by Lex Lander
‘Well, what then?’
‘I need a breathing space, or I should say a thinking space. To clear my head and make my decision free from your distracting presence.’
‘Fair enough. If you must, you must. How will you pass the time?’
‘It’s all planned,’ she said, around a bright smile. ‘We’ve booked a rental car and we’re going to drive to Asilah. Do you know it? It’s a little fishing port on the Atlantic side, very old and very lovely. So the blurb says.’
I grunted. Stuff the blurb. Blurbs were full of bullshit anyway.
‘We’ll be back by early evening,’ she said.
‘Be careful. Some nasty people lurking in the bushes these days. A couple of ravishing Westerners would be a gift from Allah.’
‘It’s a guided tour, don’t worry. We’ll be a group of twenty or more, so I don’t think we’ll be in any danger. When we get back we could meet for drinks, if you like.’
‘If I like?’ I growled. ‘I’ll break down your bloody door if you don’t show up.’
We said our good nights in the corridor outside her room. Lizzy, a continuing model of discretion, had gone up ahead of Clair.
‘Are you going to invite me in,’ I said, as we separated from a kiss that set me afire with primeval urge.
‘I can’t, really. Lizzy’s next door. She …’ Her hands fluttered like a humming bird’s wings. ‘Oh, Alan, please be patient just a little longer.’
I pulled her to me, roughly. She gasped as our lower bodies came together and my desire was communicated to her.
‘Don’t play games with me, Clair.’ I released her, and her back bumped against the door.
‘Games?’ Her voice was shaky. ‘If only you knew how much I’ve wanted …’ She bit the sentence off short, kissed my cheek with her finger tips. ‘Good night … darling.’
She turned and was gone, the door closing behind her softly but with a certain finality. Now it was just me in the dimly-lit corridor, her ‘darling’ still resonating in my ears, and the vaguest residue of her perfume titillating my nasal passages. I sniffed it in, slow and deep, like a bon viveur savouring the bouquet of a vintage wine. It was all I was going to get this night.
I was not so moonstruck as to completely forget the menace of Rik de Bruin. He would come looking for me, sooner or later, I was sure of it. So, instead of Clair, I took the Beretta to bed with me. It was a lousy substitute.
‘Encore, monsieur?’ the waiter at the Café de Paris enquired, with a meaning bob at my empty glass.
Encore? That would make four vodkas slopping around inside me and it wasn’t yet noon. I oscillated a negative finger, paid the tab, and ambled off down the slope of the Rue de la Liberté. It was market day and the square at the foot of the hill heaved with colour, an iridescent sea. I swam into it. Shoulders shoved, elbows dug, and small boys darted between legs, steering old baby carriage tyres at the end of a bent piece of wire, Tangier’s ubiquitous home-made toy. On the far side of the square I staggered free of the throng, squeezed like a pip from a lemon.
One o’clock. I sat down under the veranda of the Africa Bar, on what used to be called Rue de la Plage but is now something unpronounceably Arabic. Here the sea breeze tugs at the white table linen and brings the tang of the ocean to garnish your meal. I managed not to order a fifth vodka. Such strength of will.
The waiter brought me a French newspaper. The words made no impression. It might as well have been a blank sheet. Two o’clock. Yawn. Mooching around waiting around for Clair’s return, waiting to learn my fate, was not my idea of a fun way to pass the day. Notwithstanding that the answer could transform my life.
I ate listlessly. Tasteless sandwiches with refrigerated beer to flush them down. I was sorely tempted to call her on her cell phone. Resisted the temptation with difficulty. She wouldn’t thank me. Give her space, my sterner side chided.
Three o’clock. Time seemed to be slowing down.
I decided to take a drive. Anyplace would do. Any activity, even sitting behind the wheel of a car, was better than this. Until I discovered once again that the inside of a car that has been standing in the afternoon sun, in July, in Africa, is no fit place to be. The air conditioning did its best but even working flat out it was fifteen minutes before it started to chill the sweat on my skin. By then I was sitting in a puddle of my own making.
My route chose itself. Out towards the airport, a straight nondescript stretch of highway. Dodging the potholes kept me on the alert. Other vehicles were sparse and mostly commercial. I didn’t speed. The local law is very free with its on-the-spot fines.
