The Wait

February 4th 2030 (Monday)

Late evening

BBC World NEWSFLASH:

This just in:

Tonight, as celebrations marking the end of Ramadan were beginning, Islamic State have broken the peace agreement with the UAE. Caliphate soldiers crossed the border from the former Kingdom of Saudi Arabia and overran UN and UAE troops stationed in the area. Relevant sources in the US and Europe have confirmed that repatriation efforts for expatriates stranded in the area are under way.

We will keep you up-to-date with further news as it comes in.

Emma

‘You are hooked on the news, aren’t you?’

I poke him in the back. He is forever glued to the TV news channels: BBC, CNN – so much that I think he is on first name terms with all the reporters. If not news, it is football.

‘Get ready!’

He stands reluctantly as he pulls me close. He puffs noisily.

‘Do we have to go?’

‘Yes, we do. And you know that you want to go!’

‘But an Iftar party? No alcohol, no dancing? That is not really a party, is it?’

This year, we have been to many Iftar parties. He is right, they are not real parties, more get-togethers. This one, the last one, is an invitation from one of our best clients. We have to go and Max knows it, but still he needs cajoling.

I push him to the shower for a quick clean up. While I dress, I get his clothes ready for him so that we have matching outfits. After all these years, we are known for our color coordination. The TV is still playing, tuned to the BBC Worldwide News channel. I am almost ready, about to put in my earrings, when something draws me to the lounge. As soon as my mind understands the voices and images from the TV, I no longer care for the evening’s accessories.

‘O my God!’

I see the images flashing across the screen but find it difficult to associate them to our place and time.

Max comes out of the bathroom.

‘Darling?’ I call. ‘Don’t bother getting dressed!’

He hears me, even though I am not certain that I spoke out loud. My mind is sucked in by the pictures on our TV.

‘Why? You changed your mind?’

I point.

‘They have changed my mind. We need to pack.’

Like an automaton, I begin to move.

He gets his voice message first.

‘The Embassy.’

I know. The same number comes up on the display of my phone and I show him.

Max hits the play button and listens.

A stranger’s voice gives him time and location for our pick up. We have the night to prepare and pack. Chances are we will not return to the UAE: not soon, not after this, not ever. We have talked about leaving anyway. With ISIS so close by, it would not have been prudent to expect the treaty to last as long as it did, not after Saudi, not after Oman. We should have left a long time ago. Our luck has run out. It is time.

My instructions are exactly the same as his.

There is no need to talk. We have discussed this eventuality so many times, running emergency drills in our heads: when the call comes, what do we do? We have each our own tasks, and we both know what the plans are. I make tea while he empties the safe in the bedroom. It holds our important papers and enough cash to see us through the first few days wherever we end up. If the worst comes to the worst, the cash should buy us our freedom. You never know!

‘I don’t have a passport’, he reminds me as I take the steaming mugs to where he is busy organizing our backpacks.

‘But you have that letter. Plus, the Embassy called you as well, so they expect you.’

I kiss him with a severe and hurried passion. Now that the moment has arrived, I need to feel him close. I want to hold him and never let go.

‘Don’t worry.’ I need him to tell me, but instead I calm him.

‘You know I don’t worry. I was just stating a fact.’

‘Did you catch how much we can take?’

‘I think the man said one suitcase and a carry-on.’

I pull a medium sized case from the top of the wardrobe. We travel so often, suitcases need to be handy.

‘Let’s keep it down then. Three days’ worth of clothes?’

‘I suggest a week of underwear.’ Max giggles. A joke between us: twice now when we were going on vacation, I brought everything but the underwear. Embarrassing, and I never hear the end of it, but it means that I am extra aware now, and focus on the paraphernalia as well as the clothes we need.

‘Right. Just put on the bed what you need packed. I leave the carry-ons to you.’

Max busies himself again with papers, laptops, cameras, cables and external data storage. Our entire business is secure on a cloud, but he likes to carry the backups, just in case there is no internet access. He breaks the load into two.

