The Network - Jason Elliot [87]
I get out and wave, and in reflex she pulls a white scarf, which has fallen onto her shoulders, back onto her head.
‘As-salaamu aleikum.’ It’s time to play the role of the helpful passer-by.
She returns the greeting peremptorily and looks up at me full of suspicion. She says something angrily in Arabic which I don’t catch, then rolls her eyes as if help from a white tourist is the last thing she wants.
I walk down from the shoulder of the road to where she stands beside her car, the wheels of which have sunk into the sand up to the axles.
‘I saw what happened. Can I help?’
‘No, thank you,’ she says, putting up her hands in a gesture of refusal. ‘Everything is OK. I don’t need help.’ She has a clear soft voice with a distinct French accent.
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes,’ she says testily, ‘I’m sure. I’m a woman, but I’m sure. Thank you.’
She looks even more annoyed now. Her reaction has caught me by surprise. I had the impression from her photograph that she’d be meek and reserved, a timid Muslim woman who only speaks when she’s spoken to. I couldn’t be more wrong. She’s all fire and pride, conspicuously strong-willed and too stubborn to admit how angry she is. She’s also more beautiful than in the photograph, which is perhaps why I’m staring. Even without having seen her picture, I’m certain I would have this feeling that I already know her, as if we’ve met before. But we haven’t. I catch myself and look away, as if breaking free from the spell of a hypnotist.
‘I can help to pull you out,’ I say. It worked with the Uzbek girl.
‘Thank you,’ she says. ‘I don’t need your help. I can take care of this.’ Then, half to herself but distinctly enough for me to hear, she mutters ‘Imbecile’ under her breath.
I say nothing. It’s a stand-off. She won’t accept help, and I’m too proud to be rebuffed. We look at each other for a few seconds. It’s the first time our eyes really meet. Her face is still but her scarf is moving slightly in the breeze. My mind’s racing with unexpected thoughts and I’m reluctant to take my eyes off her. I walk back to my car and fetch the tow rope. She’s still glowering at me as I return, but there’s a hint of curiosity in her eyes now.
‘En cas d’urgence.’ I put the tow rope on the bonnet of her car.
‘I don’t need that,’ she says.
‘I’d say you need it more than I do,’ I say. ‘In case you have trouble parking again. Nice to meet you.’
She opens her mouth to speak but then decides not to. I turn and walk back to my car. I have my pride too.
On the roof of the guest house I can sit unobserved and power up the satphone. It’s been modified by the operational support geeks back home to accept a memory card with randomised codes on it, which makes it the modern equivalent of a code book and one-time pad combined. Each word of my contact report for Seethrough has a corresponding code number which is then encrypted and sent in a burst that lowers the probability of recognition or intercept to virtually nil. The most challenging part of the operation is shielding the screen from sunlight so as to see the words as I select them: first contact hibiscus successful arranged new rv next week. It’s not perfectly accurate, but he’s not to know. I’m just hoping I can think of a way to meet Jameela again before the week is out.
The solution comes after I pay a visit to the UNICEF office in Street 47 and am given an armful of documents about the organisation’s activities in the Sudan. Among them is a list of upcoming events in Khartoum, which I scan down until Jameela’s name leaps out at me beneath the title Global Programme for Polio Eradication. In three days’ time she’s giving a briefing on the progress of an immunisation campaign in the Nuba mountains in the south of the country. Staff and NGO partners, it