I Am Pilgrim(211)

Nobody knew anything.

Finally, we took a break, pulling into a roadside shack for coffee. We were sitting outside, listening to the idiot in his twenties go on about some chick he had met in Morocco, when a cellphone rang and I was asked to return immediately.

The team was gathered in an open-plan research area on one side of the atrium, the air filled with cigarette smoke. The director stood at a table, an archive box in front of him, plenty more of them piled on the floor. Spilling out of them were field reports, interviews with informers and records of hearsay and gossip.

The director said that they had accessed a box containing what had been thought to be worthless material concerning a number of conservative mosques in Bahrain.

‘There was one slim file which proved to be of interest,’ he said. ‘It dealt with a small mosque on the outskirts of Manama, the capital.’ He looked at me to make sure I realized the significance of what he had said.

‘Zakaria al-Nassouri’s mosque?’ I asked, trying to keep my voice neutral, battling a surge of hope.

He nodded. ‘The file contained the usual empty analysis and a few incomplete logs of membership, but buried among it was this …’ He held up a three-page document in Arabic.

‘About five years ago a low-level field agent interviewed a Saudi aid worker who had delivered food and medicine to the refugees in the Gaza Strip. While he was unloading trucks at a dilapidated hospital, he heard about a man who had been brought in earlier in the evening after an Israeli rocket attack.

‘When his work was done he went up to see the wounded man to find out if there was anything he could do to help. The man, with shrapnel wounds near his spine, was going in and out of delirium, and the aid worker ended up sitting with him through the night.’

The director paused, looking at the document, checking his facts. ‘It appeared the wounded man was a doctor and, at one stage, semi-delirious, he mentioned he used to be a member of the mosque in Manama. That was how the report ended up in this particular file.

‘Everybody assumed he was a Bahraini. But he couldn’t have been because, much later on, again in his delirium, he said his father had been publicly beheaded—’

I sat forward so quickly I was lucky not to fall off the chair. ‘Bahrain doesn’t do that,’ I said.

‘Exactly – only one country does.’

‘Saudi,’ I replied.

‘Yes. It appears the man had been travelling in a car with his Palestinian wife and child when it was rocketed – whether the vehicle was targeted or if it was collateral damage, nobody knows.

‘The woman died, but not immediately. In his rambling account, he said that he was holding her and she made him promise – promise before God – that he would protect their child. The little boy had survived with minor injuries—’

‘Praise be unto Allah,’ the whole room said in Arabic.

‘But the mother knew,’ the director continued, ‘that for him the tragedy was doubly great. Not only had he lost her but he also suffered—’

‘From Down’s syndrome,’ I said with sudden certainty.

‘How did you know?’

‘It’s definitely him – al-Nassouri,’ I said, getting to my feet, having to work off the flood of nervous energy. ‘It’s his son – I know the boy. Where did the hospital send the child – to an orphanage?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Run by the Al-Aqsa Martyrs’ Brigade – I’ve seen the receipts.’ At last I understood why Leyla Cumali hadn’t sent the money to Unicef.

‘What else?’ I asked, probably more harshly than manners dictated, but we were on a roll and nobody noticed.

‘The dead woman’s name was Amina Ebadi – at least that was one name she used: many of the Palestinian activists use aliases or noms de guerre. We’ve done a search on her, but can’t find anything.’

‘Yes, but what about him – what about the doctor?’ I asked, my voice crackling with intensity. ‘Did the aid worker get the name he was using?’

‘That was a strange thing – the doctor was in terrible shape but, when the aid worker returned the following night, he’d discharged himself. Probably scared about what he might have said when he was rambling—’

‘His name, Director? Did he get a name?’

‘No.’

I stared at him. ‘There’s nothing?! Nothing more?’

He nodded. ‘We’ve been through everything. The original report wasn’t followed up. It didn’t seem to have any significance—’

‘Until now,’ I said bitterly. I tilted my head back and tried to breathe. The news seemed to have sucked the air – and the energy – out of the room. The agents and the director kept watching me, but I tried to think.