just a speck now, still waiting by the water. Whatever Al Shams thought was happening here, there was no sign of it. Was the truth being spoken?
Is a woman beautiful or ugly? A glance is not enough. To know, you must marry her. That’s what Abdulkader would have said.
Getting the Tone Just Right
He made the long journey back to Aden on autopilot, hundreds of kilometres of dusty, potholed road vanishing without a trace, mountains and bluffs, the black cinder cones of the Aden plain no more than a blur in the side window, the changeless sky as empty as a non-believer’s soul, as blank.
It was early evening when Clay arrived in the waiting room of Petro-Tex’s main Yemen operations office. He smiled at the busty blonde secretary. It came out more like a scowl. ‘Howzit, Greta?’
She looked up at him, eyes narrowing. ‘OK, Clay?’ she said in a distinct Scandinavian accent. ‘What happened to your face?’
Clay raised his hand to his jaw, the scrapes from when he’d hit the ground after being knocked unconscious. ‘I was run over by a beautiful woman in Land Rover.’
She smiled, waved this away. She had lovely blue-green eyes. ‘I never thanked you for the Kahlua.’ Clay brought her a duty-free bottle every time he came into Yemen. You couldn’t get it locally. ‘Go right in,’ she said.
Nils Karila sat behind a large desk strewn with papers, a shard of Indian Ocean blue just visible through the wood-framed window behind him. Production charts, reservoir maps, petro-physical logs and impenetrable seismic tracings covered the dingy walls. A rectangular picture frame hung on the bookcase, Karila and three blond children in red and blue winter jackets peering out from a polar snowscape. Slumped in his chair, he tapped with two fingers on a yellowing keyboard, the computer monitor looming above him likea stern and remote superior. His thin white hair was combed back over his scalp, barely covering the pink, sunburned skin.
‘What do you want, Mister Straker?’ Karila said without looking up from the keyboard.
‘I …’ Clay stumbled, stopped, stared out the window. On the long drive back he’d rehearsed the message over and again, a hundred variants, playing out Karila’s response in his head. And each time he had reached the same conclusion: there was no way to deliver Al Shams’ message without endangering Abdulkader.
‘Your report, Straker?’
‘You’ll have it in two weeks.’
‘One week. You know the situation.’
If he told Nils now, they’d send in the Army. ‘My invoice for the Kamar project hasn’t been paid yet,’ he said. ‘It’s been three months, Nils. I’m
swak
. Dead broke.’
Karila stopped typing and looked up from the keyboard. Albino eyes blinked behind a pair of wire-framed glasses; a burning Gitane hung from his mouth. He looked like he had worked through the night. ‘Accounts assure me it will be paid this week.’
If he didn’t tell Karila, he’d have no reply for Al Shams. ‘That’s what you said last month.’
‘We are all very busy here, Mister Straker.’
Clay looked around the room. Would Petro-Tex try to get Abdulkader back? They’d never had a hostage situation before. ‘Someone’s getting paid, then.’
Karila glanced up at him, disapproval etched into every crease of his pursed pink lips. ‘I’ll speak to Dunkley today.’ Dunkley was the operation’s chief accountant.
Clay nodded, shuffled his feet. ‘Ever think it’s a curse, Nils?’
Karila hit the enter key, flicked his gaze across the screen for a moment, then looked up again. ‘Curse? What are you talking about, Straker?’
‘Oil.’ Clay pointed to the wintertime photo. ‘The cost.’
Karila glanced down at the picture frame, seemed to ponder thisa moment, directed a stream of blue smoke at the ceiling with a long sigh. ‘I’ve got a lot to do, Straker. Do you have something to report or not?’
Clay stood looking down at Karila, unsure where to start. ‘Are you hearing
Is a woman beautiful or ugly? A glance is not enough. To know, you must marry her. That’s what Abdulkader would have said.
Getting the Tone Just Right
He made the long journey back to Aden on autopilot, hundreds of kilometres of dusty, potholed road vanishing without a trace, mountains and bluffs, the black cinder cones of the Aden plain no more than a blur in the side window, the changeless sky as empty as a non-believer’s soul, as blank.
It was early evening when Clay arrived in the waiting room of Petro-Tex’s main Yemen operations office. He smiled at the busty blonde secretary. It came out more like a scowl. ‘Howzit, Greta?’
She looked up at him, eyes narrowing. ‘OK, Clay?’ she said in a distinct Scandinavian accent. ‘What happened to your face?’
Clay raised his hand to his jaw, the scrapes from when he’d hit the ground after being knocked unconscious. ‘I was run over by a beautiful woman in Land Rover.’
She smiled, waved this away. She had lovely blue-green eyes. ‘I never thanked you for the Kahlua.’ Clay brought her a duty-free bottle every time he came into Yemen. You couldn’t get it locally. ‘Go right in,’ she said.
Nils Karila sat behind a large desk strewn with papers, a shard of Indian Ocean blue just visible through the wood-framed window behind him. Production charts, reservoir maps, petro-physical logs and impenetrable seismic tracings covered the dingy walls. A rectangular picture frame hung on the bookcase, Karila and three blond children in red and blue winter jackets peering out from a polar snowscape. Slumped in his chair, he tapped with two fingers on a yellowing keyboard, the computer monitor looming above him likea stern and remote superior. His thin white hair was combed back over his scalp, barely covering the pink, sunburned skin.
‘What do you want, Mister Straker?’ Karila said without looking up from the keyboard.
‘I …’ Clay stumbled, stopped, stared out the window. On the long drive back he’d rehearsed the message over and again, a hundred variants, playing out Karila’s response in his head. And each time he had reached the same conclusion: there was no way to deliver Al Shams’ message without endangering Abdulkader.
‘Your report, Straker?’
‘You’ll have it in two weeks.’
‘One week. You know the situation.’
If he told Nils now, they’d send in the Army. ‘My invoice for the Kamar project hasn’t been paid yet,’ he said. ‘It’s been three months, Nils. I’m
swak
. Dead broke.’
Karila stopped typing and looked up from the keyboard. Albino eyes blinked behind a pair of wire-framed glasses; a burning Gitane hung from his mouth. He looked like he had worked through the night. ‘Accounts assure me it will be paid this week.’
If he didn’t tell Karila, he’d have no reply for Al Shams. ‘That’s what you said last month.’
‘We are all very busy here, Mister Straker.’
Clay looked around the room. Would Petro-Tex try to get Abdulkader back? They’d never had a hostage situation before. ‘Someone’s getting paid, then.’
Karila glanced up at him, disapproval etched into every crease of his pursed pink lips. ‘I’ll speak to Dunkley today.’ Dunkley was the operation’s chief accountant.
Clay nodded, shuffled his feet. ‘Ever think it’s a curse, Nils?’
Karila hit the enter key, flicked his gaze across the screen for a moment, then looked up again. ‘Curse? What are you talking about, Straker?’
‘Oil.’ Clay pointed to the wintertime photo. ‘The cost.’
Karila glanced down at the picture frame, seemed to ponder thisa moment, directed a stream of blue smoke at the ceiling with a long sigh. ‘I’ve got a lot to do, Straker. Do you have something to report or not?’
Clay stood looking down at Karila, unsure where to start. ‘Are you hearing
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