,’ Yasmin said.

  Najia was more outspoken. ‘The authorities are scared there might be an opportunity for vice. Look at us, sitting here, wasting time when we could be doing the same thing at home.’

  Yasmin grimaced and fanned herself with a piece of paper. She still had some weeks to go, but she seemed overwhelmed by her pregnancy. She closed her eyes and leaned back in her chair, looking exhausted and uncomfortable.

  ‘Are you well?’ Najia’s voice was anxious. ‘Maybe you should go home.’

  Yasmin shook her head. ‘And listen to my mother-in-law tell me off for working? It’s more restful here.’

  ‘What do they say at the clinic?’ Najia asked.

  ‘I don’t go to the clinic,’ Yasmin said briskly. ‘I wish to have my child at home.’ Before Najia could respond, she turned to Roisin. ‘Professor Souad did set up a library group a couple of years ago, for students to stay on campus and use the facilities, but that was stopped. The authorities decided that it was not a good idea.’

  ‘You should go to the clinic,’ Najia persisted. ‘Shouldn’t she, Roisin?’

  Roisin met Yasmin’s eyes. ‘I’d go to the clinic, if it was me,’ she said.

  ‘Truly, Roisin, I am well cared for.’ Her tone brooked no argument and she cast Najia a look that said clearly, Not now. ‘The students here,’ she said, returning to the subject they had been discussing, ‘many of them are happy with what they have.’

  ‘They have nothing,’ Najia said abruptly. ‘Everything they have, everything they do, it depends on some man. If their father, or their brother, or their husband says “No”, then they are forbidden. They can’t be educated, they can’t travel, they can’t even go to hospital if their guardian forbids it. Since my father died, I have to have my brother’s permission to come here. He is younger than me, but it makes no difference. And if we break the rules, other students will report us.’

  ‘But some women are talking about it, aren’t they?’ Roisin looked from one to the other. ‘I’ve been watching the web site…’

  ‘Some,’ Yasmin agreed. ‘But not many.’ She frowned slightly and looked at Najia. ‘When the elections were announced, some women were planning to run for office. We thought the government would support us.’

  ‘But they didn’t,’ Najia said. ‘We will not even be allowed to vote. Prisoners will, but women will not.’

  ‘Are you going to do anything about it?’ Back home, women would have been marching and protesting. Here, Roisin only knew about the women’s views because of what Yasmin and Najia told her. The TV programmes and the newspapers were silent on the subject.

  Najia and Yasmin exchanged a quick glance. ‘We may have to make some hard choices. Political organizations are not legal here,’ Yasmin said. ‘Some of us…we have cultural salons. Other women, in other places, have these too. We can discuss things, talk about how we can work towards what we want.’

  Najia studied the book that was open in front of her. ‘We all have to make hard choices.’ She glanced at Yasmin. ‘As you did.’

  Yasmin shook her head, frowning, and didn’t respond. ‘We have to be careful,’ she explained to Roisin. ‘There have been some arrests.’

  ‘If there is anything…’ Roisin was hesitant to make the offer. She didn’t know what she could do, and she could imagine what Joe would say if she did get involved.

  Yasmin smiled. ‘Truly, Roisin, this is our problem, not yours.’ There was silence for a while, then she said, ‘Have you been to the al-Mamlaka mall yet?’

  It was such an abrupt change of subject that it took Roisin a moment to respond. This must be the women’s mall Damien O’Neill had mentioned that first day in Riyadh. Roisin could still remember the dismissive note in his voice. A lot of the wives go there. ‘No,’ she said. ‘I haven’t. Not yet.’

  ‘One day,’ Yasmin said, ‘you must come with us. We can have coffee and talk.’ Roisin waited, but the conversation seemed to be over, so she went back to her journal. Suddenly, Yasmin said, ‘Do you have a maid?’

  ‘No.’ Roisin was surprised at the question. A lot of the ex-pats employed servants, usually houseboys, but she didn’t.

  ‘I wondered if you ever talked to them. The maids.’

  ‘No. But I talk to the gardeners.’

