“Good news on the operation to free the hostages. Not so good news on Mr Flushing,” Victor concluded, “Dennis, what are the troops on the ground in Morocco saying?”
“Well, the latest report from our ambassador says that there are no rumours of trouble – not that the Moroccans would tolerate it – and not even the usual demonstrations by the eco-lobby. The Moroccans are very appreciative that the G20 chose Marrakech.”
“Alexander? Are Conrad and his crew happy? What are the jungle drums saying?”
Alexander, a tall man with tanned skin and a slight overbite, reported on behalf of the secret-squirrel community: “The Americans seem to be happy, as do the French. The rest of the EU are relaxed. We hear via Five Eyes what Canada, Australia and, of course, the US are thinking, and it all seems as expected. There are no reports of serious terrorist interest or anything from rogue states. The Americans, in particular, have people on the ground monitoring the situation.”
“How is Conrad?”
“He’s flying in early Thursday morning and out on Sunday lunchtime. You have a private meeting for one and a half hours set for Saturday afternoon,” a voice added.
Mike Kingdom realised she was going to start attracting unnecessary and possibly dangerous attention if she didn’t leave the riad and take in some of the sights of Marrakech. She needed to act more like a tourist. Unfortunately, her mind was completely obsessed with finding Randy and all the more so since she had been in his room.
The room and the choice of the riad had told her that he was trying to blend in for the long term. This was an attempt to look like a slightly impoverished geologist working for a gas exploration company who was trying to save a few dollars of his fixed accommodation allowance. Hassan would have been happy to take a low rent for the unused room, which had been full of old furniture and stuff. Perhaps Hassan had kept the payments separate from the main hotel and pocketed the money? Randy would have been happy to have his own entrance via a shop and the lovely Karolina to take any messages.
While physically a little different, Randy and Dylan shared some family characteristics. Their ability to put things in perspective and to plan ahead came from their mother. Mike had met her on visits to California, and one thing she had heard a hundred times was, “What if?” Dylan applied this while working for the CIA, and it had treated him well until the trip to Holland. Sadly, he hadn’t asked himself what would happen if the Dutch importers were tipped off about his investigations. The consequences of which he, and she, had paid for as they drove along that polder on their day off.
As she sat in her room with her feet on the internal windowsill, what she was thinking about was this: What did Randy have in mind as an escape plan? What were his plans B, C and D, as Dylan liked to ask?
Half an hour earlier, she had been eating breakfast on the roof terrace. The view of the Koutoubia tower from under the pergolas was beautiful, but immediately in front of her, every side wall was covered in fifty patterned plates of various sizes, in either blue or red, and hanging on hooks, which made her regret that she didn’t have a gun. When the lukewarm coffee from a chipped, brown mug, enough fresh bread to feed an army, and an egg swimming in too much tomato and onion were served, she knew this was more than she needed. She didn’t stay long.
Sitting with her feet on the sill had made her more than aware of the eggs, onions and harissa that she had just consumed. She dropped her feet to the floor, let her stomach settle and brought herself back to the task in hand: what was Randy’s plan B?
If she could go and sit in his room for an hour, she might find it easier to ‘pick up the vibes’, but this was not an option. Instead, she took off her Cleopatra wig and called up the photographs on her phone. This is what she had been taught a long time ago in Seattle while on a two-week course on checking out a room. (Actually, the course was only partly about doing a physical tour – it was also about doing a virtual tour. It demonstrated how not to waste time by going back and forth, and why you pulled out the bottom drawer of a cabinet first, then the one above it, so that you didn’t need to close anything to make progress.)
She put her hands together and spun the wig like a propeller. A virtual tour would have to do.
Mike started logically with the outside of his room. That didn’t take long as there was nothing apart from dirt, rubbish and piles of discarded hotel junk. She made a note to explore the access/egress route, possibly by visiting the clothes shop. This might be less risky than approaching from the hotel end. In her mind’s eye, she approached his unlocked door. She accepted that not having a key was unusual in the rest of the world, but the norm here in the riad. It did mean, however, that he was unlikely to leave anything of any significance lying around, surely?
Scrolling on her phone, she started with the first picture taken just inside the door and looking to the right. It showed the window, the curtains and the cast-iron radiator. Did it get that cold in winter? There was a recess with large shelves, one of which had a small TV screen and another had a dull brass pot. The next couple of photographs showed the wall with the desk and bookshelves. There had been nothing of note in the desk’s drawers. In fact, she thought, there really weren’t many personal belongings in the room at all.
