Birds of the Nile (21 page)

Blake stepped forward to allow Mrs Biltmore to close the door behind him.

Lee Yong was standing next to the dressing table in front of the net-curtained window. The floor around the desk had been cleared of its debris and the chair turned to face into the room. In it, Reda sat dozing. He was dressed in a clean set of clothes – but his feet were still bare which had allowed an ice-pack to be strapped to his troublesome ankle. Blake had fully expected he’d still be in bed, but while he’d been out watching Spoonbills, someone had been nursing the invalid since the early hours. He urgently motioned Lee Yong to come across to him and while Mrs Biltmore reverted to tending the patient, he drew her into a corner and out of earshot.

“Are you alright?” Blake’s first concern was for the Malaysian – anything else, Reda’s state of health included, was a secondary
consideration.

“Yes, I’m fine.”

The careworn look which had inhabited her face for the past two days had softened, but not to the extent that it allowed her to smile and she remained a picture of seriousness.

“What on earth’s going on here?”

He nodded in the direction of the large American.

“You mean Mrs Biltmore?”

“Yes. It gave me quite a turn when she opened the door.”

“I can imagine. She and I have been talking.”

“Oh, really?”

There was a cynical tone to his voice – of the two of them, he could guess who’d been doing most of it.

“Yes. It was when we came back to the ship after the riot.” (Blake recalled seeing them together on the sofa.) “She was quite upset – I think we all were. She said it reminded her of things she’d seen in Vietnam.”

“Vietnam?”

“Yes. She told me that when she was young, she was a trained nurse in the US army.”

“Mrs Biltmore? In the army?”

Blake was astounded. Looking at her now it didn’t seem credible.

“Yes,” Lee Yong insisted. “So I thought it wouldn’t do any harm for her to have a look at Reda.”

“Well, I hope you know what you’re doing. I thought you said you didn’t want anyone else to find out. You know what she’s like. If word gets out that he’s holed up in here, there’ll be hell to pay.”

“I trust her, Mr Blake. He needs medical attention – and we were never going to take him to hospital.”

“Well, that’s true.” Blake was forced to relent a little. “Although at the moment it doesn’t look as if he needs it.”

“That’s all been Mrs Biltmore’s doing. The ice-pack was her
idea. She got him up this morning while I went down to his room and fetched his clothes. I was going to ask you to do it…”

But you were out birding…

“Ah…”

And for the first time in the proceedings he felt guilty.

Then he suddenly remembered his hands were still full of plated food and Reda’s belongings and he tried to redeem himself by handing them over as if they were some sort of gift.

“Oh, and I brought these.”

“Thank you. I’ll put it with the other one.”

Lee Yong relieved him of the plate and laid it on the bedside table next to a similar offering, which on closer inspection looked remarkably like the one that Mrs Biltmore had assembled.

Well, whatever else, at least they weren’t going to go hungry…

Mrs Biltmore came back over to join them. If Lee Yong could not raise a smile then she certainly could. She appeared pleased with herself.

“You’ve been busy,” said Blake. For the moment, it was as close as he could get to saying thank you.

“I do what I can,” said the American. “Why, I’m just happy to help Lee here. Ain’t that so, honey?”

Lee Yong nodded. To see them together, you’d think they were lifelong friends.

“We’re very grateful, I’m sure.”

Despite her obvious skills, Blake resented Mrs Biltmore’s intrusion. Reda was something he and Lee Yong shared, and shared alone, and it was what had sustained him over the last twenty-four hours. He’d arranged to bribe a high-ranking policeman, he’d put himself in danger to secure the young Egyptian’s release – and now his potential reward, the society and approbation of the young Malaysian, was being diluted. Not to mention that Mrs Biltmore might prove indiscreet and scupper everything. Lee Yong’s friend or not, she would have to be warned.

“You realise that you mustn’t breathe a word of this to anyone. It’s important that we keep it to ourselves. This has to stay within these four walls – you do understand that, don’t you?”

“Now, don’t you go worrying on my account,” Mrs Biltmore tried blithely to reassure him. “I’m not going to say a thing. It’ll just be between the three of us. I’ve had to tell Ira of course. We’ve been together thirty years – we don’t have any secrets! But if there’s one thing you can be sure of, Mr Blake – he isn’t going to talk, you can rest assured on that.”

