The Mask of Luka

By Eben Beukes

 November2001. The holy month of Ramadan. With the world reeling from the attack on the twin towers, a Delta team is furiously hunting a master terrorist amongst an isolated expatriate community in the mountains of Saudi Arabia. The carefully plante

• Language: English
• Publisher: Pen Culture Solutions
• Release date: Jun 29, 2023
• ISBN: 9781638124177

Eben Beukes

Growing up in apartheid-era South Africa Eben Beukes experienced at first hand the turbulent transition period of that country to a modern democracy. A University of Stellenbosch graduate he worked as a young surgeon in several of the country's "black hospitals" after completing his compulsory military service in the SADF.In later years he worked as a surgeon at a large military hospital in Saudi Arabia, two years in New Zealand and for the five years leading up to 2006 was a senior surgeon at the Armed Forces Hospital in Kuwait City, the base hospital at the start of the Iraq War in 2003.His experience during the six weeks war led to the publication of Pockets of Resistance documenting the often farcical and always chaotic inner workings of a large military hospital with Americans and Arabs reluctantly rubbing shoulders while in the throes of a hot war. A total of seven years in the Middle East provided the background for both The Mask of Louka (Saudi Arabia) and its sequel, Devil's Tumble, both featuring British educated Kuwaiti detective, Riad Ajmi.Earlier novels were political thrillers set against the background of a newly democratic South Africa. These feature Harry Dance in the Shadows of a Rainbow trilogy: The Cherry Red Shadow, The Lily White Shadow and the recently published The Blue Ice Shadow.Other novels include Any Way the Wind Blows, a noir detective novel as well as A Straitlaced Man.Eben Beukes lives in Australia.

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The Mask of Louka

A Novel

Copyright © 2023 by Eben Beukes

Paperback ISBN: 978-1-63812-416-0

Ebook ISBN: 978-1-63812-417-7

All rights reserved. No part in this book may be produced and transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

The viThe views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher. It hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Published by Pen Culture Solutions 06/28/YYYY2023

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Saturday 24 November 2001

DAY ONE

It was the way the young policeman said it that stopped him. The soft voice, almost a whisper and with eyes downcast so as not to witness the embarrassment his observation was sure to cause. ‘You’re doing something—?’

The cigarette. Of course. Riad lowered his bag, careful not to move too suddenly and still there was the sharp twist of pain as he hunched to unsling the shoulder strap. Smiling at the young man in the olive tunic he mumbled an apology and slid the offending cigarette back into the crumpled packet. The policeman shrugged sympathetically adding that it was easy to make a mistake. He too found it hard these days, often checking himself at the last moment before inadvertently bringing something to his mouth. ‘It’s a constant vigil but the rewards are great. Allahu Akhbar.’

Riad nodded in agreement, forcing a wry smile he pushed his way through the milling sea of faces and bobbing heads to where he could see Ali waving at him. One week into Ramadan. The holy month.

How could he forget. Never one for breakfast he had snatched a quick coffee in his Jeddah hotel room that morning before heading to the airport for the short flight to Taif. He had enjoyed a leisurely smoke in the back

of the taxi without any comment from the Pakistani driver but then that was to be expected. The tall dark man in the back seat was after all an Arab. Despite his casual western attire he was very much a Saudi in the confident way he moved and the subtle yet distinct way he rolled the r’s as he gave directions in short clipped Arabic. Yes, an Arab and yet something else there. Something in the way he looked at things; directly and with inquisitiveness. An open gaze. And then there were those eyes. Green with flecks of brown.

One to be wary of. Maybe even a policeman the Pakistani decided as he wove through the early morning traffic. Not one to confront about the fast. He would say an extra prayer at noon.

‘Salaam aleikum.’

‘Marhaba, Ali. Where’s the madame?’

A broadly grinning Ali jerked his head in the direction of the car park as he struggled with the heavy bag off the conveyor. ‘Waiting in the car, master. And with Rania here as well. The little one has an ice cream you know?’

Unable to suppress a smile Riad nodded. That would be his girl and knowing Fareeda he wouldn’t be at all surprised if she had a bite or two herself. Better even if someone was watching.

