Aurora - Blood Moon Tribute Pt. 04

The general sat back with a big, beaming smile. He loved watching men grovel. Westerners especially, for while grovelling came as naturally as breathing to locals, for Westerners, he knew, it was nigh on excruciating. "Of course, Bragg, let me see what I can do. But if either of your pilots has committed a criminal offence... say... insulting a member of the royal family... then they must pay the price and there's nothing I can do. Nor should I. That would mean perverting the course of justice."

Bragg dipped his head, more of a bow. "Of course, General, I understand. But if you were to determine this was all just a silly misunderstanding. And my pilots were acting out of ignorance, not contempt. Perhaps then you could see your way clear."

The general looked at his watch. "I'm sorry Bragg, I would normally offer you tea, but today my schedule is extremely... what's the term?"

"Tight."

"Tight. I do hope you understand?"

Bragg nodded. Oh, yes, he understood. Understood with merciless clarity. Bragg, the courtroom brawler, Harry Houdini in wig and gown, the master hustler had just been hustled. He stood, suitably chastened, then straightened his jacket and turned to leave.

"Just one more thing." Musharraf said as an afterthought, even as Bragg was turning the doorknob. He nodded at the chair, no longer smiling. "Please, take a seat."

Torn between hope and dread, Bragg unbuttoned his jacket again and sat, trying to appear calm and collected even as his heart was racing. Now the charade of incorruptibility had been played out, perhaps Musharraf was about to play ball.

"You have heard of the country of Ndumba, yes?"

Bragg shook his head, doing his best to appear mystified as his hair stood on end.

"A small African nation, newly formed. Won by the faithful through a long campaign of arms, and the martyrdom many thousands."

"I'm sorry, General, geography was never my strong point. Much less geopolitics."

"Of course. Western countries live in blissful ignorance of such struggles... the poor, the righteous, fighting western-sponsored tyranny and oppression. It may interest you to know, Bragg. This country has many, many elephants."

"Elephants?"

"It's a plague, Mister Roger. There are hundreds of the beasts, tearing up the land, destroying farmer's gardens, eating their crops. And yes, even killing innocent humans from time to time."

"This is all news to me." Bragg lied. "Very sad."

"Do you know?" Musharraf went on, "His majesty in all his magnificence, in his boundless kindness and vast generosity. His Majesty, our king, bought those elephants?"

Bragg blinked, like he'd been slapped across the face with a fish. "He what?"

"His Majesty. Owns those elephants. He bought them off Ndumba for many millions of dollars, money that was used to build schools and roads and hospitals. And so, two or three times a year, His Majesty travels to Ndumba to manage his livestock-"

"The elephants?"

"Elephants, rhinoceros, leopards and lions, he owns them all. And he is desirous that they do not threaten the locals. Humble landowners, farmers and herders, the good citizens of Ndumba."

"There's not room for them all?"

"Ndumba has a growing population, as all prosperous lands do. They need the land."

Bragg switched directly to trial mode, reacting to the ambush by consciously controlling his breathing, willing his heart to a measured pace. The mention of this country, and the status of its wildlife, might have been pure coincidence, a prospect as likely as Santa Clause walking through the door. "That must be quite an undertaking." Bragg said. "For His Majesty."

Musharraf gestured at the framed photographs lining the wall. "He is a man of boundless honour. A man of duty, as you can see."

"Stands out a mile." Bragg nodded, gathering his composure into a steaming little pile.

"Tell me," Musharraf said, "is it true you expatriates like to stick together?"

"Stick together?"

"Meet as strangers in the bars? Drink, share stories? Part as friends at the end of the night?"

Bragg fought the urge to stretch his collar. "Well, you know what they say? Birds of a feather."

"Meaning?"

"I beg your pardon. It's just an expression. It means like attracts like. Expatriates like to gather to swap stories of this country. And its wonderful culture. And magnificent king."

"Indeed?" Musharraf nodded, stubbing his cigarette to death in an overflowing sliver ashtray, then helping himself to a fresh one. "Well tell me. Edward Abbey. Do you know this man?"

Bragg dropped his chin, staring at the floor, stroking his jaw as if thinking hard. This was a reflex action, honed over the years, when suddenly confronted with a name, or a place, or a date he'd hoped was utterly beyond discovery. "Abbey... Abbey..." he said then looked at the general. "A little context perhaps?"

The general cocked his head, frowning. "Context? What is this meaning?"

