“Portland.” She paused to catch her breath. “What a … mess.”
“Tell me about this Josie.”
“We caught the same bus from Marrakech.” She stopped mid-flow. “Crap! It never went through my mind that she might have been following me.”
“The DEGD, the Moroccan intelligence agency, is really switched-on – that much I discovered. She could be working for them.” He seemed to be getting his speech under some sort of control.
“Is that good? I can’t work out who are the good guys over here.”
“I don’t know if they’re the good guys, but they sure as hell hate the Sahrawis and won’t want world leaders blown up in Marrakech. It would wipe out the tourist industry.” He was still speaking slowly and slurring.
“What about PEGASUS?”
“The Sahrawis hate it because they think the phosphate belongs to their nation. The Moroccans hate it because they think that Western Sahara is theirs, so it’s their phosphate and should go out through their ports.” He paused while he wiped the saliva from his chin. “And they hate the Algerians, backed by the Russians, for getting involved.”
“This region is an utter mess.”
“Nobody would care if they didn’t have gas, phosphates and oil.”
Across the yard, there was an almighty crash.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Josie had been watching the harbour car park when Mike had left her hotel and made her way through the bustle towards the shade of the port building. She had seen the black-and-white dog running around and the arrival of the three men in the white van and car. At this point in time, she had moved next to the taxi rank, from where she could get a better view of the colonnade. She had almost felt the disappointment in Mike when Randy had failed to show up for the meeting at 2.00pm. Josie had been only half-prepared for what happened next. She had seen Mike get in, start the pickup and begin to follow the two vehicles out of the car park. Out of the corner of her eye, Josie had caught the dog leaping into the back and going in through the rear window, but at this point, she herself had been jumping into the taxi at the front of the rank.
It had taken some time for the driver to understand that he was to follow her friend in the pickup ahead, which he knew very well belonged to Meddur, the fish gutter, as did the dog Kella, which everyone in Essaouira loved.
It had been a slow and uneventful journey until the van and car had turned off towards the farm. She had asked the taxi driver to turn around and park under some thorn bushes about five hundred yards away. Josie had watched Mike sneaking around the barren area at the front of the building and emerging finally from the stone arch. When she had seen Mike creeping along the sidewall of the farm, Josie had jumped out and paid the driver. She had taken his crudely produced card and said she may call him. With a shokran, she had pulled the small rucksack onto her back and disappeared over the sandy, red soil, going down through the scrub with an easy stride that had served her well in the Marathon des Sables.
Mike had been making such fundamental mistakes that Josie knew she was likely to run into trouble. Her desire to find her brother-in-law had clearly been stopping her thinking straight. Who takes a dog with them when they’re trying to blend into the background and sneak around? From her vantage point, Josie had seen the debacle and the three men escorting Mike around the back of the sheds. Unfortunately, the dog charging around the place, jumping through windows and barking had made it difficult for her to get close. Josie had been faced with no choice but to sit it out under a very old olive tree, much to the annoyance of a hoopoe, which had flapped away after having been disturbed while feeding on bugs in a large hole created by a broken branch.
Eventually, some men had taken the dog and driven off in the pickup, which wasn’t a good sign. It also wasn’t helpful. The vehicle had also been part of Josie’s hastily cobbled together escape plan for the two of them. While she could run back to Essaouira, if necessary, over several hours, Mike and most of the population could not. She had decided to face that problem when she had found out what was going on.
Mike had not reappeared.
Sitting against the ancient tree, she had swigged some water and then checked the small knife in her bum bag, the three-inch plastic stiletto hidden next to her calf at the bottom of her combat trousers, and the cheese wire around her waist, hidden in her trousers behind her belt. This was all she would need, although her hands were probably her best weapon.
She had retied her ponytail and waited. The peach-coloured hoopoe had flown into the next tree, checking whether it could continue its meal.