  Yasmin bit her lip. ‘I have spent time in the West,’ she said. ‘My family–my husband’s family–do not like this. But I have. We aren’t good to our servants here, I think.’

  ‘I’ve heard this,’ Roisin said. She had heard stories of women being beaten and abused in London when they had travelled to the UK with the Saudi families who employed them, imprisoned because their employers held their passport, and because their permission to be in the country was dependent on their status as servants.

  ‘I—’ Yasmin stopped speaking abruptly.

  ‘I see I am interrupting.’ Professor Souad was standing in the doorway watching them. ‘I thought you were working, but I see you are discussing servants. It is an interesting problem.’ She turned to Roisin. ‘I believe that mostly in the UK you cannot afford servants.’

  ‘Most people can’t,’ Roisin agreed. ‘There’s no need, anyway. People employ cleaners and child-minders. Mostly part-time.’

  ‘I see. So there is no need to provide the food, the clothing and the accommodation. This is good. More and more I find myself admiring your democracy.’

  Roisin, remembering her previous encounters with the professor, didn’t comment. Souad waited, then said to Yasmin, ‘There are student papers waiting for you in my office.’ Then to Najia, ‘Your family will not be pleased to find you wasting time when you are here to study.’

  Najia gathered up her possessions and left quickly. Yasmin stayed where she was. ‘I will collect the papers for grading when I have completed my work on this. Roisin and I have a class to plan.’

  Souad raised her eyebrows. ‘Roisin does not need help with planning her teaching.’

  ‘No,’ Yasmin agreed. ‘But I need help in learning how to do this.’

  Souad thought about this and gave an abrupt nod before she left the room. ‘Papers. Today. For grading,’ she said, leaving Roisin and Yasmin exchanging glances like unruly schoolgirls.

  15

  Damien’s office was in one of the modern blocks in downtown Riyadh. From his high vantage point, he could look down on the drivers playing Russian roulette in the heavy traffic. In this part of the city, pedestrians were few, apart from people–always men–moving between office blocks or the small urban malls that lined the streets.

  He was putting together a report about developments in recruitment and training strategy that might help to fill the skills gap that was developing. The economies of the developed world might not be healthy, but they could still pay their skilled workers good salaries. The Kingdom was haemorrhaging ex-pat workers. It was hardly surprising.

  Earlier that year, a well-respected banker had been shot on the streets of al-Khobar, and his body had been dragged for miles behind a car followed by a mob howling their triumph–an event that would have brought down brutal reprisals if it had happened elsewhere in the Middle East. A group of ex-pats had been taken hostage in their housing compound, and several had their throats cut before the police drove the hostage-takers out. A TV journalist, a Middle East expert and sympathizer with the Arab cause, had been shot on the streets of Riyadh as he tried to film a report.

  Damien knew he must be a target himself. He tried to be inconspicuous, but he moved in Arab circles, and to some people that would be provocation enough.

  Will you walk into my parlour…? The people who could afford to stayed away. The salaries they could command in the Kingdom were higher, but so were the chances of getting their throats cut. What he needed was a recession.

  He was staring into space, letting his mind run through the problem again, when his phone rang. It wasn’t the extension that would be routed through his secretary, it was his direct line.

/>   ‘O’Neill.’ The voice was abrupt. ‘I want you to tell me what’s going on.’

  It was Arshak Nazarian.

  Damien thought quickly, but he had no idea what was upsetting the man. ‘Nothing out of the ordinary, as far as I know,’ he said.

  ‘I see. Someone tries to hack into my systems looking for stuff about Haroun Patel. Then you turn up in my offices asking questions about him. Maybe, just maybe that was coincidence. But now someone’s attacked my system again. What’s this about?’ Under the measured tones, Damien could hear real anger.

  ‘All I know is that people are showing an interest in Haroun Patel.’ There was no point in keeping that quiet. ‘I’ve had one or two queries about his conviction.’

  ‘His conviction…’ Suddenly, Nazarian’s voice was thoughtful. ‘That’s…odd. Who’s been asking?’

  Amy, for one. But Nazarian had actually echoed his own views. It didn’t matter now whether Haroun Patel was innocent. The act of execution had sealed his guilt.