After a while the novelty of just driving wore off and I turned in at a roadside bar. Mindful of Clair’s opinion and its increasing relevance to me, I shunned the hard stuff. Pure lemon juice with a dash of soda. I knocked it back in one, paid up, and drove back the way I had come. At least I had killed some time. It was now after five, the sun already in free-fall westward, the blue turning to pink above the horizon. The highway was busier than on the outward journey, when the heat had kept it free of all but mad dogs and this particular Englishman. An open Porsche zapped past, male driver, female passenger, her features lost in the golden swirl of her hair. German license plate. My Fiat was no competition. Moreover, it was developing a knock in the engine compartment. I didn’t dare push it too hard.
Once past the airport the road became straighter and wider. I was relaxed. My penance was almost over and I was eager to see Clair at the hotel. I may have hummed a tune, played scales on the steering wheel rim, laid tentative schemes for the future. I don’t recall, the memories were eradicated by events about to unfold.
At the roadside a white P in a blue square gave notice of a parking zone 1000 metres ahead. It registered only in my subconscious. When the site itself came up I gave it a sidelong glance, as a motorist will glance at any break in the monotony of the open road. It was set back behind a straggle of petticoat palms. Parked here were a small, cream sedan and a grey BMW. Between the two cars a small group of people, of which two were female. The men were dark-skinned, in Western dress; one of the women, a tall brunette, had on white shorts and a yellow shirt. Clair had a yellow shirt, I mused …
Christ!
My reverie was blown to fragments. The parking area was already behind me but I saw in detailed replay the interaction: a man’s grip on Clair’s arm, her attempts to pull free, the other men closing in to restrain her; saw Lizzy trying to intervene.
Even saw the terror on her face.
All this flashed before me, a frozen frame. The implications defied instant explanation but those Arabs weren’t just touting bric-à-brac. I braked, standing on the pedal so hard my backside left the seat. The wheels locked, inducing a howl of rubber on asphalt and a skid that fell just short of uncontrollable. After an interminable few seconds of drama, I managed to bring the Fiat to a juddering standstill, half-on, half-off the verge.
A horn blared behind me, remonstrating with good cause, and a car whipped past. I crunched gears, seeking reverse. Come on, you bitch, come on! Crunch, whirr, crunch … there! Foot flooring the accelerator, the car taking off backwards like a greyhound from a trap, and to hell with the traffic coming at me on a collision course. Let them get out of my way.
More horns trumpeted, a regular fanfare, followed by a squeal of brakes. A car clipped me as it careered past; a glimpse of the driver’s face, mouth agape in disbelief, then he was gone.
The distance I had to cover was less than a quarter of a mile, but it was the longest quarter mile I have ever driven. Another car rushed at me, yawed past, control hanging by a thread. Next came an old bus that flung a solid wall of wind and dust at me, missing by the thickness of a coat of paint.
I swung into the slip road, slewing the car round on the handbrake. I was nearly too late. The party had broken up, the BMW was in motion, U-turning away from me. Inside, a jumble of heads, two of which presumably belonged to Clair and Lizzy for they were nowhere else to be seen. If
I let them get clear of the parking area I would lose them, no doubt about it. The BMW was the 7- series, capable of 150-plus mph. My Fiat would do well to achieve half that. Even now the Beemer was accelerating away, opening up a gap between us. I pounded my fist on the steering wheel, screaming obscenities after it. Much harm it did them.
The Beemer slowed slightly, to wait for a break in the stream of traffic. At that moment the nearside rear door flew open. A slight figure tumbled out, rolling over and over on the asphalt to disappear in the uncut grass that bordered it. Female, a pennant of blondish hair … Lizzy! The Beemer came to a lurching halt, and an Arab in patterned shirt and jeans emerged, landing in a cat-like crouch, glancing in his uncertainty from where Lizzy had come to rest, to the Fiat, then back again to Lizzy.
