about meeting Rania, to eat. Seeing Zdravko tailing him in his big black Land Rover on the way here hadn’t helped.
He was shown to an airless, windowless concrete room, ushered inside, bid to sit in a chair facing a simple wooden table. The heavy steel door clanged shut behind him. He was alone. He sat, waited.
Much later, the door opened and two men entered. One walked past him and sat in the empty chair facing him across the table. He was short, with a light wiry build. The other man stood by the door and lit up a cigarette. Its acrid pall filled the room.
The man opposite looked a lot like Heinrich Himmler. Maybe it was just the little round glasses and rodent-like features, or the way he hunched over the table, scribbling notes in his dossier as if he had modelled himself after the man in the war documentaries. They had kept him waiting for over an hour, and now Himmler sat there flicking through the pages of Clay’s passport, studying each stamp and visa with exaggerated interest. The other man pulled the door closed and leaned against the wall, cigarette burning between thumb andforefinger. He was fairer skinned than Himmler, handsome almost, with a black moustache and thick bristles of greying hair. In jeans and a black leather jacket over a Yale T-shirt, he looked very un-Yemeni.
Finally Himmler looked up and blinked. ‘Claymore Straker from Great Britain,’ he said in a thick Arab accent, crushing his vowels.
Clay sat and said nothing.
‘Why do you not answer?’
‘It was not a question.’
The man’s lips stretched over his teeth in what might have been a smile. He looked down at the passport again, and back up at Clay. ‘Are you Claymore Straker, British subject?’
‘My friends call me Clay.’
‘Then I will call you Straker.’
‘And I’ll call you Heinrich,’ said Clay.
‘Pardon me?’
Clay held his hand out palm up, tried a grin. He was pretty sure it came out like the scowl it was.
‘You were born in South Africa.’
‘My father was British.’
‘You are South African.’
‘Was.’ He hadn’t been back since the war, since they stripped him of his passport, sent him into exile.
Himmler narrowed his eyes. ‘You have seen Al Shams, in Hadramawt, two days ago.’ ‘No.’
Himmler placed the passport down on the desk and made a steeple with his fingers – or was it a minaret? ‘We have been told that you have seen Al Shams.’
‘You were told wrong.’
‘We have interviewed your colleagues, Mister Straker.’
‘Then you know what happened.’ He was being a hard arse. It was a dangerous line, he knew. But everything about the place, the man facing him, the situation, the totalitarian attitude, rankled him. He breathed deep, tried to settle himself.
Himmler’s mouth distorted and his eyes narrowed. ‘This man is an enemy of the state, Mister Straker. Do you understand?’
‘And how, exactly, am I supposed to know that?’
‘I have just told you.’
‘A trusted source.’
Himmler slammed his fist down onto Clay’s passport. ‘Enough, Straker. Stop this now. If you do not cooperate, the consequences will be severe.’
Clay leaned forward and gave Himmler his best fuck-you stare. ‘Don’t threaten me,
jou bliksem
. I have rights.’
Himmler gave him that same incipient, stillborn half-smile. He seemed genuinely amused. Obviously he had no knowledge of Afrikaans. Clay smiled back.
‘Rights, Mister Straker? You with your Apartheid? A white South African speaking of rights?’
‘Haven’t you heard? It’s over.’ Growing up, he hadn’t given it a thought. It was only after he’d been wounded, been shipped home, that he’d started to see, started to fight against it. And now everyone just wanted to forget the whole disgraceful mess.
Himmler fixed him with a flat gaze. Malice flowed from his eyes. ‘This is a matter of national security, Mister Straker. You have no rights here.’ Himmler placed a pair of needle nose pliers on the desk. ‘Tell me
He was shown to an airless, windowless concrete room, ushered inside, bid to sit in a chair facing a simple wooden table. The heavy steel door clanged shut behind him. He was alone. He sat, waited.
Much later, the door opened and two men entered. One walked past him and sat in the empty chair facing him across the table. He was short, with a light wiry build. The other man stood by the door and lit up a cigarette. Its acrid pall filled the room.
The man opposite looked a lot like Heinrich Himmler. Maybe it was just the little round glasses and rodent-like features, or the way he hunched over the table, scribbling notes in his dossier as if he had modelled himself after the man in the war documentaries. They had kept him waiting for over an hour, and now Himmler sat there flicking through the pages of Clay’s passport, studying each stamp and visa with exaggerated interest. The other man pulled the door closed and leaned against the wall, cigarette burning between thumb andforefinger. He was fairer skinned than Himmler, handsome almost, with a black moustache and thick bristles of greying hair. In jeans and a black leather jacket over a Yale T-shirt, he looked very un-Yemeni.
Finally Himmler looked up and blinked. ‘Claymore Straker from Great Britain,’ he said in a thick Arab accent, crushing his vowels.
Clay sat and said nothing.
‘Why do you not answer?’
‘It was not a question.’
The man’s lips stretched over his teeth in what might have been a smile. He looked down at the passport again, and back up at Clay. ‘Are you Claymore Straker, British subject?’
‘My friends call me Clay.’
‘Then I will call you Straker.’
‘And I’ll call you Heinrich,’ said Clay.
‘Pardon me?’
Clay held his hand out palm up, tried a grin. He was pretty sure it came out like the scowl it was.
‘You were born in South Africa.’
‘My father was British.’
‘You are South African.’
‘Was.’ He hadn’t been back since the war, since they stripped him of his passport, sent him into exile.
Himmler narrowed his eyes. ‘You have seen Al Shams, in Hadramawt, two days ago.’ ‘No.’
Himmler placed the passport down on the desk and made a steeple with his fingers – or was it a minaret? ‘We have been told that you have seen Al Shams.’
‘You were told wrong.’
‘We have interviewed your colleagues, Mister Straker.’
‘Then you know what happened.’ He was being a hard arse. It was a dangerous line, he knew. But everything about the place, the man facing him, the situation, the totalitarian attitude, rankled him. He breathed deep, tried to settle himself.
Himmler’s mouth distorted and his eyes narrowed. ‘This man is an enemy of the state, Mister Straker. Do you understand?’
‘And how, exactly, am I supposed to know that?’
‘I have just told you.’
‘A trusted source.’
Himmler slammed his fist down onto Clay’s passport. ‘Enough, Straker. Stop this now. If you do not cooperate, the consequences will be severe.’
Clay leaned forward and gave Himmler his best fuck-you stare. ‘Don’t threaten me,
jou bliksem
. I have rights.’
Himmler gave him that same incipient, stillborn half-smile. He seemed genuinely amused. Obviously he had no knowledge of Afrikaans. Clay smiled back.
‘Rights, Mister Straker? You with your Apartheid? A white South African speaking of rights?’
‘Haven’t you heard? It’s over.’ Growing up, he hadn’t given it a thought. It was only after he’d been wounded, been shipped home, that he’d started to see, started to fight against it. And now everyone just wanted to forget the whole disgraceful mess.
Himmler fixed him with a flat gaze. Malice flowed from his eyes. ‘This is a matter of national security, Mister Straker. You have no rights here.’ Himmler placed a pair of needle nose pliers on the desk. ‘Tell me
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