He flicks through the news channels, but there is nothing else.

‘Done.’

I park the case in the lounge against the wall.

‘I packed some shoes as well.’

‘Thanks, dear. I forgot to mention about those.’

‘I put clothes out for tomorrow. Jeans and t-shirts, socks, the lot, including shoes.’

For the first time since the news story broke, he properly looks at me. His eyes are probing, and I don’t know what he is looking for. Under his gaze, I tear up. I always do. He knows I am stressed.

‘Come, sit with me.’

He turns the TV to mute and we sit together on the sofa, listening to the noise creeping in from the street below. We are not alone. There are others close by, but they don’t matter.

We join hands and bow our heads.

Max leads our prayer.

It has always been like this, ever since we first met.

February 5th 2030 (Tuesday)

BBC World NEWSFLASH:

‘The end of Ramadan has brought war to the UAE. We go directly to Frank Carter, our correspondent in Abu Dhabi. Please, Frank, what is the situation after that horrific incident we heard about last night?’

The picture changes to Frank, who stands in bright desert light. His blond hair highlights his tanned skin. He wears a short sleeved light blue shirt under his bullet proof vest. There is dust, people milling around, nosy faces trying to get a glimpse of the camera. Some smile for the cameras, but there are many furrowed brows. The prickle of panic is in the air. Frank looks around, holding his microphone. He keeps his face straight, neither smiles nor shows anxiousness. His voice is steady. He is a professional, after all.

’Thank you, London office.

The atmosphere here in Abu Dhabi is one of nervous anticipation. Those that can leave are making their way to the airports where flights still can be had to all major destinations abroad. Leaving by car is no longer an option as the UAE is surrounded by countries governed by ISIS. Boats are leaving the Arabian Gulf, hoping to be picked up by the various military vessels patrolling the Arabian Sea.

We know that American and European embassies are assembling their nationals. Over the past few years, their numbers have dwindled, but several thousand expats are still believed to be in the area. These now have to leave in a hurry before Caliphate troops overrun and take over the cities and particularly the airports.’

He puts a hand to his earpiece and slightly moves. You can see a scar run from his hair line down past his ear. Sweat beads. Stubble shimmers where the sun catches short hairs that in the morning have evaded his razor.

‘Hold on – can you repeat this?’

He listens intently for a few seconds, then faces the camera again.

’I am sorry to viewers for this short interruption. I have just learned that Al Ain, about 150km from Abu Dhabi, has fallen into the hands of ISIS after fierce fighting during the night.

Please, back to the studio!’

The picture goes back to London. The announcer, his voice shaking, does not yet have the cues ready and stares blankly at the camera.

He grapples for words.

‘This is indeed terrible news. Our thoughts go out to the people of Al Ain and those of our countrymen and women in the UAE.’

He swallows as though he is personally affected. Then he catches himself and carries on with that half-smile that he wears all day every day.

‘We will keep viewers up-to-date as news happens. But now to the updates from home …’

Abu Dhabi, 10am

Frank hands the microphone to a member of his small crew. Now they are only four – himself, Tony, the cameraman, Nasser who does the driving, and Ihab who does the fetching and carrying and makes the best tea in the world.

‘Christ, when can we get out of here?’

The question goes to nobody in particular.

‘Not soon enough’, Tony whistles as he pats his jacket for cigarettes and lighter. Always the lighter goes missing, there are always too many pockets.

‘Want one?’ He asks Frank and holds out the last packet of Marlboros he bought from duty-free. Frank shakes his head.

‘I gave up.’

‘I bet you a hundred that you start again before this is over!’

Frank smiles.

‘You’re on!’

They shake on it, walking to the car. Nasser already loaded their gear, Ihab holds cold cans of soda and water. They slide into the back of their air conditioned Suburban. Their next stop is the UK Embassy.

UK Embassy Abu Dhabi, 11am

The office is in chaos. At every desk, people are busy packing paper files, backing up computer drives. The noise is deafening. Nobody talks, but there is a cacophony of beeps, blips, clicking of keyboards and thumps as cartons are assembled, boxes dragged along the floors, people hustling. Nerves are lying blank; people’s faces show the strain.