  ‘What did the hacker go after?’

  ‘Patel’s records and…’ He stopped. ‘Whoever it was did a good job, but not good enough. I found his traces in my system this morning.’

  Joe Massey was obviously spending a lot of time in the internet café.

  Nazarian was speaking again. ‘These people who’ve been asking you questions–I assume we aren’t talking about anyone official.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And are you going to tell me who they are?’

  ‘They spoke to me in confidence.’

  ‘I see.’ Nazarian’s voice was cold. He was right to be upset. His system contained information that might be sensitive–he had his business interests to protect. Damien might not like Nazarian’s business, but it was all legal.

  As far as he knew.

  Maybe that was it. Maybe Nazarian had been cutting corners, and whoever was digging around in his systems was getting a bit too close. As he put the phone down, he was reminded of his own unfocused edginess, the feeling that there was something he had seen but had not noticed, something that had been tugging at his subconscious for the past few weeks. He let his mind drift to see if anything emerged, but there was nothing. Something had drawn Amy to the Patel case. Joe Massey had been asking questions. None of it meant anything. Maybe it was time to have a quiet word with Massey.

  Nazarian’s call had broken his concentration. He needed a break. He decided to go out to one of the street cafés for coffee. He picked up his hat and sunglasses, told his secretary he was going out, and left the air-conditioned cool of the building.

  Outside, the street was brilliant in the high sun. The light reflected off the concrete walls and off the paving slabs. The sky was a deep, cloudless blue. He could feel the heat start to burn through his skin, even under the protective shadow of his hat.

  But deep inside himself, he felt cold, as if he was aware of unfriendly eyes that were searching, tireless and indefatigable. For the first time, he felt as though he had attracted their attention, that they were studying him, hostile but uncertain, and if they looked at him, they might cast their gaze just a bit wider, and find…what?

  16

  Embassy of the United States of America

  Riyadh, Saudi Arabia

  WARDEN MESSAGE

  December 2004

  …Be aware of your surroundings. Take note of vehicles or individuals that do not appear to belong in the area and immediately report them to authorities…

  ‘I got an invitation to go to the mall the other day.’ Roisin was experimenting with her hair in front of the mirror. She and Joe were getting ready to go to a party–their first night out together in weeks.

  ‘Who from?’ Joe was reluctantly getting changed, making his lack of enthusiasm for the evening clear.

  ‘Yasmin–she’s one of the teaching assistants.’ He was standing in front of the mirror, knotting his tie. Dress standards in Saudi were more formal than in the UK. ‘Better be careful. Saudi women wear Gucci to scrub the floor.’

  ‘They don’t scrub floors. Their maids do it. What do you think of this?’ She turned from the mirror and showed him her hair swept up and clipped on top of her head.

  ‘It’s pretty.’ He studied her for a minute. ‘But…’ He came across to her and ran his fingers through her hair, freeing it from the clips so that it fell loose round her face. ‘That’s prettier. I like it better like that. That’s how you looked the first time I saw you.’

  ‘The day I almost knocked you into the canal?’

  ‘Oh, I saw you before that.’ He was standing very close to her. ‘Do we have to go to this thing?’

  She looked up at him and sighed. ‘I think we do–she phoned this morning to make sure we were still coming.’

  He kept his eyes on hers. There was something in his gaze that disturbed her. Then he shrugged. ‘OK.’ He released her without further comment. Before she could say anything, he’d left the room, and she heard his feet on the stairs. She bit her lip. Just for a moment it had been like looking at a stranger.

  You hardly know him…

  She shook off her sudden doubt, and took her dress out of the closet. She slipped it on and looked in the mirror. Her hair hung round her shoulders in loose curls, brightened by the sun. All she needed in the way of make-up was a slick of colour on her lips and some sparkle round her eyes. Her green dress was softly draped, and cut with a deep V at the front.

  When she went downstairs, Joe was waiting by the door, his eyes skimming the paper. He barely glanced at her. ‘Ready?’