"What I mean is, how should I know this person? Is he a countryman perhaps?"

"He is staying the same hotel." Musharraf replied, not even faintly interested in hiding the fact they'd backgrounded Bragg and knew where he was staying. "I understand you drink at the English Bar. You've met him there, perhaps?"

"Can you describe him?" Bragg asked coolly, half expecting the general to say, 'Just go look in the mirror.' "Perhaps a photo?"

"White." the general said off-handedly, and Bragg picked up a minuscule tell. "An American. A businessman by all accounts, in his late fifties."

Bragg thought hard for a moment. Local Intel might have had his alter-ego's name, but that's all. "N... no... I'm sorry. What do you want with him?"

The general blew a plume of smoke at the nicotine-stained ceiling. "There is another man," he said, "Zhao Jinling. He is friend of the king, and business associate. Mister Zhao markets the king's ivory. This ivory seems highly prized where Mister Zhao comes from, and the sale of the harvest earns a modest return. Modest, that is, compared to the cost of controlling these pests."

Bragg sat nodding while his bowels threatened to open. Zhao was the reason they were all here in the first place; Bragg, Beck, Ally, the missing GulfStream 650. And Edward Abbey, who was none other than Bragg, who was in AbAldafra to bring Zhao down. In an elaborate sting, involving smuggled gold and gambling, hookers, drugs and Interpol.

"Now, it appears, Mister Edward has come to this country with ill-intentions towards Mister Zhao. Because of some insane belief that animals are more important than men. Mister Edward's ill will towards a friend of His Majesty is nothing short of a crime, and, as we speak, Ab Aldafran intelligence, assisted by the Chinese, is closing in on him. However," Musharraf said shrewdly, "if you know Mister Edward, or happen to know where he is. If you can lead us to him... then, perhaps... your employees might turn up sooner rather than later."

Bragg nodded thoughtfully, desperately wondering if Musharraf had noticed his unusual pallour. "Of course, General. I'll keep my eye out."

Musharraf dismissed Bragg with a flick of the fingers. Head down, he scanned another death-warrant and approved it with the stroke of his pen.

"It's been a privilege." Bragg said, getting to his feet with a curt bow. Turning, he walked to the door with the spastic gait of a man who had just cheated death by a whisker. All of his grandiose schemes, of bringing down the ivory Czar, then hoodwinking a billionaire recluse into helping free Beck, all his best laid plans now lay in ruins. If they found out who Edward Abbey was- and it was only a matter of time- and the story unravelled, he... they... the three of them- Beck, Ally and Bragg- were done for.

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Ally sat cross-legged at the bars, a semi-circle of women gathered around her, all watching in studious silence. On the other side of the barrier, surrounded by loose leaves of notepaper, Aisha the jailer sat cross-legged as well, her knees inches from Ally's, baton on the floor on one side, taser and OC spray on the other, within easy reach of any inmate in the mood for excitement.

"So this," Aisha said, peering at a diagram, "is called a CL-alpha curve?"

Ally nodded, "Correct." silently adding, 'Like I've already told you one hundred times.'

"And this," Aisha breathed, as if a universal truth had just suddenly dawned, "This is the eh... eh..."

"Come on, Baby, you can do it."

"Aerofoil. And this line," she traced the drawing with the tip of an elegant finger, "is the chord line. Its name," she said, parroting her teacher, "sounds like a piece of string, but it is not a piece of string. It is a line drawn between this," she tapped the page, "the leading edge, and this, the trailing edge. And the angle between this line and the windflow-"

"Airflow." Ally corrected. "Use the right terms."

"Airflow, sorry, between this and the airflow is called the 'angle of attack'."

"Is that like for fighter jets?" a little Indian girl asked, thinking herself a candidate for a gold star.

"Yeah..." Ally rolled her eyes, "no, Jaishri, it's a completely different concept. Now hush"

"The angle between the chord and the airflow is the angle of attack." Aisha said breathlessly, "And the angle of attack... it is called alpha." She picked up the first sheet of paper in a trembling hand. "And this, this is the CL-alpha curve." She turned the diagram around to face Ally and the other inmates, then, looking over the top, followed the lines with her finger. "Alpha is on the bottom line, and CL, the..." she rolled her eyes, snapping her fingers, on the verge of losing traction halfway round the bend.

"Come on, Aisha, you've done it before."

Aisha ran a hand over her head, then clenched her fist and gave her temple a thump. "My brain is hot, Miss Ally."

