He heard the throb of a powerful engine. A Mercedes arrived and moved slowly through the quarter. The black paintwork was brown with dust.
In the fenced vehicle park opposite the shelter, the guard unchained the high gate with a loud metallic rattle.
The car drove in and stopped, and two guards with rifles got out. Then two more men emerged. One was tall, wearing a black dishdasha and a white taqiyah cap. Abdul’s pulse quickened as he saw that the man had grey hair and a black beard. He turned slowly around, surveying the encampment with a coldly unemotional gaze, showing no reaction to the ragged women, the exhausted men, or the ramshackle shelters where they lived; he might have been looking at bedraggled sheep in a barren landscape.
The second man was East Asian.
Abdul palmed his good phone and surreptitiously took a photo.
Mohammed came hurrying along the path, a look of delighted surprise on his face, and said: ‘Welcome, Mr Park! How pleasant to see you again!’ Abdul noted the Korean name and took another picture.
Mr Park was well dressed, in a black linen blazer, tan chinos, and heavy-duty ankle boots with ridged soles. He wore sunglasses. His hair was thick and dark, but his round face was lined, and Abdul guessed he was about sixty.
Everyone around treated the Korean with deference, even his tall Arab companion. Mohammed kept smiling and bowing. Mr Park ignored him.
They began to walk along the litter-strewn path towards the guards’ compound. The tall Arab put his arm around Mohammed, and Abdul was able to see his left hand on Mohammed’s shoulder. The thumb was a shortened stump with a gather of twisted skin. It looked like a combat wound that had never been properly treated.
There was no further doubt. He was al-Farabi, ‘the Afghan’， the most important terrorist in North Africa. And this was the Hole, Hufra, his headquarters. Yet he seemed to defer to a Korean superior. And the geologist was Korean too. The North Koreans seemed to be running the gold mine. Clearly they were more deeply involved in African terrorism than anyone in the West suspected.
Abdul had to share this information before he was killed.
Watching the group walk away, he noticed that al-Farabi was the tallest, and the cap added another inch or two: he understood the power symbolism of height.
Then he saw Kiah coming in the other direction, toting a plastic demijohn of water on her shoulder, one hip thrown sideways for balance. She was young, and despite having spent nine days in a slave camp she looked vigorous and supple as she carried her burden with little apparent effort. She glanced at al-Farabi, saw the two men with rifles, and moved to give them a wide berth. Like all the slaves she knew that no encounter with guards ended well.
However, al-Farabi stared at her.
She pretended not to notice and quickened her step. But she could not help looking alluring, for she had to walk with her head high and her shoulders back to carry the weight, and her thighs moved strongly under the thin cotton robes.
Al-Farabi kept walking but looked back over his shoulder, and his deep-set dark eyes followed her as she hurried away, no doubt appearing just as attractive from behind. That look troubled Abdul. There was cruelty in al-Farabi’s eyes. Abdul had seen such an expression on the faces of men looking at guns. Oh, Christ, he thought, I hope this doesn’t turn nasty.
At last al-Farabi turned and faced forward. Then he said something that made Mohammed laugh and nod.
Kiah reached the shelter and set down the heavy water container. Straightening up, she looked flustered and said: ‘Who was that?’
‘Two visitors, both apparently very important,’ Abdul replied.
‘I hate how the tall Arab looked at me.’
‘Stay out of his way if you can.’
‘Of course.’
There was a noticeable uptick in the discipline of the guards that evening. They walked around the camp briskly, rifles in hands, not smoking or eating or laughing at jokes. Vehicles were searched coming in as well as going out. Sandals and sneakers disappeared and they all wore boots.
Kiah wrapped her headscarf around her face, leaving only her eyes visible. Several of the women covered their faces for religious reasons, so she was not conspicuous.
It did no good at all.
*
Kiah was afraid the tall man would send for her, and she would be locked in a room with him and forced to do whatever he wanted. But she had nowhere to go. The camp had no hiding places. She could not even leave the shelter, for Naji would cry for her if she was away long. Darkness fell and the day cooled, and she sat at the back of the shelter, alert and scared. Esma took Naji on her lap and told him a story, in a quiet voice to avoid disturbing the others. Naji put his thumb in his mouth. In a few minutes he would be asleep.