The Brothers Craft

by Peter Corris

  He poured a drink and examined the study in more detail. Papers and books had been disarranged. His Toshiba computer had been moved. The filing cabinet had been forced open and the file on the Craft project taken. He dialled the number of the Hammersmith office where Marsha was using the fax machine to make enquiries of the Swiss medical authorities.

  'Somebody's interested,' he said when he had Marsha on the line. 'Any activity over there?'

  'Mmm, maybe. Brenda says she thinks the photocopier was used last night, after hours.'

  'That'd be right. Shit, this is getting hairy. Better have a word with Andy,'

  'What about the police?'

  'What about them? The job here was done by a pro. He won't have left fingerprints or specks of mud from the Epping Forest. And if we go to the cops we advertise the project far and wide.'

  'Word seems to be getting around as it is.'

  'True. That's why we have to talk to Andy. I didn't read the fine print of the contract but I'll bet the investors've got escape clauses they can use if things get sticky. I'll try to get Andy now. You want to stay there or come home?'

  'I'm still waiting on faxes.'

  'Right. We'll meet there.'

  'Vic,' Marsha's voice was urgent. 'Did they get the book?'

  Bright laughed. 'No fear. I've had it with me all day. I'll put it under my pillow tonight.'

  'Escape clause?' Andy McKinnon snorted. 'You must be joking, man. D'you think I'd let such a thing breathe? Anyway, it's all to the good. Gives the project even more juice.'

  'But if it's a national security matter,' Marsha said, 'they could just stop us dead. Kill it. Visas, currency regulations, tax arrangements—there's a hundred and one ways they could stop us.'

  'It's not Betty Windsor's government that issues visas, lassie. It's the foreign governments. And they all want film crews to visit their heathen lands like politicians want pensions. Besides, it may not be the cloak-and-dagger boys at all.'

  Marsha poured coffee into three plastic cups. McKinnon took a flask of whisky from his pocket and spiked each cup liberally. 'Who then?' Marsha said.

  McKinnon sipped his coffee. 'My competitors, for instance.'

  'Come on,' Bright said.

  McKinnon was perched on a desk in the small office. His long legs were tucked up, avoiding a wastepaper bin, stacks of computer paper and cardboard boxes. Suddenly he seemed to find the posture uncomfortable. 'I've . . . ah . . . been having a wee bit of trouble with my ex-partner. I didn't want to bother you with it but she's being a bit difficult.'

  'Difficult,' Bright said. 'You mean litigation?'

  'That'd be no big deal,' McKinnon said. 'But Dorothy's not doing so well since we parted company. I've heard that she wishes me no good. She'd have the contacts to cause this kind of aggravation, that's all I'm saying.'

  'I remember Dorothy Sparkes. Big, red-headed woman,' Bright said. 'Weren't you and her . . .?'

  'Aye. We were. Then we weren't. I bought her share of the company and gave her a good price. She says I promised her some projects to get her started on her own. I did no such thing.'

  'She might be trying to nick one?' Bright said.

  McKinnon sighed and drank more coffee. 'More likely sabotage one. It's all right, I can handle it. If that's what it is.'

  'You're a bullshit artist, Andy,' Bright said. 'First you say it's good for the story if the spooks are poking around, then you say it's just a business rivalry. You're telling us whatever you think'll make us happy.'

  'Aye,' McKinnon said. 'That's m'job. Along with arranging for you to fly around the world and spend other people's money. Which I've just about done, by the way.'

  Marsha said, 'Morocco?'

  McKinnon nodded. 'French camera crew lined up. Hotel in Marrakech. Copter and camels. What more can you ask?'

  'Information,' Bright said. 'We're not ready to film or fly. We don't know enough about the Sahara expedition.'

  'Will you give over telling me my business? The crew and the equipment are all on option. You go over there and sniff around. If you have to abort it'll cost an arm but not an arm and a leg. Besides, I can even help on the information side.'

  Bright sensed a faint air of desperation in McKinnon's manner. But producers were notorious for their desperation. It stemmed from their being responsible for everything, including the quality of the ideas and the work done on them, and those were things they couldn't control. The only way to handle a producer was to feed his ego and get as much money up-front as possible. 'That'd be a plus, Andy. Tell us.'

