The Moroccan Girl

by Charles Cumming

  “I am going to call this in,” he said. “Please put the bag down. Please remain where you are.”

  Those words gave Carradine hope. If the Russian had to make a phone call, that meant that he was alone. There was nobody else in the building. His colleagues were looking for Bartok all over town and had spread themselves thin. If he somehow could get past the Russian, if he could find a way out of the building and back to the riad, he could warn Lara and get her out of Marrakech. He had no other choice. If he did as the Russian asked, if he just stood around watching him call his superiors, he was finished. He had to do something. He had to fight back.

  “Listen, mate.” Carradine stepped toward him. He was suddenly possessed of a wild confidence that he could take him out, that one clean punch would drop his man to the ground. “I don’t know who you are or who you’re looking for. Sandy is sick. I came to pick up her things. How the fuck did you get in here anyway?”

  He was trying to remember everything that his boxing instructor had told him. Don’t swing and hook like they do in the movies. That’s just bullshit for the cameras. Drop a low punch into the midriff then drive an uppercut under the jaw. Keep your right elbow close to your body and use the momentum from your pelvis.

  “I can get in anywhere,” the Russian replied, taking out his phone. He started to scroll through the contacts, looking for the number that would seal Bartok’s fate.

  “It’s breaking and entering,” Carradine told him, moving forward. He realized that he was at least four inches taller than the Russian, which only added to his reckless courage. He remembered the day in Gymbox when he had missed the pad and accidentally slammed his fist into his instructor’s jaw. The instructor had gone flying, as if a rope had been attached to his back and somebody had yanked on it.

  “What are you doing, please?” the Russian asked, looking up from his phone.

  Carradine wanted it to be the uppercut with which Buster Douglas had floored Tyson in the tenth. He had a vision of George Foreman slumping to the canvas in Kinshasa as Ali loomed over him, his fist primed to strike. He dreamed of recreating the punch with which Sylvester Stallone had floored Drago in Rocky IV. Instead Carradine feinted to one side and dropped a hard left hook into his opponent’s stomach. The Russian was badly winded, gasping as Carradine brought his right elbow tight to the body and drove upward from his pelvis with all of his strength, landing a sweet right uppercut on the side of the jaw which drove the Russian back against the door. The contact was not as clean as Carradine had hoped, but there was no need for another punch. He was fit and strong and he had put him down. The man slumped semi-conscious to the ground, eyes glazed over, legs stretched out in front of him like a cartoon drunk propped up outside a bar. Carradine immediately pulled him to one side so that he could unbolt the door. The Russian was extraordinarily heavy; it was like trying to move a sack of wet sand. His phone had fallen to the ground and he picked it up. Grabbing the bag and checking that the passport was still in his back pocket, Carradine hurried out of the apartment, hitting a light switch with his aching right hand before scampering down eight flights of stairs with the speed of a man trying to outrun a rockslide.

  On the ground floor he searched for a back entrance but could not find one. He went down to the basement but there were only two doors, both of them leading to apartments. His knuckles were throbbing; it was as if he had slammed his fist repeatedly against a hot brick stove. The Russian might already be coming around; Carradine had no choice other than to go outside onto Rue Moulay Ali and take his chances.

  The street was utterly still. At the northern end he saw a man walking out of the Spanish restaurant smoking a cigarette. He checked the cars parked along both sides of the street but it was too dark to tell if there was anybody sitting inside them. Using the trunk of the buckled tree as partial cover, he headed in the direction of the restaurant, hugging the shadows, the strap of the bag digging into his shoulder.

  An engine started up behind him. Carradine did not dare turn around and show his face. Instead he quickened his pace, running past the restaurant and the shuttered coffeehouse, heading for a busier street up ahead. He dropped the phone into a dustbin. A taxi was coming from the opposite direction with its light switched off. Carradine knew that in Morocco that meant he could share the ride with the other passengers. He waved at the cab. It immediately swerved toward him. There was an old woman in the front. Carradine opened the back door, swung the bag onto the seat and climbed in.

  “Where are you going?” he asked the driver in French.

  Carradine did not understand the reply but said “Oui, très bien” then immediately ducked down, pretending to tie his shoelaces as the taxi passed the northern end of Rue Moulay Ali. For the next several minutes he turned in his seat repeatedly, scouring the vehicles behind him. At one point a young Moroccan on a scooter followed the taxi for four blocks, but eventually turned off, heading in the direction of the Majorelle Gardens. A short time later, the old lady paid her fare and left the cab. Carradine handed the driver a hundred dirhams and asked him to head for the Royal Mansour without stopping to collect any new passengers. The driver did so, leaving him at the western entrance. Carradine walked alone along the private road leading to the hotel. He knew that he looked scruffy and washed out, but he was a white European and the security guard waved him into the building with only a cursory glance.

  It was almost one o’clock in the morning. The bar had closed. Carradine found a member of the staff wandering in a corridor, explained that he had lost his mobile phone, then searched the armchair where he had been sitting in the bar with Patrick and Eleanor. To his relief, he found it immediately. He tried switching it on but the battery had died. He tipped the member of the staff and walked back outside, hailing a cab on Mohammed V that took him the short distance to the riad. Battery or no battery, if the Russians or the Agency were tracking his phone, they would still know that he was back at the hotel. If Carradine was going to be picked up, they would come for him in the next few minutes.

