Inside the casino, most of the guests stood clutching bowls of tokens and feeding them methodically into the ranks of slot machines, while the gaming tables were nearly empty. Nat made her way round a wall of plastic foliage and into one of the casino bars, where she found Anton deep in conversation with a large, heavy-jawed girl, all plucked eyebrows and powdered cleavage. One of his hands rested low on her waist. They were drinking Champagne. The sight of him amusing himself with the girl annoyed Nat, even though this was exactly what she had asked him to do.
‘Hard at it, Anton?’ she said, coming up behind him and taking both of them unawares. The girl evidently decided Nat was a rival and gave her a sulky look.
‘Miss Kocharian, may I introduce you to Maria?’ said Anton.
‘No you may not,’ said Nat in Russian. ‘What have you found out?’
‘I think this girl can tell us who Nikolai was with last night,’ he said conspiratorially, while Maria inspected herself in a compact. ‘But she’s nervous. She’s a sophisticated girl – I have to go carefully with her.’
‘You mean you have to stick your hand up her skirt. Just get on and do it. I’ll meet you back here at nine.’
She heard him say something soothing to Maria, dropping into the gravelly Scottish accent he’d picked up from his father and which he’d no doubt convinced himself sounded terribly seductive. Nat bought a pack of cigarettes and went out into the car park to smoke one, hoping it would make her feel less fractious. It didn’t, so she went upstairs and ate over-cooked steak and soft chips in the restaurant. The food settled her, and she went back to the bar. Seeing Nat approach, Maria set off for the ladies room. She swung her hips a few times, then looked over her shoulder to check that Anton was watching. You could have taken that for granted, thought Nat. . . Then she remembered doing exactly the same thing while leaving Sir Peter Beddoes’ office a week earlier. The insight was discomforting.
‘Maria was annoyed. I had to calm her down,’ Anton was saying.
‘Fuck’s sake, Anton, she’s an early-shift casino whore. She doesn’t need calming down.’
‘Whatever you say, Ms Kocharian.’
‘So?’
‘The girl who was with Nikolai is called Aisha – she’ll be here later tonight. Maria says she is very beautiful, like a cat.’
Nat snorted. ‘OK, get Maria to point catwoman out to you, then come and find me at the blackjack tables.’
She changed five hundred dollars, bought herself a gin and tonic and played for a while, not really caring whether she won or lost. As she laid out her next stake, a hand reached over and placed a pile of chips next to hers on the blackjack table.
She turned and saw a small, dapper Arab in his late fifties with a speckled grey beard smiling at her.
‘The gentleman wishes to play behind you,’ said the croupier. ‘Mam’selle is agreeable?’
Nat nodded. She was familiar with the casino custom by which one player may shadow another, and so win or lose from their hands. The gentleman in question was Mehmet al Hamra, the spy chief whose man Zender had identified in the courtyard at the Riad.
‘Mam’selle is gracious,’ he said. ‘I have little aptitude for the game myself.’
‘I hope you won’t hold it against me if I lose, Monsieur al Hamra,’ said Nat. She was both impressed by this man, with his urbane manner and clear, intelligent eyes, and rather nervous of him.
‘Please, you must call me Mehmet.’
Nat played her hand, and won.
‘Voilà,’ he said. ‘I have a poor head for cards, but my knowledge of human nature is worth a small stake. May I welcome you back to Marrakech? I don’t believe I have ever before seen you in the casino without Monsieur Zender for an escort.’
‘I didn’t know you kept such a close watch over me, Mehmet.’
‘The associates of Monsieur Zender are my particular concern, most especially in these complicated times.’
Nat played out another hand, with al Hamra again staking behind her. To her consternation, she drew a sequence of four low cards and was obliged to concentrate while she calculated the odds of the fifth breaking twenty-one. Really, she wanted to find out why she was being stalked by a Moroccan spy.
‘Complicated?’ she asked, calling for a card and drawing a six, which kept her tally to nineteen.
‘Oh yes. Monsieur Zender’s affairs are becoming disorderly. I want to warn you that to do business with him, at this moment, is inadvisable.’
‘It’s always inadvisable to do business with Zender. I’m used to it.’