He let Ali relieve him of the shoulder bag and saw the look of concern in the Palestinian driver’s face as he noticed the bandaged arm. ‘We were all very shocked to hear of the accident in Kuwait., modir,’ he said as they headed for the exit.

‘Thank you, Ali, I’m much better now.’

And he was, he reflected, if one set aside the odd sharp pain and periodic breathlessness, not to mention the recurrent nightmares that would still bring him sharply upright in bed at two in the morning, covered in sweat yet shivering with cold. Clearing his mind he took a deep breath of the warm sweet Taif air as they stepped into the bright sunlight. He instantly felt the pleasant dry heat tingle on his arms and neck. I’m

home he thought, waiting for a lumbering Suburban van to glide past before following Ali to where he could see the family sedan double parked with the engine running. And about to meet my wife and daughter and for once we’re going to have a great time and not go down those bad old roads again.

It was a promise he had made to himself when he first lay in that hospital bed two weeks earlier with a knife wound to the chest that had just missed his heart and a tube draining blood into a bubbling bottle and the stitches tight in his forearm where the surgeons had sutured the tendons. They were going to be a family now and he, Riad al Ajmi, homicide lieutenant and eldest son of the great Ebrahim Ajmi bin Rashid, would be that husband and that father and that son that all seemed to demand of him.

Nearing the car now he felt a sudden twinge of anxiety. What if Fareeda had changed? What if she had taken steps to put into practice those insane plans that had for so long been a barrier between them? Forcing the negative images from his mind he searched anxiously for a first glance of his daughter behind the darkened windows of the car. How would she look now? It had been six months and … The door was flung open and a whirlwind of bright colours, wildly swinging ponytails and flashing dark eyes was in his arms and all but knocking him flat. There were those tiny arms wrapped around his neck so tight he would have choked had he not been all choked up anyway. ‘Daddy!’

‘Hello, baby! My, look at how you’ve grown!’

Wincing at the pain the sudden exertion had brought on he quickly knelt down and held her at arm’s length with his good arm. He saw the concerned look in those impossibly dark eyes as she stared at his bandaged arm where the beginnings of a blood stain was just starting to show. ‘Did they hurt you very badly, daddy?’ she said so softly he had to strain to hear her.

‘I’m much better now, baby,’ he answered brightly as he blinked away the tears that were the product of a peculiar combination of pain and emotion.

She studied his face for what seemed like a long time, as if to memorise every detail and reassure herself that this stranger with the easy smile and the tight black curls was indeed the father she had said a prayer for every night for so long now.

‘I’m glad you’re back, daddy,’ she said at length. Adding with a note of solemn admonition, ‘And I’m not baby anymore. I was seven years old last month!’

Riad nodded making a face. ‘A big girl. Soon the boys will be causing me headaches!’

And thank you, he mused, for not mentioning that I’d all but forgotten that precious birthday had your mother not reminded me that evening when you stubbornly refused to go to bed while you waited for the phone call.

‘They are already swarming like bees.’

Riad straightened up to look at his wife. Even swathed in the ubiquitous formless black abeya, her hair covered by the obligatory headscarf there was no denying she was a beautiful woman. As always the eyes had it. In the world of the cover all hijab Saudi women had little more to flirt with than their eyes. In keeping with the guile of the sisterhood they were carefully made up to lure and tease and offset that fine aquiline nose and the full oh so expressive lips that would part to hint at the whitest most perfect teeth God had ever given to a woman.

But it was above all the way she moved. Tall and slim she swayed with an easy confident stride that was the legacy of the cocktail circuit of Boston all those years ago. It made the abeya alternately float and cling and dance and drew the eye of every man within one hundred yards who was not blind or hopelessly mad. The shoes played a role, of course. Manolo Blahnik, if he remembered correctly, with six inch stiletto heels that made

those impossibly long legs go on forever. And, Riad didn’t have to close his eyes to conjure up the image, underneath that formless piece of matt black medieval cloth she would be wearing a pair of blue designer jeans and a tank top. Dior or maybe even Tom Ford’s summer collection.

Unless, of course, she was wearing nothing at all. ‘Hello, Fareeda,’ he said in English.