As I accelerated at him, his arm came up and the metallic extension to it was not an artificial limb. A tiny pop, like the pulling of a cork, and the windscreen frosted over. The bullet made a flitting sound as it missed my head by an inch or so to exit through the rear window. I spun the wheel, hoping to upset his aim. Another pop and a side window shattered, hurling glass over my shoulder. I braked hard, churning up a dust-storm. While the Fiat was still rolling I dived through the door, cracking my elbow on the pillar and hitting the ground in a clumsy slither, badly grazing my unprotected forearms and thighs.
In deference to Moroccan sensibilities I had again consigned the Beretta to the spare wheel well. No use at all in an emergency. A bullet spanged off the trunk lid and away into the great beyond. Without much hope I looked towards the highway where lay possible succour. Couldn’t the people in those passing cars see what was happening here? And if they could see, would they rush to intervene? I didn’t think so. This wasn’t England, and I wasn’t among friends.
A yell from Lizzy made me forget about flying bullets long enough to peer around the wing. The Beemer was still in place, smoke dribbling from its twin tailpipes. Inside, heads bobbed frantically. Clair wasn’t making it easy for the bastards. Good for her. The gun-toting Arab was stooping over Lizzy whose bare legs were kicking at him, holding him at bay. There might never be a better opportunity. I stood up and wrenched open the trunk. As I dragged the spare wheel aside there came the familiar popping cork sound, coinciding with the appearance of a star-shaped tear in the raised trunk lid. Though I wasn’t to know it then, I owed his poor aim to a well-directed kick in the crotch from Lizzy. Next time he won’t miss, I told myself, hauling the spare out of its recess.
I scooped up the Beretta and dropped flat the very instant the Arab fired again. Another miraculous miss slammed into the Fiat. By then I was in a ‘go’ situation. Pistol shooting from a prone position was not my forté, but the Beretta’s firepower was such that I could afford to be prodigal with my ammunition. I never got the chance: the Arab’s last bullet had done more than just perforate the Fiat’s bodywork. I smelled the gas fumes a second or so before the car went up in a plume of flame, throwing out a concussion that would have blown me away like a feather in a hurricane had I been upright. As it was I suffered only a light grilling to the back of my neck and legs from the initial fireball that enveloped me. A frantic scramble took me away from the heat and the flames and the choking black smoke. Somewhat the worse for wear, but ready to go to work.
The Arab was unprepared for my emergence alive from the inferno. He was staring at the blazing Fiat, perhaps admiring his handiwork. I shot him as his gaze shifted from the car to me. I had actually drawn a bead on his chest, that most substantial part of the human frame that makes it the sniper’s favourite target, but failed to compensate for the muzzle jump when on automatic fire. As a result, my three rounds ripped through his neck to exit in a geyser of blood. His collapse was instant, soundless, and total. And satisfying.
Above the roar and the crepitation of the flames I heard the surge of the Beemer’s engine as it moved off, the open door slamming shut. With Clair still inside! Rising to one knee, I pumped bullet after bullet at the rear wheels – to aim higher was to risk hitting Clair or the fuel tank. Sooner a hostage than her death to bludgeon my conscience. The Beemer shrugged off my bullets, gathered speed, and whatever mischief my bullets had done hadn’t depleted the horses under the hood. It crossed the highway against the traffic flow, almost causing a pile-up, and was out of sight in no time.
Passing cars were at last, too late, slowing. Not stopping, simply moderating their pace. All the better to view the pyrotechnics.
Even in my rage and distress I was still mindful of my own precarious circumstances, armed as I was with an abbreviated machine pistol and saddled with a corpse. My old instincts urged me to run. If the police got involved, as they must, I could expect to be held for questioning or worse. To help Clair I had to have freedom of action. Lizzy was another factor. Now on her knees in the grass, staring after the Beemer, calling ‘Mummy … Mummy …’ over and over in a strangled, incredulous voice. Deserting her was not on the cards, I had to stay and brazen it out. It was the gun that would condemn me and make a criminal of me. If I could account for the gun, the rest of my story need not be far from the truth.
