The tranquil interior of the riad had been a complete contrast to the filthy, bustling alleyways outside. Guided through a dark entrance hall by a boy dressed in white, the group had shuffled into an open courtyard. A small pool bubbled in the middle and the courtyard walls had been bleached white by the sunlight pouring in through the open roof. Stairs twisted up and away to rooms on each side, their entrances concealed by thin curtains that had danced on the gentle breeze.
“You are welcome! Most welcome.”
A man had poked his head over the balcony and had called down from the first floor. He’d grinned widely then disappeared, clattering down some stone stairs before reappearing next to the pool.
“Welcome, welcome. I am Mahmoud.” The man, though clearly Moroccan, had spoken with an almost flawless English accent, like the people Rachel had seen reading the news back in Triskellion. “Have you had a good journey?”
Before anyone had been able to answer, he’d moved quickly from one member of the group to another, shaking hands, bowing, blinking through heavy-framed glasses and beaming through his close-clipped grey beard. He wore a fez and a long, hooded garment – white with orange stripes – like most of the men they had seen.
Rachel had stared down at his yellow slippers. He reminded her of a character from a Star Wars movie.
“You must be hungry,” he had said. He’d instructed the boy in white to take their bags upstairs, then led them into a beautiful room where, on a table strewn with rose petals, a fantastic breakfast had been laid out.
Since their arrival, Mahmoud had catered to their every whim. They had eaten well and slept in the afternoon, or sat in the sun on the roof terrace, or read books in the peace by the side of the pool. There had been no reason to venture outside into the mayhem of the city, but suddenly, today, everyone had started to get itchy feet. Unwilling to let them go alone, Mahmoud had taken Laura, Kate and the little twins for a look around the souk: the network of market stalls that packed every inch around the main square.
With the French boys up on the roof terrace – showing off to Inez and Carmen, who were sunbathing, reading magazines and pretending not to notice them – Rachel found herself alone with Gabriel.
They were sitting on cushions by the pool. Rachel could not remember when they had last spent time together, just the two of them. Gabriel had been spreading himself thinly among all of them and, at first, sitting with her feet in the cool water, Rachel could hear nothing in her mind.
Gabriel did not seem uncomfortable with the silence, but Rachel pushed.
Talk to me, she said, with her thoughts. Tell me where we’re going.
We’re close, Gabriel’s mind spoke back. Our journey is near its end.
There was something about his words that gave Rachel a great sense of relief, a feeling that this might all soon be over. But there was also something sad in his tone; something … final that suggested the ending might not be a completely happy one. She was about to push him further when a clatter of noise in the corridor told her that her mother and the others had returned. The little twins ran across the courtyard to Rachel and Gabriel.
“Look at us!” Morag shouted. She pointed at her and Duncan’s identical outfits of hooded djellabas and brightly coloured slippers.
“Same as mine,” Mahmoud said proudly.
Laura Sullivan grinned. “We thought they should blend in a bit.”
“We saw snake-charmers,” Morag said excitedly. “And monkeys in the square.”
Duncan did not need prompting. “King cobra, green mamba, corn snake…”
“That’s good,” Rachel said.
Duncan ignored the interruption and continued reeling off a list of everything they had seen. “Barbary ape, monitor lizard, chameleon, tortoise…”
“I bought you a few things, Rach,” Kate said. Her lip was trembling as she handed Rachel a parcel of clothes: a thick white cardigan to wear in the evening, a woollen hat and some furry boots. “I thought you could do with a change from those filthy jeans and sweats.”
Rachel looked down at her stained and torn sweatshirt. Clothes were the last thing she had been thinking about for the past few days.
“I got some stuff for Adam too…” Kate’s face contorted as she hugged another bundle of clothes to her chest. Laura tried to put an arm round Kate’s shoulder, but was firmly shrugged off; the polite level of communication that had grown between them in the past days shrugged off with it. “Find him,” Kate said. “Find my son, you…”
Her words tailed off as the tears came and she ran upstairs. Laura quickly bustled Morag and Duncan away to their room and Mahmoud made himself scarce.
Rachel found herself alone with Gabriel again, but the moment of quiet intimacy had gone. She felt some of her mother’s anger. “Why did you let them take Adam?”
Gabriel turned and looked at her. “I didn’t let them. They just did. You haven’t got it yet, have you? I don’t control everything; I can’t manage every event. People like me have been overpowered and destroyed before. I can do some things, but there are times when I need help. From you. From the others.”
Gabriel looked deep into her eyes and Rachel became a little frightened at the ruthlessness she glimpsed beneath the green. He paused, as if considering whether or not to say what was on his mind, but Rachel could already read it.
The thought was out in the open.
I told you there might be sacrifices.
Anger flashed and burned deep inside her. Adam had been silent since they’d been here. She’d tried, and failed, to make contact. The notion that her brother was a “sacrifice” was more than she could take. Her fist lashed out, hard and fast, at Gabriel’s face. But in the fraction of a second before it smashed into his nose, Gabriel’s hand had taken hold of Rachel’s fist, gripping it tight, pulling her close.
