The Carpet Cipher

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The Carpet Cipher Page 19

by Jane Thornley


  There were messages from Nicolina, too, but I’d let Evan keep her informed on my behalf. Presumably he could better figure out how to communicate with her without alerting the spy network.

  Relieved, I shoved the gun and phone under my pillow, left the bathroom light on, and dropped over the velvet cliff into a deep sleep.

  And awoke with a start, leaping from the bed with no idea where I was, my heart pounding. It took a few seconds to orientate myself. My watch said 12:33 a.m. Once my brain activated, I retrieved my gun and phone in seconds. Flicking on a lamp, I saw that nothing had disturbed my brass platter security system, yet something had obviously disturbed me—a loud noise, maybe. In my dream I recalled what could have been tapping sounds but now everything was quiet.

  I grabbed the closest clothing on hand—my jeans, T-shirt, and jacket still draped over one of the chairs where they’d been tossed. With my bare feet shoved into sneakers, the gun in my bag slung over my shoulder, I carefully disengaged my alarm system and cracked open the door.

  Outside it was surprisingly cool, the desert air descending in a frigid pall over the balcony. I crept to the railing and peered over. Below, the pool and the night-lights glowed but otherwise everything appeared deceptively peaceful.

  As I crept down the tiled corridor, the full impact of being alone in a foreign land in an unsecured building hit. It’s one thing to know this by the preternaturally bright desert light of day and quite another to have it settle around you in the dead of an Arabian night. Yet, by the time I’d padded downstairs to the bottom level, the seductive lighting and hushed beauty of the place calmed most of my fears. Almost. So what if a sound woke me up? Abrupt noises startled me from sleep in London all the time so why not in Marrakech? Anyway, there was another couple staying here somewhere so it’s not like I was alone. Maybe they just returned from a late dinner out.

  My hand was throbbing and there was no way I could get back to sleep right away. Instead, I dashed back up to my room, retrieved the plated food, and returned to the bottom level, leaving my bedroom door locked with its useless ornate iron key. Seconds later, I had tucked myself into a back table slightly hidden behind a pillar facing the pool to devour my supper—a cold meat pie that looked vaguely like a Cornish pastie wrapped in phyllo with a side of fresh fruit. The whole thing was gone in minutes, finished off with a bottle of guava juice.

  As I ate, I mused: What was I hoping to find in this building that hundreds of others before me may have sought and left empty-handed? There were only so many materials that consistently held value in centuries past and they were the same items that held value now: gold and jewels. What else would a wealthy family consider to be a worthy dowry, anyway?

  On the other hand, how could any family hide something of such value for centuries in what may have once been the family home? But then again, where else would they hide it, considering that they lived in a world constantly threatening to annihilate them? If not their home, where? I couldn’t imagine this long-ago Jewish family, obviously wealthy and maybe now catching the notice of a less tolerant sultan, risking burying it any place else. And bury had to be the operative word.

  And it had remained in the Contini family for centuries and been transferred through the generations. That, too, was unusual. A Christian family owning property during uprisings in Morocco was almost as strange as Jews owning property under those same circumstances. On the other hand, Morocco had a history of being a tolerant Muslim country, a reputation of acceptance and coexistence, with the exception of occasional blips of religious persecution. Was it so far a stretch to believe that somehow alliances forged either through business or friendship had somehow helped to preserve this property and its secrets through the centuries intact?

  That was the question. My gut said the story unfolded this way and that was all I had to go on at the moment. Following the union of the two families—the two religions—the Continis had been unable to return to Morocco to claim the dowry and had eventually forgotten the codes to finding it. If they’d tried in the last few centuries, they’d obviously been unsuccessful. Maria had tried, I was sure of that.

  A chill ran over me. Supposing the ruthless gang knew about the riad and suspected that it may be here all along? What if they’d been here and tried to find it, were trying still? What if they thought they needed me? My throbbing hand testified to the lengths they’d go to retrieve it.

  One way or the other, somewhere in this filigreed building, one that must have been renovated countless times before, lay a long-lost fortune that nobody had a clue where to find.

