Rupert, now dressed in one of his dapper traveling suits that hung off him alarmingly, shuffled out to say goodbye. “Do take care, Phoebe. We have no idea whether this gang is on the trail in Marrakech at this very moment, and they appear to be a ruthless lot. I think you going by yourself is a very bad idea, very bad indeed. You could…be walking right into—” A coughing attack hit again.
“It’s all right, Rupert. I’ll be fine,” I said, giving him a hug. “Just take care of yourself and get better, will you?”
“The boat is here, mada—Ms. Phoebe,” Evan said. “I will try to come as soon as I am able,” he whispered at the villa door after loading my luggage. “I regret to say that we never did have time to go over your phone’s capabilities but please study my cursory cheat sheet. I’ve also taken the liberty of packing a few supplies for your voyage in one of Sir Rupert’s spare roller bags.” In other words, my gun. “And please keep us updated on what you discover using only the phone provided. My plan is to track down our mysterious interested parties or at least keep them occupied while you’re gone.”
I nodded and made for the dock, suddenly aware that no effort had been made to keep the villa’s location a secret from me this time, which made perfect sense since everyone was leaving. That gave me the opportunity to gaze up at the mysterious palazzo as the boat pulled away, surprised to find it beautiful despite the interior decay and the deep wrap of gloom that shrouded the shuttered windows. Positioned on the edge of two merging canals—I had no idea where since I didn’t feel like locating it on my phone just in case—it must have once been a luxurious palace on a quiet but prime location.
Turning my face to the wind, I settled in for the ride across the lagoon, clutching my carpetbag like it was my last friend on earth. Maybe I could have used a little friendly company just then as I watched the dawn struggle to crack light into the darkness. The boat driver nodded at me once but otherwise kept his eyes glued on the water, no doubt struggling to stay awake for such an early-morning trip.
15
The rest of my voyage played out like a blurry rerun of an old spy movie. While sipping coffee in the Venetian airport, a man brushed by me and dropped an envelope into my bag. Inside a washroom stall minutes later, I removed an American passport featuring my face with a false name—Penelope Martin, writer. It was sobering to witness how easily that kind of fraud could be arranged and even more so my willingness to participate in it. All for a worthy cause, I told myself. Regardless, if they ever discovered the gun or my bogus passport, I could be in jail for a long time, despite my Interpol affiliations.
Passing through customs was still a breeze and my basic French helped smooth the way through de Gaulle where I had enough of a layover to purchase a few warm weather tourist-worthy clothes. Otherwise, I slept through the flight to Marrakech, arriving at around two o’clock in the afternoon. Strolling into the airport’s arrival area minutes later, I was on my way out the revolving glass doors looking for a cab when someone touched my shoulder.
“Miss Martin?”
I turned to stare blankly at the young man in the long white robe and round blue skull cap holding a sign and grinning at me. “You are Miss Martin, yes? I am Hassan, your driver. I have description.” He read from his phone: “Very nice-looking red-haired lady. Not expecting ride so must approach.”
Crud. Right. “Yes, yes. I’m Penelope Martin but I wasn’t expecting to be picked up, like you said.” I might have been had I read all the papers Evan had packed in my bag, which I only did much later. And I might have been had I practiced thinking like Penelope instead of like Phoebe—Penelope the writer, that is. And then it hit me that Evan had described me as “a very nice-looking red-haired lady.” That part I liked.
“Sorry, I was just imagining the plot for my next book, which will be set right here in Marrakech,” I said, shaking myself from my reverie. Weak, very weak.
“You are a writer. Very exciting. First time here?”
“Yes, first time.”
If possible, the young man’s grin grew even broader. “I take you to your hotel and give tour along way.”
“No tour, thanks. Straight to my hotel.”
It was as if he’d never heard me as he took my bags and led me across a parking lot to a plush taxi van. Soon it became clear that I was getting a tour whether I wanted it or not but I decided to relax and enjoy the ride. Being sealed inside a plush air-conditioned vehicle while driving through a panorama of color and image wasn’t a bad introduction to a new land. I applied my sunglasses and wondered if I’d brought adequate sunblock.