‘Welcome back, darling.’ She pecked him on the cheek even as he searched for the slightest inflection in the darling. Oblivious to the stares of the passers by at this unseemly show of public affection between the sexes she led the way back to the car getting into the back with Rania as Ali finished stowing the bags. Minutes later they were on their way with Riad leaning back against the soft seat padding thankful for the extra leg space after the cramped confines of the flight. As they navigated the light traffic to take the road down into the valley he could just begin to see the white outlines of the large rural town that was Taif.

He wondered how long it would take for the first roadblack to come up. Reckoning less than ten minutes, he found himself wearily fingering the travel documents in his pocket. Rania was fiddling with her small pink plastic handbag, producing a crumpled crayon drawing and carefully smoothing it before proudly handing it over. It was of a couple holding hands with a child in the foreground playing with what looked like a cat. The background was blue sky with a palm tree. ‘That’s Milka,’ she said firmly, pointing at the animal.

‘She’s pretty.’

‘He’s a boy, silly! Mommy says there’s too many cats on the compound and he must go to the doctor so he will not have kittens.’

Riad nodded solemnly. ‘And how’s school?’

‘Miss Johnson says I’m the best reader in class. And last week I got a star for being the neatest!’

‘She’s doing so much better now that we’ve moved into the building next to the school. Living on the hospital compound also keeps those ghastly peasant cousins at bay.’

Riad knew what she meant. Shortly after the marriage they had moved into the family compound at Al Hada, a sprawling cluster of buildings in the elaborate three tier flat roofed style of the rich where Riad’s father resided with his two wives and at varying times Riad’s half brothers and half sisters and their spouses and offspring. The number of offspring was already impressive and the noise behind the high walls would rival that of any schoolyard at playtime. Fareeda had played the dutiful wife at first but they both knew it would never work; she was worlds apart from her Bedouin sisters-in-law and fiercely determined not to let go of all she had learned and acquired during those years training as a gynaecologist in the USA. So they had taken the apartment on the compound of the Al Hada Armed Forces Hospital where she worked and now Riad would stay there whenever he made the trip.

Mother and daughter had dragged him along to visit the little American School which was just down the road from their building and he had dutifully shaken hands with Miss Johnson, a Georgian belle with an accent that could strip paint and her small staff of mainly Canadians. The kids were a mix of Pakistanis and Europeans with the odd Egyptian and Muslim American thrown in and Riad couldn’t help noticing that a sizable number of them already mimicked Miss Johnson’s ghastly accent. The teachers were a nice enough lot, all female and from what he could tell all single and most of them there for the adventure and the travel.

‘How’s the family?’ He longed for a cigarette but was determined not to smoke in the car. Not with Rania right there next to him and happily swinging her legs as she glanced from parent to parent in wonderment.

‘Mine or yours?’ Which, Riad thought, was progress of sorts. In the past it had been the Bedouins or the religious freaks?

‘Your brothers. How are things with Samir and Mohammed?’ He’d meet up with his own soon enough.

She shrugged expansively her red nailpolish drawing bright arcs in the air. ‘Samir takes the business of family head as seriously as always and checks up on me at least once a day.’ Riad nodded. They both knew the reason but there was no need to drag it up. Especially not with Rania there. ‘Mohammed is in Riyadh now and working for a big construction company as site engineer.’

There was a silence as Riad glanced out the side window at the countryside speeding past. The first of Taif’s fabled vineyards was coming up now. Trestles of lush green, vivid in contrast to the grey brown hills surrounding. After a moment’s mental search he decided the pinging noise coming from the front was the speeding alarm with which all hospital pool cars were equipped. ‘Slow down, Ali. I want to get there alive.’

‘Iss the muuusic!’ Ali beamed over his shoulder, flashing a crooked smile. He slowed down to a quieter eighty miles per hour. which given the narrow twisting road cluttered with vehicles of every description, was still alarmingly fast.

‘And the other one? He had turned back to Fareeda and found himself lowering his voice. Better to get it out up front.

‘No word and let’s hope it stays that way,’ she replied, not meeting his gaze. ‘Inshallah.’

Yussuf Ibrahim Essa. The one the Americans called The Butcher. The one they valued at a quarter of a million dollars. Cash on delivery.

Dead or Alive.

Sitting quietly between them Rania had produced a set of crayons and was busily colouring a picture of a clown throwing a large beach ball. ‘Say something about the dress,’ Fareeda whispered to Riad.

