“Yes, Charles didn’t tell me until five minutes before this man arrived. I tried to ask about the security arrangements, but he didn’t seem to know or care. At the gate, Diego wasn’t in his friendliest mood, and he doesn’t like the French, so I had to go down and sort it out.”
“How long did Charles speak to this man, and did you hear anything?”
“An hour, and then he left, but I didn’t hear anything. I did have a few minutes with one of the apes who was vaguely approachable. He wouldn’t say whom he was protecting, but he was ex-COS and about six foot five.”
“He was Greek?”
“No, Commandement des Opérations Spéciales – they’re the French special forces.”
“What did this visitor look like?”
“Short, cocky, forty-five years old, small feet and nice shoes.”
“What? That’s most of France.”
“OK, he had wavy, black hair and distinctive eyebrows.”
“You wouldn’t make a spy, would you?” she mocked gently.
“Well, in that case, I’ll just send over the photographs I took of him.”
“Touché.”
There was the sound of smirking across the airwaves. “Didn’t Charles mention this to you?” Wazz asked. “Did he really think the risk was worth hiding it all from you?”
“I told you that Charles keeps it all close to his chest. He only tells you stuff if you pester him. Even then you get a redacted version. I’ll do some research before I confront him.”
The choreography began as twenty world leaders flew into Marrakech airport. The travel disruption was immense.
It was particularly bad when Conrad, the US President, was arriving in Air Force One, which today was a blue-and-white Boeing 747. An exclusion zone of ten nautical miles – under a temporary flight restriction that lasted from fifteen minutes before landing to fifteen afterwards – meant that there were no other planes in the air. The Office of the Military Advisor, the Presidential Advance Agency and the White House staff had done a good job of preparation over the previous week. As the plane came in to land, armed Secret Service agents were at the base and inside the control tower.
Already, a second plane – which would become Air Force One in case the first was incapacitated and POTUS had to make a speedy escape – was parked under armed guard.
Within minutes of arriving at the secure ramp, Conrad descended with the First Lady. He had spent the last minute checking his teeth. Who gives a President a spinach omelette just before he makes a major public appearance? After waving and descending the steps, they were met by the King of Morocco and a group of eight dignitaries. A military band was playing somewhere out of sight. The President got into one of the two identical armoured cars, and it was absorbed by a cavalcade of twenty vehicles as it swept out of the airport; these included doctors and ambulances, counter-assault teams, an intelligence vehicle and a hazardous-materials team among others. There were twenty motorcycle outriders up front in a delta formation, but these were unnecessary as all the roads had been closed for the short journey to the Glaoui Palace hotel, which had been completely booked by the American contingent. The President and First Lady had the entire third floor to themselves.
The arrival and transfer worked perfectly, much to the relief of all involved and to Leonard de Vries, who was watching it all nervously from his office in Chiswick.
Not fifteen miles to the north in Northwood, but several floors underground, Leonard’s British equivalent, together with Dennis from the FCO, Lorna from MI6 and Commander Ben Cox were monitoring the arrival of the PM at the end of his three-and-a-half-hour flight in the Airbus A321 that was made available for such journeys.
The PM, his closest team and his security were heading for a palatial, ten-bedroomed villa in a gated community almost under the flight path of Marrakech airport. The remainder of the large team, along with the travelling press pack, were to occupy floors in several nearby hotels.
From the very beginning when Marrakech had been mooted as a location, there had been a general nervousness about the potential for terrorists, and four of the Five Eyes whose presidents and PMs were attending – the UK, USA, Australia and Canada – were all heavily focused on monitoring the internet, phone traffic and other sources for any indication of trouble.
Ben Cox stepped out of the London meeting to take a call from Patrick, who was standing outside the hospital in Colmar.
“What’s new?” Ben asked.
“Walter has regained consciousness; well, sort of …” He paused as someone walked by. “He hasn’t made much sense yet, but the doctors think that he’ll be compos mentis soon. He is now off the critical list.”
“Thanks, Patrick, let me know the second he tells you anything important.”
“Will do.”
“I’m just twitchy about Brendan. The Moroccan passport is probably coincidence or a wind-up by the Russians, but the PM is in Marrakech with the other leaders. I don’t like it.”
“I understand.”
“When we find out whether Walter knows what’s on the card and whether he saw something or has some information about Brendan, I’m sure it will all make sense. Nothing more from the lovely prosecutor?”
“No, I haven’t seen her, more’s the pity.”
“I must rejoin the others. Bye.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
It was 1.30pm, and Mike had exhausted every diversionary activity to stop her blood pressure going sky-high. Her head was pounding, and she drank yet more bottled water. She had distributed her harmless-looking secret-squirrel gadgets around the room and put her laptop on the top of the wardrobe. She put her passport and spare money in the small safe. It was time to go. After all, Randy might be early.
In her brown wig, bandana and rucksack, she looked like any other tourist. She wanted to blend into the background, not fall into the fish gutter and draw everyone’s attention.
She walked in the wrong direction for a few minutes, went past some shops and turned down a small alley. Next to a stack of mangled ironwork, she entered a clothes shop by a side door and knelt down, ostensibly looking at the soft leather shoes. Nobody followed or was watching out for her when she stepped back out of the front door onto the main sea-facing promenade. Dylan would have been proud of her, although he did always say to her that she put the ‘anal’ in ‘analyst’ and that she wouldn’t last five minutes in the field. Well, so far so good. She had even bought a tourist map and guidebook on Essaouira so that, if she needed to, she could stop at any time without looking suspicious by pretending to consult them.
The thought that she might meet Randy had now assumed a disproportionate importance in her mind, and the fear that he might not show would represent a terrible blow; she tried to prepare herself mentally.
Retracing her steps from yesterday, she walked around the edge of the fish market and slowly approached the white colonnade outside the management offices. There were plenty of voices from behind the various doors and a few Moroccans in various modes of dress, from caps and aprons to full Berber scarves and djellabas, walking around or talking. She leant against an old pickup, which reeked from the empty plastic fish crates in the back, and waited.
