too tangible. Nothing traceable. Mostly promises about helping their businesses.”
“You were born to be a politician.” They both laughed. This eased the mild anxiety of openly discussing their political machinations. They would not deliberate in this detail again before the election.
The plan was devilishly simple. A numbers game. Like all elections. They would manipulate voters here and in rural areas on the main island. Lee would become Sedois Islands’ President on the back of National Party electoral district wins on La Bajan and in southern La Premiere. Really, it had all started decades ago when Soval arranged Lee’s citizenship because, of course, only citizens could run for public office. Lee hadn’t needed to wait the requisite five years before applying. Soval had seen to that. But that was in the past, and they were plotting the future.
With a non-compulsory voting system and a small population, the Sedois Islands’ election results could easily be swayed by modest swings in voting patterns. Recent increases in Indo-Chinese workers immigrating to the country had assisted Lee’s cause, although, for these workers to vote, he had to arrange permanent residency. This was where Soval’s cunning and subterfuge were critical. Through bribes and coercion, Lee already had the existing Chinese and étranger communities on his side. That should amount to close to ten per cent of the vote. With the islands’ traditionally high voter turnout for non-compulsory polling, what he really needed was to mobilise poor people to get to voting booths, as he would have guaranteed their preferences through payment or extortion. The second arm of the plan was to limit the number of opposition voters accessing polling stations. This was a different proposition and he was relying on Soval to arrange this on La Bajan. Lee would personally orchestrate events in the south of La Premiere.
Lee drained his brew with a satisfied slurp. “I better go, gweilo. The ferry is in five minutes.”
Together they walked along the ocean road to La Porte, the sun hot and strong overhead. They reached the pier as the ferry docked and disgorged its passengers. On the long wooden wharf, Lee bade farewell to Soval with a warm handshake.
Lee chirped, “Until we meet again!” All the pieces were in place.
Chapter 5: Dink
January 12th, 2010
A lot can happen in two weeks. Dink’s life had changed irrevocably since that fateful evening in Doha. Now that they were safely out of Qatar, he felt comfortable reflecting on the events of that particular night.
The Umm Salal jail was grossly overcrowded. It enveloped Dink within its ubiquitous dusty brown walls. The situation was terrible but not truly overwhelming. Dink was strong, confident, and athletic with an intrinsic dogged determination. He was better at most things than most people. He knew he would hold his own in any situation, including a fight, although he had rarely needed to do so. On the other hand, he was also wickedly drunk. He may have been significantly overestimating his current abilities. Fixing the swarthy man with his best dread gaze he mouthed, “You’re not getting my watch!” The man in question was a burly young bull eyeing Dink’s silver Tag Hauer and fervently tapping his own wrist. Dink felt that he could take him or, at least, bluff his way out of it. Without a common language, careless thoughts and gestures could easily be misconstrued. In this case, the intent was clear.
Marlboro red cigarettes seemed an appropriate currency for friendship and Dink had been handing out his small supply generously. Literally with his back against the wall, he looked out at a sea of men in the sprawling open jail. The cigarettes had ensured an easy early passage in the Qatari prison, but the climate seemed to be changing. Only one man appeared fixated upon his watch; however, it was a slippery slope.
“Irani,” the older man with the toothless grin opposite Dink offered, mimicking a fishing action.
Yep, got that, Dink thought. So, they are strayed fishermen not hardened criminals. That’s some consolation. The closest Iranian fisherman was a scrawny human specimen with kind eyes and a heavily lined face. The other men appeared to defer to him. Dink was all for making friends with influential people. Another proffered cigarette seemed to assist, and the older man gestured a calming motion to the group with both hands palm outwards. This did help but Dink was far from calm. He was angry with himself but was also not used to these cramped and confrontational confines. No one tells you what jail will be like. Perhaps no one thinks to ask, or to offer. Certainly, Dink didn’t plan to be here. He had been deeply uneasy when the prison guards took his belt from him as they processed his entry, but they had left him with his watch and his wallet. So now he was the only well-dressed westerner in a crowded prison with both his watch and his wallet on him. Visions of Henri Charrière’s Papillon and the harsh realities of jail life flickered through his mind as he casually turned toward the wall, mimicked a cough, and surreptitiously deposited 2,200 Riyals of cash into his underpants. At least it was easier without a belt.
The night had started so differently. After work Dink had driven out to The Pearl precinct on the sprawling northern outskirts of Doha for his friend’s farewell party. Sam Weatherall was repatriating to Texas after several years working in oil and gas company management. He deserved a good send-off. Coming straight from work at the hospital, Dink was suitably well dressed for the upmarket restaurant and, as he arrived, he spotted Kylie amongst the crowd. He headed straight for her.
“Hi, beautiful,” he greeted his wife as he approached and leant in for a kiss.
“Joe,” she cried excitedly, barely missing a beat of conversation with several of their friends. “Have a beer.” She reached for a long, chilled glass from the nearby counter bar.
Casual kissed welcomes followed with the accompanying group of ladies, but Dink was after Sam, as it was his night. Dink spotted him across the room, took a few long sips of the frosty beverage and answered the rapid-fire questions as best he could. “Work was fine. Glad to be finished. Thanks, these are my work clothes,” and, “Yep, we’ll be on holiday next week. Can’t wait.” He was already moving as he excused himself and headed for Sam at the adjacent table.
“Hey, mate.” They saluted each other almost in unison as they hugged. “Good to see you.”
“I can’t believe you’re leaving us,” Dink chided gently.
“You know how it is. Tough country to live in.” A shared truth for western expatriates in Qatar and, likely, the rest of the Middle East.
“Where’s Lisbeth?”
“She’s doing the rounds, as you’d expect.”
“True. I’ll find her later. How’s the noggin?” He indicated Sam’s head.
“Feels pretty good. Barely a scar.”
“You know I wrote my name in there,” Dink teased.
“Yeah, yeah. Could be worse, Mohammad Abdurahman could’ve done it!” They both laughed uproariously, not disparaging the Qatari doctor’s skills but wary of his lengthy name in sutures.
Recently, whilst playing social soccer with Dink and his workmates, Sam had suffered a nasty forehead laceration. Fortunately, the soccer fields were adjacent to the sports medicine hospital where Dink worked. He took Sam across and stitched his head there and then. In the end it was a good outcome for everyone. “But did you write Dink, or Joe?”
“Some things should remain a mystery.”
Dink, aka Joe Salter, was born and raised in inner-city Sydney in the ’70s as a gritty, streetwise, smartarse Aussie. His original nickname was ‘da Earth’ as a bastardisation of ‘salt of the earth’, which his equally smartarse mates thought incredibly clever but, ultimately, too cumbersome. They had slowly morphed his nickname to Dink, as in Dinky-Di Aussie, which playfully yet accurately described his character. Dink pretended he didn’t like it but was secretly proud of the moniker. It suited. Everyone called him Dink. The only exception was Kylie. She hated the nickname with a passion.
“So, are you having a break before