Wide modern boulevards with sports cars easing up beside camels was only one of the many baffling sights that whizzed by. Impressions of color, sand-colored buildings, old pinkish brick walls, and glimpses down narrow, medieval streets added to the other-worldly sense. For a moment, I forgot to be exhausted.
“Very beautiful mosque,” Hassan was saying. “The Koutoubia Mosque built in 1150.”
“That early?” I said, staring up at the amazing minaret. So Marrakech had been an established city long before the Italian Renaissance began. “Were there many Jewish families living there back then?”
Hassan seemed taken aback. “Morocco Muslim country, Miss Martin. That is a mosque.”
“Yes, of course.” So, skip that line of inquiry, Phoebe. Suddenly I was exhausted and my hand burned relentlessly. By that time, I had my phone out and was tracking our progress to La Maison Oasis Bleu on Google Maps and realizing just how much farther we seemed to be getting from the destination. “Look, Hassan, thank you for the tour but I’m tired. Could you just take me to my riad now?”
“Yes, lady. Right away.”
But right away did not mean directly. The taxi parked outside the arched gate of an ancient pink stone wall that rose far overhead and looked as though it dated from the beginnings of the city.
“We walk,” he said cheerfully. “Follow me.”
Hassan took my roller in hand while I hoisted my carpetbag over my shoulder and together we strode through the arch into a jumble of centuries. The souk, I realized as we passed stalls crammed with tiles, painted plates, copper and brass lamps, and lengths of gorgeous textiles of every imaginable fabric, many draped over walls. I could be in Istanbul and the Grand Bazaar, only a more chaotic, rougher, and less pristine version, though no less magical.
Narrow alleyways crowded with people in both Western clothing and the traditional djellabas jostled with motorcars and donkeys while the sound of ringing cell phones and the calls of the waterman filled the dusty air. Once we pressed against a wall to allow a donkey burdened with carpets to trot past us in a narrow lane, while the donkey man rang his bell and called for us to move please in three languages. I caught glimpses of carpet shops, some hanging their wares outside their doors in a kaleidoscope of pattern and color. It was all I could do not to stop, feeling as I did as though I had fallen back into time and landed in a pile of pattern and design.
I’d return to savor it all, I told myself as I followed Hassan deeper into the medina, not that I had a clue how to return anywhere in this warren of ancient streets. We passed several places that appeared to be hotels and even more restaurants, but every time I’d hoped we’d reached our riad, Hassan kept going.
“Not far now, lady,” Hassan called to me as we entered a tiny malodorous square. No more than a rough gathering of dusty stone buildings with dark little alleys branching off in three directions, the place seemed populated only by skinny mewing cats—starving cats, I realized. I stopped to gaze at one particularly pathetic little white kitten while fighting the overwhelming urge to bring it food. I’d return to feed it as soon as I could.
“This chicken stall,” Hassan said, catching my interest and pointing to a shelf set deep into one of the stone walls that appeared to be the source of the smell. “Chickens sold here Wednesday and Friday.” He grinned. “Very busy then. Cats like.”
So, a merchant would bring live chickens to this stin
ky little square and slaughter them right here for the waiting customers? That explained the stray feathers I saw embedded into the gravel below my feet. Got it. What we take for granted in our pristine supermarket world, I thought. Welcome to how the rest of the world lives, Phoebe. I mean, Penelope.
On the other hand, talk about fresh chicken…
“Please follow, lady. Riad just here.”
The riad was nearby? Maybe this was part of the old Jewish quarter years ago, that is if Marrakech even had a Jewish quarter. Admittedly by then, I only longed for something simple and predictable like a chain hotel with clean white sheets, not whatever lay at the end of the short alley that Hassan was leading me down.
At the end of the narrow corridor stood a tall carved door leaning against a deep blushing terra-cotta wall. Since a potted palm sat in a puddle of sun directly before the magnificent portal, I knew it wasn’t a working door, yet still I walked toward it, probably on some kind of color-induced autopilot.