For a split second, Rachel thought he might be going to kiss her.
“Why are we here?” Rachel shouted into his face, recovering herself and wrestling her fist away. “Where the hell are we going?”
She saw a rare look of uncertainty slide across Gabriel’s features. He broke eye contact. “I don’t know exactly,” he said. He stared down into the pool. “I’m waiting for guidance.”
Adam was dreaming about home…
He’d been walking, somewhere near their apartment, and he had seen Rachel and his mom on the other side of the street. He’d shouted, but they hadn’t been able to hear him above the noise of the traffic, and each time he’d tried to get close to them the street had just got wider, or a car had moved to block his way.
Now, back in the apartment, he was making popcorn in the microwave and waiting for Rachel and his mom to get back. He looked out of the kitchen window and saw them just a few metres away … in a different apartment. They were standing in an identical kitchen. Rachel was saying something, waving her arms while she talked and their mother was laughing … really laughing.
Adam hammered on the glass, but got no reaction.
He tried to open the window, but there were bees swarming across it and he couldn’t find the latch.
The beeper on the microwave began to go off, and he started to wake up…
Adam could hear the beeping of medical equipment all around him. The smell of popcorn drifted away, overpowered by the stink of bleach and rubber and the disinfectant they had dabbed on his arm before they’d slipped the needle in. He felt the thin mattress beneath him. The metal bars on either side of the bed. The wide, black straps across his chest and legs.
Adam opened his eyes and blinked slowly as the dream slipped away from him. The face of his mother – her happy face – began to disappear, like a picture fading to black at the end of a movie. Now, he could only see her face as it had been back on that pavement in Seville; the tears and the twisted mouth as she’d watched them drag him away. He’d still been able to hear her screaming, even after they had slammed the doors and started to tie him down. She’d sounded like a wounded animal.
“Good afternoon, Adam.”
Adam turned his head. Watched Clay Van der Zee close the door behind him and move into the room.
Was it a room? There were no windows and the walls were made of metal. Had they stopped somewhere? He guessed that he was in some kind of mobile lab or hospital. He remembered a lot of driving. He’d felt the movement as he’d drifted in and out of consciousness, the drugs pulling him back under before he’d had the chance to get his bearings. Before he’d had the chance to try and communicate with Rachel.
It had been several days since he’d been snatched, he was sure of that, and he had all but given up trying to contact her. Even when he’d been fully conscious, he had been unable to reach her. Unable to receive the messages he knew she would be trying to send him.
The drugs – it had to be.
“I said ‘Good afternoon.’”
Adam saw Van der Zee smile, as though this was a perfectly normal conversation. As though he did not go around kidnapping children. As though Adam was not strapped to a gurney or pumped full of God only knew what…
“All depends on your definition of ‘good’,” Adam said.
Van der Zee pulled a small metal stool across and sat down next to the bed. “Well, it would be good for you … if you answered my questions. One question in particular…”
“I’ve told you; I don’t know.”
Van der Zee nodded, a tightness round his mouth. “This boy … whose name you refuse to tell me—”
“Like I said, he’s got lots of names.”
“This boy is clearly … leading you all somewhere, and you insist he hasn’t told you where that is?”
“Not a clue,” Adam said.
“Or why?”
“It’s kind of a … magical mystery tour.” Adam looked up at Van der Zee, enjoying the barely concealed anger on the man’s face. “What’s the matter, don’t you like surprises?”
Van der Zee stood up and moved round to the foot of the bed. He stared at Adam for a few seconds, as though trying to reach a difficult decision, then he leant down and took hold of Adam’s hands.
“I thought we were friends,” he said. “I thought that, unlike your sister, you could see that the Hope Project had your best interests at heart. Now, I’m in a … tricky situation.” He leant in further, his grip strengthening round Adam’s hands. “You see, I very much need to know where your sister and all your friends are headed. I really need your help on this one, Adam, and I think we could both save ourselves a lot of trouble if you just told me. You understand? Get us both out of … a difficult situation. What do you say?”
Adam tried not to cry out as Van der Zee’s huge hands tightened round his own.
“Do we have a deal?”
He wasn’t even sure if Van der Zee was aware just how hard he was squeezing. Not that it mattered: the pain was the same either way. Adam gritted his teeth, feeling the knuckles in his hands grinding against one another as the pressure increased, convinced that any second the bones would be crushed.
“Adam…?”
He screamed out in pain. Suddenly someone was knocking at the door and Van der Zee released his grip. Adam heard a mumbled conversation; something about a call from New York. He heard Van der Zee leave.
His hands trembled, weak and useless. Even without the restraints he doubted he could have lifted them to wipe away the tears. The fight against the pain had taken away every ounce of strength and Adam was grateful when a figure appeared at the side of his bed, when he saw the plastic tip taken off the syringe.
The Hope Project’s mobile unit had been Clay Van der Zee’s idea. It comprised a fleet of high-spec vehicles which remained permanently on stand-by and could be transported to almost anywhere in the world at short notice. There were offices and living quarters for a small crew of technicians and security staff. There were fully equipped laboratories and hospital facilities. There was a state-of-the-art communications centre.
