The Power of Five Oblivion

for her to continue.
    “I can’t bear thinking about it, the idea that it’s not there any more.” She paused. “Do you really think there’s nothing left?”
    “I don’t know,” Richard said. “To be honest with you, Scar, I’m like you. I don’t want to think about it.”
    Scarlett touched the side of her head. Her old nickname had become horribly appropriate. “Why would anyone want to do that? Blow up a city?”
    “Terrorists don’t really need a reason. It’s always just hatred and fanaticism … the complete opposite of reason.”
    “You know the terrible thing,” Scarlett’s eyes were far away. “I saw it in my dream. Everything in ruins … all those people dead. But I didn’t feel anything. It was as if I’d never lived there. And the only thing that makes me sad now is thinking about my school friends, and Aidan in particular. I don’t suppose I’ll ever see them again and I’ll never even know if they lived or died.”
    “We have to work out what we’re going to do,” Richard said. “If we sit around here much longer, we’re both going to go mad.”
    Scarlett saw that Richard was gently nudging her out of her mood. And he was right. Now that she had recovered, she was already bored, sitting in the compound with almost nothing to do. Rémy had found her a few dusty paperbacks in English, although they were barely worth reading, and there was an old chessboard that she and Richard had played on, using pebbles for the missing pieces. But they had been here too long already. It was time to move on.
    “We have to get back to the Great Pyramid,” Scarlett said. “That’s our way out of here. I only have to think where I want to go and we’ll be there.”
    “That won’t be so easy,” Richard said. “They know you’re here now. Our friend Monsieur Rémy says they’re looking for you everywhere. After what happened, they’re going to have every soldier and shape-changer in Cairo around the pyramids. You’d never get through.”
    “We could go in disguise.”
    “As a camel?”
    “I was thinking more of a burka.”
    “I don’t think it would suit me.”
    The door opened and Albert Rémy came in. The Frenchman was always pleased to see them and regarded Scarlett’s arrival as something of a miracle, but this morning he was particularly happy.
    “I have wonderful news,” he said. “Tarik is here – in the compound. Of course, nobody knew that he was coming until a few minutes ago. But I have seen him and he wishes to speak to you.”
    Tarik.
    Both Richard and Scarlett had heard a great deal about him. He was the man in the photograph that Scarlett had seen from her bed, the leader of the rebellion. All the commanders revered him. Every night they told stories about operations that he had led, street battles that he had won. He had been fighting the forces of Field Marshall Karim el-Akkad for as long as anyone could remember, and many of the words painted on the walls around Cairo had been taken from speeches that he had made. Tarik was a warrior name in Arabic and that was why he had chosen it for himself. He was the ultimate warrior and urban guerrilla. He had dedicated his life to liberating the city and many people said he was the only hope they had left.
    Rémy escorted them out of the building, across the courtyard and into the military wing of the compound. As always, there were guards at every door but Richard was aware that they were more disciplined and better dressed than usual. He could feel the tension in the air. He and Scarlett were shown into a room at the back, dominated by a round table covered with papers and files. There were maps on every wall, most of them showing Cairo and the surrounding area. An old fridge hummed in one corner. Electricity flickered on and off throughout the day but it was obviously working now. The room smelled of sweat and cigarette smoke. It had a shabby carpet, whitewashed walls and a scattering of classroom chairs.
    The man who was waiting for them was young and good-looking. That was Scarlett’s first impression. His clothes were semi-military; a combat jacket, jeans, army boots. Around his neck there was a cotton scarf which he would pull over his face when he was out in the sandstorms. He had black hair cut short, brown eyes and a face that seemed to be made up of straight lines: the chin, the cheekbones, even his eyebrows. He was about thirty years old. The picture that Scarlett had seen had been taken perhaps five