“Here, lady.”
I turned. Hassan had stopped about halfway down the short alley. Backtracking, I found myself standing before another carved door, this one so low I had to duck to enter as Hassan beckoned me forward. And so I stepped straight into an oasis of calm and beauty so intense it struck me dumb.
“I am Shada,” said a young woman in jeans and a silk blouse standing before me. A shy beauty in her late twenties with wide brown eyes and an up-to-the-minute dress sense (shirt half-tucked into her jeans and strappy high-heeled sandals). “Welcome.”
“Thank you, Shada,” I said, gazing around. “Wow, this is magnificent.” Did Maria have a hand in its decoration? I wondered.
A tiled courtyard featuring a gleaming blue pool fringed with lush sun-filtering greenery drew my eye immediately, but soon my gaze skimmed past the gleaming brass lanterns, ornate tiles, textiles on the walls, and chairs gathered around the pool in gestures of comfort. I was led to one of these seats and offered mint tea, water, plus an assortment of little pastries. Only after I had sipped the tea poured by a fez-capped young man named Mohammed did I notice the copper floor lanterns, the filigreed white plasterwork, and the fact that Hassan stood beside me waiting patiently. I looked up.
“Lady, I go now but I arrange tour for you anytime. My cousin, he has van and we could go to Atlas Mountains.”
“Thanks, but my research is right here in Marrakech,” I said, shaking off my stupor. Actually, I wouldn’t mind going to the Atlas Mountains but this wasn’t a vacation. Then I realized he was probably waiting for a tip. I didn’t have any dirhams, only pounds and euros, but reached into my pocket to offer him a ten-euro note, which he took with a quick bow and disappeared out the door.
Shada stepped forward. “Your room is ready, Ms. Martin. Your bag awaits you,” she said in impeccable English. Though gracious and lovely, her demeanor almost seemed apologetic but I couldn’t decide why. Soon, I was too busy taking in my environment to care.
The riad was built on three balconied floors that wrapped around an open courtyard with a pool embedded into its bottom floor like a faceted sapphire. Shada lead me to a narrow staircase in the corner that twisted around the stories in white marble and colored tiles. I climbed the stairs behind her, my eyes glomming on to the textiles, mostly Berber with traditional motifs, every one rich and vibrant. Some time I’d study each one but right then I was too tired to pause.
All but one guest room was situated on the two upper balconied levels with a library and lounge leading off the main floor below, Shada told me. And since the doors to every room but one were wide open, I glimpsed cozy interiors, each one unique, luxurious, and intriguing. Arched windows along the hall echoed so much of Venice’s Renaissance buildings that it was impossible not to note the connection. That the trade between Venice and the East had been brisk was undeniable. The creative mingling of cultures proved it.
“I’m actually here to research my new novel—I’m a writer. Is there much information about the history of the riad? It looks very old.”
“It is very old,” Shada said, turning to me. “My brother studies architecture in Paris and he says the building has ‘bons os,’ good bones, as they say in French. Do you speak French?”
“A little.” Actually, I could read French but my accent was too rusty to mention.
It didn’t help when she slipped into French, leaving me struggling to keep up. “You will find whatever we have on the building in the library but most of it will be in Arabic or French,” I think she said.
I spoke in English. “Do you sleep here, Shada?”
Taking my cue, she responded in my mother tongue. “No, I live with my parents. Myself and Ingram manage the riad but we don’t stay overnight.”
“Ingram?”
“You will meet him tomorrow. He does not work this afternoon. This is your room here. You’ll find it perfect for writing, I think, but the rooftop is equally good. Very quiet.”
“Do you mean that the guests are alone here after 7:00 p.m.?” That alarmed me.
“You will be perfectly safe. The tourist police patrol the medina and the riad is very secure.”
Except that the roof was wide open to the elements as well as to anyone who might decide to drop in, plus the tourist police didn’t know I was being dogged by murdering thieves. Naturally, Shada didn’t run in the same circles I did or know what’s possible for the enterprising criminal types. I peered over the balcony at the pool glowing turquoise through the fringing palms. Sky above, pool below, and the chaos of the medina plus the world itself seemed light-years away.
