Stealing People

by Robert Wilson

  Sergei Yermilov must openly declare the extent to which he, as a Russian mafia boss, is co-operating with the Russian state, the FSB, SVR and GRU in order to effect arms sales to Syria and Iran with the intention of destabilising the Middle East.

  Ken Bass must reveal how the Kinderman Corporation was awarded uncontested contracts for rebuilding Iraq as well as running the entire extraordinary rendition operation on behalf of the US government, and the effect this had on the company’s near bankrupt state prior to 2003. He will also release minutes of the meetings between the US government and the defence industry, which clearly indicate that the major source of pressure for a war in Iraq came from this quarter rather than any intelligence on Saddam’s WMD.

  We realise that these are complex demands, which will require substantial negotiation, and for this reason we are giving you three months to effect them. We guarantee the safety and health of all hostages for that term.

  As each ransom demand is met, it will secure the freedom of that hostage, but no hostages will be freed until all demands have been met.

  Failure of any one of these ransom demands to be met will result in the death of the hostage in question.

  You will only hear from us again as each demand is met to our satisfaction.

  We attach separate files that will give additional detail on what we consider to be a satisfactory outcome for each of our demands.

  Any attempt to find and rescue the hostages will result in all their deaths.

  DCS Hines called Ryder Forsyth as soon as he’d finished the email.

  ‘You seen this?’ he asked.

  ‘I’d still be laughing if we hadn’t seen such ruthlessness and determination to deliver on all their promises,’ said Forsyth.

  ‘I can’t see any of these demands being met inside a decade’s solid negotiation,’ said Hines. ‘And even then…’

  ‘So what’s it all about? We deliver the expenses to see them blown all over London and now we have a set of impossible ransom demands,’ said Forsyth. ‘I’ve never known a kidnap like it.’

  ‘This will come out in the media.’

  ‘I thought the black-out was still in place.’

  ‘They’re digging and we’re leaking.’

  At 15.00 hours, the truck with the hostages pulled into the Zone Industrielle Sidi Ghanem on the outskirts of Marrakesh. It backed into a loading bay in a modern warehouse. The TVs were removed and a coded signal was sent to one of the guards’ mobiles. The door within the container was opened from the inside. The hostages were still in a state of mild sedation but were able to move. They were led out of the container and given shower facilities and a change of clothes.

  At 18.00, two Toyota Land Cruisers left the warehouse and, skirting the centre of Marrakesh, headed out into the High Atlas on the N9 in the direction of Ouarzazate. There were three hostages in each vehicle, with a driver and two guards. The hostages slept using the guards’ shoulders as pillows. They stopped for the night in a small village in the mountains. It was close to freezing. The men made food for the hostages. They spoke to each other in Berber but did not address their captives, who, for the first time, began talking to each other tentatively, exchanging names, finding out nationalities, where they lived, what they were doing and what their parents did.

  They all slept on rolled-out mattresses in the same room in which they’d eaten. Siena looked after Yury who’d taken to her because she looked similar to his mother. Karla took care of Sophie, who was getting close to a full meltdown having been separated from Zach, her rag doll frog, for the first time in living memory. The German girl was glad of the company because Wú Gao had embarked on a long conversation about gaming software with Rakesh Sarkar. Two of the Berbers went outside, while two remained awake inside and two slept.

  Boxer and Mercedes drove into Marrakesh at just after eight o’clock in the evening. On the way he’d told her in more detail what he was hoping to achieve there. Mercedes had called ahead to a friend of hers who had a large house in Zaouiat Lahdar in the middle of the medina.

  She left the car in a parking zone and they walked across the huge square of the Djemaa el-Fnaa market, which at that time of night was full of people and stalls selling food. The smell of boiled goat’s head, roast lamb and charcoal was in the air. She hired a boy for a few dirhams to take them to the house through the lacework of narrow streets.