"C'mon, Honey, get this right and you can have the rest of the night off. Just take a deep breath and remember what we've done."

"The CL is... the CL is..." her face brightened, "The CL is the coefficient of lift, a number that changes with alpha. So if alpha goes up," Aisha raised her eyes, almost bursting with excitement, "the CL goes up, all the way to around seventeen degrees."

"What happens then?" Ally urged, vaguely aware of the buzz around her, as a handful of other girls suddenly twigged.

"The aerofoil will stall." Aisha whispered dramatically, "And the lift, see here, it falls away."

Ally started clapping and several inmates joined in. "You fucken stall!" Ally crowed, "and you crash like a motherfucker. Stall-spin-crash-burn-die! That's another important equation. Tell me, Aisha, for bonus points. Why does it stall?"

"Because..." Aisha hastened, eyes misty with adoration for her diminutive teacher, "the change in direction is too great. And the laminar flow comes unstuck!"

Ally looked around approvingly. "By George I think she's got it. Remember, Aisha, when you go home after your shift. In the bus. Put your hand out the window. See what happens when you change your angle of attack."

"That makes so much sense to me now." Aisha breathed. "Now... that's CL. What's next? Half rho..."

Ally waved her down. "Woah woah woah. Slow down, Professor, that's enough for tonight." She looked around. "And Aisha reckons HER brain is hot!" Dropping her chin, she took Bayo's hand and put it on the top of her head. Playing along, the black girl pulled her hand back, wincing, then blew on her fingers. "No more, Aisha," Ally said, "you've done enough for tonight. I'm really proud of you."

Aisha looked at Ally, her eyes wide. "You are a genius, Miss Ally."

Ally huffed on her nails then buffed them on her breast, "I don't like to blow my own trumpet." she said, then looked around beaming, "I have a girl to do that."

Aisha understood the innuendo, if not the words, and her face lit up with a dazzling smile. Ally's breath caught in her throat at the perfection of Aisha's teeth, the beauty of her lips, full and firm and irresistibly kissable. And her eyes, big, dark and liquid, framed with long, feathery lashes. Even her ears gave a different impression, now she'd revealed her innate allure, like a bat or a cat or a forest creature, big yet delicate and exquisitely sensitive. Aisha looked down at her notes and the moment popped like a soap bubble, leaving only the lingering sense that there was more, much more to this outlandish young female.

"Well," Ally grunted, getting to her feet lest the unexpected ardour carry her away, "school's out. You on duty tomorrow, Aisha?"

Rolling off her butt onto her thigh, Aisha pushed up off the floor, then stooped to pick up the tools of her trade. Having sworn black and blue she wouldn't, Ally peered down the front of Aisha's shirt hoping for a glimpse of her dusky treasures. She was rewarded for her effort with a glimpse of two sweet little globes, a mouthful each, cradled in a utilitarian black bra. "Two days off, Miss Ally. I so wish I was not. I can... not... wait to discover about rho."

"Spoken like a true enthusiast." Ally nodded as Aisha holstered her taser.

Gripped by infatuation, Aisha looked up, straight into Ally's eyes. "Anyway," she brusquely said, jamming the OC into a pouch, "I still have my rounds to do." She turned, breaking the connection, then set off, shoulders hunched, scuffing down the long, concrete walkway.

"Aisha!" Ally called and the girl stopped dead in her tracks. Turning, she looked at the pint-sized prisoner over her shoulder. Ally beckoned. "Come back."

Aisha looked around nervously. All of a sudden it dawned; she was a jailer, and the scores of women surrounding her all criminals. "What do you want?" she asked, pulling up at the bars, hand resting on the butt of her baton.

"You want to think like a pilot?" Ally asked.

Aisha flicked a challenging glance at random onlookers. "Of course I do. What do you mean?"

"Then for fuck's sake, girl, start looking like one. Here. Chin up! Good! Now, shoulder's back... that's right... push those little bubbies out! Th... there you go. And for fuck's sake, walk from the hips!" Ally looked around in faux exasperation. "I swear to god, if I hear those sandals scuff once more. I'll tear 'em off your feet, pull your pants down and smack your little bottom with them."

Aisha looked around. There was not one derisive eye to be seen.

"Off you go," Ally said, "dismissed."