  Leaving my plate on the table and with my phone in hand as a flashlight, I took myself on a reconnaissance mission around the lower floor. The little night-lights tucked under little brass wall sconces and in the alcoves everywhere made the extra light unnecessary but I didn’t care. My phone was my security blanket even if it might track me and probably knew my very thoughts. Had Evan managed that trick yet?

  Stepping into the first room off the courtyard brought me to the library. Well, now… I flashed my phone across the shelves of books, the paintings of desert scenes with the camels and sunsets, the smoldering fireplace, and realized that it would take hours to study this room alone.

  Since there was no adjoining room, I stepped back into the courtyard and around the corner into another, this one with leather chairs and etched brass platter tables everywhere—the lounge? Back out again, I padded down the tiles to a door labeled Office— locked—and then through a pair of double spring doors beside it that led to a kitchen, all in a mix of marble and stainless complete with microwave and bake oven. Backing out, I next followed the entire perimeter of the pool, discovering that the rooms were only on one side of the building with the other consisting of a long wall decorated by textiles and panels of carved wood.

  At the very back wall, an open door beckoned me on, a door that lead into a smaller roofed courtyard with a basin-sized marble fountain set into the center of an elaborate mosaic-tiled zellige of triangles and starbursts. I stepped up to the basin floating with rose petals and noticed two bowls sitting side by side on the blue tiles with a fat white cat busy lapping from one. The diner left its dish immediately to brush across my legs in a plume of soft fur. I sat down on the edge of the fountain and allowed myself a cat moment, indulging in the purring friendliness, oblivious to anything else except to vaguely note another room in front of me—door open, the final guest room.

  Sometimes cats are better than men, I thought, deep in the comfort zone. “What’s hidden here, kitty?” I mumbled into its fur. And then I heard a sharp crack that jolted me to my feet and the cat to the floor with an indignant mew. The sound came from overhead. Yes, definitely overhead because now I heard a deliberate chink-chink somewhere far above.

  I bolted into the pool courtyard and all the way up the stairs. When I reached the top level of what I presumed to be the roof, the door was locked. Maybe I would have tried picking it if I knew how. On the other hand, if some unauthorized person was up there chipping away at something, did I really want to surprise them? My hand fell from the knob. No, I didn’t, even if armed. I was still feeling the heat after being nearly roasted alive.

  Moments later, I was back in my room, tucked into bed with my clang-activated alarm in place, my gun under my pillow, and my phone on charge. I’d have pulled the covers over my head if I wouldn’t have felt like a kid.

  For some reason, I couldn’t distinguish the line between brave and stupid just then.

  16

  The next morning I read my texts while huddled under the shade of one of the roof’s potted palms.

  Nicolina had sent the first:

  Phoebe, I know where you are. You should not be there alone but we cannot help right now. The warehouse has burned, maybe too much to be restored, and tomorrow the funeral for Maria goes forward. All so devastating! And for you very dangerous. These people are monsters! Be careful, my friend. Evan says it is safe to text you. Please respond
. I worry. XXX. N

  I typed back a quick response: So sorry, Nicolina. Too many losses!

  Then I went on to read Evan’s: No sign of bad weather. I’m hoping it hasn’t all blown your way.

  Shit. I looked up from my screen and gazed out across the medina. Was the gang keeping a low profile after the arson stint or had they followed me here? I had the sickening feeling that they knew exactly where I was and why.

  “Yoohoo! You know what they say about those people who spend all their vacays stuck to their phones.”

  I looked up at the bright blur of orange waving at me from the other side of the roof. Pocketing my phone, I applied a smile to my face along with my sunglasses and strode over to join her by the railing. June and Joe Meredith from Vancouver were apparently thrilled to have someone to talk to since the riad had been mostly empty for days. They wanted to adopt me, it seems. “But I’m not on ‘vacay,’ June. Like I said, I’m working.”

