Moroccan Traffic

by Dorothy Dunnett

  Sir Bernard took the Fax, interrogated the girl, explained something to the most formally dressed of the men, and then asked Johnson a question, to which he replied. Then Johnson picked up the phone and put through a call, this time in English. As he waited, he looked up at the door. It was still open, but he gave no sign of having seen us. Then the girl came out, and the door shut.

  Morgan stood and looked at it as if it had sworn at him. He said, ‘They’ve got a bloody nerve, all of them.’ He added, ‘Including Johnson.’ I thought he was going to walk out, but he sat down again.

  The next time the door opened, the meeting was finishing. A knot of men came out, in the process of switching chat modes. The topics seemed to be the same as at home: summer holidays, children and golf. Another batch began to emerge, glancing at us and then away as Die, Yuppie Scum swam into their various kens. Then Rolly Reed came to the door. He looked worn, reassuring and friendly. ‘Wendy? Mo? Will you come in?

  Emerson and Johnson were the only two left at the table. Emerson was presenting packets of stuff to his document case. He rose and sank as I came in, but Johnson only rested one preoccupied arm on the table and looked up and nodded to each of us. He didn’t ask how we were, although he did seem to examine us both. Then he returned to studying papers.

  Sir Bernard Emerson didn’t ask after our blood pressures either. ‘Please sit. This won’t take very long. When you get back to London, I’ll have to ask you to fulfil an appointment, but meantime a signature will keep everyone happy. Although I’m sure neither of you is a gossip.’

  I said, ‘My mother ought to sign something as well.’

  ‘She has,’ Emerson said. He waited while Reed produced two sheets of paper, and I read one, and wrote my name at the foot. Johnson didn’t look up.

  Morgan said, ‘What if I don’t?’

  Johnson looked up. ‘Don’t be an idiot. It wouldn’t change anything.’

  ‘No, it wouldn’t,’ said Emerson sharply. He waited while Morgan signed, and then checked the result before Reed took the papers. The accountant put them in his briefcase, hesitated, and left. Sir Bernard Emerson sat back and surveyed us. I could feel Morgan resisting him.

  Emerson said, ‘Reed and I have to go. Morgan, we all have the future to think of. It’s up to other people to talk to you about that, and Johnson knows enough to tell you something today. I hope it will work out in a way that will please you. All I want to do at the moment is thank you both for the extraordinary help you’ve given, in the face of considerable danger. Miss Helmann in particular had no idea what was going on, and was asked to do that most difficult thing, to transfer her loyalties. At the very least, it’s up to us to make sure her career doesn’t suffer. Morgan. . .’

  He had smiled at me, but his glance at Morgan was on the grim side. He said, ‘You helped us of course, quite immeasurably. Oliver probably owes you his life. I can’t quite forget, however, that but for you, none of any of this need have happened. You realise that?’

  ‘Free enterprise,’ Morgan said. His jaw had set, but he had flushed.

  ‘Oh, quite,’ Emerson said. ‘In its place, much to be commended. It seems to have infected my friend here, and resulted in what could have been your death and his own, if you hadn’t been there to rescue him. I hope you will be satisfied with his apology. It is more, I must say, than I am.’

  He was a big man, between fifty and sixty, with neatly waving grey hair and the style of a debater rather than a negotiator. He was a professor, I later found when I looked him up. Professor Sir Bernard Emerson with one wife, Frances and one daughter, Joanna. Johnson sat hunched over his linked hands, and gazed at his thumbs as if they were rabbit’s ears.

  Morgan glanced at him before answering Emerson. He said, ‘What’s the big number? We chose to be involved. We could have gone to Ouarzazate: we took our own decision to travel with Johnson. He didn’t kill Pymm. I was the one who fixed Gerry. And it was you yourself who shot Sullivan. I tried to save him, damn it to hell. He might have said a lot more.’

  ‘A mistake, I agree,’ Emerson said.

  Johnson laid his hands on his chair-arms and rose.

  Emerson said, ‘Where are you going? I want you to explain to Morgan what will be happening.’