Josie had thought she would be glad when this mission was over in a couple of days’ time, and she could fly back to Melbourne. It would be cooler there. Over the last few months, she and her three colleagues from ASIS, the Australian Secret Intelligence Service, had been preparing the ground for their PM’s attendance at the G20. They had picked up rumours of some terrorist threat, but pinning down the details was proving elusive. They were sharing their intelligence through Five Eyes in London, but the dots just wouldn’t be joined up. On Tuesday, she had been directed by her controllers in Canberra to watch Mike Kingdom from afar and make sure that she didn’t fall into harm’s way. This had proved relatively easy while she was in Marrakech, but things had got progressively messy once she had booked the bus journey to Essaouira. Josie couldn’t risk losing her, and the G20 leaders had already flown in. She needed to stay close to Mike. The woman was clearly an analyst not an operative; this was patently clear. Normally, in the intelligence world, these two fundamental divisions never mix; she had wondered if this was different in the US. What are the Americans thinking about? They’re chalk and cheese.
She had been warned via the head of Five Eyes in London that Mike was brilliant at searching but stubborn, and also completely ignorant of why she was looking for Ramon Ramirez. Josie had guessed that Leonard de Vries was the ‘concerned uncle’ who had telephoned Mike while they were sitting outside the café, and she had hoped that Mike would accept her offer to accompany her when she went to the meeting with her brother-in-law. This hadn’t worked. Josie and Mike were both under the illusion that Ramon Ramirez was Randy, Mike’s brother-in-law.
Sitting under the olive tree, Josie had been unaware that Ramon Ramirez was, in fact, in the shed nearest to her, badly beaten up and shackled. Her one concern had been freeing Mike; everything else, including Ramon could follow.
After sitting and waiting next to the farm buildings, she had concluded that a long enough period of time had passed since the two captors had left, and she had returned across the yard to the main building. Josie had decided it was time to look inside the sheds. Using the available cover, she had made it to the first door. Inside was a man bound and chained to a ring on the wall with a piece of tape across his mouth. His white shirt was dirty and covered in blood. She had run over to him and pulled off the tape.
“Ow!” he had shouted as she had tugged at his broken jaw.
“Shh!” she had said before going outside and into the next shed.
It was here that she had seen Mike, chained to the wall, and where she had learnt about the bomb on Friday at midday in Marrakech. Josie had turned, left the outbuildings and moved back behind some trees that gave her some screening. She had sent a message to her controller and, separately, to one of her colleagues in Marrakech. It had warned of the bomb tomorrow, the coordinates of her current location, and that Mike and Ramon were chained up. It was almost late afternoon, and the heat was disappearing out of the sun, but it was still being radiated from the sandy ground.
Toumi had decided to change his plans. He would release the video with the man immediately. The one with the woman he would save until before Friday prayers tomorrow. The video showing Ramon Ramirez reading the statement went viral in a matter of minutes. Moroccan TV, which had also been sent the video, was reluctant to show it at first, but once it started appearing on newspaper websites and international news agencies, it had no choice. The G20 was thrown into turmoil.
“Make a note,” Conrad said, “This is the last time we have a G20, G7 or G-anything in a godforsaken, two-bit country like Morocco. Next time, it’s somewhere safe like in the US, UK or Germany.”
The assembled group of about twelve people were letting the President vent his spleen – again.
He continued without taking a breath, “Who are these Sahrawis? I thought this was all being dealt with by the UN and its peacekeeping force. Isn’t there meant to be a referendum soon?”
“The United Nations Mission for the Referendum in Western Sahara, MINURSO, has been there since 1991. Its mission has been extended forty-seven times. It’s basically a failure,” someone tried to explain.
“The Moroccans have been building and resettling its population in Western Sahara for decades – a bit like the Israelis have been doing in the Palestinian areas. They’re now in the majority over the native Sahrawis and would, therefore, win any referendum,” someone else continued the explanation.
“That’s good for the US, right?” The President wasn’t interested in lengthy explanations.
“Yes, if Western Sahara were part of Morocco, it would be great as they are heavily pro-USA.”
“But we’re watching the creation of a new terrorist group. This Sahrawi People’s Army, or SPA, are far worse than the other arm of the Sahrawis, the Polisario Front. This video shows us that Americans will be in danger at home and abroad. It’s just ISIS all over again.” The President’s security adviser was nervous of the future.
“Who’s this hostage?” the President asked.
“A CIA operative, Ramon Ramirez, who’s undercover here in Morocco.”
“Damn.” Conrad put his head in his hands. “How’s this playing out with the rest of the G20?”
