During the meal Rashid decided he would try and make the conversation more personal. ‘How come you speak such good Arabic?’ he asked.
‘Oh I’ve studied it at A level and at University, but also my Dad used to be in the Embassy in Damascus and in Abu Dhabi, and I picked up a lot while I was there. Where did you learn such good English?’
‘Actually my father is a translator; he’s completely fluent and he always encouraged us to speak it; me and my younger sister.’
‘Oh yes? Where does he work now?’
‘Well we’re originally from Jordan, but my father now works for the civil service in Baghdad,’ he admitted.
‘In Iraq! No wonder you wanted to be at the protest today. Is your family safe, do you think?’
‘I don’t know,’ Rashid shrugged. ‘He works for the government, but he’s not part of it,’ he added hastily. ‘I don’t know if he would be allowed to leave Baghdad. I was going to go back a few weeks ago, but he told me to stay here.’ He fell silent, and Sandra changed the subject.
‘So have you managed to travel around much in the time you‘ve been over in the UK?’ she asked. Rashid smiled and they talked about places they had been and people they had met for the rest of the meal.
They left the restaurant and walked across the road. Coming to the other side Sandra stumbled over the kerb and fell on to the pavement. She began to get up and as Rashid bent down to help her she gave a yelp of pain and clutched her ankle. ‘Oh shit! I’ve sprained it or something.’ With Rashid’s assistance she struggled to her feet, but stood heavily on one leg and said ‘Ow, ow, ow!’ as she tried to put some weight on her right foot. Rashid looked around. His own flat was just twenty metres away.
‘Look, come back to my place. You can rest it for a while. Maybe we can bandage it up. Perhaps we should call a taxi and get you to the casualty department at the hospital.’
She thought for a moment. ‘Is your place on the ground floor?’
‘No, first floor,’ he said.
‘Oh well. If you can help me up the stairs I’ll see if the pain gets worse or passes off after a while.’ She raised an arm. ‘Would you give me a hand?’ He stood next to her and put an arm around her waist, trying not to appear too eager to make the intimate contact. She put her arm across his shoulders and he led her through the door and up the stairs to the flat he shared with Omar, feeling relieved that they had cleaned and tidied the place up the previous afternoon.
He took her over to the sofa and she slumped into it gratefully. Then she bent down, unzipped her boot and took it off along with her sock and she began to massage her ankle.
‘How does it feel now?’ he asked.
‘Damn painful, but it hasn’t swollen up yet. I don’t suppose you’ve got any bandages, have you?’
‘Well, yes. Omar’s got a first aid kit somewhere. Hold on.’ He walked off to the bathroom and found a rolled up bandage still in its wrapper and brought it to her. He watched her unwrap it and then roll it around her foot and ankle with a facility that suggested that she had some first aid training.
‘Can I get you anything else? A drink perhaps?’
She paused and looked up at him. ‘What have you got?’
‘There’s some beer in the fridge, or we’ve got some single malt scotch if you like that,’ he suggested.
‘What are you having?’ she asked.
‘I’ll have a scotch.’
‘Me too then, please. Straight; no ice.’
He returned to the kitchen and poured out a couple of generous measures and carried them back to the sitting room. He passed her a glass and she smiled and took a sip.
‘That’s good stuff. Have you got some scissors, please? This bandage is rather too long. I’ll never get my boot on if I use all of it.’
He returned to the kitchen and found some scissors. He sat down in the easy chair opposite her and watched her tape the bandage in place and then cut off the surplus. ‘That feels much better, thanks,’ she said, wiggling her foot about. I think I’ll be able to head home once I’ve drunk this.’ She settled back into the sofa, smiled at him and lifted her glass. ‘Cheers,’ she said and drank some more.
‘Cheers,’ he replied settled back comfortably and drank as well. He must have drank rather too deeply because his head swam a little. He was really not much of a drinker. It was Omar’s duty free scotch; he usually only drank beer, not spirits. He gazed over at her. She was looking at him with a slight frown on her face. He wondered what to say to restore the smile and while he was wondering, he passed out.
Sandra got to her feet and leant over him. ‘Rashid… Rashid.’ She grasped his shoulder and shook it. Then she put her finger on his eyelid and pulled it up a little. She gave a small sigh, pulled her telephone from her pocket and used her speed dial. ‘It’s Gerry Tate. He’s ready. Yeah, send in the clowns.’
She sat back down and looked around while she unwound the bandage from her ankle which she then crammed into a pocket. There was a computer in a corner of the room with a dual Arabic and English keyboard. She sat down in front of it and switched it on. She nodded in approval when she found that she could sign on as Guest. She opened Word in Arabic and typed a note.
“Good morning, Omar. I have just heard my family are in Amman and I am flying over there to see them. I will return in two weeks, God willing.”
She printed it out, then wiped down the keyboard and placed the message on top of it. The only other things she had touched were the glass and the scissors. She picked up the two glasses and threw the remainder of the whisky down the sink; cleaned and wiped the glasses and put them on the drainer. She heard a vehicle pull up outside and she went downstairs. There was a knock at the door and she opened it. Three men stood there. The man in front was evidently in charge. He was lean, slightly taller than Gerry, with long red hair tied into a pony tail.
‘Operation Clocktower?’ he declared with an interrogative lift and an American accent. A quick grin revealed prominent front teeth and a gold incisor. ‘Geraldine Tate?’
‘That’s me. You must be Neil Samms. He’s upstairs.’
She led the way up to where Rashid lay slumped in his seat. Samms looked at the young Iraqi. ‘Is that him then?’ he asked.
‘No, that’s just some random passer-by,’ Gerry replied.
‘Ok, so you’re a real comedian,’ said Samms.
‘Well of course it’s him; Rashid Hamsin. Father is Ali Hamsin, half Jordanian, half Iraqi. He works as a translator in the foreign affairs department of the Iraqi government in Baghdad. Mother is Tabitha Hamsin; she’s from Amman in Jordan and her brother arranged Rashid’s Jordanian passport and visa to the UK. He’s here as an English student. Age twenty-one on May 2nd this year. Speaks English really well; nice guy.’
Thank you Miss Tate. We’ll take it from here. If you’ve wiped down, you can go.’ It was meant to sound like an order rather than a suggestion and she nearly made some acerbic reply, but instead she just said ‘Ok.’ She was in enough trouble already with Richard Cornwall, her boss, over the shambles with Laurence Baxter and Lyudmila Yakutina. She recalled her meeting with him on her return from Kuwait.
‘Strange how the Russian woman could shoot Baxter after being mortally wounded by a bullet in the chest.’ Richard Cornwall had commented on receiving her report, ‘and then there’s the embassy’s complaint that you never handed back their Glock.’ He had stared at Gerry for a few seconds more and then added ‘but at least the Russians have a dead Brit to set off against their own victim, so maybe it’s not such a bad outcome. We’ll say no more about it, because here’s another task for you to carry out. It relates to the meeting in Frankfurt, but quite how it does, Sir Hugh has not bothered to tell me yet.’