‘Amongst nomads, accepting food, even a drink of milk, means the forming of a bond between the giver and the receiver, between the host and the guest. It shows you’re willing to take on the responsibility of protecting Mujtabaa should there be any trouble in the future.’
Rory interrupted. ‘It also means you have to avenge his death if he’s killed.’
‘Maybe it would be better coming from you, Anne.’
‘I don’t think so. I’ve already fed him, obviously, but in his eyes at least, I’m only a woman.’ She was adamant, as if daring Adrian to make the same mistake as the Ethiopian.
He didn’t want the responsibility, but told himself it was simply some peasant belief and he should go along with it.
He got through to London with surprising ease. First he spoke to Dave Parker, the new assistant foisted on him by James Balcombe. Adrian ordered him to set everything in motion now, to organize the army of volunteer collectors, the placards and advertising placements, the police and council clearances, and anything else that needed to be put in place before their arrival. Some of these were already under way and had just been awaiting the final go-ahead once they’d found their Ethiopian.
Next, Adrian spoke to the executive director of Africa Assist. ‘All going well, James, we’ll be in London soon after eight o’clock your time this evening. The only flight out of Addis is via Rome.’
‘How many of you are there?’
‘Three. Myself, Anne Chaffey – the nurse I was telling you about – and the Ethiopian fellow.’
‘Tell me about him.’ He sounded peremptory.
‘He’s perfect.’ He read from the piece of paper Anne had placed on the side of his desk. ‘Name: Mujtabaa bin Qurban-Ali. Approximately 16 years old. Height, six foot three. No distinguishing marks, except that he’s incredibly thin.’
‘I doubt that’s a distinguishing mark in Ethiopia.’
‘I don’t suppose it is.’ He looked across at the young man sitting on the couch. ‘We couldn’t have hoped for better.’
There was a long silence, during which Adrian stared at Mujtabaa, who sat listlessly, almost like a rag doll, his eyes open but unseeing, seemingly indifferent to what was going on around him.
Adrian was imagining James Balcombe in his big house in Esher. He was probably enjoying drinks on the terrace, overlooking the extensive, lovingly tended gardens, discussing with his wife their social engagements for the week ahead. Maybe they had weekend guests down from the city, listening, with furrowed brows, to their host relaying his concerns to some troublesome minion on a faraway continent.
‘I have to make certain this is absolutely clear to you’ – he’s probably casting a meaningful glance at his guests right now, thought Adrian – ‘If anything goes wrong – you hear what I’m saying? – anything at all, it will be your responsibility, Adrian. I’ve been against this escapade from day one. Don’t forget that.’ There was a brief pause, both men listening to what sounded like a loud humming from some distant ocean bed. ‘Do I make myself clear?’
‘Perfectly. I understand exactly where you’re coming from.’ You fence-sitter, he thought, you weak-minded, bureaucratic idiot; covering your backside as usual. But he said, ‘Your concerns have been noted, James. I’m more than happy to take responsibility.’ As an afterthought, he added: ‘We don’t want any publicity by the way. Not yet.’
‘No?’
‘Just in case.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘In case something does go wrong.’
‘You mean should he die? Is that what you mean, Adrian – if the young man should die?’
He could hear the panic in the man’s voice. ‘It’s unlikely, but yes. Or if we can’t get him onto the plane or something. That’s more of a possibility,’ he added, ‘but that’s why I have Anne Chaffey with me, to prevent such mishaps.’
‘Dying is scarcely a mishap, Adrian. Quite frankly, this scheme of yours terrifies me.’
‘The event is to be launched tomorrow morning, at the press conference. Nothing’s to be revealed before then.’ Adrian wanted support. He didn’t want to know about everyone else’s worries; he had enough of his own. ‘If I’m to take full responsibility for this, James, I have to be the one running the show. I’ve told you that already: I make the decisions.’
Before Balcombe had a chance to communicate any more of his concerns, Adrian said: ‘I have to go. The immigration people are about to arrive.’
But the executive director of Africa Assist refused to be dismissed so easily. ‘One more thing. I’ll come and meet you at Heathrow.’
‘Probably better if you don’t. Everyone will be tired. Why not join us at the press conference tomorrow morning?’
As he put the phone down, Anne returned from the kitchen with a glass of milk. ‘I suggest you offer this to him in a solemn manner, Adrian. It would be wrong just to put it down on the table in front of him.’
Adrian carried the glass across to where the young man was sitting. He didn’t stir. Adrian said his name. He looked up. Although Adrian knew the young man couldn’t understand him, he said: ‘Here’s some milk for you,’ and held out the glass. It was a few seconds before the Ethiopian reached up and slowly, with both hands, took the glass off him. He bowed his head as if to thank Adrian, then gulped the milk noisily. Adrian was reminded of a small child, and half expected him to gasp and wipe his mouth with the back of his hand when he’d finished. He did neither. He simply let his hands fall back onto his lap, still holding the glass.
‘Oh dear, that was far too fast.’ Anne came up and stood next to the two men. ‘I think we may be seeing that milk again somehow.’
‘You mean…?’
‘Yes.’ She gently prised the glass from the young man’s hands.
‘Oh.’ Adrian took an involuntary step backwards, and the two of them stood looking down at the skeletal figure, once again slumped apathetically before them.
‘I was thinking, it doesn’t matter if he’s ill, just so long as he’s not about to die.’ Aware of how callous that might sound, he added: ‘I’d be happier if he wasn’t ill, of course; I certainly don’t want him to suffer.’
‘I’m pleased to hear that. Anyway, you won’t get him into the UK if he has anything too serious. As for the ethics of doing such a thing…’
He stared at her for a moment, silent, as if he were ignorant of that particular word and needed time to work out what it could possibly mean. He was exasperated by what he perceived as her lack of co-operation.
He went back to the desk and started to type on the old typewriter. ‘To whom it may concern. This is to say that I am leaving Ethiopia of my own free will, in the company of Adrian Burles, Chief Project Manager of Africa Assist and Partner of Talcott & Burles. I have agreed to fly to London in order to let the