‘It’s very pretty,’ Riad said and his daughter promptly jumped on the seat to afford him a better view. With Riad steadying her against the lurching of the car she turned slowly to show him the stiff layers of

petticoat and the pretty bow at the back. It was a typical Arab party dress of the type last seen on European and American girls about a century ago. Almost a uniform he thought. Right down to the finely embroidered bobby socks and shiny patent leather shoes with just the first hint of a heel. Saudi mothers would dress up their daughters to the nines for the slightest occasion knowing that all too soon would come that day of the first, more than passing glance from a man and then it was into the prison of the abeya never to be seen in public with a pretty dress again.

‘Mommy says I can get another one for Mahalia’s party. Will you come to the souq with me to get it, daddy?’

Fareeda rolled her eyes. ‘She already has about ten!’

‘Of course, darling.’ But his mind was already elsewhere. They were on the Al Hada road now, having taken the shortcut that bypasses Taif to turn west and begin the climb that would take them to the top of the escarpment and to the hills and rose gardens of the tiny agricultural village that quizzically was the site of one of the largest and certainly most luxurious military hospitals in the kingdom. He knew the reason of course. Al Hada, towering almost six thousand feet above the sweltering heat of the desert, simply had the best climate in the country. No surprise then that it was the summer home of the king and a fair number of the six thousand or so princes. The palaces were all over stretching all the way to nearby Dar al Shifa and in the modern era of the airconditioner now largely deserted. No longer the need to leave the fleshpots of nearby Jeddah for a few weeks of cooler air amongst the peasants.

Old Queen Noor still lived there as far as Riad knew. She was the last living wife of Abdulaziz and probably still wielded more power than any other woman in the kingdom.

He wondered whether the V.I.P. Ward, a whole floor of the hospital, still sported the gold plated bath and the ghastly gilded furniture and the rest of the unspeakable trappings of expensive bad taste. Decided it probably did. There were enough sheikhs with wasta around who would

provide custom. As he recalled King Fahd had the place built. A heart sufferer he wanted all the facilities right there when he was in town and as always the excuse was to build something for the nation’s glorious armed forces. The fact that no armed forces other than a small airbase and a national guard brigade were housed anywhere near was of little issue. One had to plan ahead. The security of the restricted and guarded premises was of course a given and not something that had to be explained by an absolute ruler.

Al Hada. The Valley of The Prophet. The place of so many a school holiday spent as a child. A time when the whole family would fly back from London or Washington or wherever his father was stationed at the time to spend a few glorious weeks at the family compound. How familiar the passing hills seemed. As if it had been only yesterday. He eased back in the seat, settled his throbbing arm as best he could and let his mind drift back to the past.

Joe Boone sighed and carefully spelled his full names for the profusely sweating Filipino clerk once more. No, it was Joseph. J-O-S-E-P-H. Joe was just his everyday name. He saw the look of confusion spreading over the man’s brow and decided screw it, let them figure it out themselves. He’d been here before. Back in ’94 when he did that two year stint. Tour of duty one could almost call it. Sat in this same stinking tinpot shed, probably in the same worn out creaking leather chair and the air conditioner didn’t do much good then either.

Shit, it was probably the same clerk.

He glanced around at the other guy who was at the next desk doing his own checking in. Lars something or other. They’d chatted briefly while waiting for the admin staff to finish whatever they were whispering about in the captain’s office. An orthopaedic surgeon. All the way from Sweden and with a wife and two kids to follow once he’d passed his probation. A

nice enough guy, still a bit overwhelmed by things. It was his first stint in the Middle East and judging by the way his eyes darted about, it was going to be a great adventure.

He was back. Back in the place he’d sworn he would never set foot in again. And with that same sinking feeling of entering a prison. And that’s all it was. A fucking prison. No decent booze, no free access to women and forever the goddamn muttaween checking up on you. Christ! How was he going to get through the next few months?

He thought of the gum in his pocket and pushed the idea away. And Ramadan to boot. No decent food and the little you got during the day had to be gobbled down behind the closed doors and screens where the non- Muslim expats were served by mournful looking slaves. Their drawn faces reflecting the pain from their own fast doubled by the emotional suffering from having to assist these infidels in their evil doings. Like fucking eating. Still, the money was good. Exceptionally good, come to think of it.

