My name is Sahara

 

 

Cairo- Egypt

 

At the Sofitel Nile, it’s accepted that a woman such as I can sit at the garden bar and enjoy a Martini, and attract only the most circumspect of glances.

I shifted discreetly on my barstool, affording myself a view of the dining area and just beyond it, the shimmering, slowly heaving turbulence of the mighty Nile. The breeze was as delicious as the Martini, and not even the city’s illuminations could steal the show from the nighttime sky.
My father would say that there was nothing that could sustain him like the vision of a Saharan night.
It’s likely the reason I was named Sahara. Or it's possible that Colonel Des Lègionnaires, Jacques Desserres, did in fact, have a sense of humour. I’ll never know. He died before he ever allowed one to show. Jacques was as gritty as the desert, and he never entertained weakness. Or, I should say, he never admitted weakness.

Once, I saw him snatch a snake by the back of its neck. ‘This snake is deadly. It’s a Viper, and its venom would kill me. Is it therefore stronger than I, Ma Petite?’ he asked me.

There was always a trick to my father’s questions, so I knew to hesitate before answering, ‘On this occasion, Papa, you were faster.’

He nodded his head slowly and lifted the serpent up so that it could nearly bite him on his hawked nose, and looking it in its eyes, he replied, almost sadly, ‘There is no such thing as weakness. There is only lost opportunity.’

When Jacque died of cancer, I inherited a small apartment close to Talaat Harb Square, and the equivalent of two-hundred thousand Euros. I never knew my mother. I never knew exactly what my father did. But I always suspected that he would somehow influence my later life. I knew that much about Jacques Desserres; he was an influencer.
I am now a high-end tourist guide. Once, a fat Englishman thought I was a prostitute. I left him alone in the middle of a crowded bazaar. I facilitate. I am fluent in Arabic, French, and English. I charge a minimum of five hundred Euros a day plus expenses, and I often receive generous tips. Most recently, I received a bonus of four thousand Euros, which explains why I was enjoying my second of two nights stay at the Sofitel Nile. The other reason I was there was to meet my next client. And I hoped he would turn up soon as he was buying me dinner, and my belly was already rumbling at the prospect.

Ever since Game of Thrones, the Brits send me men who talk like John Snow. Next to my shoulder, a voice that sounded like it may have had its roots firmly based in Barnsley asked, ‘Miss Desert?’

I turned my head slowly to take in his features. Sure enough, he even looked like John Snow. Englishmen struggle with both my names. ‘Call me Sandy,’ I smiled.

A little grimace of relief flashed across his tightly drawn lips. ‘Like it. Sandy,’ he acknowledged.

The Brits also love juvenile humour.

‘How come you speak such good English?’ he asked me, and he advised the barman at the same time, ‘I’ll have a beer. A lager, please.’

‘Born in France, educated in Leeds.’

‘But you live here?’

‘I do. I grew up mostly here.’

‘What’s it like?’

‘What’s what like?’

‘Living here. A woman.’

‘Much like any other city,’ I confessed.

‘’Cept you can’t flash your knees,’ he grinned.

‘Neither should you.’

‘Good point,’ he laughed, ‘mine are a bit knobbly.’

‘knobbly,’ I repeated, slowly.

‘Aye, like a knobbly piece of wood.’ He took a sip from his beer glass.

Lord, sometimes I wonder what women see in English men.

‘Can we eat?’ I asked.

‘Be my guest.’ He waved his glass in the direction of the open-air restaurant area, and a waiter who had been anticipating our move, escorted us to an available table.

I allowed my client to take the chair facing the view while I sat with my back to the water. The breeze tugged at my short hair, and I lifted my shoulders slightly that it might find its way beneath my armpits, and I pushed my chair back from the table so that I could better stretch out my legs. As Jacques would often say, tables can be dangerous places. I ordered a crab salad and a bottle of Chablis which might have upset my client, but nowhere near as much as his selection might have disappointed me.

‘So, Rob Macey, I understand you’re not particularly interested in pyramids,’ said I.

‘Nah. Can’t see what all the fuss is about. I’m doing a deal up-river with a guy named Abubakar Abasi. Lives somewhere in the desert. Also, I need to go to Abu Simbel.’

Abu Simbel is close to the border of North Sudan. This was bullshit.

‘You can fly into Abu Simbel,’ I pointed out.

‘I’d sooner drive. Get to see the sights.’

‘The ones you don’t see all the fuss about.’

‘Aye, the very same,’ he replied, pointedly.

I knew not to push my luck. A gig like this was worth thousands, and I didn't have to walk and talk my way around too many artifacts.