“And do the owners live in Morocco?” I asked, pulling back. I knew the answer but I wanted to see if she did.
“No, the owner lives in Italy.” A shadow crossed her lovely features—I guessed that she might have heard about Maria’s death—but she recovered quickly. “Breakfast is served on the rooftop terrace from 8:00 to 10:00 every morning,” she continued with her customary shy smile. “There is a night number to call for emergencies in your room. Everything is very safe here. No need to worry,” she said.
If only she knew. “I’m sure it’s very safe. Are there other guests staying?”
“Two others—a couple from America one level down and another lady arrives tomorrow. You will find it very peaceful. Would you like supper tonight?”
Of course I was hungry but staying awake until dinner seemed an unimaginable feat. “What about something light that I could eat in my room? I’m so tired right now that I just want to sleep.”
“I will have a cold supper prepared for you and placed in your room’s refrigerator,” Shada said.
“Just leave it outside the door, please.” That way if I did wake up ravenous, I’d have something to gnaw on. “I plan to take a long nap.”
After that, I stepped into my room and a narrow, richly decorated space opened up around me like the inside of a jewel box—painted deep ochre with a tiled fireplace, a rug across the tiled floor, brass platters and jugs on the mantel and inlaid tables, deep chairs for reading under colored glass lamps, and a bed tucked into the far end covered in a silken patchwork coverlet. If I were a genie, I’d live right there.
After Shada slipped away, I opened the borrowed roller bag, dug through the clothing Evan had packed as a decoy—a men’s silk dressing robe plus a white dress shirt still in its laundry package—sorted through my recently purchased clothes, and removed the gun secreted in the bottom level. That thing would go with me everywhere, as would my phone and anything else I needed. I wasn’t taking chances, not here, not anywhere.
In fact, I took the roller, carpetbag complete with phones, and jacket into the bathroom with me, leaning the roller against the door, jiggered in such a way that if anyone tried to enter, the clatter of a brass soap dish would give warning. All the knots loosened in my neck and shoulders when minutes later I stepped into the tiled shower and let hot water pour down over me for as long as I needed. As for my hand, I gingerly unsealed the bandage, cursing softly all
the way. I’d leave that open to the elements now to help it heal but the water felt like torture on my wounded flesh.
About forty minutes later, wrapped in a towel and refreshed, I stepped into the room and realized that someone had entered long enough to turn down the bed, sprinkle pink rose petals over the covers, and leave a chocolate on my pillow. Lovely. Unsettling. There was even a covered plate in the small fridge along with several varieties of juice and bottled water. Excellent service though it was, easy access to my room did not feel like a good thing.
I sipped a bottle of orange juice while checking the door—flimsy ornamental wood latched by a simple bolt. That wouldn’t do. After hanging a Do Not Disturb sign on the knob outside, I dragged the roller bag into active duty again, this time balancing a brass platter from over the mantel against the door. If it fell to the tiled floor, it should wake the whole riad.
Next, I scanned my phone messages. Evan’s received the first response: Here now. Weather’s fine.
He came back immediately: Same here. All settled. BTW: code is not necessary on this phone. It is secure.
Really?
Seriously.
Right. Leaving that thread, I finally responded to Max’s frantic demands for updates by explaining in code that it wasn’t safe to describe anything right now. They speak French and Arabic here, I wrote. Referring to other languages was our way of saying that we couldn’t write or speak freely. I added that the weather was fine since weather references indicated the safety factor and I didn’t want him worrying.
He must have been waiting for a message from me and responded right away by letting me know that The weather is clear in London but sunshine will be moving out that day. Got it: reinforcement was heading my way. And I badly needed it. Forget this business of Phoebe rushing off to single-handedly rescue some unknown treasure on foreign soil. I knew I couldn’t do this alone and, right then, I didn’t want to try. I’d lost all the adrenaline that had propelled me to Marrakech. Now, all I felt was the chill of fear.
The Carpet Cipher Page 18