“Painkillers,” Riley said.
Carmen looked at him with compassion. “Hang in there,” she said, taking his arm. “As soon as we get to the bus station, you can rest. We’re almost there.”
“We have to go somewhere else first.”
“What? How?” she asked, raising her voice and stopping. “Where? I thought we were getting on a bus to leave Tangier?”
“We will,” he said, motioning for her to quiet down. “But first we have to make a brief stop. Have to.”
“A brief stop? Where? Why?”
“On Boulevard Pasteur. I have to visit an old friend.”
“Visit?” she asked. “Does this seem like a good time to socialize?”
Riley pulled her in closer. “I know it’s not easy, but you have to trust me and do exactly as I say. Our lives depend on it . . . And for the love of God, don’t raise your voice again if you don’t want to get caught.”
A few minutes later they were in front of a new four-story European-style building. It had a partially open iron gate and, next to it, a bronze plate marking the office of a lawyer specializing in international administration and trade. His specialty was spelled out in five different languages, and his name appeared in large capital letters.
Using her sugary voice and seductively fluttering her eyelids, Carmen convinced the doorman to let her and her old mother in. They climbed three endless flights of stairs and rang the bell insistently.
A tall blonde secretary with a cold, efficient demeanor opened the door. She looked as surprised to see the two humble Moors at the door as if they’d been camels, appearing out of nowhere to kill time in her hallway. “What do you want?” she asked with a marked Scandinavian accent as she tried to regain her composure.
“We’re here to see Mr. El Fassi,” Carmen said, exaggerating her Arabic accent.
“Do you have an appointment?”
“No, it’s something very urgent.”
“Well, I’m very sorry,” the woman said with obvious satisfaction, “but I can’t let you in without an appointment.”
Carmen glanced at Riley, who gave her the slightest nod. “It’s a shame,” she said, “because my father just passed. He left me and my mom sixteen properties in Tangier that we don’t know how to manage, and a family friend recommended we come speak with Mr. El Fassi. But of course”—she started to turn away—“if he can’t help we can find another—”
The secretary kindly took Carmen’s arm. “Wait a moment,” she said, her scorn quickly turning to something approaching flattery. “Though you don’t have an appointment, I can’t let you come all this way without speaking with Mr. El Fassi. Please come in and make yourselves comfortable. I’m sure he’ll find a gap in his schedule to see you.”
They sat down, and the secretary knocked on the office door. A man’s voice asked her to come in.
Carmen turned to Riley. “And now what? You still haven’t told me what we’re doing here.”
“Be patient, you’ll see very soon. Just keep up the act, and I’ll take care of the rest.”
The office door opened again, and the secretary reappeared. “Come in, please,” she said. “Mr. El Fassi is ready to see you.”
With a silent nod of thank-you, they adopted their roles of ailing mother and selfless daughter and entered the office.
Ahmed El Fassi stood next to his desk with an obsequious smile on his lips, dressed in the same white linen suit he had had on a week before in the tearoom. “As-salamu alaykum,” he said, putting his hand on his chest.
“Wa ’alaykum as-salaam,” Carmen replied.
“Please sit,” he said, motioning toward the chairs before he took his own. “Tell me, how can I help you?”
Carmen’s script ended there, so she turned to Riley, who was leaning back in his seat. “I don’t know about her,” he said, “but I’d kill for a bourbon and some aspirin.”
El Fassi’s mouth dropped. “Who . . . who are you?”
“I’m Batman, and she’s Robin.”
“I don’t understand,” El Fassi said. “But if you don’t leave my office right away, I promise—”
“Stop the silly threats, Ahmed. And leave your hands in plain sight, because if you try anything I’ll shoot you right now.” Riley pulled back the hammer on his pistol.
El Fassi quickly lifted his hands as if they were robbing him. “I don’t have money, but take what you want. Please, don’t shoot.”
Riley uncovered his face. “Relax, Ahmed. I just came to talk with you. I have no intention of shooting you . . . not now, at least.”
El Fassi leaned forward and squinted. “Captain Riley?”
“The one and only.”
“What . . . what happened to you?”
“Well, I was hoping you could help me figure it out.”
“Me?” he asked. “Why would I know?”
Riley took the Colt from under his clothes and put it lazily on the table, still pointing it at El Fassi. “Look, Ahmed. Yesterday I was ambushed on my way to make the delivery to March, and you’re one of the few people who knew the details of the meeting. So I need you to convince me you didn’t tip them off.”
El Fassi took a second to think. “That’s why you didn’t show up at the El Minzah? You were attacked?”
“I was ambushed, and they weren’t petty thieves. They were professional hit men headed up by a bastard from MI6. Killers who knew where and when to find me and the merchandise I was going to give your boss, details you certainly knew.”
“And you think I told the hit men about the meeting?” he asked, his hands already down.
“It’s one of the possibilities.”
El Fassi burst into laughter. “Are you joking? You think I’d try to play Juan March? It’d be suicide! How stupid do you think I am?”
“Sometimes the smartest people do the stupidest things.”