Supplemented by what the American military was giving him. What was it the man who came to see him in Denver had said? We need an experienced cardiothoracic surgeon on the ground at the army hospital in Taif. There’s a war coming and our boys are going to be over there and we need people we can trust. We reckon you’re our man having worked there in the past. That had been three weeks after 911, the dust still not settled where the Twin Towers had stood.

He’d been hesitant at first but then there had been problems over his own situation in Denver and the place was getting a little small for his liking. Big boys like himself needed a bit of action and if the geezers couldn’t keep their ladies satisfied they shouldn’t blame ol’ Lucky for filling the gaps. And if they didn’t like it, screw them too. Still, he had to admit–the thought brought a smile to his lips–doing the boss’ trophy wife wasn’t his smartest move. Asshole almost blew a gasket. Threatened to have his licence. Have him blackballed in half the country.

A bit of a problem with some gambling debts but nothing he couldn’t sort out given a few breaks.

Forty thousand riyals a month, tax free, plus accommodation and a fat bonus on completion of his one year contract. And when Joe had pointed out that with the dollar now considerably stronger than the Saudi riyal and American citizens paying tax back home regardless of where they worked, he was doing better right there in Denver, the man had wondered whether he’d mentioned the matter of the retainer Uncle Sam was throwing into the pot?

An extra twenty thousand dollars a month from what the man called a war chest and that was very much hush money and they wouldn’t tell the tax man if he wouldn’t. He’d glanced from the one dark suited fellow to the other who had been quietly sitting in the background and was reassured by the affirmative nod. Weirdos he had thought at the time. Fucking clones what with their dark conservative suits and white shirts and dark ties that were so old they’d be back in fashion soon. CIA? Who cared. If they paid he’d play.

And then the weird co-incidence of the homicide cop who’d come to see him soon after he’d signed up. A Hispanic. Went by the name of Cristal or something. Told him a long story over a few beers of how when his brother, Gary, had fallen off that balcony at Al Hada and died all those years ago it wasn’t an accident. Shit, he’d said; don’t come with that bullshit. Gary and I were there together for two years, remember? He was a pisscat just like our ol’ daddy been and there were plenty of them wild parties in those days. He got pissed, fell down three stories and canned his sorry arse. Probably been up there with some nurse getting his rocks off. Of course, that had been in ’97, months after he had returned to the States. His brother being a lazy physician decided to stay on, get to know the local bootleg whiskey a little better.

Damn near broke their mother’s heart.

No, the cop had said. That’s the official version the Saudis put out. That’s not the way we have it. Then he’d called for more beers and told him about others that had died on that compound. Americans among them. Seemed there was a serial killer running loose and with the place about to be flooded with American personnel and even casualties should there be a war they wanted to flush him out. Except the Saudis insisted there wasn’t a problem and American cops had no jurisdiction on that compound or anywhere else in the place.

‘Why are you involved?’ Joe had asked.

‘One of the girls who died–they were mostly women by the way–was family. A cousin. She worked as a nurse and was found strangled on the compound’ Seeing the narrowing of Joe’s eyes he added, ‘in the bushes below one of the residential blocks, not far from where your brother’s body was found.’

He went on to describe several other cases and as the evening wore on and the beer flowed a pretty convincing case was put together for there being something more rotten than usual in the state of Al Hada. So Joe had agreed to help him. For Gary’s sake and since he was going to be on site anyway.

His liaison in nearby Taif would be a Sergeant Burke, an MP stationed at the airbase there. He would direct Joe to a few tasks, kind of investigations, to be conducted on the compound. People to be interviewed, some expats had been there for years. That kind of thing. They would meet up regularly in town to exchange information.

Goddammit, Joe had decided, he’d do it. Piece of cake and it was only right if poor old Gary had been bumped by some Dago motherfucker perve. And should there be a problem, man wants to get it on when he felt the heat? Well, let the fun begin. For at a solid six foot three inches in his socks with the beef to match Lucky Joe Boone was pretty handy when it came to the old how’s your father. Had been in the days when he’d been

linebacker for his college football team and he was still pretty much in shape if he said so himself.