  “Working? You’re a writer, aren’t you? It’s not like a real job with a boss or something. Look, we’re thinking of taking one of those camel trains into the desert tomorrow and staying overnight in a tent—” June was gazing out toward the Sahara “—and we’d love you to come with us as our guest. Joe could nab us the tickets.”

  “Sure thing, honey,” Joe called. The paunchy middle-aged man with the air of perpetual resignation toasted us with a tiny cup of Arabic coffee from a mound of pillows.

  “Joe thinks he’s a sultan.” June laughed. “Look at him there. Sit up, darling. You’ll dribble all over your Ralph Lauren,” she called.

  “Thanks but no thanks.” I smiled. “I mean, I appreciate the offer but I have research to do right here.”

  “Oh, come on. Wouldn’t a voyage on an authentic camel train to meet with a genuine Berber tribe be just the thing? You could write a book about that.”

  A tourist camel ride to a Berber camp set up especially for show—how thrillingly authentic. “Actually, I’m well into my book now and what I really need is to settle down and do the research right here. My novel is set in a riad, you see. It’s historic verisimilitude I’m after.”

  “Historic verisimilitude?” she said, verging on but not quite hitting a note of derision. Her smile was wide, her earrings—some kind of etched silver and dark wood dangles that I couldn’t take my eyes from—shone below her short blond bob. The bright pink and orange of her silken pantsuit struck me as perfect for the climate but hard on the eyes. Attractive, probably in her early fifties, I almost liked her but at the same time couldn’t wait for her to leave. “Look, Penny, there’s the fascinating medina out there, you know? Surely you’re not going to stay cooped up here all day and let it pass you by? At least come with us to the square this morning and take a look around.”

  “No, really,” I said, my fixed smile making my cheeks ache. “I’m here to research and that’s what I’ll do. Thanks, though, really, but I’ll be working.”

  Blowing a gusty sigh, she swung around. “Okay, Joe, I can’t talk sense into this one. Let’s get going.”

  “Let me finish my coffee first.” Mohammed, the lean young man who slipped ghost-like around the riad taking care of our every need, was just refreshing Joe’s cup.

  “It’s, like, your third dose already. Leave it and let’s go.”

  Yes, please do. Returning to my chair, I picked up my teacup—a glass set into a filigreed brass holder—and returned to skimming The Complete History of Marrakech written by Pierre M. Maison in 1826. Only a writer of that age could believe that history could be complete instead of a single perspective frozen within the amber of time, understanding, and circumstances. What made Pierre’s perspective interesting, however, was his line sketches of the city almost two centuries earlier. And, I thought, comparing his map of the medina with the modern tourist version, it didn’t look as though it had changed all that much in some quarters.

  Keeping my head down fixed on the book seemed to seal the deal with the Merediths. A reading person must seem so dull to them. In any case, they finally left, after which I got up and prowled the roof looking for signs of whatever had awoken me the night before. Something like chipped tiles or a pile of crumbled stucco shoved into a corner would do nicely but nothing appeared amiss. No obvious signs of chiseling or hammering anywhere, either. If someone had been up here banging away last night, they’d tidied up after themselves.

  “Miss Martin?”

  I looked up from inspecting the grout around one of the beautiful blue tiles to see Shada standing nearby. “Call me Penny. I just love these tiles,” I said, getting to my feet. “Are they very old?”

  “I don’t believe so, maybe a few decades.”

  “When was the riad last renovated?”

  “I am not certain but not since I’ve been here. Penny, forgive me but I noticed your hand.” She stepped forward, pointing to my wounded member, which I had laid bare to the elements the night before.

  Looking down at my reddened flesh, I realized that the swelling had increased. “I cut myself—careless, really.”

  “Pardon me for interfering but I think you need to have that tended. Wounds like that can easily get infected here. Perhaps a salve and to keep it wrapped would be better? There are pharmacies in the medina or I could ask someone to come here. It is no trouble.”

  She seemed genuinely concerned. “Thank you, Shada. I promise that if it’s not better by this afternoon, I’ll take you up on your offer.” She nodded and slipped away.

  Meanwhile, I studied the wound in the sunlight, noticing a bit of festering around the edges. Not good.

