Death In Oslo

XII

Abdallah al-Rahman was still a good swimmer. He cut through the water with long, steady strokes. His rhythm was slow, but the efficiency of his long arms and unusually large hands meant he kept his speed. The water was not chlorinated. Chemicals made him feel nauseous, and as no else had permission to use the large pool, it was filled with salt water. The water was changed frequently, so it never made him ill. The man sitting by the edge of the pool in a comfortable chair full of cushions, smiled at the beauty of the mosaics in and around the pool: tiny pieces of tile in myriad shades of blue that glittered in the light from the flares along the stone wall to the east. The evening air was gentle compared with the harsh heat that had harassed him all day. He would never get used to the heat. But he loved what was left behind, the stored warmth of the sun that made the evenings balmy and eased the pain in his damaged knee.

The Arab’s body ploughed through the water. The man by the pool was drinking tea as he followed his friend’s progress.

His name was Tom Patrick O’Reilly and he had been born into appalling poverty in a small town in Virginia in 1959. And things had got worse. His father had disappeared when the boy was barely two. He went out to fill up the car one day and his family had seen neither hide nor hair of him or the twelve-year-old pick-up, the family’s only car, since. His mother literally killed herself trying to feed the four children. She died when Tom was sixteen, in 1975, and already at her modest funeral, Tom had decided to invest everything in the only good card he’d ever been dealt. From being a talented player in the local football team in his last two years at high school, he managed to become the most promising quarterback that Virginia had produced in decades. He was given a scholarship to Stanford and left his home town with only a rucksack for his clothes, three one- hundred-dollar bills in his back pocket and the absolute certainty that he would never set foot in the town again.

He injured his knee in the first year. Lateral and cruciate ligaments, and meniscus. Tom O’Reilly was twenty years old and saw no future for himself. His academic performance was at best mediocre, so the only way he could continue his education was to pay with his spectacular passes.

He had been sitting in his room crying when Abdallah came in without knocking. The young man, whom Tom had only spoken to a couple of times, sat down on a stool and looked out the window. He said nothing.

Tom O’Reilly remembered drying his eyes. He gave a forced smile and pulled at the arms of his sweater, which was too small for him. Tom’s training meant that he was getting bigger. His scholarship only covered absolute necessities, fees and a modest living. Clothes were a luxury. The young man who had come uninvited into his room and started to finger the few belongings that Tom had stuffed into his rucksack was dressed in expensive jeans and a silk shirt. His shoes alone would cost more than Tom’s annual clothes budget.

Now, sitting in this palace outside Riyadh, drinking sweet tea and managing a fortune that he could never have even dreamt of at the time when he stood on the threshold of a promising career as a sportsman, it struck Tom that what had happened that warm spring day in 1978 was absurd.

He didn’t know Abdallah. No one at Stanford knew him. Not really, even though he was invited to the most popular parties and occasionally turned up, sauntering in with an enigmatic smile. The young man was filthy rich. Oil, everyone thought when they saw his black hair and sharp profile. No doubt it was oil, but no one asked. Abdallah al-Rahman did not invite questions about his private life. He was friendly enough, though, and a very good swimmer in the university team. He didn’t seek the company of his peers in the way that others did, but he was not a loner either. Girls always turned their heads. He was broad-shouldered and tall, and his eyes were unusually large. But nothing ever happened; after all, he was a foreigner.

And it seemed he was happy to keep it that way.

And then suddenly there he was, sitting in the messy student room that smelt of boys’ socks. When he threw Tom O’Reilly a lifeline, the penniless young man grabbed it with both hands.

And he had never let go since.

The tea was so sweet that his tongue felt furry. Tom O’Reilly put the glass down. He ran his fingers through his strawberry-blond hair and smiled at the Arab, who, with one graceful movement, emerged from the water.

‘Good to see you,’ Abdallah said, and shook his hand. ‘Sorry to make you wait.’

Always a handshake, Tom O’Reilly thought to himself. Never a traditional embrace or kiss. Nothing more, nothing less, a simple handshake. It was cold and wet and Tom O’Reilly shivered slightly.

‘You’ve had too much sun,’ Abdallah told him and picked up a towel to dry his hair. ‘As usual. I hope you haven’t been bored. I’ve had quite a bit to do.’

Tom just smiled.

‘How is Judith? And the kids?’

‘Well,’ Tom replied. ‘Very well, thank you. Garry is starting to get good now. Will never be much of a quarterback. Too big and heavy. But he might have a future as a defence player. I’m trying to pull some strings.’

‘Don’t pull too hard,’ Abdallah advised him, and tugged a white tunic over his head before sitting down on one of the empty chairs. ‘Children should learn to look after themselves. More tea?’

‘No thanks.’

Abdallah poured himself some from a silver pot.