A possible deception vaguely forming, I hurried across to where the dead Arab lay, his head in a bloody halo, lips drawn back over yellow teeth, the snarl of his epitaph. I dragged a long-in-the-tooth Walther PP fitted with a sound suppressor from his slack grip. With my shirt tail I wiped the Beretta clean of my fingerprints, smeared his all over it, then re-printed it with mine before throwing the weapon from me. It slid across the hard surface in a spray of sparks. Again I used my long-suffering shirt to wipe the Walther clean of the Arab’s prints and loped into the scrub beyond the parking zone. As I passed Lizzy, who was still on her knees, distraught, crying, I touched her lightly on the shoulder. Letting her know she wasn’t alone. She sobbed my name but much as I wanted to comfort her I had other priorities and they couldn’t wait.
Burying the gun without tools would have taken too long, so, about a hundred yards into the scrub I hurled it high into the air and watched it tumble to the earth maybe a further fifty yards distant. If the police did an intensive search of the area it was bound to turn up, but it was the best I could do in the circumstances.
As I rejoined Lizzy, a car finally peeled off the highway to investigate the blaze. A second car followed close behind, overtaking it on the access road.
The second car had white paintwork and a flickering red light on its roof, and the lettering along the doors proclaimed SURETÉ NATIONALE – Moroccan French for “Police”.
Eleven
Morning. The monkey chatter of children at play, the unmistakable creak of a swing and of a ball bouncing on a gravel surface.
This was not the usual backcloth to my daily awakening. I was not in my soft bed, in my five-star hotel room, serenaded by piped radio music and pleasurably anticipating delivery of a pot of fresh-ground coffee and warm croissants. In fact, I was in a cell. The bed I lay on was hard and narrow, and the mattress was about as comfortable as a sack of coal. Harsh electric light bounced off the bare concrete walls and ceiling and the only natural light entered via a grill set high in the wall. Fresh-ground coffee existed only in the imagination.
In the next cell a man groaned, then sneezed, not once but a whole spluttering paroxysm. I grimaced. A junkie, by the sound of it. Tangier had its share – more than its share. I had seen them draped around the port area or mooching in the kasbah. Emaciated, unkempt, begging. Or so spaced-out from a recent shot as to be oblivious of the world outside.
I sat up, and now it was my turn to groan, at the twinges that arose out of this routine act. Too many soft beds in too many soft hotels ill-prepared you for prison conditions. Not that I was under arrest, as the happy-go-lucky sergeant, dapper in grey with black accessories, had assured me. No, I was merely a detainee. A material witness, held for questioning. See, I could even keep my watch and the belt of my shorts. They hung on to my wallet and manufactured credit cards though, and unless I had grown naive in my
middle years, they would have been round to the hotel for a nose through my belongings. I had no worries there. The only incriminating piece of luggage had been the Al’hauri dossier, and this I had destroyed when the contract was cancelled. Before incarcerating me for the night, they took my fingerprints.
A footfall sounded in the corridor. Breakfast, I hoped. I hadn’t eaten since being brought here.
The feet stopped at my door. The observation panel flipped back and a square of brown face regarded me unwinkingly.
‘Bonjour,’ I said, forcing cheerful unconcern into my voice, as if he were from room service. Grunt from the panel. Bolts crashed, keys clunked, and the door swung outwards, exposing a policeman. He made a loose beckoning motion, and I rose and walked stiffly towards him.
To judge from the lack of tabs and stripes about his tunic he was of lowly rank. He was also alone and unarmed, a favourable sign for my status as witness rather than suspect.
‘Par ici.’ He directed me down the corridor. Another door swung open on another policeman. Black gun belt and holster prominent. My optimism dimmed.
They took me up three levels to a large and untidy office with a window that filled most of one wall and overlooked a dreary apartment house development. I was shown to a chair before a desk in the centre of the office and left to my own devices.
Overhead, directly above the desk, was an old-fashioned ceiling fan. It was rotating lazily, creaking a little like an old galleon in high seas. It was barely necessary, as the day was still young and the breeze coming through the open window, agitating the venetian blinds, agreeably cool. Right in front of me was a row of three identical black telephones, the old-fashioned type with coiled cables, all knotted. From there my gaze drifted over the severe furnishings: dark heavy wood throughout, apart from a row of steel file cabinets. Papers and books were strewn any old how over every flat surface. My stomach gurgled in objection to the unaccustomed fast. I yawned – tension, not tiredness.