  Johnson stood still, a hand on the back of his chair. He still faced the door. Morgan said, ‘Sir Bernard, tell me what’s happening now. Why did you shoot Sullivan? Did you think he’d no more to say?’

  ‘At the time, he wasn’t sure he’d said anything,’ Johnson said. He had turned his gaze to Emerson.

  Emerson rose. He said, ‘Is any of this relevant? I didn’t intend to bring this up here and now, but the fact is that Johnson left to tackle these two men himself, without informing us or arranging for backup. As it was, I didn’t trust him and followed. But for us, Sullivan might have killed you.’

  I said suddenly, ‘You didn’t help at all till the end.’

  ‘He didn’t want to kill Sullivan,’ Johnson said. ‘He wanted me to be forced to do that, before Sullivan talked.’ He had released his hand and was standing properly, as if back in uniform.

  ‘But—?’ Morgan said. He remembered, as I did, what Sir Bernard had ordered at Marrakesh. Morgan said, ‘But Sir Bernard wanted him questioned.’

  ‘Not by me,’ Johnson said. ‘Sullivan answered the wrong questions, my questions. He might have had a lot more to say to the authorities. What he had to tell might have changed all our records. But Sir Bernard put an end to him, simply to stop him talking to me.’ His eyes had never left Emerson’s. He said, ‘I suppose Kingsley told you later he had talked?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Emerson. Like Johnson, he was not standing casually.

  ‘He asked me,’ Johnson said. ‘Sullivan asked me why I’d done nothing about Judith for ten years.’

  There was a long silence. At the time, I thought they had forgotten us. Then Emerson gave an impatient sigh. He said, ‘Frances thought this was why you kept working. So now what? Your suspicions prove to be right. The Onyx team didn’t all die. So you jack in all those years and go private?’

  ‘I expect so,’ Johnson said. ‘You’re not going to use public money to finance a one-man campaign against what’s left of a bunch of mad mercenaries. They’re a pin-prick in Europe. They’ll be reaching senility soon, like war criminals.’

  Emerson said, ‘So do you blame me for scotching the Sicilian blood-hunt? An irreversible waste of irreplaceable resources, for what? What do they matter? Who was that unpleasant lout ten years ago? An apprentice mercenary: he didn’t even remember your name. But you lost your head, and yesterday was the result: muddied thinking and needless destruction. I should get rid of you anyway. I thought I could trust you.’

  ‘And you can’t?’ Johnson said. The passion clearly remained, but his voice, at least, was merely exasperated.

  ‘Evidently not. You failed to tell me MCG were threatened by Kingsley’s, and you further failed to tell me that you were freelancing to help them. Don’t pretend your excuse was this other matter.’

  ‘All right, I won’t,’ Johnson said.

  Emerson waited. Then he said, ‘Bystanders get killed in vendettas. You don’t always work on your own.’

  ‘No, that’s right,’ Johnson said. ‘You teamed me with Daniel Oppenheim.’

  He leaned over suddenly and picked up his papers. ‘Would you excuse me then, sir? If you’re staying after all, you might care to put Miss Helmann and Mr. Morgan in the picture. If there is more to say, we could discuss it in London.’ He had recovered the Senior Service style: quiet, respectful and civil. Translated, it meant go to hell.

  He added, ‘Wendy. Morgan. Excuse me.’ Sir Bernard moved. Morgan began to jump up. Without waiting, Johnson walked to the door.

  Filling the space like Stonehenge, my mother opened it from the outside. She said, ‘I have come to be told what is happening today to my daughter. They are bringing lunch. We shall all sit down except Sir Bernard, whose car and chauffeur are waiting.’


  She knew Sir Bernard by sight. Of course she did: she’d been at Ouarzazate. She had changed back to layers of cotton and her hair was lined up in hairgrips and she had her knitting bag with her which, having sat down, she proceeded to open. Her feet were in Kentoh massage sandals, planted apart like a Japanese wrestler’s. She appeared not to notice the battlefield.

  Morgan said, ‘You bloody woman.’