  He banged on the front door. Twenty-four hours earlier it had taken several minutes for the sleepy night manager in the stained shirt to come to the door. Tonight he opened it almost immediately, recognizing Carradine with a warm smile and inviting him into the hall.

  “You are Mister Carradine, yes?” he said.

  “That’s right.”

  “There were men here before. Men looking for you.”

  Carradine’s heart popped but he tried to remain calm.

  “Which men? Did you get their names?”

  The night manager shook his head.

  “Americans,” he said.

  Carradine described Sebastian Hulse: tall, good-looking, slick. He asked if that fitted the description of one of the men.

  “Yes, sir. Exactly. It was this man. He says he is your friend.”

  “He did, did he? What did he want? Where did he go?”

  “He says you invite him for a drink. He not find you so they go to your room. Knock on the door.”

  Carradine had established a system with Bartok: three quick knocks followed by three slower knocks to verify that it was safe to let him in; if he tapped out the rhythm of “Rule Britannia,” it was a warning that he had been compromised. He knew that Bartok would not have let Hulse into the room, but that the Agency was more than capable of picking the simple lock on the door.

  “Are they still here?”

  Carradine’s hand was throbbing. He was physically and mentally exhausted. If Hulse and his accomplice were waiting for him in the riad, he doubted that he possessed the wherewithal to lie convincingly about where he had been or what he had planned with Bartok.

  “No, sir. They leave. One, maybe one and half hours ago.”

  “With a woman?”

  “No, sir.”

  Carradine thanked him. He tipped the night manager, collected his key and went to his room. He knocked on the door using the system they had arranged and prayed that Bartok was OK.r />
  There was no response.

  He knocked again—three times in rapid succession, three times with a pause in between each knock—but she did not answer.

  He unlocked the door and went inside.

  All of the lights had been switched off. The bed was empty. Carradine looked to his left, hoping that Bartok would emerge from the bathroom, just as she had done earlier in the afternoon. She did not. He went into the bathroom and looked behind the shower curtain. He searched under the bed. Her shoulder bag was nowhere to be seen and she had not left a note.

  She was gone.

  27

  Carradine ran back to reception. The night manager was sitting behind the desk looking at photographs on Facebook.

  “Hello again, sir!”

  “Tell me. Did a woman leave in the last few hours?”

  Carradine described Bartok: cropped blond hair, a cream-colored veil, slightly crooked front teeth. He was desperately worried about her. The night manager shrugged and shook his head.

  “Not when I am here at the desk,” he said. “I do not see this woman.”

  Carradine returned to the room. He looked for Bartok a second time, pointlessly, even checking inside the wardrobe, as if he expected a woman of her experience and cunning to be crouched inside it under a blanket, like a child playing hide-and-seek. He took out the mobile phone and plugged it in to charge. He was worried for her safety, but his concern was mingled with the prospect of personal betrayal. Had she lied to him? Had it always been her intention to leave once she had rinsed him for information?

  He looked down at the phone. The screen showed a thin red sliver of power, not enough to start it up. He was starving. The room service tray had not been removed. Bartok had left a bread roll, a scrape of butter and half a bowl of cold chips. Carradine ate all of it, washed down with two cans of Coke from the minibar. Then he picked up the phone and tapped in his six-digit pin.

  There were four missed calls, four unread WhatsApp messages and two texts. He looked at the missed calls. Three were from the same unidentified number, the fourth from his father. There were no voice mails. He tapped on the text message icon. The first was from EE, the second from an old friend in Istanbul. He opened WhatsApp.

  Two of the messages were from Mantis.

  You’re full of surprises, Kit! Wonderful news about our friend. Well done. Never doubted you for a moment;)

  Carradine muttered “Fuck you” to the screen. He bitterly regretted telling Oubakir that he had found Bartok. He read the second message:

  Let me know more about it. Also—will still need the stuff Y gave you in Casablanca. Make sure it comes home safely.

  Mantis was referring to the memory stick, which was still in the hotel safe. Carradine assumed that it contained information that would be useful to Moscow and therefore damaging to Western interests. As soon as he got home, he would hand the stick to a contact in the Service who had helped him, a few years earlier, with a couple of research questions related to his books. Carradine would inform her that a British citizen, Stephen Graham, had been betraying his country to Moscow for more than a decade. With any luck, Mantis would get twenty years.

  The second WhatsApp message was from a UK number he did not recognize. There was no name associated with the account and no photograph. Carradine opened it.

  Hi Kit. It’s Lilia, your downstairs neighbor. Are you in London? I’ve tried calling you. A package came for you but I couldn’t fit it through your letterbox. I’ve had to go away on business but you’ll find it out the back by the tradesman’s entrance. It will be waiting for you there.

  Carradine was so tired that, at first, he took the message at face value. Just another package to be collected. Just another note from a neighbor.

  Then his brain began to work.

  Lilia. Tradesman’s entrance.

  The message was from Bartok.