The dealer played the house hand, went bust and paid out.
‘You will make me a wealthy man, Mam’selle Kocharian,’ said al Hamra. ‘But please accompany me to the lounge so that we can talk without distraction.’
He led her to a booth that was only a few yards from where Anton stood posing at the bar. He gave a histrionic shrug which Nat ignored.
‘It appears you are not alone?’ said al Hamra.
‘He’s been trying to pick me up.’
‘A barfly, as the English say. Shall I have him ejected?’
‘No. He’ll see you and think I’m spoken for.’
A waiter came and took their order. When he turned back to her, she smiled at him and saw his eyes lose their professional focus and wander over her face and down to the triangle of bare skin between her breasts. Then, seeming to call himself to order, he looked down and patted the muscular upslope of his stomach.
‘The Casino des Capricornes is a vulgar place, and yet it draws commerce to our beloved town,’ al Hamra said, ‘and so it must be tolerated. You remember that in February last year, a terrorist bomb was exploded at the Hotel de l’Atlantique in Agadir?’
‘Yes. It was horrible.’
‘Sixty-seven people died, many of them French and Americans taking our winter sun. The tourist trade has not recovered. Our hunt for the bombers has been exhaustive, and at last we have made a breakthrough.’
‘I’m pleased to hear it, Mehmet.’
‘The complication I mentioned is that the prime suspect in our investigation is an associate of Monsieur Zender.’
‘You mean he sold them something? Something they used in the bombing?’
‘Very probably. The suspect’s name is Mansour Anzarane, and he is known to have been a guest of Monsieur Zender’s at an establishment he operates in the so-called Free Zone. I expect you know that he stores arms there – many of them no doubt supplied by Grosvenor Systems of London.’
Nat did not. The Free Zone was Polisario country, and they were sworn enemies of the Moroccan state. So how could Zender run a base there while still being allowed to live in Marrakech? Catching al Hamra’s eye, she saw that he’d noticed her confusion, and she felt belittled by her ignorance.
‘I can’t believe Claude would associate with a terrorist,’ she said. ‘He’s always so careful.’
The waiter arrived with their drinks. Al Hamra emptied a bottle of soda into his tumbler of brandy, took a swig, then dabbed his mouth with a napkin.
‘Mansour Anzarane is a member of the terrorist group called al Bidayat,’ he said. ‘Sometimes referred to as the Terror Consultancy.’
‘You think they were responsible for Agadir?’
‘Like you, Mam’selle, I was surprised that Monsieur Zender should have dealings with such people. No doubt that was naive of me. In any event, we were able to interrogate one of the guards from the base under conditions that place the identification of Anzarane beyond reasonable doubt.’
‘Mehmet, why are you telling me this?’
‘Marrakech has been a commercial centre for many centuries, Mam’selle Natalya, and as a legitimate businesswoman you will always be welcome here. I personally would not wish to see you become a casualty of Monsieur Zender’s impending downfall.’
There was warmth in al Hamra’s eyes. . . He was a spy, and no doubt feeding her information that was only partially true; still, Nat could not help believing that he was
also partially sincere. She thought of asking him to help her find Nikolai, but her mind was so beset with half-completed schemes and formless anxieties that she hesitated. And then he was standing up, bowing, saying, Good evening, Mam’selle, and walking quickly away.
‘At the roulette table by the elevators. In a long black dress, next to the tall man with not much hair.’
Natalya was so distracted that when she turned to face the man who had spoken to her, all she saw was a pair of restless, melancholy eyes set in a dark, angular and quite handsome face. His words registered and she recognised her brother’s sleazy sidekick. She looked across the gaming floor and identified Aisha – and experienced the frisson of envy and admiration she always felt in the presence of a woman more beautiful than she.
‘I won’t need you any more tonight, Anton. If Maria offers to take you home, for fuck’s sake don’t get rolled in some alleyway.’
Nat moved to another blackjack table near the cloakrooms in order to observe the girl more easily. Aisha had fine black hair that caressed her bare shoulders when she turned her head. Her eyes were dark and waif-like, but when she smiled, two cheerful dimples broke the flawless, concave planes of her cheeks. The contrast was very appealing, Nat thought. Maria was right, this girl was altogether feline and dainty – quite unlike the heavy-limbed blondes with big mouths Nikolai was used to. No wonder he had fallen for her.