Blake believed it – but it wasn’t Ira he was concerned about. Meanwhile, there was Reda to consider.

“Anyway, how’s the patient?” he asked.

“Why, he looks just fine to you and me,” said Mrs Biltmore. “But under that T-shirt he’s a mass of bruises. I don’t know what they did to him in there, but they sure must have worked him over. Don’t you wonder about this world sometimes, Mr Blake? Some people are just like animals. Why, it’s a miracle they didn’t break a bone in his body.”

“They didn’t?”

“Nope. Not one.”

“What about his ankle?”

“It’s just a bad swelling. If we keep that ice-pack on him overnight, in twenty-four hours he’ll be as right as rain.”

“Well, that’s good.”

Twenty-four hours…By which time they’d be in Luxor and preparing to leave the ship. Then what were they going to do with him?

Getting Reda on board had been easy – getting him off again would be much more difficult. They could hardly rely on the same flimsy disguise as the previous evening, it was much too dangerous. It was a complication Blake still had to consider and as yet he’d given no time to it. He began to regret his early morning bout of birding – the hour he’d spent with Spoonbills
would have been far better employed in planning. And now there was the problem of Mrs Biltmore to contend with…

Not for the first time, he went back to his room feeling distinctly apprehensive.

And not for the first time he realised that despite his good intentions, he’d yet again forgotten something. He’d finally succeeded in disposing of Reda’s mobile phone and wallet – but as a result of these mental distractions, he’d neglected to bring Lee Yong’s money. And just as he’d returned the night before with his back pocket full of it, so it now remained in his cabin. It was as though he were haunted and however hard he tried, he could simply not shake these things off.

He resolved to go back again directly after lunch.

The scene in Lee Yong’s cabin had changed noticeably since his visit that morning. Mrs Biltmore had gone, although Blake was sure she would be back later in the day to check on her patient. Any tension that may have prevailed had gone with her and had been replaced by an aura of domestic calm. Reda was still sitting in his chair, the ice-pack clamped firmly to his leg, but now he was wide awake and avidly watching the television, soaking up the pictures from Tahrir Square and the commentary that went with them. He barely acknowledged Blake’s entry but focused studiously on the news.

Their roles reversed, it was now Lee Yong’s turn to lie on the bed propped up by pillows as she resumed reading the cheesy novel Blake had seen abandoned the day before. The plates of food assembled on their behalf had barely been touched and on the bedside table, two half-empty cups of mint tea stood next to each other. There was an air of homely normality about it that at other times might be found quite restful. Blake was loath to disturb them.

He wondered as to the young Egyptian’s motivation. His voluntary surrender during the riot had been an act of bravado and he’d shown no fear of the police. But he was not, Blake had concluded, a terrorist and there was no possibility he would strap himself with explosive and blow them all apart. Was he seeking martyrdom of another kind? Perhaps he’d determined to sacrifice himself for the betterment of his country – but if so, it was a selfish thought for in doing so he endangered not only himself but also those who supported him. They’d put themselves in peril to help him – Lee Yong, himself and now Mrs Biltmore – but was he mindful of the risks they were taking? Somehow Blake doubted it, and although he might profess his thanks, the young man seemed tuned to his own agenda and oblivious to their safety.

Reda began stirring in his chair. Blake tip-toed across to speak to him and as he approached, the young Egyptian hauled himself up to sit straighter. Under the circumstances, he looked remarkably cheerful.

“Now then,” said Blake. “And how are you feeling this afternoon?”

He sat down on the edge of the bed opposite. It was barely a day since Lee Yong had sat in the same position and he had been in the chair.

“Much better, thank you, Mr Blake,” said Reda. “As you can see, I am in good hands.” He nodded in the direction of his carer.

“Yes, you’re a lucky man to have such attention.” There was a touch of jealousy in Blake’s comment. “Mrs Biltmore tells me you took a bit of a pasting the other evening.”

Although there was clearly no jealousy in that.

“As I said to you last night, Mr Blake, it was a light beating, nothing more. In fact I consider myself fortunate. Many of my colleagues have suffered far worse than I. Some have died already. And I don’t doubt that many more will do so before this work is finished.”

“You take all this quite seriously, don’t you?”

Blake didn’t mean to sound flippant, but at his university, protest had often been a matter of style rather than conviction.