  Mercedes’ friend, Françoise Lapointe, was a French-Togolese woman in her seventies who looked no older than fifty. She’d lived alone in this big house since her French husband had died seven years ago. She was happy to have company, and especially Mercedes, because then they could have a smoke. According to Mercedes, Françoise also enjoyed a good drink and occasionally liked to slip a little needle into her arm if she could get the heroin.

  Françoise led them under horseshoe arches, muqarnas, and out into a central patio with two orange trees and an empty oblong tank with a stone heron fountain surrounded by terracotta pots full of greenery. Their rooms, up a narrow, uneven staircase, were decked out in a fantasy Moorish style and were opposite each other across a small bright yellow landing.

  They had showers and changed and relaxed for an hour before going down for dinner. On the landing, Mercedes took Boxer by the arm.

  ‘I’ve spoken to Françoise. She knows all the expats who have houses here in old Marrakesh, including Evan Rampy. She invited him tonight but he couldn’t make it. He’s asked if we’d like to go to his place for a drink after dinner and I said yes.’

  ‘Is Françoise on our side or neutral?’

  ‘She’s with us, completely.’

  31

  21.45, 19 January 2014

  Françoise’s house in the medina, Marrakesh, Morocco

  They sat on cushions around a low table. A servant girl put couscous and a chicken tagine on the table and left with short, fast steps. Françoise served the food. Boxer poured the wine, a heavy Moroccan red. They ate with the concentration of the very hungry.

  ‘Mercedes tells me you know Evan Rampy,’ said Boxer. ‘Do you know what he’s doing here?’

  ‘He’s retired as far as I know. He used to be in the CIA, or so he tells me, but all the expats here have well-developed fictions about their lives,’ said Françoise. ‘These people and their houses are not so different. On the street they look like nothing. A door in a wall. Then you enter the labyrinth. Evan may have been an agent, I don’t know and I don’t care.’

  ‘Do you go to his house often?’

  ‘A couple of times a month, sometimes for dinner, other times for a little party with the other permanent residents in Old Marrakesh.’

  ‘Have you ever met new people there?’

  ‘Sometimes he has visitors. Mostly Americans.’

  ‘Any English people?’

  ‘Once or twice.’

  Boxer handed her a photo of Conrad Jensen.

  ‘Is that who you’re looking for?’ she said, handing it back, shaking her head.

  ‘His daughter asked me to find him.’

  They finished the main course and the wine. Françoise asked if they wanted sweet and coffee. The girl came in and cleared the plates. Françoise spoke to her in Arabic. She returned with plates of pineapple, a small cup of coffee for Boxer and a bottle of Poire William from which they all took a small shot.

  After dinner they filed out of the house into the empty street. Françoise took them on a confusing walk through the medina until they arrived at another door in a wall. She knocked. Boxer checked his watch: half eleven. An old Moroccan called Mohammed appeared and led them into the house.

  Rampy, long-haired, bearded and massive in a white djellaba was standing at the end of a long corridor. Françoise introduced Boxer as Chris Butler.

  ‘Welcome,’ he said, and showed them into a room whose floor was overlaid with rugs, scattered with cushions of all sizes and carpeted around the walls to hip height. A hookah smoked quietly in one corner. There was an autumnal smell of apple in the room.


  They arranged themselves on the cushions. Rampy sat cross-legged, sucked on the hookah, offered drinks. Mohammed took the order and returned with a tray.

  ‘Sorry I couldn’t join you for dinner,’ said Rampy. ‘A friend of mine was over to discuss a screenplay we’ve been working on and I’d promised to give him dinner.’

  ‘What are you writing?’ asked Boxer.

  ‘A spy thriller based on a story from when I was an agent in the CIA,’ said Rampy. ‘I’m not sure it’ll ever see the light of day.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Too radical. Nobody would support it. If you want Hollywood money you’ve got to toe the propaganda line, and this script doesn’t do that. An American audience is OK watching the CIA do bad things in the country’s interest, but not to be a force for evil in the world.’

  ‘Is that what you think they are?’ said Mercedes.

  ‘I’d like to tell you otherwise, but personal experience won’t let me.’

  ‘Like what?’ she asked.

