I Am Pilgrim(246)

‘If you lie, give me one incorrect answer,’ I told him, ‘I will shoot you and turn the phone off. As you know, the man in Bodrum has his instructions concerning your son. Clear?’

I didn’t wait for an answer. ‘Who recruited Patros Nikolaides?’ I said, worried that my damaged throat would fail me.

Straight off, the question wrongfooted him. Nobody had mentioned the old bull’s name, and I could see the Saracen was wondering how the hell I knew it. Already he was on the defensive.

‘My sister,’ he replied, trying to show he wasn’t shaken.

‘When she was twelve she won an essay competition – what for?’

‘English … English comprehension.’ Who the hell did they speak to, he must have been thinking, who would know details like that? His mother—?

‘What hospital treated the shrapnel in your spine?’

‘Gaza Infirmary.’

I was flying all over the world, leaping across decades—

‘Did your sister ever go scuba diving?’

‘My father taught her – when she was young.’ It was probably correct – their father had worked at the Red Sea Marine Biology Department.

‘How many Hind helicopter gunships did you bring down?’

I checked the phone’s microphone, desperately hoping Bradley was taking notes – in my state, I wasn’t sure I could remember the answers.

The Saracen was shocked – now we were in Afghanistan. ‘Three, some say four,’ he replied. I could see it in his face: who is this man?

‘After the war with the Soviets, where did you buy your death certificate?’

‘In Quetta – Pakistan.’

‘Who from?’

‘How do I know?! It was in the bazaar.’

‘Who provided you with a new identity?’ I looked straight at him.

‘Abdul Mohammad Khan.’ His reply was one micron softer than the others, and I figured it was a betrayal. Good.

‘Keep your voice up,’ I said. ‘The address of your childhood home in Jeddah?’

‘You know – you’ve seen a photo of it.’

‘I’ve been there, I took that photo,’ I replied. ‘Where were you stationed when you fought in Afghanistan?’

‘The Hindu Kush, a village called—’

I talked over him, letting him think I already knew the answer, keeping the pace relentless. ‘What nationality was your new identity?’

‘Lebanese.’

I had got my first one: I had a nationality and, with that, I knew we could start to trace him if we had to. The walls were closing in.

In the house in Bodrum, Bradley was holding the phone tight to his ear – trying to hear everything, paper scattered on the bench in front of him, scrawling notes furiously because of the speed I was going.

He said later that he was almost certain – to judge by my voice – that I was dying on my feet.





Chapter Forty-one


I FELT LIKE it too. I scooped a handful of water out of the trough and threw it on my face – anything to keep going, anything to lessen the pain and cool what I feared was a blossoming fever. ‘Who is Sa’id bin Abdullah bin Mabrouk al-Bishi?’ I demanded.

‘State executioner,’ the Saracen replied.

‘Country?’

‘Saudi Arabia.’

‘How do you know him?’ He paused, and I realized that the wound was still raw even after so many years.

‘He killed my father.’

‘Faster,’ I warned him. ‘What was your date of birth?’

He had barely begun before I hit him with the next one. ‘What blood group are you?’

He only got half the answer out when I swerved again. I had to keep him reeling—

‘What is the common name for Amphiprion ocellaris?’

‘Clownfish.’

‘Where did you receive your medical degree?’

‘Beirut University.’

‘Who paid?’

‘Scholarship – the US State Department.’ I didn’t react, but yeah – it figured.

‘What mosque did you attend as a youth in Bahrain?’

I couldn’t recall the name, but the Saracen’s answer sounded right. ‘With which radical group was it affiliated?’

‘The Muslim Brotherhood.’

‘Name the last hospital you worked at.’

‘El-Mina District.’

That was the second one: hospitals had employment records and they would show the name he had been using since he had first acquired the Lebanese passport.

‘Who was the medical director? … What year did you start? … Which month?’

The Saracen had no choice but to answer – the speed was unsparing, but it was costing me dearly. My small reserves of energy were rapidly depleting, and I was certain now that an ache at the back of my head was a symptom of fever – I figured an infection from the open wounds was starting to pour through my body. Go faster, I told myself. Faster—