They sat in silence. Tom caught himself studying Abdallah when he thought he wasn’t looking. The Arab had an unusual calm that never ceased to fascinate him. They had known each other for nearly thirty years now. Abdallah knew everything there was to know about Tom. The American had shared his sad story with his friend on that first night, and since then he had kept Abdallah informed of everything, big and small, that happened in his life: girls and stories, work, love and political preferences. Sometimes, when Tom was lying awake in bed and couldn’t sleep, he would look at his wife in the dark and think that Abdallah knew more about him than she did. Even after nearly twenty years of marriage.

That was the deal.

Even way back then, on that warm afternoon when spring had finally arrived and Tom had received the letter saying that his scholarship would be withdrawn from the following school year, due to medical circumstances, he was clear what the price of this fantastic gift would be.

Abdallah would know everything about him.

But both then and now, Tom felt it was a small price to pay. It was always a pleasure to be with Abdallah. At school they hung out every now and then, but were never seen to be good friends. At least not by others. And when they had finished school, they never met in the US. Their paths sometimes crossed in Europe. Tom often had meetings in metropolises where Abdallah happened to be on business. Then they would meet for dinner at some local Arabic café in London, or for a walk in the Champ de Mars by the Eiffel Tower, or along the Tiber, after a couple of coffees at a Roman café.

Occasionally Tom was called to Riyadh.

‘How was the journey?’ Abdallah poured himself more tea.

‘Fine.’

Tom O’Reilly liked being in Riyadh. He was always taken to this place, even though he knew there were other palaces, which he was led to believe were bigger and more impressive. The invitations were always sudden, never more than three hours’ notice. Always from a local telephone number. A private jet was ready for departure at the nearest airport. All Tom had to do was turn up. He might be in Madrid or Cairo, or Stockholm for that matter, when the invitation came. His work as the CEO of ColonelCars took him all over the world. In the days when he was lower down the ladder, it was sometimes difficult to suddenly rearrange everything. That was easier now, and in any case, the invitations had become less and less frequent.

It was a year and a half since he had last been here.

‘This will be the last time we meet,’ Abdallah said out of the blue and smiled. Tom O’Reilly tried to straighten up in the sea of soft cushions. His knee was hurting again. He had been sitting in the same position for too long. He didn’t know what to say, but he knew that he had to say something.

‘That’s a shame,’ he murmured, and felt like an idiot.

Abdallah al-Rahman’s smile widened. His teeth were pearly white against his dark skin. He drank down the rest of his tea in one go and put the glass down carefully.

‘It has been a pleasure, Tom, a real pleasure.’

The affection in his voice surprised Tom; it was as if Abdallah was talking to a favoured child.

‘Likewise,’ he mumbled, clasping his hand round the glass so his fingers had something to do.

Again they were both silent. The only thing that broke the vast, warm silence of the palace was a dog barking in the distance. The water in the pool was like a mirror. The gentle breeze at sunset that had made the air so pleasant earlier had now died down. Certainly in here behind the high old walls that surrounded the garden.

When Tom O’Reilly had accepted Abdallah’s generous offer in 1978, he had done so without any great reservations. He had swiftly managed to suppress the faint twinge of something that might be bad conscience. It was just stupid to question things that you didn’t quite know the answer to. The remainder of his studies would be paid for in return for no more than a small favour. The money would not only cover his school fees, but would also afford him a generous lifestyle. He could stop taking on extra jobs and concentrate on his studies. And as he was no longer training four hours a day, his academic work improved immensely. He qualified with a good grade, a valuable network of contacts from Stanford and the will to succeed that so often drives those who have found themselves on the edge.

But as he got older, doubts crept in.

Not overwhelming, but enough for him, in his thirties, to try to find out more about the foundation that had made it possible for a poor and not particularly promising student to finish his studies at one of the world’s most prestigious universities. As a student, the only thing that had concerned him was that a sizeable sum was paid into his account every summer and every Christmas, from the anonymous ‘Student Achievement Foundation’.

The foundation did not exist.

That worried him and gave him a couple of sleepless nights. However, he quelled his doubts after a while and assumed that it might well have been disbanded. Nothing strange about that, really, when he thought about it. No point in wasting valuable time investigating any closer.

Tom O’Reilly was an intelligent man. When Abdallah al-Rahman started to contact him in Europe, he of course realised that it could be misconstrued by others. By those who couldn’t understand that they were, in fact, good friends from university. By those who didn’t realise that the conversations they had were completely innocent.

‘Has life turned out the way you hoped it would?’ Abdallah asked him now in a calm voice, almost uninterested.

‘Yes.’

Tom had everything. He was faithful to his wife, though there had been temptations along the way. Even as a student, he had sworn that his father’s legacy would not cast any shadows in his own life. He was blessed with four children and an income that meant he could afford to house his family in a twelve-bedroom villa in one of Chicago’s best suburbs. He worked hard, and long hours, but had worked his way high up enough in the system to safeguard his weekends and holidays. Tom O’Reilly was a respected man. In quiet moments, when the children were younger and he tucked them in before he went to bed, he felt that he epitomised the American dream. He was content.