  Silence from Rampy, who continued to smoke.

  ‘Did you see that money blown all over London the night before last?’ asked Françoise.

  ‘Couldn’t miss it,’ said Rampy. ‘I heard on CNN that some notes have gotten as far as Romania.’

  The two women talked about it animatedly. Mohammed refreshed their drinks. Rampy sucked on the hookah and maintained a geniality about his person while looking unswervingly at Boxer, who returned his stare, unflinching. There’d been a distinct change of atmosphere in the room. Boxer had been unaware of some earlier tension until now, when it had suddenly relaxed. He realised that he was the main subject of interest in the room. The two women stood.

  ‘We’re just going to the ladies’ room, if that’s OK with you,’ said Mercedes.

  Rampy smiled. Boxer’s eyes followed them as they left. He listened as their footsteps retreated down the hall and heard words exchanged with Mohammed. The front door opened and closed. Silence.

  ‘You doin’ all right, Mr Boxer?’ said Rampy.

  Boxer turned his head slowly, making direct eye contact with Rampy.

  ‘Been waitin’ for you a while now. Somethin’ held you up?’

  Rampy reached under a cushion and produced a SIG Sauer P228 but didn’t go to the trouble of pointing it. He just rested it on the cushion next to him, took another puff from the hookah and blew out a cloud of apple smoke.

  ‘Goin’ to have to ask you to stand up now, Mr Boxer,’ he said, raising himself in one easy motion from his cross-legged position.

  Boxer stood. For a big man, Rampy was precise and cat-like in his movements. He frisked Boxer expertly, pressed down on his shoulder to make him sit.

  ‘Understand from Françoise you lookin’ for Conrad Jensen,’ he said. ‘That right?’

  ‘Siobhan asked me to find her father,’ said Boxer. ‘It seems he’s been busy with the same kidnaps you were involved in. So I came to find you, see if you could help. I’ve got a few questions need answers.’

  ‘Like?’

  ‘Why did Siobhan draw me into this scenario when there was no need for it? You and Conrad set up your elaborate series kidnap. You put pressure on Mercy to collaborate by kidnapping her partner. But then you bring me in, and my daughter, for reasons I don’t quite understand.’

  ‘I heard Siobhan got shot,’ said Rampy.

  ‘We were rescuing my daughter and your security guy let one off in her direction. Siobhan took it for her.’

  ‘Noble,’ said Rampy. ‘Not always a word that’s been associated with Siobhan. She must have had a thing about your little girl.’

  ‘She did, but that doesn’t answer my question.’

  ‘Can’t help you there. Not part of my remit. You’ll have to take that up with Conrad.’

  ‘I can see now that you’ve been expecting me.’

  ‘Mercedes is one of ours.’

  ‘And Françoise?’

  ‘Just a good friend.’

  ‘And al-Wannan?’

  ‘No,’ said Rampy, grunting as if that was highly unlikely, ‘but we know the extent of his network and can introduce people into his orbit.’

  ‘And tonight?’

  ‘Just reeling you in, my friend,’ said Rampy. ‘We’ve got a long journey ahead of us, so much as I’d like to talk, we’d better get going.’

  Mohammed appeared with Boxer’s hand luggage and a hooded burnous. Rampy told him to put it on and led him out of the house into a different street to the one by which they’d entered. They walked out of the medina. Mohammed gave Boxer his case and headed across one of the main arterial roads to the car park. Rampy and Boxer waited by the roadside until Mohammed returned on a BMW F800ST motorbike. He dismounted, handed Rampy a helmet, took another off the back, which he gave to Boxer, and showed him the storage box for his case. Rampy put on the helmet, hitched up his djellaba and mounted the bike, told Boxer to get on the back. They set off at speed and within twenty minutes were heading out of Marrakesh and, under a brilliant starlit night, started riding the twisting hairpin road into the High Atlas.