  Sir Bernard Emerson sent a glance round us all, ending with Johnson. Emerson said, ‘I don’t want you if your mind has gone fragile. If it hasn’t, get on with it. This bit is your job, not mine. And for Jesus’ sake, think what you’re doing.’ He measured Johnson up and down once and took a sharp breath, but let it go without speaking. He was rather pale. He said, ‘You know where to find me,’ and without another word, walked from the room.

  Johnson stood as if thinking. Mo and I looked at each other. ‘What a pleasure,’ said my mother, inspecting her knitting, ‘to move beyond barrier-ridden middle-management hierarchies and into the intellectual freemasonry of the privileged classes! So what is the problem, we ask ourselves? A serious difference, we perceive, which Sir Bernard must find a means to resolve. He acts, Mr. Johnson. He isolates you psychologically. He rouses Mo to resentment. He encourages a personal bonding between you. He thinks, when Mr. Johnson has fewer chemicals in him, that there is a very good chance you will both do as he wishes. He is right. You listen to words, you learn nothing.’

  Mo’s mouth opened. Johnson, startled out of his trauma, sat down on a handy chair and stared at her. Morgan said, ‘Doris? How did you dream up that theory?’

  My mother shrugged with her face. ‘I follow Sir Emerson’s reasoning. Am I right?’

  ‘No,’ said Morgan. ‘Johnson’s resigning.’

  My mother glanced at Johnson out of the tops of her eyes. She said, ‘Ah, yes. What man worth the name would do otherwise? He is an able fellow, this Emerson Professor St Bernard.’

  ‘Professor Sir Bernard,’ I said.

  ‘So shortly he will overcome his pride and place his dilemma before you, and you will do what he wants. He needs you, Mr. Johnson, but he needs a lever to control you with. Or a little carrot. You know the girl is on holiday in Madeira? She flew there on an unplanned vacation just after the Sir left to come here.’

  ‘What girl?’ Morgan asked.

  Johnson came to something near life. ‘Shall I have hysterics now, or wait until after lunch? Doris, you are the daughter of the mother of whores, and translate that into Arabic if you like.’ He laid down the papers and tried to smooth them. ‘Who told you to come in and break it up? Rita, I bet.’

  ‘Instinct,’ said my mother.

  Johnson looked at her. ‘I knew it,’ he said. ‘You’re into ESP and you’ve probably got a direct fax to Delphi. Do you mind if I ask you? What country do you really belong to?’

  I’d always wondered. I needn’t have. ‘I am an Ealing,’ said my mother. ‘Once, of course, I was Turkish. Then Arab countries elsewhere, until I met Wendy’s father.’

  ‘He was Ealing too?’ Morgan said.

  ‘Always,’ she said. ‘But always merry, always good-humoured, always with the spirit to try something new, win or not, lose or not. And liking fat women.’

  ‘We all have rotten taste,’ Morgan said. Fortunately, she knows when he is joking. They eyed one another, then she turned back to Johnson.

  ‘So now you will go, and take some pills, and do whatever Henry has told you to do that you have not done; and in a while we shall meet here to eat, and you and Morgan will decide what to do. It is the consensus.’

  ‘You don’t have a quorum,’ Johnson said.

  ‘Come on, pal,’ said Morgan, advancing. ‘It’s not a democracy, it’s a bloody dictatorship.’

  ‘Well, I didn’t vote for it,’ said Johnson, with some irritation. He got up, watched by my mother’s large, circled eyes, and strolled out, followed by Morgan. She looked complacent. I knew that look. I suppose she had reason. Whatever she had done, Johnson had temporarily re-opened for business.

  Chapter 26

  This, the meeting called by my mother, was the last that I went to in Morocco. Of the four I had already attended, the most impressively equipped, I suppose, had been the one which took place in the kasbah. For this, the final agenda, they let us return to the room we had used in the morning.