Aisha turned. She stood for a moment, spine vibrating, then set off again, head up, chest out, hips swaying, elation welling in her breast. That someone, anyone, would bother to seek out the best in her, harangue her to make the most of her potential. It was like a rebirth. As she strode the hundred meters looking from side to side, no one booed, there were no taunts or catcalls. Not one woman turned her back, while one or two gave a tiny nod.

Ally stood at the bars for a while, looking for the English girl, Penny. She'd noticed her watching for a while before melting into the crowd and was hoping to tease her with a round or two of, 'I told you so'. Defeated, Ally was turning to go when a cry went up, hoots and wails filling the cell block. The lights were going down. And down. And down. Until the block was steeped in the peaceful gloom of twilight. Darkness- the first some inmates had experienced in years- filled the cell, and Ally found herself passed from embrace to embrace, some inmates reaching out to touch her, some kneeling on the floor and touching her feet. Hug after breast-mashing hug, garnished with tears of joy. Smug at first, then embarrassed, Ally crossed her arms. She didn't have a bra- it had been binned with the rest of her clothes, and her nipples were threatening to punch holes in the threadbare green rags.

Singing broke out- the African girls, naturally- then someone yelled, "The showers are on!" Women crowded into the ablution block, stripping off, their actions entirely non-sexual, each inmate revelling in the sudden, unprecedented bounty of tepid water. They circulated through, each girl making way for the cellmate behind them. Someone lit a candle and several girls crowded around, heating mugs of water, brewing tea. Voices were hushed, as if the darkness was some wild thing that might be easily frightened away.

Stepping in front of her, beaming like a reveller on New Year's eve, Bayo, the black girl, took Ally's face in her hands and placed a big, sisterly kiss on her forehead. "Oh, Miss Ally," she said with a shake of her head, her big, dark eyes full of wonder and tears, "you are a miracle."

Ally sat on her mat with her knees drawn up, sobbing. She didn't want this. She didn't want the fame, the notoriety, didn't want a bar of whatever it might be called. It was just so unfair. She was falling in love with these creatures, some of whom were serving 20 years on trumped up charges, or for last ditch acts of desperation. She didn't want to own the injustice, witness the suffering. She didn't want to be part of it, any of it, because sooner or later she would leave them behind.

Some girls noticed Ally in tears and hurried to offer her comfort. The willowy Chinese prostitute, Yan, promptly shooed them away, creating a tiny circle of emptiness, a tiny void, a little bubble of privacy around the sobbing young woman. Sitting cross-legged on the mat behind her, Yan wrapped her arms around Ally and pulled her into her lap, then held her tight and let her cry. Working miracles always took a toll. Ally needed her solitude, she deserved it.

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Even half-baked, Beck didn't need a compass to know they were going the wrong way. Once more draped in black from head to toe, with barely a slit for her eyes, she pitter-pattered down interminable corridors, surrounded by the hulking guards in their magenta livery. At the head of the pack, shouldering courtiers, servants and various lackeys aside, a glowering Doctor Khan hustled Beck through several levels, ascending the palace labyrinth, until they reached a huge, double door, made of priceless timber- Pink Ivory and African Blackwood, inlaid with dazzling floral motifs of gold, ivory and lapis lazuli.

The escort lumbered to a halt, then stood waiting in heavy-breathing silence as Khan stabbed a code into a gleaming golden keypad and turned the gold-plated knob. The detail reconfigured, forming a semicircle around Beck as she stood at the entrance to a huge, luxurious room. "In here." Khan snarled, stepping aside.

"Where am I?" Beck asked, looking from the sergeant of the guard to the angry doctor in turn.

Not deigning to reply, Khan placed a hand in the middle of Beck's back and propelled her inside, then closed the doors behind her and brushed her hands. She'd had a grand old time lording it over the little harlot, but Beck was now a bigger fish and someone else's to fry. Forcing her way through the cordon, the doctor stormed away, then disappeared from view in a swirl of robes.

Beck looked over her shoulder as the doors clunked shut and the lock cycled with a meaningful 'clack!'. "It would be nice if someone could tell me what's going on!" she yelled, her protest falling on an empty room.

First things first, to get the hell out of the cursed black sack. Driven by the boredom and frustration of unrelenting confinement, the battle soon turned into play, Beck rolling around on the floor fighting the heavy niqab, like a kitten with a paper bag when it thought no one was watching. Finally free, she treated the black robes a ceremonial stabbing, down on all fours, arm rising and falling, tangled blonde locks swinging to and fro. On her feet, still breathing hard, she raked her hair back, then kicked the niqab aside like some vanquished beast.