  Rampy was an expert motorcyclist and the BMW had plenty of power even weighed down by the two men. There should have been some terror involved on the night drive. Rampy rarely slowed down and slipped between cars and trucks with wheel arches practically brushing their shoulders, but Boxer found himself strangely fearless riding pillion. Even though he’d lost control of the situation, he was accepting of fate. He wondered whether this lack of concern came from seeing Isabel lying dead on her hospital bed, and thinking that if she could pass over to the other side, then he could do it too. And with that thought he swallowed hard against a terrible pain, and braced himself against Rampy’s enormous back.

  It took them just over ninety minutes to get to Ouarzazate, where Rampy filled the tank and two jerrycans stowed in the rear panniers. They sat outside the garage with some truck drivers and drank coffee from a stall in the dark and cold.

  ‘You going to tell me where we’re headed?’ asked Boxer.

  ‘The desert, my friend,’ said Rampy. ‘Somewhere in the High Atlas that’s clean, empty of people, dry, cold and with a terrible history.’

  ‘What happened up there?’

  ‘You ever read a book called The Blinding Absence of Light by Tahar Ben Jelloun?’

  ‘Can’t say I have.’

  ‘It’s the most extreme prison story ever told and it’s based on the experiences of an inmate of an infamous Tazmamart prison near a small village called Er-Rich,’ said Rampy. ‘Enemies of King Hassan II plotted his assassination at his birthday party and ended up killing a hundred guests but not him. He sent some of them to this prison. They were kept on starvation rations in solitary confinement in underground cells of less than fifty square feet, with ceilings so low they couldn’t stand, with just a small air vent, a hole for a toilet and absolutely no light. There were twenty-eight survivors of this ordeal. It lasted nearly twenty years.’

  ‘Is that where we’re going?’

  ‘Not far from there.’

  ‘And this is where you’re keeping the hostages?’

  ‘They’ll be there.’

  ‘Under those sorts of conditions?’

  ‘A little more luxurious.’

  ‘And will Conrad be there?’

  Rampy didn’t answer. He gave Boxer a jacket and a pair of gloves and put some on himself. They got back on the bike and headed east out of Ouazarzate through the Vallée du Dadès, Tinherir and Goulmina, where Rampy refilled the tank from one of the jerrycans. They had enough fuel to reach Er Rachidia, where he filled up again. They headed north. First light was coming up as they rounded the dam of Al-Hassan Addakhil and followed the course of the river, with deep greenery on either side and the mountains turning from violet to yellow to grey as the sun rose higher in the cold blue sky.

  In less than an hour they hit the main road to Er-Rich, but Rampy turned away from the town, heading east. After twenty kilometres he came of
f the tarmacked road on to a graded surface, which turned into a rough track, and wound slowly up into the mountains until they reached a set of low cubic buildings set into rocks of exactly the same colour. These buildings were masked from the road by craggy outcrops and were only visible once Rampy pulled up in the courtyard in front of them.

  They dismounted. There was a clear and empty view down the slope to the main road they’d just left. The wind was cutting through Boxer’s jacket and the burnous. Rampy wheeled the bike into one of the low buildings. As he shut the door behind him, Boxer could see that there were a couple of all-terrain dirt bikes. Rampy beckoned him into an adjoining building. He opened the door and guided him in with his finger to his lips.

  Sitting on the floor cross-legged in the middle of the room with his eyes shut was Conrad Jensen.

  32

  06.30, 20 January 2014

  the mountains outside Er-Rich, High Atlas, Morocco

  Rampy pointed to a space on the carpet opposite Jensen and went to a galley kitchen at the back of the room to make some mint tea. The main room had only a single window with a closed shutter through which two cracks of sunlight cast white bars on to the wall and ceiling. Boxer lowered himself to the floor, which was covered with overlapping carpets, and studied the perfect calm of the face in front of him.

  He’d been a long time waiting for this moment and was surprised to find that the anger he’d readily summoned in London was now more difficult to come by. The distance from the turmoil of modern life, the presence of time and space, the cleanliness of the mountain air, the tranquillity of the room and the meditative serenity of the man before him were not conducive to extreme emotions.