  She touched his arm. ‘Joe, what’s wrong? You’re wound up like a spring–I wish you’d talk to me.’

  He shook her hand off. ‘Christ, Roisin, what do I have to do to get it right with you? I’m coming to this party, aren’t I?’

  They left the house in silence.

  The party was on the other side of the city. Roisin sat beside Joe as he negotiated the Riyadh traffic. They were both angry. He was driving faster than usual and she could see the tension in his jaw.

  The sun had set–night came quickly here–but as they entered the city, Roisin could see that the young men behind the wheels wore glasses tinted to impenetrable black, they had their cell phones clamped to their ears, and drove with the recklessness of invincible youth. She was reminded of American teenagers driving their cars around town, cool and edgy, boys and girls eyeing each other up in a complex courtship ritual. But here the cars were bigger and more expensive, and a crucial part of the equation was missing.

  She could feel the attention of the young men snagging on her as they stopped at a red light and was glad that she had tied her scarf tightly so that her blonde hair was concealed. There was something predatory in the air.

  Joe turned off the highway on to a slip road, away from the centre out towards the suburbs. They followed the road for another twenty minutes then he pulled up outside the gate of a walled compound where the ubiquitous security guards waited, and presented his identification. The gate swung open and a guard waved them through.

  The noise of the party spilled out as the houseboy opened the door to them. The first thing that struck her as she stepped into the house was the chill of the air-con and she was glad of her wrap. The hostess greeted them with a bright, social smile and a glass of homebrew. ‘Roisin and Joe,’ she said. ‘I’m so pleased you could come.’

  Roisin tasted her wine. It was sour and acidic. She glanced quickly at Joe, wanting to re-establish contact, but he didn’t meet her eye. He was looking round the room and she could feel the tension in him. She heard him mutter ‘Shit,’ under his breath.

  A woman waved to her from across the room, and beckoned her over. Roisin recognized her, and saw she was with a group of women she’d talked to before. She couldn’t face another session of complaints about how terrible Saudi was, how awful the Saudis were, how inefficient and grasping the servants. She smiled brightly and looked quickly round the room. She spotted a fair-haired man standing on
his own, looking rather bored. There was something familiar about his face–and then she recognized him. It was Damien O’Neill, the man who had shown them round the city on their first day.

  She turned to Joe to point O’Neill out to him, but he’d moved across the room and was already incorporated into a group of people she didn’t know, people from the hospital presumably.

  She trod hard on her anger and made her way over to where O’Neill was standing. ‘Hello,’ she said. Her voice sounded abrupt and breathless in her ears. ‘You probably don’t remember me. Roisin Massey. You gave us a quick tour of the city when we arrived. I’ve been meaning to call you to say thanks.’ She noticed he had orange juice rather than wine. Probably a wise choice.

  His smile was carefully neutral. ‘It was my pleasure. How are you?’ It was the measured politeness of someone who didn’t expect the exchange to last beyond social courtesy.

  ‘I’m fine. Thank you.’

  ‘Your husband?’

  ‘Yes. He’s fine.’ For some reason, there seemed to be no other word in the English language apart from fine. ‘Are you…’ she floundered for a moment, trying to think of a question. ‘Have there been many new arrivals recently?’

  He looked distracted, as though he was running the conversation on auto-pilot, his mind elsewhere. ‘No. Are you happy with your accommodation?’

  She said quickly, ticking the items off on her fingers: ‘The house is fine, thanks. Work’s going well. We aren’t planning a holiday, so we can’t talk about that. I don’t have a maid, but the gardener is doing a great job. And the weather’s been good.’ She looked at him. ‘Fine, in fact. Like everything else.’

  For a moment, his face was blank, then he laughed. ‘Point taken,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry. There’s a standard conversation you have at these parties. I can do it without thinking now.’

  ‘So why do you come? You don’t need to, do you?’

  He looked round. ‘Oh, I need to keep in touch. Actually, I’m supposed to be meeting someone, or I might have given this one a miss.’ He was studying her more closely now, and she wondered what he saw, because he said, ‘Are you really settling in OK? It’s not an easy place, especially for a woman.’