Tony turns to Frank.

‘I don’t think we will find anybody here who has time for us.’

Frank pushes on.

‘We have an invitation. We were told to turn up, so there should be someone here to talk to us.’

He steps into the path of a Philippino with a bunch of papers in his arms.

‘We are from the BBC. We are here …’

Rushing away, the man points to a meeting room at the end of a line of cubicles.

When they push open the door, the calm is more telling than the hectic nervousness amongst the office workers. They enter and make themselves comfortable in heavy leather chairs at a big wooden table.

Tony sees a bank of bottles on a credenza by the window.

‘Want something to drink?’

He saunters across the room, taking in the view.

‘I want to get this over with and get out of here’, Frank states.

Tony grabs a few bottles of juice and water and brings them to the table.

‘Might as well make the most of it’, he apologizes and starts drinking.

‘Wish it was something stronger.’

Nonchalantly, Frank takes a bottle of water. The screw top is tight and he struggles to open it. He squeezes the flimsy plastic with extra strength, and as the lid gives, water slobs out. It dances onto the polished table top and he swishes it off.

They sit and listen to the noises in the office outside.

They look up in surprise as the door is pulled open and a woman enters. In her late twenties or maybe early thirties, she is the epitome of British officialdom with a functional shoulder length blond bob and solid brown shoes, comfortable for the journey ahead. If she was at the American Embassy, Frank wonders, would she still wear her usual heels? To him, she looks like a woman who should wear heels.

‘Gentlemen, thanks for coming. I apologize for your wait. My name is Sophie Bowler-Hughes, and I am here to represent the UK Embassy.’

She takes a seat opposite Tony who stares at her eye-pleasing shape unashamedly. Frank stands, offering his hand which the woman ignores.

‘I am Frank, this is Tony. We are from the BBC.’

‘As you are aware, time is of the essence. We have to move as quickly as possible, so please ask your questions.’

‘Do you mind if Tony films here, in this meeting room?’

‘As long as all the viewers can see is our faces, there is no problem. Obviously, we must see the edited version before it is presented to the general public. We are in a precarious situation, so let us not jeopardize it.’

Tony opens a small bag and takes out a tiny video camera. He does not want to spend time setting up the big job for what will only be a few minutes. Sophie is in a hurry and he does not want her to walk out before Frank has had a chance to interview her properly.

‘So let’s jump right into it. Ready, Tony?’

Tony nods.

‘Go!’

‘Can you please tell us what steps you are taking to keep UK Nationals safe in these trying times?’

Somewhere he has a list with questions but he does not remember where he put it. There are standard questions to ask, but he always plays it by ear. He has always had this knack of knowing just what to ask, to just find the fastest words to open his subject. ‘Trying times’? Any junior would have found a better opening question! How he wished he was back home, somewhere far removed from this office and the mess all around. He is sick of yet another war.

‘We currently have around 350 nationals remaining in the UAE. However, these are just the ones that registered with us officially. We believe the true number of UK Citizens is probably twice that. All those on our registers we have already contacted and asked to meet at certain points throughout the city. We have a set of buses that will collect these civilians throughout the day. There are currently two flights waiting at Abu Dhabi airport, three in Dubai. We will return our nationals home as soon as we can, before the situation here escalates.’

‘What about those not on your lists?’

‘Following our emergency procedures, we have asked all registered Nationals to spread the word amongst their friends and colleagues. Also, we have updated our website with the relevant information for calling in and are running regular radio broadcasts that alert UK Nationals to get in touch.’

‘And what about others, say, some Europeans? What if some Dutch or Germans turn up?’

‘Other embassies are following similar processes. There are agreements between Great Britain, European countries and the United States that will ensure that nobody is left behind. Flights to Frankfurt …’

Loud clattering stops Sophie and she looks to the space outside the door. People shout, a woman screams.

Sophie turns to Tony.

‘Interview is over. Time to go.’