‘Yes,’ he repeated and coughed. ‘I am extremely grateful.’

‘You have only yourself to thank. I just helped when the system turned its back on you. You did the rest yourself. You’ve done well, Tom.’

‘Thank you. But I am… grateful. Thank you.’

Abdallah’s choice of words made him feel uncomfortable.

The system.

He had used a concept that Tom did not like. Not in the way that Abdallah had used it; to refer to the system in that way seemed…

Abdallah is not like them. He understands us. He operates within our system, our economy, and has never, not once, said anything that would indicate that he is like them. Quite the opposite. He respects me. He respects American values. He is practically… American.

‘The system is harsh.’ Tom nodded. ‘But it’s fair. I would in no way underestimate what you’ve done for me. As I said, I am deeply grateful. But with all due respect…’

He hesitated, and studied the chased-metal circles on the glass.

‘With all due respect, I would probably have managed to get by on my own. I had the ambition. I was willing to work hard. The system repays those who work hard.’

It was impossible to read in Abdallah’s face what he was thinking. He was obviously relaxed. His eyes were half closed, and a faint smile played on his mouth, as if he was thinking about something amusing that had nothing whatsoever to do with the conversation.

‘We’re both examples of that,’ he replied eventually. ‘The system repays those who work hard and who are focused. Those who set themselves long-term goals and don’t think only about short-term gain.’

Tom was reassured. He shrugged and smiled.

‘Exactly.’

‘And now I want you to do me a favour,’ Abdallah said, the distant expression still in his eyes, as if he was actually thinking about something else.

He gestured to a servant whom Tom had not noticed earlier. He was standing half hidden behind a gigantic pot with three palm trees in it over by the terrace entrance some twenty metres away. The servant approached on silent feet and handed an envelope to Abdallah. Then he withdrew, equally silently.

‘A favour,’ Tom muttered. ‘What is it?’

You’ve never asked me to do anything before. You’ve only asked about my life. About me and what I’m doing. That was the deal. I was to stay in touch. Meet you whenever you asked me to. That was the agreement. You said nothing about favours, Abdallah. I’ve kept my promise for nearly thirty years. I never promised to do any more than that – than to give of myself.

‘Something very simple.’ Abdallah smiled. ‘I just want you to take this back to the US and post it. And then we’re quits, Tom. Then you will have paid back what you owe me. And just so that you don’t think this is anything dangerous…’

Tom sat paralysed as Abdallah opened the envelope. Inside there was another, smaller envelope. It was not sealed. Abdallah stuck his nose down into it and took a deep breath. Then he smiled and held the envelope open for Tom.

‘Look, no poison. You are, and I think I’m justified in saying this, a bit hysterical about postal correspondence. This is quite simply a letter.’

Tom saw the folded paper. It looked like there might be several sheets. The letter was folded so the writing was on the inside. It was ordinary white paper. Abdallah licked the envelope and sealed it. Then he put it back into the bigger envelope and sealed that too.

‘All you have to do,’ he said calmly, ‘is to take it home with you. Then you need to find a postbox. It’s of no importance to me whatsoever where in the US that might be. Then you open the big envelope and pop the smaller one in the box and throw away the big one. That’s all.’

Tom O’Reilly didn’t answer. He felt his throat constrict, as if he was about to cry. He swallowed. Tried to cough.

‘Why?’ he stuttered.

‘Business,’ Abdallah replied indifferently. ‘I don’t trust the post here. And certainly not all this modern communications technology. Too many eyes and ears. It’s important that this reaches its destination. Simply business.’

How can you lie outright to me? Tom thought to himself and tried to keep his composure. How can you insult me like this? After thirty years? You have an entire fleet of planes and an army of employees at your disposal. But you’ve chosen me as a courier for that letter. What is this? What should I do?

‘You will do this,’ Abdallah added deliberately, ‘primarily because you owe it to me. And if that is not enough…’

He didn’t finish his sentence but looked the American straight in the eye.

You know everything about me, Tom thought and rubbed his sweaty palms together. More than anyone else. We have talked together for twenty-eight years, always about me, and seldom about you. You have been my confidant in everything. Everything. You know about my good and bad habits, my dreams and nightmares. You know my wife without ever having met her. You know how my children…

‘I understand,’ he said abruptly and took the letter. ‘I understand.’

‘Then we’re quits. The plane will be ready to take you back to Rome tomorrow morning. Is seven too early? No. Good, I’m hungry. Let’s go and eat, Tom. It’s cool enough to eat now.’

He stood up and offered the American his hand to help him out of the low chair. Tom automatically took it. When he was on his feet, the Arab put his arm around his shoulder and kissed him.

‘It’s been a joy to have you as a friend,’ he said softly. ‘A real joy.’

And as the American stumbled, bewildered, over the flagstones behind him, through the glass doors into the beautiful palace, a thought struck him for the first time: How many Tom O’Reillys do you have, Abdallah? How many people are there like me?