It was only much later he wondered how the cop knew he was going back to ragtop land. Didn’t seem important at the time.

His thoughts were interrupted by a smiling corporal who motioned him to follow to where they’d take the photos for the iquama and advised that he could return to his quarters and rest. The Chief of Surgery would catch up with him later.

Iquama. A pathetic little identification document in its floppy brown cover that expats had to carry on them at all times. Scribbled all over in Arabic with not a clue to the English speaking holder of what exactly was stated on those pages. For all he knew it said I’m an infidel thief of your money and country. Kick me. That was certainly the impression you got when stopped at the numerous police checkpoints that seemed to be so much part of Saudi life then and now. Of course, he mused as he sat in the chair and glared at the photographer, the Muslim expats had green covers to their documents. So they could get into nearby Makkah where no non-Muslims were allowed.

He blinked as the light flashed. Not that anyone in his right fucking mind would ever want to go there where the chances of a decent drink was pretty much zero. And a drink was pretty much what he needed right now.

One thing 911 had changed was the security at the main gate. Or, Riad thought, more aptly, the show of security at the gate. For, as they all knew, in the Arab world the importance lay not so much with how things are as how are were perceived to be. It was all about saving face. So they went though the motions, he and the guards. They grinned broadly at seeing him again and the duty major came all the way out of his office to hug him and kiss him three times on the cheek and tell him how great it was to have him back where he belonged.

‘Ahlan was sahlan’ the man had exclaimed and Riad had agreed that he was indeed back where he belonged and that how could his stay not be a pleasant one with friends such as these. Laughs all around and a promise to drop by later and rekindle old memories. And they had made a show of checking his documents and peering into and under the car, even opening the boot. All the time carefully averting their eyes from a silent Fareeda who stared straight ahead no doubt bored to tears by the endless charade of it all.

As the car wound its way through the concrete barriers–protection against truck bombs and the only new feature Riad could see–he let his gaze settle on the main hospital building. Built in the early eighties by the Americans it always reminded him vaguely of a casino. With four or five stories surrounding a huge central glassed dome and unbroken rows of smoked windows dissecting the stuccoed sand coloured walls, it was quite a pleasing and certainly very modern design. Huge tiered car park out front and at back the large copper domed central mosque which was the feature of every single government building of significance.

Lush green lawns all around with carefully cultivated flowerbeds and manicured palms rose up against the hill behind the buildings, the various large blocks of flats where the staff and their families lived.

There were very few people about as they turned left to make their way past the engineering block before starting the climb up the hill to where their building was. Virtually no private cars to be seen, just the usual rows of neatly parked military vehicles. No clinics during Ramadan, of course. It was hard enough for a man to fast and still have to do a day’s work, so the way he remembered it was the night clinics. Turning to Fareeda he asked her about it.

‘We start work at ten instead of eight o’ clock, really only a ward round, and then after an hour or so we all go home again. The operating theatres are only open for emergencies all routine lists having been suspended for the duration of the fast’ She waved away a fly that had woken from a nap

and Rania opened a window to scoot it out. As the warm humid air wafted inside the car Riad detected the faint whiff of sewage from the recycled water the sprinklers were hissing onto the lawns.

‘All routine clinics are suspended but in the evenings we have nurses on duty in Outpatients who phone the duty doctors to come and see any patients that come in.’ She made a face, ‘last night they called me out at midnight to see a woman who simply decided it was time for her routine Pap smear.’

‘And you actually went?’

‘It was a sheikha.’

Riad nodded. Nothing ever changed. The feudal system was as solidly in place as it had always been. A sudden pang of guilt made him realise that his own father was very much part of that privileged society and by proxy so was he.

The large Community Centre with its Olympic size pool and basketball court and six bowling lanes was behind them now. The sun brilliant off the smooth marble tiles out front and dancing on the roofs of the single quarters buildings in the distance. The vast majority of the hospital’s large expat workforce lived on the compound and behind the security of the patrolled perimeter. The sexes carefully separated in towering residential blocks each with its own pool and tennis courts and smaller more exclusive buildings for the mainly European male medical specialists of single status. Set aside and closer to the main hospital complex were the cluster of buildings that housed the married senior staff and up on the hill the luxurious stand alone villas reserved for senior Saudi staff and their families.