“Of course we take it seriously!” Reda was indignant. “You don’t imagine we enter into this lightly, do you? It’s not a game, Mr Blake.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to belittle…” He paused and attempted to recover himself. “But what about the police? Doesn’t their attitude bother you?”

“Pah!” Reda scoffed. “The police? They’re nothing more than Mubarak’s Gestapo. We don’t let them intimidate us with their presence. They’ve always been there and they always will. But now it’s time to move on. They think that they can hurt us with their bullets and their batons, but they can never take away our
dignity.”

“Is that what this is all about – dignity?”

“That, and justice and freedom. Those are the watchwords of our revolution, Mr Blake. It’s our response to how humiliated and how hopeless we’ve been made to feel over the last four decades. You see, we’ve been bullied into thinking that nothing can change – but we know that’s not true, and now we’ll show the world that it can.”

As a historian, Blake had studied revolution in many forms. The subject fascinated him – and here he was, right at the heart of one.

“Oh, and how do you intend to do that?”

“There is only one way, Mr Blake. We have to get rid of Mubarak. Only when he’s gone will things be different. Mohamed Bovaziz in Tunisia gave us the strength to get started when he set himself alight. Now it’s time for us to put a torch to Mubarak. He’s the one who really deserves to burn!”

Reda spoke with fervour and his eyes shone bright with belief. What faith these young people had in themselves, thought Blake – they believed they could move mountains. Later, when the mountain proved intractable, they would learn it was easier to move round it…

“I’m sure your father would be proud of you.”

The remark caused Reda to start – it had come out of the blue. Blake felt an explanation was required.

“It came to my attention,” he said vaguely. “Let’s just say I made some enquiries.”

“I see…” Reda seemed slightly embarrassed. “My father (may he rest in peace) was a great man, Mr Blake. But this has nothing to do with him. He was an Islamist and I am not – the old choice between Mubarak and the Brotherhood is dead. This is a new Egypt. This is about the people, not their religion. They want their rights as human beings and that’s something Mubarak has always denied them.”

“And you think that’s worth dying for?”

“I know it’s not worth living without it. And if you’re asking me whether I’d go back and do it again, well, yes, I would. I’d do it a hundred times if it meant that Egypt could be free. And there are thousands of my brothers and sisters who would do the same. The people are on our side Mr Blake – we have the numbers and they cannot stop us however hard they try. We will win – I promise you that – and in a few years’ time you will see a different Egypt than you do today.”

Blake shuffled uncomfortably on the edge of the bed. The concepts that lay behind revolution were interesting – but the effects were equally worrying. He’d grown to love Egypt the way it was – poor, oppressed, and yet proud – why should he want it to be different? For him, the country acquired its dignity from the way it coped with its adversities – not from how it would be once it had overcome them. That was partly what made it such a special place – that and its quirky, unpredictable nature. In prewar Italy Mussolini had made the trains run on time – post-war Egypt had yet to manage it. Was all that lovable chaos to go in this new scheme of things? He sincerely hoped not. But then, he always did have a problem with change…

Reda’s views were unsettling – and it was not just the content of them that disturbed Blake but the manner in which they were expressed. They did not admit of doubt and were held with a deep-seated passion of a kind he could never hope to emulate and it was a source of embarrassment and regret. There would be those who found such conviction appealing – Lee Yong amongst them, and she was drawn to the young Egyptian as a moth was attracted to a flame. The fire that fed it smouldered deep within him – she needed to be careful she did not get burnt.

Blake had no such beliefs with which to tempt her. His fire, if ever lit, had been doused some while ago. Reda was prepared to stand at the barricades to move old Egypt on – but Blake knew that he could not do the same to keep it. Deep in his heart an
inner voice told him that, as usual, he would watch from the sidelines and decline to interfere. He stood up off the bed and allowed the young Egyptian to return to his television. For the moment he’d had enough of revolution.

In the hope of some solace he turned to Lee Yong. She broke off from her reading but he had nothing to offer her other than the balance of her money. The original envelope had been left with the fat policeman, and from amongst his papers Blake had found a replacement which he now placed quietly on the dressing table next to the recharging laptop.

He left soon after, but not before he’d persuaded her to come down to dinner that evening. He told her it would look odd if she did not, and by missing three meals in a row (she’d already skipped lunch in addition to breakfast) she would only attract unwanted comment. And besides, it would be cruel of her to deprive the others of her company purely on account of Reda. He wasn’t the only fish in the sea.