  28

  Carradine packed his bag inside three minutes. He knew that he couldn’t take his laptop or phone to Rabat and left both under the mattress, having sent a reply to Mantis and scribbled down half a dozen essential telephone numbers on a piece of writing paper. With luck, he could call the riad at some point in the next two days, explain that he had left in a hurry and ask them to courier the laptop and phone, as well as the memory stick in the hotel safe, to his flat in London.

  He opened the door and went out into the courtyard. It was blissfully quiet save for the gentle running of the fountain. He shouldered the two bags and walked in the direction of the swimming pool. He glanced at his watch. It was quarter to three. A light was on in one of the bedrooms on the first floor. Perhaps it was McKenna’s suite and he was working late or suffering with a bout of insomnia. Carradine turned past the pool, heading toward the spa. He caught his foot on a loose paving stone and almost tripped but managed to retain his balance. He passed the spa and reached the back gate, checking behind him to ensure that he had not been followed.

  He peered over the top. The van had gone from the maintenance area. Carradine could see a car parked on the far side of the street. A cat leapt out in the darkness and scurried away from the wall. As Carradine leaned back, he noticed a slight movement in the front seat of the car, a shadow. He was convinced that it was Bartok’s driver.

  He looked more closely at the gate. There was no way of opening it; it was padlocked from the street side. A line of barbed wire stretched from one end to the next. If he was going to get over it, he would have to sling both bags through the gap between the barbed wire and the top of the gate, then climb over. The maintenance area was overlooked by several residential buildings, all of which were blacked out, save one. Carradine looked up at the lit window. It appeared to be a stairwell or hall of some kind; certainly there was nobody visible in the building. Looking back at the car, trying to signal to the driver, he wondered if he was making life too difficult for himself. Why not just leave through the front door of the hotel and walk around to the car? There was no need for him formally to check out; the festival was covering his costs. The night manager might think it was strange that Mr. Carradine was leaving at three o’clock in the morning, but he could tell him that he had an early flight to catch. Yet the risk of outside surveillance was too great. By now the Russian would have come around and alerted his colleagues; they would be en route to the riad. Carradine had to go over the gate to minimize the risk of being caught.

  He lifted up the first bag. It was heavier than he had expected and banged against the metal gate as he stretched up and pushed it under the barbed wire. He held it at the top with one hand while stepping up onto a narrow metal bar at the base of the gate. The gate wobbled as it took Carradine’s weight. He steadied himself against the brick wall. Pushing his arm through the gap as far as it would go, he lowered the bag on the opposite side, letting it drop to the ground. He had packed the bottle of Johnnie Walker and heard a thump against the cement, praying that the bottle hadn’t smashed. He then repeated the process with Bartok’s bag, letting it drop to the ground.

  Having checked his surroundings one last time, Carradine then pulled himself up onto the top of the gate. It was extremely narrow. The barbed wire made it difficult to find a space to plant his feet. The hinge connecting the gate to the wall was also very loose. The gate began to rattle. Carradine crouched down, holding the top with both hands, one leg on either side of the barbed wire but wobbling like a surfer trying to balance on a breaking wave. Feeling exposed, he decided to jump down, almost catching his heel on the wire as he dropped. Pain shot up through his knees as he landed on the concrete. The gate was jangling as though it had been struck by a frying pan. Carradine reached out to smother the din as the cat hissed in the shadows. He half expected the entire neighborhood to wake up and to shout at him to keep the noise down.

  He heard the man’s voice before he saw his face.

  “Monsieur Kit?”

  Carradine turned to see a young Moroccan man with a neat beard crouched beneath the wall.

>   “Yes?” he whispered.

  “Come,” he said in French, gesturing toward the car. “I am the driver. I have the lady. Come.”

  Somerville went to the window on the street side and peered through the blinds. Seeing nothing in the stairwell, he turned and walked back toward Bartok.

  “You say this was the first time you had heard of Kit Carradine?”

  “That is correct,” she replied.

  Hulse stepped across him.

  “Come on. You’d never read his books? You didn’t know he was coming to Marrakech? You hadn’t been told to make contact with him? He just happened to see you walking out of this Irish guy’s book event?”

  “That is correct.”

  “And you expect us to believe that?”

  “I have learned not to expect anything from anyone,” Bartok replied. “People always let you down, Mr. Hulse. Don’t you find that?”

  Hulse hesitated. Somerville dug him out of the hole.

  “You hadn’t seen Carradine’s name in the festival program? You didn’t look in on his talk?”

  “I did not.”

  “You sure about that?” Hulse asked.

  “What reason would I have to lie?”

  “To protect him,” he said.

  “Protect him from what? From who? People like you?”

  “Maybe.”

  Somerville had heard enough. Standing behind Bartok, he shot Hulse a look, telling him to back off.

  “Let’s not get distracted,” he said, filling her glass with water. “Just tell us what happened next.”

  “When?”

  “Pick it up wherever you like,” Hulse suggested.

  “No.” Somerville was rummaging in his jacket pocket and found an almost empty packet of cigarettes crushed beneath a set of house keys. They had been there all along. “We know about Mexico. What interests us is the role the Russians played in all this.”