And there was an autopsy suite.
Van der Zee tried not to think about this last … vehicle, as he walked into the office and took one more look at the DNA results from the mummified hand that Adam Newman had been carrying when they’d snatched him.
It was not human DNA. Instead, it shared characteristics with samples taken from the bodies in Triskellion, from bodies found at other sacred sites throughout the world and with samples that had been kept on file in the US for nearly fifty years.
Not human…
It was little wonder that Van der Zee’s superiors were getting so worked up, so impatient. They were counting on him, he’d been told in no uncertain terms. It was with some trepidation that he laid the file to one side to take the call he had been dreading for the last few days.
“So where’s our target?”
“I’m still … working on it.”
“You’ve had three days.”
“It’s a matter of building up trust,” Van der Zee said. “Of gaining the boy’s confidence.”
The man on the other end of the phone took a drink of something. It was early morning in New York so Van der Zee guessed it was coffee.
“Confidence,” the caller said, “is something I’m rapidly losing.”
“There’s no need,” Van der Zee said quickly. “I will get the information.” The few seconds’ delay on the line turned into fifteen. Van der Zee wondered if his caller was alone in the room or if he was conferring with anyone else. “Are you still there?”
“Tell me about Dr Sullivan.”
“She’s gone,” Van der Zee said. “She’s gone with … them. But I don’t see that as a problem. We presume she’ll be travelling with them to the … final destination. We’ll pick her up there.”
“Do we know where there is?”
“We know where they are now,” Van der Zee said. “We’ll follow them when they leave.”
“No good,” the caller said. “Not if we want to be waiting when they arrive.”
Van der Zee studied the map above his desk. A hand-drawn line ran from the Hope Project, through London, Paris, Madrid, Seville and stopped abruptly in Marrakesh. “I will get the answer,” he said.
“How are you … asking the question?”
“Excuse me?”
“OK … let me try and make this nice and clear. I’m asking you this question … simply. Are you with me, doctor?”
“I think so…”
“So, how are you asking the boy?”
“I don’t … understand,” Van der Zee said. “I’m just … asking.”
Another slurp of coffee. “So, find a different way to ask.”
“There’s no need for that, just give me time and—”
“You have lots of nice, shiny equipment in that fancy mobile unit of yours, right?”
Van der Zee tried to swallow, but his mouth was dry. His voice sounded hoarse when he spoke. “Right.”
The caller was having no such problems. “So, use it!”
Mahmoud drew the curtains and lit candles while his houseboy poured everyone glasses of mint tea. For the three days since the group’s arrival he had treated them like royalty, and there had never been any suggestion of payment.
Rachel had asked Gabriel about the Triskellion tattoo that she had also seen on Mahmoud’s hand. Gabriel had explained that Mahmoud’s people were Berbers: one of the ancient tribes believed to have been the original inhabitants of North Africa. He’d explained that the symbol was a charm to ward off evil and that the tattoo was worn by all members of Mahmoud’s tribe; a tribe that could be considered friends.
“Friends who believe that they have a sacred duty to look after the needs of travellers,” Gabriel had said, smiling. “Which is exactly what we are.”
They sat round a long, low table in a small salon off the central courtyard. The walls were tiled with elaborate mosaics and colourful rugs lay in piles, two and three thick, across the stone floors. Lanterns swung from the ceiling and cast shadows across the faces of Jean-Bernard and Jean-Luc as
they leant close together, whispering about the others: Carmen and Inez, who chatted about the food; Duncan, who sat delightedly between the two girls; Gabriel and Rachel, who watched and waited; and Kate and Laura, who said nothing.
Morag stared across at the log fire that crackled in one corner. “It’s like that fire Dr Van der Zee had,” she said.
Rachel had only half heard. “What?”
“In his den, remember? With all those wind-up toys above it.”
Rachel could hear the anxiety in the young girl’s voice; the fear that the memory had triggered. “You don’t know some of the things we had to go through,” Morag whispered.
“Don’t worry about him,” Rachel said. “He’s a very long way away.”
While the children sat, Mahmoud supervised the comings and goings as three or four staff brought a variety of dishes to the table. Rachel watched the food arriving and reddened when her stomach growled noisily.
Her mother leant across and put a hand on her arm. “Me too,” she said.
When all the dishes had been delivered, Mahmoud stood, grinning at the head of the table. He placed his hands together and nodded. “Please enjoy…”
“Thank you for this,” Gabriel said. “For everything.”
It was Mahmoud’s turn to redden, smiling and nodding as he backed away from the table. “You are more than welcome.”
They all tucked in hungrily without needing to be asked twice, piling their plates high and, when they were almost empty, mopping up the rich sauces with large pieces of flat bread.
When Rachel had finished, she looked across at Gabriel. As usual he hadn’t seemed interested in eating. Mind you, she had been concentrating so hard on stuffing her own face that he could have eaten three plates’ worth and she would not have noticed.
“That was good,” she said.
“Better than Seville?” Gabriel asked. “The food we had at Abeja’s…”
The Burning Page 22