Nat finished her gin and dropped the highball glass into her handbag. She went on discreetly observing Aisha, admiring the lithe, playful way she moved her body round her mark, brushing against him, leaning against him, taking his hand and drawing herself close. Baldy was clearly besotted, as who wouldn’t be. Roulette was a game for fools, in Nat’s view, and he was playing it foolishly, with large stakes on singles, doubles and fours – chosen, no doubt, by his delightful companion. Eventually, Aisha left his side and headed for the bathroom. Nat collected her chips and followed.
The girl went into a cubicle. Nat positioned herself by the sink opposite and watched the cubicle in the mirror while pretending to inspect her make-up. When she heard the bolt being drawn back, she turned and walked swiftly to the cubicle door, arriving just as Aisha was swinging it open. She got the heel of her hand under the girl’s chin, fingers over her mouth, and hustled her backwards, smacking her head against the back wall. Then she kneed her sharply in the groin. Nat was small, but strong, athletic – and angry. Aisha crumpled onto the lavatory seat. Nat bolted the door, then dropped her handbag on the floor and stamped on it. She fished out the base of the highball glass, now crowned with spikes of splintered glass. She seized the girl by the hair and forced her head back.
‘See this?’ she said unnecessarily, holding the broken glass against Aisha’s cheek. ‘I’m going to slash your face open. I’m going to leave your cheeks flapping like bat wings. And you fucking deserve it.’
‘No,’ Aisha whimpered. ‘Why. . . ’
Nat leaned close to her ear. ‘The man you picked up last night is my brother. Why did you set him up?’
‘I don’t—’
Nat pressed the shard against the girl’s cheek and drew it down an inch. A spot of blood oozed out, almost black against her chestnut-coloured skin. The girl gave a soft wail.
‘It’s your job. You pick up men and get them into a fight.’
‘No. My job. Yes, they make me do things. I can’t say no.’
‘So, you got my brother thinking he had a chance of getting into your knickers. Then what?’
‘They start a fight and take him away.’
‘Why?’
‘I don’t know, I don’t. They don’t tell me. Maybe money.’
‘Who are they?’
‘Rich men who own the casino. Please, let me go now. I don’t know anything.’
‘What rich men? Give me their names.’
‘I don’t know. I only do what they make me.’
She was talking through sobs now, her face smudged with tears. I haven’t got long, Natalya realised, and pressed the glass splinter into her cheek. Aisha gasped.
‘What happens to the people you set up? Where do they take them?’
‘They do not tell me things like that. They make me get men into a fight, then I don’t know what happens.’ Blood had started to trickle down her neck. ‘You don’t have to cut me.’
‘Was he badly hurt?’
‘He was fighting them. The guards are big men. . . ’
‘Shit.’
Nat felt suddenly drained. She released Aisha and leaned back against the cubicle door. The girl pulled a tissue from her bag and held it to her cheek.
‘He was OK, your brother,’ she said through her tears. ‘I feel bad about it.’
‘Halle-fucking-lujah. You smiled your little smile and pointed your ass at him, then you fucked him over.’
‘He is in hospital now?’
‘What do you care? No. I don’t know, I can’t find him.’
‘He was OK,’ she said again.
Why was she talking about him in the past tense? Nat felt tears come to her eyes. She saw the girl watching her and realised she was still holding the jagged rim of glass. She returned it to her handbag.
‘Please do not say I told you this. They will hurt me. They cut girls who talk.’ She pointed to her mouth. ‘One girl, they cut her lips. Now she wears a burqa always.’
Nat looked into Aisha’s frightened eyes and saw how beautiful they were, deep mahogany with whites as clear as pearl.
‘I won’t tell anyone.’
She opened the door and Aisha slipped past. She watched her scuttle over to a sink and make a cursory attempt to tidy her hair and dab the blood from her cheek and neck. All the grace and elegance had gone out of her, she looked broken. Now it was Nat’s turn to feel bad.