“Listen,” he said. “I’ve been working for Mr. March for more than five years, and, like I already said, I represent his interests in North Africa. Do you think he’d give me that responsibility without complete confidence? Never, ever would I do anything to harm that.”
Riley turned to Carmen. “What do you think?”
“He looks like a liar more than anything, but seems to be telling the truth.”
“Okay,” Riley said, holstering his pistol. “Let’s say it had nothing to do with you. Let’s get to the second reason for my visit. I need you to get me another meeting with Juan March. Tonight if possible.”
El Fassi leaned on the table and laced his fingers. “I’m afraid it’s a little late for that.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean he left by plane this morning. I can assure you he won’t be happy to learn you’d been robbed of the merchandise . . . Anyway, I suggest you find a very deep hole to hide in.”
“But the merchandise is still in my possession,” Riley said. “I didn’t say they robbed me, they just tried to.”
“Are you saying you still have the object?”
“Yes. And all I want is to get rid of it and be paid accordingly. I don’t care where and how, I just need it to be fast.”
“That may not be as easy as you think,” El Fassi said, bringing his hands to his belly. “Mr. March is convinced you sold his merchandise to another buyer, and before he left he gave orders to find you and your ship. I was there when he made the call, and it wasn’t pretty.”
“I can imagine.”
“You can also imagine it won’t be easy to persuade him to come to Tangier for another meeting.”
“I could give it to you,” Riley said, “and March could put the money in a bank account.”
“Oh no, Captain Riley.” He shook his head. “There’s no way I could be responsible for something like that. March has kept this absolutely secret, and only he can finish the deal.”
“Okay, then pick up the phone, call him, and tell him I’m in your office prepared to give him what he wants.”
“It’s not t
hat simple either. As the intermediary, I’m also responsible for the transaction, and if something were to go wrong again, I’d suffer the consequences as well.”
Riley grabbed a gold fountain pen from the desk and started writing on a piece of paper. “I’ll make you a deal,” he said. “If you convince March that I wasn’t able to make it to the El Minzah because I was tied to a chair getting a facelift and get him to make the transaction in the next few days, I’ll pay you a nice commission.”
He put the paper in front of El Fassi, who couldn’t help but look surprised. “Do you have this much money?”
“I’ll have it if you get me the meeting with March.”
“In that case, it’s just a number on a piece of paper.”
Riley pulled out a large wad of cash and put it on the desk. “Here’s a little preview. I’ll give you the rest afterward.”
“All right.” El Fassi ran his hand across his forehead. “In that case, maybe I could try.”
“Don’t try. Do it.”
He looked at the number Riley had written down as he weighed the pros and cons. “Okay. Mr. March is taking care of some business in Algiers, then within five days he’ll make a brief stop in Tangier before returning to the Peninsula. I could try to set up a meeting for then, but of course I’d have to confirm it with him. Tell me,” he added, “where can I find you to give the details?”
“You can’t. We’re going to Ceuta, where my crew and ship are waiting. I’ll call you in two days to see if you’ve done your end of the bargain.”
“Got it,” he said, standing up and offering Riley his hand. “In that case, I’ll wait for your call.”
Riley stood up and shook his hand. He covered his face again, shouldered the sack of raffia, and headed for the door, leaning on the cane with Carmen close behind.
“Captain,” El Fassi said. “What if I can’t convince March of your innocence or to meet with you?”
Riley turned halfway around and saw El Fassi with a satisfied smile on his face, telephone in his hand. His expression, the insufferable pain in Riley’s ribs, and the knowledge he had to go back to the street in that damn outfit wore on his patience. He couldn’t and didn’t resist the temptation to touch his holster to remind the lawyer what he had under the tunic.
“If I were you, I’d do my best to make it happen,” he answered, his voice bitterly cold.
Wilhelm and Juan
The connection was worse than before. Maybe it was a metaphor of how the war was going for one side, or maybe it was the recent sabotage of the telephone lines between Spain and Germany by the French Resistance.
“What happened exactly, Juan?”
“The truth is I don’t know. I got a message from my agent in Tangier saying someone tried to kill the man I contracted to recover the Enigma.”
There was a crackling noise.
“—ow is that possible? One of your men . . . talked?”
“I doubt it. Everyone who works for me knows traitors pay with their lives. Very few people know about the Phobos rescue, and fewer know the details of the operation.”
“I understand. And did he tell you who the attackers were?”
“Professional hit men, seems like MI6.”
There was a long pause.
“Wilhelm?” March asked. “Are you there?”
“You mean . . . the British Secret Intelligence Service?”
March paused a moment. “What’s going on here, Wilhelm? You know something I don’t, don’t you?”
The line made a rattling sound like a dry laugh.
“Of course, my good friend,” Canaris said. “But there are a lot of things that I don’t know either . . . too many. But even the little I do know, I don’t want to share with you.”
March was too old to get upset by such a simple statement of fact. Still, he had nothing to lose by insisting. Information is power.
“Come on, Wilhelm. You know you can trust me.”
Canaris laughed. “Said the fox to the hen.”
March smiled too, assuming it would end there, but the admiral took on a serious tone. “There’s very little I can tell you, but I suspect the report you received was correct, that the British government is involved.”