  The producer took a card from the pocket of his jacket. It was one of his business cards with 'Highland Productions' embossed above his name and an address in South Kensington. He handed it, reverse side up, to Marsha.

  'Abdullah Hamil,' she read.

  'I'm told he's the man to see in Marrakech about visiting infidels. He went to the Chicago World's Fair in 1933 and knows all about unbelievers past and present.'

  'What does he do now?' Bright said. 'He must be pretty ancient.'

  McKinnon drained his cup. 'He sells carpets.'

  Marsha laughed. 'Andy, that's like sending us to Scotland to see a man who sells whisky.'

  McKinnon levered himself off the desk. He held the flask over Bright's cup. Bright shook his head. 'You could do worse than that, laddie. You could do worse than that. I'll be off to have a wee word with Dorothy. And Vic, I'm still waiting for that good news.'

  Marsha pulled a face as the door closed behind McKinnon. 'Somehow, I never think of Andy as having a sex life.'

  'I don't reckon it's the best. He goes for strong women. That Dorothy was a beaut. Well, it's his problem. How did you go on the clinic, Marty?'

  Marsha held up a sheaf of faxes. 'It existed. Craft Medical Community.'

  'Community,' Bright said. 'Does that mean it was some kind of commune, colony, whatever?'

  'Don't let your imagination run riot. I don't know. I'm translating. The word might mean something different in German. Anyway, it was on the outskirts of Zurich. It operated from 1950 to '59.'

  'How was it funded?'

  'I don't know.'

  'What did it do?'

  'Back off, Vic! I don't know yet. D'you appreciate how hard it is making enquiries about medical matters in a foreign language? Medicos are the most secret society in the world. And the Swiss aren't exactly gabby. I'm working on it. Okay?'

  Bright took the faxes from Marsha's hand and laid them on the photocopier. 'I'm sorry, love. I'm a brute.'

  They stood close together, leaning against each other. 'Sometimes you are,' Marsha said. 'It's okay. I can take it and dish it out. This isn't a business for really nice people, is it?'

  'What is?' Bright said.

  'Do you know any really nice people, Vic?'

  Bright thought. 'My dad was nice, I think. Everybody seemed to like him and I never heard that he did anything mean-minded. But he didn't do anything much with his life. If you mean people who actually do things, no. I can't see how you could be nice. You'd get stomped.'

  'I wonder if you'll feel the same in twenty years.'

  Bright kissed her. 'Ask me then. We'd better copy the faxes, or at least some of them.'

  'Should we keep on with the four-copy system?

  'No. We've found out there's some external interest. I reckon we should leave a bit of stuff here, nothing much. If busybodies want to look at it, let 'em. Anything important we'll keep somewhere else.'

  'Where?'

  Vic leered. 'Can I trust you?'

  'You better.'

  Bright glanced stagily around the room. 'You don't think they might've bugged this place?'

  'No. Tell me.'

  'In my locker at the gym. There's someone in the place twenty-four hours a day, 365 days a year. I've got an alarm in the locker. Anyone fiddling about there'd get themsleves worked over.'

  'Sounds good,' Marsha said.

  8

  Extract from 'The Sahara Crossing', Journal of the Royal
Exploration Society, Vol. 67, No. 3, by Richard Craft:

  Our journey from Morocco to the Sudan was not uneventful. The times were unsettled and we more than once encountered hostility and a measure of physical threat. Nevertheless, our preparations protected us against anticipated hardships in the form of thirst, hunger, exhaustion and disease and, consequently, we were able to devote considerable attention to the flora and fauna of these regions as well as to the manners and customs of the people through whose territories we travelled.

  Of considerable interest is the topography of the arid regions. Popular belief that sand dominates the landscape is soon dispelled. Vast expanses of sand (ergs) do exist and the dunes sometimes reach heights of 750 feet although most are less than one hundred feet high. Rocky surfaces, however, are more common . . .