Rounding the bend, Building 14 came into view. Where they lived. Across from yet another mosque and diagonally opposite the street from the little American School Rania attended. Further up the street where it ended in a cul-de-sac was the much larger Arabic School where Fareeda,

despite fierce opposition from her own family, had vowed her daughter would never set foot in.

" No daughter of mine is going to be trapped in a madrissa to be indoctrinated by some religious bearded freak to be a slave to men all her life and never get to think for herself or develop to her full potential. A mindless supplicating nobody" was the term he thought she used.

Riad couldn’t have agreed with her more but carefully steered away from the topic whenever in the company of the extended family. No percentage there.

It was as they came around the back of the hospital starting the climb up to the sharp bend that would take them to the apartment that he saw the two westerners. They had come out of the tin roofed admin buildings and were standing in the sun blinking and waiting for the escorting soldier who was searching for the keys of the truck. The taller one of the two carefully polished a pair of Ray Ban aviators before slipping them on and it was in that instant that Riad recognised him and felt his heart stop in his chest. Felt himself go ice cold as old and long repressed emotions surged up and threatened to swamp him there and then.

Joe Boone. Lucky Joe. The one man he never wanted to see or hear from again.

No mistaking it.

Forcing himself to take a deep breath he glanced out of the corner of his eye to see Fareeda’s reaction but she was fiddling in her bag searching for the house keys and seemingly oblivious to what had just happened. Did she know? Surely she would have told him. Or was she waiting until they were inside and alone? What was going on? Glancing down at his hands he noticed they were shaking and that Rania was looking at him strangely. ‘Are you alright, daddy? Is your arm very sore?’ Her sweet voice had taken on a tone of deep concern and he forced a smile and took her hands in his and kissed them. ‘I’m fine, sweetie. Just a bit tired.’

And then she was jumping up on the seat again and excitedly pointing out the playgrounds of the school and there was that familiar crackling sound as the loudspeakers of the mosque clicked on and the imam cleared his throat.

Allahu akhbar—

As they climbed out of the car, Riad’s arm stiff and paining badly, the prayer call was taken up by the main mosque barely two hundred yards down the hill and then in quick succession by the other mosques all over the valley.

Dhuhr. The noon prayer.

Desolation Prayer. Despair. Bleeding inside and out. Riad picked up his bag and followed his wife and daughter into the dark shadows of their home.

Standing at the lounge windows in Building 14 Elizabeth Graham eased back the curtain and turned to accept the drink her husband held out. ‘Fareeda’s husband is back,’ she said easing down into an armchair.

‘The policeman?’

She nodded. ‘He has his arm in a sling. I seem to recall her saying something about him being injured while on duty.’

Thomas Graham nodded and sipped his drink. It was from their latest batch of home made white wine and rather good if he said so himself. Usually the trick was to get it dry enough, ferment away enough of the sugar to be left with less of a grape juice and more of a wine. Not that anyone ever managed to get the alcohol level up much beyond seven or eight percent by his reckoning. Still, not bad, especially served with a bit of soda water and a touch of ice.

‘Funny marriage, that one. He’s hardly ever here and she refuses to go and live with him in Kuwait where he works.’

His wife nodded and glanced over to where she had a roast in the oven.

Another ten minutes and they’d eat. Nice easy time, Ramadan. ‘There’s a rumour that the child is not his.’

‘Oh?’ Tommy put down his Saudi Gazette to take a deep sip of his wine, rolling the amber liquid over his tongue. Not bad at all. He might even enter this one in the next expats’ wine and beer competition.

‘Hmm. Rumour has it that she fell pregnant out of wedlock by some unnamed man and that he married her to protect both her and the child. You know how the Arabs are. Especially the Bedouins.’

He nodded. His wife’s depth of local knowledge never ceased to amaze him. Still, they had been here now close on fifteen years, apart from the two years they were away working in Brunei and Nigeria.

‘A bit like that poor Bedouin girl you were telling me about. The one whose child you’re looking after.’

‘Yes.’

As her husband went back to the sports pages of the paper she let her thoughts dwell on the young girl now in hospital while breastfeeding her baby. Barely seventeen and unwed and with the family