“They want the Enigma?” he asked.
Another pause, crackling.
“Maybe, maybe not.”
“There was something else on the Phobos?”
“You’re a wise man,” Canaris said, “but I can’t tell you much more. I’m trying to avoid a catastrophe by any means necessary. But I did not expect this British interest in the matter.”
“I’m sorry, Wilhelm, but I don’t follow.”
Canaris snorted. “The divers you hired may have found information about a military operation of enormous importance to the Führer. A secret operation that I’m not involved in.”
“And why would they leave you out of it? You’re the head of military intelligence.”
Canaris sighed. His natural reluctance to share information was overtaken by his deep desire to vent to someone. “It means they’re sure I would oppose it. And based on what I’ve found out, they’re right. Your divers,” he added, “probably found something about the operation on the Phobos and tried to sell it behind your back. Maybe that’s why the British are trying to kill them.”
March took a moment to let it sink in. “That fucking American,” he muttered. “I didn’t think he was stupid enough to fail me again. Better if the English kill him, because if I get my hands on him, I’ll—”
“Hold on, Juan. Are you saying the head of the rescue team is American?”
“From Boston, I think,” March said. “What’s it matter?”
Canaris took a deep breath. “Maybe a lot, my friend. Maybe a lot.”
“You’re more cryptic than usual,” March said. “Can you tell me what you’re talking about now?”
“Actually, no. But that man may be crucial in all this.”
“Are you joking?”
“Who knows? Maybe the American will manage to do what I haven’t.”
“Which is . . .”
“Save Germany from complete destruction,” he sighed. “Or all of Europe. Maybe the world.”
39
They were finally outside the bus station when Carmen quietly asked, “Do you trust that lawyer?”
Riley turned to her, a little surprised by the question. “I don’t trust anyone,” he whispered without breaking stride. “No lawyers, and definitely not that one.”
“Then why’d you tell him where we’re going?”
“I didn’t.”
“You mean . . . ?”
“You think I’d tell him the truth? That was just a precaution in case he decided to cut me out and give the device to March himself.”
“But if he wanted to do that, wouldn’t he have accepted your offer to take the device?”
“He would’ve had to pay me first, and he doesn’t have that much money.”
“Got it,” she said. “And are you going to tell me where we’re actually going, or do you not trust me either?”
Riley stopped short and blocked her way with his cane.
“What are you doing?” Carmen asked. “You’re attracting attention.”
“I’m going to tell you one last time,” Riley growled, cornering her against the wall. “I’m very sorry about everything that’s happened to you, and I know I’ve gotten you into serious trouble. But whether you like it or not, things are what they are and I guarantee I’m your best chance of survival. So trust me the way I trust you and stop with the insults, or you can go your own way, because I’m not in the mood for complaints.”
Done with his monologue, Riley waited for Carmen’s reaction as she looked at the street they’d just walked down.
“If I go with you,” she said with pain in her eyes, “I’ll stop being the most envied woman in North Africa and turn into another war refugee. Don’t you get it? If I leave now”—she looked at the dozen dirty buses wit
h signs in Spanish, French, and Arabic—“I’ll lose everything.”
Disregarding all common sense and caution, Riley grabbed her by the shoulders and kissed her passionately through their coarse cloth veils, not caring if they drew the scandalized attention of every man, woman, and animal in a hundred-yard radius.
“Not everything,” he said when, after that unusual kiss, he separated his lips from hers.
The Tangier bus terminal was a small, white one-story building in the Moorish style with chipped, whitewashed walls and dirty green-framed windows. Inside, passengers lined up for tickets. It was on the southern limits of the city and, despite its modest appearance, the most important transit point in the city aside from the port. People came through the bus terminal on their way to make a life in that dynamic cosmopolitan city, or to get out, whether for political or economic reasons, as quickly and discreetly as possible.
Arm in arm, heads down, Riley and Carmen went in and headed toward the ticket booth. Carmen bought two tickets from a cranky guy with thick eyebrows for the next bus to Tétouan, the largest city in and the administrative center of the Spanish protectorate in Morocco, a little over an hour southeast of Tangier. Then they went over to the departing buses, surrounded by dozens of travelers with bundles and cardboard suitcases, showing their tickets and boarding.
“Hold on,” Carmen whispered. “It’s on the other side. The one to Tétouan is the green one.”
“I know.”
“Where are you going, then? People are already boarding, and we’re gonna have to sit apart.”
“That doesn’t matter, we’re not going to Tétouan.”
“But . . . why? Are you messing with me?”
“I’m trying to mess with whoever’s following us.”
“Another trick? Please, Alex. You’re paranoid.”
Riley stared at her for a second. “If anyone comes here looking for two women in haiks, one young and the other old with a cane, I don’t want them to know where we’re actually going.”
“Which is . . .”
Riley pointed to the last bus, a junker from the beginning of the century without glass in the windows or doors. It waited for its turn to leave with less than half a dozen local villagers in the rough wooden seats.
Captain Riley (The Captain Riley Adventures Book 1) Page 25