  Extract from Walking Across the World, by Basil Craft:

  My aim was to cross the Atlas Mountains and the Sahara desert by travelling on foot from Marrakech to Timbucktu. Famous names these. The Mongolian expedition had been a great success but who had ever heard of the places where I had pitched camp or battled the elements—Sayn Shanda, Pei Shan-mo, Dazmi Ude? And who has not heard of Timbucktu? I lusted for fame . . .

  The great danger when travelling in the desert is to keep company with the wrong people. Travel with Tuaregs of the Air tribe into the territory of the Hoggart Tuareg, as the delectable Dutchwoman Alexandrine Petronella Francesca Tinne did in 1869, and you are likely to meet a similar fate. She was hacked to death a limb at a time.

  It was harder in Petronella's time to make the right decision about guides and servants, but still difficult for us. After careful consideration, my choice for the role of organiser of the trek fell on a man of mixed ancestry. As so often happens it is the cross-breeds that embody a multiplicity of virtues. Omar Oufkir was a Berber with a few drops of Negro blood and a goumier. He also had relatives among the desert Arabs and spoke several desert languages. He was a linguist, camel driver, scout, doctor, cook, marksman. I cannot think of any activity in which he did not excel. He proclaimed himself a great lover and I have no reason to doubt it . . .

  Sheik Youssef ben Adra was a villainous old man who lacked one eye, one arm and, so it was whispered in the camel lines, one testicle. His disabilities gave him a vengeful temper which seemed constantly to be on the boil. I saw him kill a man in cold blood (an expression which has always puzzled me; Youssef ben Adra's blood was never cold) for swearing at the Sheik's favourite she-camel. Of course, the man was only a slave . . .

  I had my Webley-Scott .45 automatic in the folds of my robe and I had only to move it one inch to put a bullet between the eyes of the Tuareg. He sat on his camel and defied me to raise the water cup to my lips. His rifle lay across the front of his saddle. There was no doubt that I could kill him, nor that this three companions would then despatch me. I leaned against the well and let him see the muzzle of the Webley-Scott.

  'If I drink, brother,' I said, 'we both die.'

  He nodded. His face, half-hidden by his black headcloth, was hawkish and cruel.

  'But if we drink together, we both live and the world will be a better place.'

  He threw back his head and let out a shriek of laughter. A flapping blur of movement and he was on the ground and advancing towards me with his arms out-stretched.

  "Brother,' he roared . . .

  'The old Dicky Craft wasn't much of a writer,' Bright said, 'not in the same street as his brother.'

  Marsh put down her Arabic grammar with relief. 'But perhaps Basil made it all up.'

  'It's still a good read. The two accounts don't exactly disagree, they just focus on different things.'

  'D'you think so? I almost got the impression they went on separate trips, except that they do mention each other now and then. They don't seem to have exactly been friends.'

  'But not enemies either. A photograph of the two of 'em together'd tell us something, but there doesn't seem to be one.'

  'Maybe Randolph's got an album full,' Marsha said.

  Bright jiggled the melting ice cubes in his drink. 'Randolp, yeah, wherever he is.'

  They sweltered briefly as the plane sat on the ground at Casablanca and disembarked at Marrakech only thirty minutes after take-off. The airport building was a low, unadorned structure which the passengers reached by walking across the hot tarmac. 'Reminds me of Cairns,' Bright said. 'About as hot. Bit drier though.' From the plane they'd seen the brownish-yellow country stretch away from the coast towards the mountains.

  'It's nice to walk,' Marsha said. 'I hate getting in a bus to go a hundred yards.'

  Inside the terminal fans swirled sluggishly overhead, keeping the air moving but not cooling it. They stood in line behind a dozen or so doctors, mostly Americans, mostly overweight, while the officials processed the arrivals. As advised, Marsha wore a calf-length skirt and a blouse with sleeves to her elbows. She had drawn the line at stockings. An American woman ahead of her bulged out of a sunsuit that exposed the tops of her breasts and a fair length of her fat thighs. The lean, mahogany-skinned passport official barely glanced up as he stamped her documents.

  'So much for Muslim disapproval of immodesty,' Marsha whispered. 'I'm going to be a devil and roll my sleeves up.'

  Marsha passed quickly through the process. The official put his hand on Bright's laptop computer. 'Are you with the conference, sir? Are you a doctor?'