‘What is going on? What was that noise?’ Frank asks, but Sophie ignores him.

‘Do you have your passports?’ She asks instead.

Tony and Frank nod.

‘There is a bus leaving in ten minutes. Would you like to document the process?’

She blinks nervously. With her left hand, she picks on the skin and nails of her right hand. Blood pools around a nail and she licks at it. Frank tries to remain calm but sudden energy rushes him forward. An intense cloud of clear reality holds him. He bursts into his zone of competence.

‘Tony, grab your gear, we are heading out!’

He pushes off his chair, extends a hand to Sophie who briefly shakes.

‘Thanks, gentlemen. Please follow me.’

Emma

The night is endless and yet too short. I lie, curled in his arms, listening to his low snoring, his even heartbeat, and imagine the worst things. I hold on, my arm across his torso, and try my best to fend off the tears. I do not want to wake him. How can he be so calm? How can he sleep during a night like this? I do not want Max to think that I am too weak for these next steps in our amazing journey. After all, I have made most of the plans, I should be confident. And yet, as always, I cannot stop myself worrying. I was made this way.

We rise at first sunlight. From our windows, we can see all four directions. People move towards the beach. There is chanting and the noise of a large mass of people coming from the Corniche. Traffic, intense and chaotic after the first news flashes, has died away during the night as I lay listening to the world around us, cocooned in my husband’s embrace. Abandoned cars block Electra. The petrol stations stopped soon after the initial reports from the borders. In the end, there is nowhere to drive to, not anymore. Bikes are pushing through, a motor bike honks. Those that sought a futile chance to escape by car took it already.

We don’t talk. I feel his eyes on my face, nervous flashes at odd moments. There is nothing to say. There is only the strength that we can give each other. This is it.

Max hands me the smaller backpack. He takes his and the suitcase. One last look before we leave. I don’t know why we lock the apartment: we are not coming back, and we are giving up all that remains inside.

Waiting for the elevator, we exchange a smile. At that moment, I am flooded by a love so intense, an emotion so overwhelming, that I lean forward and kiss Max on the forehead. He hugs me close and places his lips on mine.

‘They will not arrest us today for kissing in public!’

His eyes shine with an undercurrent of excitement. He can barely hide his nerves. I am the one who visibly worries and ponders, but Max runs just as deep, maybe even deeper.

‘Why is your backpack so much heavier than mine?’ His backpack bulges and I hear a noise that I don’t want to place.

He winks.

‘Mr. Macallan is traveling with me.’

‘I don’t believe you! This is the end of the world as we know it, and you pack a single malt whiskey?’

He understands that my reprimand is not meant as such.

‘These ISIS guys don’t know how to treasure and appreciate my Scottish friend. And I think we can use the strengthening on the way and when we reach.’

He takes my hand and we begin to walk.

There are no taxis any more: we checked from the window before we left. We have to walk from Tourist Club all the way to Khalidiya Mall. It will take us more than an hour and I am dreading the heat. I hate being so close to so many strangers, and there are many strangers on the streets. We decide to leave two hours before our allocated time, in case there are hold ups on the way. I would hate us to be late for this appointment. Max agrees. We leave at 10am.

I still cannot grasp what it means that war is so close. I have seen the pictures on the TV, I have followed the stories coming from Saudi Arabia and Oman, have visited the fortifications along the borders, built and kept up to protect the UAE and the oilfields. But now? It is one thing to talk about it, but another to know that soldiers are on their way towards us. The Caliphate is not going to take prisoners. We have to leave. Now. Right now. I have seen footage of previous attacks, seen YouTube videos of beheadings. Read about the insane slaughter of innocent women and children. Inside, I am hot and cold at the same time. I cannot explain myself to Max. How can I, if I cannot explain it to myself? Instead, I concentrate on what needs to be done. One foot in front of the other, one step at a time.

I packed small bottles of water, thinking that none of the local stores are open. But business is still to be had, and the local shops make good trade as people are loading up on essentials: Those still in town need supplies.