  But I chose to shove it out of my mind for the rest of the morning and part of the afternoon in order to dive into the library’s resources, most of which didn’t exceed a couple of centuries old but which still made fascinating reading. Besides, it was comfortable in the library with its plush chairs, shelves of books, and endless supply of mint tea. The noticeable absence of bad guys wanting to roast me alive was a definite plus.

  After plenty of tea sipped from filigreed cups and a perfect lunch of soup and salad served in the pool area, my hand gave up on throbbing and launched a brutal stabbing campaign. I checked my watch: 2:25. Where was my reinforcement?

  Meanwhile, I met Ingram, a bearded young man with merry eyes and an obvious appreciation of pastry who bowed slightly when Shada introduced us and said he would be happy to take me to the medina along with some version of my every wish being his command.

  “I’ll wait, thanks.”

  Ingram and Shada exchanged worried glances. And then, at 3:10, my waiting was over. A bell rang and soon a very tall black woman dressed in a startling bright turquoise belted robe with a backpack slung over her shoulder stepped into the riad.

  It was all I could do not to shout my delight, but through some unspoken agreement, we pretended not to know one another. She grinned in my direction. “Hi ya.”

  “This is Miss Penelope Martin,” Ingram introduced us, “an author, and this is Miss Peaches Williams.” There was no way I wanted to correct him for the “Miss” thing.

  Peaches eyebrows arched. “An author, wow, just wow. I’ve never met a real author before.”

  “Hi, call me Penny.”

  “So call me Peaches. My real name is Penelope, too. What a coincidence, hey? Peaches is the nickname my daddy gave me.”

  “Cute.” I wasn’t certain whether she was playing wide-eyed innocent or what, but Shada, obviously overwhelmed by the sight of a six-foot-tall black woman dressed in a caftan, seemed eager to take her new guest on the tour even before the welcoming tea had been served.

  “I will show you the riad. Please follow me.”

  “Right on,” Peaches said agreeably.

  Remaining at pool level, I listened to Peaches’s enthusiastic and knowledgeable commentary all along the route, her melodious voice echoing over the balconies and from even inside the library and lounges. “Wow, like, the moucharabieh screens are just out of this world—so intricate! An
d the gebs are, like, fantastic!” Well, buildings were her thing.

  “Yes, thank you. The owners put every care into the details,” I heard Shada say. “I’m afraid I don’t recognize the word geb, though.”

  “That’s the trim—all that gingerbread in the corners.”

  “Gingerbread?”

  “Stuff they make in England with spices, a sweet bread, you know? I’m from Jamaica myself, though you wouldn’t know it to see me. Thought I was from Sweden—ha, ha. We love gingerbread, too. I can make it for you sometime.” A deep laugh followed, one that seemed to provoke a giggle from Shada.

  They were moving up to the next levels now. “And here is your room,” Shada said. Once they stepped inside, the conversation grew muffled.

  “Nice but I prefer the one opposite the fountain in the little courtyard,” Peaches said, emerging minutes later. “That okay? I’m shy, see, and like my privacy.”

  Yeah, right.

  “Certainly. You may stay in any unoccupied room you want,” I heard Shada say.

  “Fantabulous. I’m just going to settle in, you know?”

  “Certainly. We want you to be as comfortable as if this was your own home.”

  It was like listening to a radio play, ridiculously entertaining to me in part because I knew the protagonist was actually playing an enhanced version of herself.

  I sent Ingram to fetch Mohammad for mint tea all around and settled down to a poolside table to wait. By the time Peaches had been registered and joined me, Shada was wrapped in a headscarf with a robe over her Western clothes ready to exit. I realized then that she had been in a hurry to leave all along. Maybe it was a cultural misstep for a man to show a lady her room so she had to stay long enough for that.

  “I do not work this afternoon but Ingram and Mohammed will take care of you.” And with that she bowed and left. Mohammed, in the meantime, was slipping into the kitchen to fetch us a tray of pastries while Ingram had disappeared into the office.

 

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