  'No,' Bright said. 'I'm a writer.'

  'What is this, sir?'

  'It's a computer. I use it to write with. To work.'

  The dark fingers snapped loudly. 'Open, please.'

  Bright unzipped the bag and opened the computer case. He prayed that the battery pack held enough charge to turn the machine on. Otherwise it would be out with the adaptor, off to find a power outlet, the whole rigmarole. It had cost him time before in foreign parts. The hard disk whirred and the backlit screen brightened. The official stared at it and smiled as Bright tapped out Bonjour Maroc. He took the passport and scribbled the serial number of the computer, the date, the flight number and his signature on a blank leaf.

  'You will show this and the machine to a customs officer when you leave. Welcome to Morocco, Mr Bright.'

  'What was all that about?' Marsha asked when Bright joined her.

  'Making sure I don't flog it to the Bedouin.'

  Marsh laughed. 'A lot they know. You'd sell me sooner than that bloody computer.'

  'Taxi, sir, madame? Very good price.'

  'Hotel Atlas,' Marsha said.

  The hotel, set back from the busy Arset Djebelakhdar, a road leading to the Medina in one direction and to the desert in the other, was a pleasing combination of traditional and Western building styles. The main wing, built of the pinkish stone which dominates in the city, was a three-storeyed structure with French features—notably the wide staircase and the tiny lift. Bright's and Marsha's room overlooked the swimming pool and the couple of acres of hotel grounds. On arrival they established for the third time (the taxi driver had made the same assumption) that they were not 'with the conference'. Bright could feel the level of interest in them drop immediately, which suited him.

  Marsha slid open the doors and went out onto the balcony. It was early afternoon and hot, but the heat was dry and almost cleansing. 'Come and look, Vic. This is great.'

  Bright came out onto the balcony with a sheet of photocopy in his hands. His eyes passed over the blue swimming pool, the white Moorish outbuildings, brown tennis courts and green garden to the buildings of the city. The roofs were mostly flat, a jumble of blocks set at different levels. The towering Koutoubia's minaret broke up this pattern and asserted its importance. The eye was drawn to it naturally and respectfully.

  'Fantastic,' Bright said. 'Very filmable. Must be great at sunrise. Want to hear what Craft said about it?'

  Marsha scarcely heard him. She was entranced by the view and confused by the flood of different impressions washing over her—impermanence, durability, simplicity, unfathomable m
ystery.

  Bright quoted: ' "Marrakech, the pink city, is a magic place reeking of intrigue, danger and temptation. I was sustained through my many privations in the desert by the thought of returning there to sample its delights and probe its mysteries . . . " Are you listening, Marty?'

  'No,' Marsha said. 'I don't want to hear what bloody Basil Craft said about it. I just want to look.'

  Bright persisted. 'I wonder if it's changed much since his day.'

  'Are all Australians as soulless as you?'

  'I'm here to do a job,' Vic snapped. 'Not to gawp at a collection of ruins.'

  Marsha laughed and touched his arm. 'Listen to us. Our first go at travelling with each other and we're fighting. They say travel's very stressful to a new relationship.'

  'I've never been in love with a work mate before,' Bright said. 'It's strange, kind of kinky.'

  'We'll have to be careful, that's all. I guess I'm a bit put off by that Craft stuff. It sounds, well, corrupt.'

  Bright grinned. 'Let's baptise the bed.'

  They made love slowly in the light, air-conditioned room, shoving aside still-packed bags and gear. Bright ended with his head resting on his computer bag. Marsha tapped it. 'Very appropriate,' she said. 'You could start writing straight away.'

  Bright stretched and yawned. 'Very funny. But I will keep a sort of a journal.'

  'Oh, no. I've seen your work journals. You put down every word and describe every stick and stone. Why d'you only keep a diary when you're overseas, and not at home?'

  'I'm always overseas, baby. Aussie, remember? I dunno. Habit I got into.'

  'Well, you'd better wipe the word ruin from your vocabulary. Didn't you look around you in the taxi? This is a living, breathing place—there's more life in a donkey pulling a cart than in a Mercedes in my book.'