She used her thumb and forefinger to zoom in on the bookshelves. The fat spine of 1421 by Menzies was screaming at her.
“Michaela!” she rebuked herself, and she had to stop herself from going straight back to his room.
She flicked through the other photographs, but somewhat distractedly. The last one was of the bathroom, and there, sitting incongruously next to the washbasin, was the heavy, black safe. It was like a magnet to her. She zoomed in further and read the plate displaying the Parisian manufacturer’s name. She broke off to google the name, and after a few minutes, she learnt that this old model had a combination lock using four numbers.
She collected up her shoulder bag, put her wig back on and made for the door.
At least she now knew her way through the rabbit warren and where to be careful (which was most places, as any noise echoed up and down the three floors surrounding each courtyard). Without seeing anyone, she reached the padlocked temporary door. She picked the lock more quickly this time, opened the makeshift door and pulled the sheet of board back behind her as quietly as possible. She stopped and listened, but she could only hear an air-conditioning unit, probably at the rear of the clothes shop, blowing out at the dying lemon tree in its dusty courtyard.
Going past the stacks of boxes, she reached the door and stepped inside. Not pausing in the bedroom, she stepped up into the bathroom, lighting her way with the torch on her phone. Her research had told her the sequence and directions of rotations that were needed to open this model of safe. With an ear pressed close to the silver dial, she rotated it clockwise to the number one, then anticlockwise to the number four. After going back clockwise to the number two she prepared for the final turn to the number one. Her hands were sweating and shaking gently. I’m not cut out for fieldwork, she kept hearing a voice in her head telling her.
She was waiting for the click before turning the three-pronged handle in the middle. Nothing.
She turned the handle both ways. Nothing.
“I’m really, really not cut out for fieldwork,” she whispered under her breath.
She sat back on her haunches. Calm down, breathe and do it again.
Kneeling forwards, she re-entered the numbers. Nothing.
She entered them in reverse order. Nothing.
It was time to go. She stepped gently back down into the bedroom and living area. At least the luggage label in the bin had confirmed this was Randy’s room. That’s progress, she told herself. Passing his desk, she reached up and pulled out the book that had so raised her hopes. Why was there also one in Málaga? Perhaps he had bought a copy for his room-mate? Perhaps it was as innocent as that? How many pages was it? She flicked to the end: 650.
She froze. There on the last page written in biro were the details of a meeting with a name and address. She tore out the page and replaced the book on the shelf.
It took her four minutes to get back to the point at the top of the stairs above reception. Perhaps, I actually am cut out for fieldwork, she mused. She could hear Hassan talking to Karolina below her and, with a sigh of relief, made it back to her room.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
“Essaouira? Where’s Essaouira?” Mike was sitting on her bed, staring at the torn piece of paper in her hand.
She was thirsty, but there was no bottled water left in her room. The solitary teabag with its green tag seemed to beckon to her. She walked to the bathroom and filled up the kettle from the tap. I’ll boil it twice; that should sort it, she reassured herself.
Sitting there with the teabag still in the hot water, she opened her laptop. The images showed a port on the coast, 114 miles due west of Marrakech. It was three hours by bus, she noted. It looked attractive for a city; there were seafront ramparts with brass cannons, matching blue wooden fishing vessels moored in rows and an impressive citadel by the harbour. It was no wonder that it was a draw for tourists, but why would Randy have an interest in it?
The torn piece of paper gave a name: Aksil Zadi. It gave an address that looked as if it were in the fishing port complex. It gave a time and a date: midday on Thursday, 8th September. Now fired up, it took her forty minutes to check out the person, the place and how to get there. If Randy was intending to meet someone tomorrow in Essaouira, Mike wanted to be there.
Aksil Zadi did not take long for her to investigate. He wasn’t on any of the blacklists that she had access to, and he wasn’t on social media, as far as she could tell using translation technology. The only thing she found was a management chart of the Port Authority where he was shown in a middle-ranking administrative role. The address for Zadi on the torn page looked like his office rather than his home. This is where the meeting was going to take place. Whatever the circumstances, she couldn’t find anything else and needed to pack her things and get a taxi to the bus station in Marrakech. The bus she was going to catch left in an hour and a half.
“You are checking out?” Hassan had approached her while she was being dealt with by the efficient Karolina.
“Yes, I have decided to go to Ouarzazate for a few days. I’ve never seen a desert,” she said, hoping to leave a false trail.