‘You’ll need to hire a car,’ I tested him.

‘You can do that,’ he smiled back at me.

‘Fine, but I’ll need some expenses up front. I can accept a credit card.’

‘Three thousand Euros, cash.’ He dipped into his linen jacket and slid an envelope across the table top. I looked at it but left it sitting on the glass surface.

‘Not enough?’ he smiled.

‘No purse,’ I smiled back, ‘give it to me before we leave tomorrow.’

‘Aye, will do,’ he sighed, and replaced the cash in his jacket pocket.

‘As agreed, my fees are seven-fifty a day when I act as a facilitator,’ I reminded him.

‘Plus expenses.’ He nodded.

‘Mais oui,’ I smiled back, sweetly.

‘Also, I want to stop at Luxor and book a boat-trip back down river for when we’re done.’

‘Good idea,’ I told him.

‘And, I’ve had my camera stolen.’

More bullshit.

‘Pas de problème. I’ll use mine, and email them to you.’

‘I can see why you were so highly recommended.’ He smiled at me as he tried his recently poured white wine.

I took a sip of my own. The wine was crisp and zesty. I was beginning to enjoy myself. Rob Macey’s eyes were as appetizing as a box of chocolates, and his lips were smooth and inviting. Shame I never sleep with clients.

‘Is your credit card working OK?’ I asked him, innocently.

‘Now you come to mention it, it’s been refused twice. But don’t worry, I’ve got plenty of cash.’

‘Fine, but should the need arise, we can use mine, and you can give me the cash.’

‘Kind of you,’ he acknowledged.

And so, the scene was set. I would drive this British man down to the border of Sudan where he would meet a local guide, supposedly named Abubakar Abasi - actually two first names meaning noble and stern - and then I would presumably return alone, having supposedly dropped my client off at Luxor to enjoy a boat-trip back to Cairo on his own. And en-route, I’d take all the holiday snaps and pay all the bills, leaving Rob Macey’s footprints to be blown away and swallowed up by all the other grains of sand in the vastness of the desert. The photos would be for my benefit in case I was questioned prematurely. I’d be able to tell the truth. I took them, and forwarded them, and then erased them. The email address would lead nowhere, and Rob Macey would be almost impossible to recognise.
I considered the risks and the reward.

And of course, it was worth it. It’s what I did.

After dinner, I was expecting Rob Macey to try and seduce me but to my relief, he was businesslike and polite and, claiming travel fatigue, he retired to his hotel, where we agreed I’d collect him in the rental car.
I returned to my apartment early the next morning, packed my small overnight holdall, ate some scrambled eggs at Joseph’s café - which also served as my office - and rang Avis to arrange for a small Toyota to be sent over to me. By eleven-thirty, I drew-up outside the Marriott to find Rob already waiting for me. His luggage was a heavy-looking rucksack. The type favoured by mountaineers and the like.

I opened the boot of the car for him, and Rob shoved the sac into the surprisingly generous space.

‘It’s comfortable,’ he commented, sensing my amusement at his choice of luggage.

‘Perfect,’ I assured him.

It took nearly an hour and a half to leave the city behind us, during which time, Rob clutched the car’s doorhandle in quiet desperation as I negotiated the Cairo traffic. Things were better on the open road, but only slightly.

‘Jesus H Christ!’ Rob exclaimed. ‘Thank God you’re doing the driving. Doesn’t anyone follow any rules of the road?’ he squeaked.

It was nice to see him so alarmed.

Driving in Egypt is much more dangerous than playing Russian roulette. For one thing, there are only six rounds in a standard revolver whereas, on an Egyptian road, there are hundreds of speeding projectiles aimed at you. And also, the one round in a revolver when playing such games unbalances the cylinder, causing the hammer to fall on mostly empty chambers. I know this from experience.

‘Things will calm down after Luxor,’ I lied.

‘Can we buy some provisions there?’

‘Sure, but there are road-side cafés everywhere. This is a major tourist route. You’re not in Lawrence of Arabia territory yet,’ I reassured him.

‘Tourists drive on these roads?’ he asked in disbelief.

‘Actually, there are controls. Mostly for the sake of the tourists. That’s why there are so many damned buses that we’ll need to pass.’

‘If I can sleep it means I won’t have to watch,’ he sighed, and reclined his seat.

‘Go ahead. I need to concentrate if we want to arrive in time for dinner.’

We stayed that night in a small hotel I use regularly, which is situated just outside the town, and we were in time to enjoy a meal in their jasmine-scented garden that overlooks the river. As always, I had a plate of Ful Medames - a mixture of Fava beans, lentils, and pasta - and some of their home-made eish balad, a kind of pita bread.

