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grey beard, heard the words arch out over the dozens of armed tribesmen, registered the murmurs of translation and the spreading echoes of agreement. He could even pick out the occasional word or phrase:
khawga
, foreigner;
molhed
, godless one; even once a hissed
shatan
– hard to miss, the origin of the English word of the same enunciation. Would this Al Shams, who seemed to believe so fervently in the power of God, actually murder Abdulkader, one of his own, one of the very people he purported to be fighting for? The events of the last day began to dissolve away and lose substance as fatigue and pain and hunger took hold, and he knew that no matter what he said back at the office in Aden, all that would remain would be another paragraph in a report, another message for the bosses to ignore.
Naafi
, as they used to say in the Battalion. No ambition and fuck-all interest. Enough for Al Shams? He doubted it.
    ‘Mister Straker?’ The
mashayikh
was leaning close, looking into his eyes. ‘You bleed.’
    Clay ran his hand across the back of his neck, closed his eyes a moment. His hand came away wet with blood. He looked up, wiped his hand on his trouser leg. ‘It’s nothing.’ He took a sip of tea and put the glass on the small wooden table between them. ‘Please continue, Excellency.’
    The
mashayikh
closed his eyes a moment, opened them. ‘We see many trucks, many men coming. What is the plan of your company, Mister Straker?’
    ‘I am a contractor, Excellency. Petro-Tex is not my company.’
    ‘But you are here. You speak for them.’ More murmurs from the crowd.
    ‘I am doing community consultation and environmental impact studies only. I listen and report back.’
    The
mashayikh
motioned with his head towards the notebook spread open on Clay’s knee. ‘Now you can report.’
    ‘The illness. Yes.’ He started to scribble in his notebook, but the pencil lead gritted over the silt that dusted the empty page, fracturingthe words. He wiped the paper with the side of his hand and started again.
    ‘It is said that Petro-Tex is making the oil factory on the
jol
bigger. They do this to take more oil from our land. Is this true, Mister Straker?’
    The room erupted again, everyone speaking at once. Some were shouting now, spitting out their accusations in the harsh Arabic dialect that he was only just beginning to understand. The
mashayikh
raised his hand to restore a degree of calm.
    Clay wiped the sweat from his eyes. The back of his hand came away streaked with mud. ‘The oil-processing facility on the plateau is being expanded. As part of the expansion programme, the company will build a school for your children, and they will drill a new water well for you.’ The standard line. By now he could recite it without thinking.
    The
mashayikh
wrapped both hands around the barrel of his rifle. ‘We have no need of your well. The
ghayls
– our springs – have provided for our people for all time, thanks God.’ Another chorus of murmured agreement:
Al hamdillulah
– thanks be to Allah.
    The
mashayikh
smoothed out the folds of his crisply laundered
thaub
, pulled a handkerchief from his jacket pocket and wiped the dust from his polished leather brogues. ‘Your company will take no more oil until the sickness is stopped, Mister Straker.’
    ‘Respectfully, Excellency, it is not possible that our operations could cause the type of illness you have described.’
    Again the plaintive murmurs, accompanied by the sounds of feet shuffling on sand and the metallic clink of sling-strap buckles on curved magazines and folding stocks. Above the din, a voice rose from the back of the room. Heads twisted to listen; the men quietened. A young man dressed Saudi-style in a flowing white robe stood against the back wall, one hand resting on a young boy’s shoulder. He was tall, clean-shaven, light-skinned, almost European-looking. He was Clay’s age, maybe younger. He spoke slowly, his voice like wind sculpting rock, deep and