‘No, but…’ Hamsin paused. ‘No I’m sure you’re right. Now I need to get some sleep, if you’ll excuse me Gerry.’
‘Oh, ok.’
She sighed in frustration. She had been about to turn the conversation toward the meeting in Frankfurt airport when he had effectively curtailed her probing questions. She looked down at the briefcase that lay on Hakim Mansour’s lap protected by his pudgy hands. She was sorely tempted to try and take it and inspect the contents, but it would be a risk. Instead she went to the flight deck.
‘Can I get you guys anything?’ she asked the pilots.
‘Thanks Emily, could you make us a couple of coffees, please?’
Gerry had learned how to use the galley facilities on the flight out to Frankfurt and in a few minutes she had made three coffees. She turned back to the cabin and saw the document case had fallen off Mansour’s lap. She crept stealthily towards him but just before she could pick it up off the floor his eyes opened and he stared sleepily at her.
‘I’ve just made some coffee; would you like one?’ she asked him with her best smile.
‘Oh yes thank you but first I need to visit the gents,’ he said and stood up. She waited until the door was closed and then snatched up his document case. She unzipped it and pulled out a sheaf of papers stapled together. “Preliminary agreement: main points”, she read.
‘Gerry, what are you doing?’ she whirled round and saw Ali Hamsin staring at her.
‘I’m just going to have a quick look…’ she began, but suddenly the lock on the toilet door snapped open. Gerry hastily shoved the papers back in and zipped up the case and dropped it on to Mansour’s seat. Mansour came hurrying out, his zipper still open and picked up the case. Gerry stared at Hamsin, daring him to say anything but he just watched Mansour retreat back into the toilet clutching the case under one arm and then he closed his eyes and sighed.
CHAPTER THREE
Rashid Hamsin lay in bed in the two bedroom apartment that he shared with his fellow language student Omar Haddad, a small, neat Egyptian from Luxor. Omar was the only one of his fellow students who knew that his flat mate came from Iraq. Rashid’s application for a place at the university had been completed through his uncle, his mother’s brother who lived in Amman and he had declared himself to be a citizen of Jordan. While there was no overt prejudice against Iraq amongst his mostly apolitical fellow students, if he was ever asked about his family he said that his mother was from Amman and that his uncle ran a car dealership in the city, which was all perfectly true. He did not mention the fact that his father was a translator who worked for the Foreign Affairs department of the Iraqi government. Rashid never talked about his father to his fellow students, and he knew that they assumed he must be deceased or that Rashid had been born out of wedlock, which caused him some distress.
Eighteen months ago when the twin towers had collapsed, he and Omar had withdrawn to their apartment, fearful of any backlash against their race or religion. But it was soon established that the perpetrators of the atrocity were Saudi Arabian citizens, and after a couple of days they had resumed their student life. Apart from some muttered comments, they had been relieved to find that there was no animosity directed at them personally and they had tried to avoid being drawn into discussions about the appalling act of terrorism and the scenes of tacit or open approval broadcast from some Middle East countries.
Now that Iraq was under threat of invasion from the American and British troops massing on its borders, he and Omar found that the pendulum of public opinion had swung back in favour of his country, or at least against the Prime Minister Tony Blair who had eagerly assisted the Americans with their plans for the imminent invasion. Today a protest march and rally was due to take place in London and it was expected to be one of the biggest that the capital had witnessed. Over the last few days he and Omar had been enjoying much support as they had encouraged their fellow students to take the coach ride to London with them. Rashid had even begun to regret that he had concealed his Iraqi citizenship, but it was too late to remedy that now. He heard Omar walk out of his room and turn on the television and he jumped out of bed too and joined him.
‘Hi, Omar. What’s the weather forecast, then?’
‘Wait; it’s just coming up now.’
They watched the forecaster describe a grey but dry day in prospect; no rain or gales or biting cold to prevent a good turnout. Then the two presenters led with the story of the planned protest and then interviewed an uncomfortable looking apologist for the Blair government. The two young men grinned and thumped each other on the shoulder in enthusiasm. ‘It’s going to be a good day,’ Rashid declared. ‘Come on; the coach is due to leave in fifty minutes.’
Forty five minutes later they were standing in an untidy queue of jostling undergraduates who chattered excitedly about the day in prospect. A group of older people came walking up to join them. Rashid recognised them as University teaching staff and post grads including his English literature tutor. ‘Hey, Doctor Shaw! Are you coming with us?’ Rashid asked.
‘Hello Rashid. Yes we are; the senior common room coach is full so we thought we might cadge a lift with you lot, if you’ll have us.’
‘You are most welcome,’ said Rashid in Arabic. He had taught his tutor several phrases in the course of his association with him.
‘Thank you very much,’ Dr Shaw returned in the same language.
‘That woman in the red coat is even more welcome,’ said Omar in Arabic, giving Rashid a nudge. He looked at the front of the group where a tall, striking woman with long dark hair, large dark brown eyes and strong but attractive features was talking to another man who he recognised as one of the language lecturers.
‘Absolutely lovely,’ said Rashid. The woman broke off her conversation, caught his eye and stared at him for a moment.
‘So is it me or my red coat that you find lovely?’ she asked him in fluent Arabic. Rashid stared at her in amazement, feeling a glow spread over his face which he hoped would not show on his dark skin. The chances of a random encounter with an English woman who spoke his language was so remote that he was at a loss.
‘So you speak Arabic!’ he said, somewhat idiotically.
‘Yes I do,’ she raised her eyebrows and gave him a challenging smile. ‘And I will take it as a compliment either way.’
Rashid was wondering what he could say by way of an apology, but just then a voice called out encouraging everyone to climb on to the bus. He looked back at the woman in the red coat and he saw her chatting away to the man stood beside her. He sat down next to Omar and a moment later she walked past him down the aisle. They discussed the woman and her unexpected ability to speak Arabic.
‘Maybe she’s a post-graduate languages student who’s already taken a degree course in Arabic,’ said Omar. ‘Why don’t you go and ask her?’ he suggested with a grin.
‘No way,’ Rashid answered. ‘I’ve already embarrassed myself enough for one day.’ He glanced round quickly down the aisle and saw a red clothed shoulder a few rows behind. ‘She did seem to be very fluent, though. More than you would expect from academic study. Anyway, she’s several years older than me. I think she must have been at least twenty-five, maybe more.’
‘And how old was Lorraine?’ Omar asked.
‘Ok, she told me she was twenty. She thought I was some rich guy from the Gulf. It’s hard to tell with English women; you know… how old they are.’