Rob stuck to lamb kabab.

The hotel organised his return boat-trip and charged it to my bill, which appeared normal and businesslike and, early the next morning, I took some pictures of Rob standing amid the ruins of the Temple of Karnak, his features obscured by a baseball cap and dark glasses. He seemed oblivious to the grandeur of the place, and eager to proceed to his rendezvous, somewhere south of Aswan, which was another three, hair-raising hours to the south.
We didn't talk that much. Rob didn't seem particularly impressed with the ancient and historic surroundings, and the only thing that seemed to spark any interest at all, was when he asked me about my parents.

‘My mother was half-French and half-English, and my father was half-French and half-Egyptian, so I have plenty of passport options,’ I told him.

‘What did he do, your father?’

‘He was a Colonel in the Foreign Legion.’

‘What regiment?’ he asked.

This was a slip-up. Very few people knew that the Legion actually had independent regiments. Unless they were themselves, of a military background.

‘Second Parachute.’

‘So you must have been pulled around a bit,’ he grimaced, knowingly.

‘Not really. When I was young, I lived with my mother in Paris. She died in a car accident, Papa was dispatched to Cairo, and I was sent to school in the UK. I didn't join him here until some years later, and I don’t know exactly what his duties were. Then he got ill and eventually died of cancer.’

‘You never married?’

‘No. Always the bridesmaid,’ I confessed. ‘Are you married, Rob Macey?’ I added.

‘Only to the job.’ He made it sound very sad.

‘I hope you are good at it,’ I replied.

‘Aye, I’m good enough,’ he sighed.

We spent another, touristy night in Aswan. We even visited a late-night market. But the next day, as we were heading out of town, things started to get spooky.

‘Stop the car, I need something from my sac,’ Rob instructed me.

The something he returned with was a small GPS device, a mobile phone, and a well-used notebook.

‘I’m gonna ring a guy. I want you to talk to him. Start by saying you represent Mr Macey. He’ll give you directions for a meeting. I’ll check the rendezvous on the GPS and agree or suggest an alternative. Got it?’ he asked, smoothly.

‘Is this Abasi?’

‘No. We meet him later on.’

‘OK,’ I sighed, ‘dial away.’

Rob thumbed-in the number, and handed me the phone just as it started to ring. A man answered promptly, speaking standard Arabic.

‘Yes?’ he demanded. No formal greeting.

I gave none in return. ‘I represent Mr Macey.’

‘Khalif hotel,’ he replied, and hung up before I had a chance to say anything else.

When I looked at Rob, he was already entering what he’d overheard into the GPS.

‘OK,’ he nodded, ‘it’s not far, and it looks good. Go straight on for about three kilometers. The hotel is on the right.’

At least he didn't say klicks.

A few minutes later, I pulled into the dusty carpark of a cheap-looking hotel.

‘Wait for me in the car. Is the back open?’ Rob asked.

‘Yes. Don’t you need me to translate anything?’

‘Not this time,’ he smiled.

Rob went to the rear of the car where he rummaged around in his rucksack. He’d earlier pulled down the rear seat-back to make more room for our luggage and, in the mirror, I saw him extract a plastic container which he carelessly tossed aside before closing the sac and swinging it over his left shoulder. I watched him as he walked casually across to the main entrance of the hotel and, once he was inside, I reached over the back and grabbed the container.
I didn't need to open its lid to realize that it was empty. It had been used to give the appearance of a full rucksack. I doubted very much that I’d ever get to know what it was that Rob was collecting from the Khalif hotel.
Not that it would ever bother me.
Less than five minutes later, Rob returned, lifted up the hatch-back, and threw in his sac as if it was a bag of potatoes, so I guessed that whatever it was, it wasn’t explosive.
We drove on in silence, and less than three hours later, only an hour from our destination, we stopped by the road and Rob said, ‘Now, you do exactly the same thing with Abasi.’ He typed a number into his phone.

‘I represent Mr Macey,’ I repeated to Abubakar Abasi.

Abasi’s voice was more genial. ‘Tell Mr Macey we are looking forward to meeting him at the following coordinates.’

‘No,’ Rob said immediately, in a hushed voice. ‘Tell him to meet me outside the café on the main road at the following coordinates in exactly two hours time.’

I repeated the message to Abasi, hesitating only to convey the set of coordinates that Rob dangled before me, scribbled on a page of his notebook.

Without further negotiation, Abasi signed off by saying, ‘Very well.’

I handed Rob back his phone.