When Aisha had gone, Nat sat on the lavatory and thought for a while. Why had Nikolai been set up by these rich men who own the casino? Aisha said the motive was money. But casinos didn’t need to rob people, and it was not as if Nikolai was in debt to them. So why?
She didn’t know. Neither, apparently, did Claude Zender. He’d given his explanation with such certainty – as a matter of fact, not of conjecture – but it had not rung true. In business, it was fun not trusting Zender. They played a game of numbers dressed up in quips and sallies – his own expression. But this was her brother, not a consignment of fucking RPGs! She poked around among the bits of broken glass in her handbag and pulled out her cellphone. Then she remembered her promise to Aisha. . . If I confront Claude, he’ll just shrug and deny it, she thought, and what evidence do I have? I assaulted a casino whore in the loos and she told me.
Maybe Claude knows more than he’s letting on, but that doesn’t mean he had anything to do with it. Mehmet al Hamra’s words came back to her. Should she report the conversation to Claude, to help him evade his impending downfall? Or was that exactly what al Hamra intended, in which case might she inadvertently be helping to bring his downfall about? It was too convoluted to work out now.
She stood up, flushed the toilet and inspected herself in the mirror above the row of washbasins. You got Nikolai into this, now get him out, she told the tired face that looked back at her. And wrap up the IPD400 deal while you’re at it, because the sexy sales supremo act is running out of gas. She found lipstick and a compact and tidied herself up, but even when she’d finished she still looked like a woman who’s got off the bus in a bad neighbourhood and doesn’t know how to get home.
James was sitting on his mattress at the compound, contemplating Error 16017.
He hadn’t got rid of it, hadn’t even tried. It wasn’t an error. It was an alerting mechanism he’d coded under legal threats from the occupants of a certain building on the banks of the Thames near Waterloo Bridge, and it executed whenever Little Sister attempted to latch on to one of their servers. The building was the headquarters of Her Majesty’s Secret Intelligence Service, SIS. More usually known by the designation MI6.
Rakesh Nazli was sp
ying for the Playpen? The foppish, orange-soda-drinking DP tech was a highly trained and nerveless MI6 agent, operating at the heart of an organisation that was willing to torture an innocent man and execute its own people in the most gruesome fashion imaginable? He couldn’t see it. Not Nazli. But these people were skilled and devious – why did he think he couldn’t be fooled? After all, there was plenty to spy on: arms dealing, theft of sensitive military technology, abductions and executions – and that was just the things he knew about.
Fooled or not, the software installed on the Playpen’s servers had detected Little Sister’s sly overtures; and simultaneously with the 16017 error message he and Nazli had seen, another would have flashed up on the duty officer’s monitor at MI6’s Centre for Internal Security:
AN ATTEMPT HAS BEEN MADE TO GAIN ACCESS TO THE SERVICE NETWORK. THE ATTEMPT WAS REBUFFED AND SECURITY WAS NOT COMPROMISED. THE ATTEMPT TOOK PLACE AT [TIME] ON [DATE]. REPORT UNDER PROTOCOL 4 RED, ATTACHING LOGFILE [CURRENTLOG]
Within minutes, CURRENTLOG would reach Head of Information Systems Julian Twomey-Smith – a talentless little time-server with a knack of saying the right thing to the right people – and within the hour he would be seeking the guidance of his boss Sir Iain Strang, Director-General of MI6. That would be a call worth tapping. How would he react? Amazed that the IPD400 had somehow ended up at a site which was the subject of an MI6 surveillance op, and appalled that said surveillance had almost certainly been compromised by, of all people, that pain-in-the-arse Palatine.
Would they now order a daring rescue, courtesy of his former SAS comrades – the Old Women as they were called, because they spent most of their time sitting by the phone? No, because Twomey-Smith would be able to identify the location of the IPD400, but not necessarily of the person operating it – and anyway, in the age of cyber-surveillance, acts of derring-do had gone out of fashion. If he’d compromised a surveillance op, they’d be doing everything in their power to salvage it. If it was something else, they’d have the shredders shredding and the non-recoverable delete routines deleting non-recoverably. Security breaches had to be plugged, and you couldn’t be too fastidious about how.
Little Sister (A James Palatine Novel) Page 15