‘I need you to do only a few more things for me. Drop me off at the café. Stay in the car. And, if you feel it’s safe, try and get a photo of Abasi. Then head home, hopefully before it gets dark,’ he told me.

‘Rob, these seem like very serious guys. You need someone who understands them and can speak their language,’ I urged him.

‘Don’t you worry, I can do both.’

‘You speak Arabic?’

‘Course I do. But I don’t want them to know that if I can help it,’ he confessed.

‘Christ! What have I got myself into?’ I breathed.

‘Nothing that you can’t get yourself out of. Here…’ He reached back towards his rucksack and unzipped its top compartment. He handed me an envelope. ‘That’s the three grand expenses plus six days at seven-fifty, totalling seven point five. All I ask is that, should anyone enquire, you dropped me off at the ferry terminal in Luxor before returning to Cairo alone. Fair enough?’

I considered the pros and cons. And there were definitely more pros.

‘What about photos?’ I asked.

‘Send them to the email address we’ve already used to communicate. If anyone asks, tell them the truth,’ he grinned.

At the time, that seemed reasonable enough to me. We arrived early at the café, and I was able to find a place to park that was near enough to get some photos, but discreet enough to offer me some protection.

Before he got out of the car, I asked Rob, ‘Tell me again why I’m taking these photos?’

Taking an Egyptian’s picture without their consent is a serious undertaking.

‘Because you never know,’ he grinned.

He closed the passenger door, and then he retrieved his rucksack. I suspected it was the last thing he would ever say to me. And then I watched him saunter across to the café as if he didn't have a care in the world.
Shortly afterwards, a silver Landcruiser pulled up outside the café and disgorged two men. One of them, a bulky-looking guard, and the other, an aging man in flowing black robes. From the safety of the hire-car, I could see how black his face was. As black as a starless night. But his hair and beard were long, and as white as snow, and he carried himself with grace and confidence.
I zoomed my camera in as far as possible and fired off a salvo of photos as Rob shook hands with Abubakar Abasi. The guard placed Rob’s big rucksack on the roof-rack of the vehicle and Rob, ushered by Abasi, took a seat in the back of the car. The Landcruiser then swung around in the road and headed back in the direction from which it had come.

It was getting late in the day. As I drove towards the airport at Abu Simbel, I rang my friend Lena, on her mobile at the Avis office in Cairo. ‘Oh, hi, Lena,’ I greeted her.

‘Where are you, Sahara?’ she asked, knowing straight away that I had an issue.

‘I’m out at Abu Simbel and having trouble with that Toyota. Do you think you can get me a replacement?’

‘Give me five minutes and I’ll see what I can do. You OK?’

‘I’m fine, but I’ve got a client who’s booked on a cruise from Luxor, and I’d hate for him to no-show.’

‘I’ll call you back.’ She hung up.

I drove to the airport and left the Toyota in the rental drop-off and, while I was waiting for a replacement car, I rang the Seti hotel and booked separate rooms in mine and Rob’s name, putting them both on my Visa card. I was known to the people at the hotel, so I had no problem convincing them to let me check-in in both names and give me key cards to both rooms. The place had plenty of guests and hopefully, the lack of Rob’s appearance would go unnoticed. Especially, as I later went to his room and made it looked slept in. However, I didn't immediately drive the new rental there. Instead, I arranged to pick it up the next morning and, having convinced myself I wasn’t being watched, I took a taxi to the hotel.
This might seem rather convoluted, but if Abasi’s men had spotted me, I might have been in danger. Also, If anyone from the security services checked, there would be a trace of Rob’s presence in Abu Simbel. A trace that might prove difficult to disprove.

As Jacques would say, ‘Sometimes, it only takes the whiff of cooking food to convince you that dinner is almost ready.’

Only I can’t remember why he might have said it.

Three days later, I was back in my apartment in Cairo, and I’d pretty much put Rob Macey out of my mind.

I loved that apartment. It was an elegant space, filled with memories of my childhood and of my parents. Papa may have been a soldier, but his passion was the desert and its hidden artifacts. Strewn around the walls was evidence of his passion, and it made the place feel like it had a history of its own, and it could whisper, only to me, all of its secrets. Even better, it had a grand, rooftop garden that was private and overlooked by no others. I had littered the place with potted lemon and orange trees, and when the wind blew, the atmosphere was filled with Jasmine and spice. I’d arranged it with plush furniture which crouched around an open fire-pit upon which I would roast Brazil nuts, stuffed-dates and marshmallows. And naked, I would lie awake and watch shooting stars and satellites, and I would allow the breeze to cleanse me, and I would dream of the desert.