  For a working lunch it was late, the fault being as much mine as Johnson’s. Dispatched to my room, I fell soundly asleep for the second time, and woke feeling both saner and hungrier. Johnson, when I overtook him in the gardens, looked as if he too had slept, judging by his shirt and jacket. How I ever imagined him in uniform, I didn’t know. Walking to the meeting, he laid an apologetic group of fingers round my shoulders. ‘What an awful morning. Poor Wendy. Operas on every side.’

  You learn when you are being trusted, and when you are intended not to ask questions. I said, ‘Everyone was tired. I was. You look better.’

  ‘There was room for improvement,’ he said. ‘Come on. Your mother will be waiting. A groaning board, and a groaning Morgan and lots and lots of alcohol, and there are still maybe futures out there waiting for somebody.’

  We passed the pool on the way, and a redheaded water-wheel that turned into Rita, holding her nose. Johnson raised a hand and so did she: then her hand was replaced by her feet. He said, ‘No, she’s not coming. Only the victims.’

  Only, as before, Morgan, my mother and me, sitting round a table; pushing out a raft into the wreckage of what used to be our career patterns. And Johnson. I wondered if he considered himself, too, a victim. I thought it unlikely.

  Morgan, his hair down from a swim, greeted us with very few words and looked as if he’d been thinking. I couldn’t see any stickers. My mother, unchanged in any respect, trod up and down the buffet table with a cigarette on her lip, dispensing prawns and salad and jellied titbits as once Rita had, at another board.

  Johnson, swiping the wine bottle, said, ‘This is going to be short, because I am very shortly going to get plastered. Mohammed Morgan, you are about to be hauled out of Kingsley’s whether you have the slightest desire to be hauled out or not. You can cut your throat, buy Manchester United or run a tea and wad stall if you want. What you can’t do is take your squad and start again on your own. Or you can, but only on certain terms, which I am empowered to put before you.’

  He stopped to refill his glass. I hadn’t even got my first glassful yet. Morgan said, ‘In English. I want it in bloody English.’

  ‘You’ll get it,’ said Johnson. ‘So. Proposition. Government helps you finance a buyout of your hardware design squad, and compensates for the loss of your earn-out. You get a 25,000 square-foot start-up workshop in England; build your own pre- production units and keep, license, or sell to your original equipment manufacturers as heretofore. The sine quae nix: a bowler hat on the board and first refusal of every new project, no matter who or what you bloody think you are making it for. End of proposition. They’d have done it this way in the first place, except that they thought everyone thought you made washing machines. So what about it? Yes, forget it or maybe?’

  ‘I might give it a whirl,’ was Morgan’s reply. He threw it down like a platter of cat food.

  ‘Whether I’m around or not?’

  ‘Whether you’re around or not.’

  We had all, I think, expected an argument. Johnson himself waited a moment. Then he said, ‘I see. I’ll tell Emerson. Good.’

  ‘Good?’ Morgan said. ‘Didn’t you notice the wit? Give it a whirl? Wait, my boy, till you’ve seen my fighting Jacuzzis, my missile-tube hairdryers, my limpet rollers with Semtex. Should we all go home, now you’ve got what you want? Or could you be persuaded – or, what’s your name, darling Jay? – could you be troubled to tell us what’s going to happen to Kingsley’s and its entire international work force?’

  He picked up his fork and attacked the mound of food my mother had just shoved in front of him. Johnson, leaning over, aud
ibly stabbed a prawn on the same plate and lifted it, causing Morgan’s eyes to lift also.

  ‘Come on, Mo,’ he said. ‘I’m playing it as straight as I can. The truth about Kingsley’s is that without you they’re sunk, but they were going that way in any case. They’ll have to be independently audited, and the nominees nitted out of the register. They’re over-borrowed. Kingsley and his accountant suppressed that and more. It’s a classic third-generation disaster: charming Chairman with public presence and a taste for high life, but nothing but average competence. The firm will be wound up or sold. Not your doing: it would have come, anyway.’

  ‘I put him down as big scale,’ Morgan said. He looked at me, and then back to Johnson. ‘He had style. He was bloody attractive.’ He said abruptly, ‘My God, I loused it up for all of you. What will happen to Rita?’

  It was a strange submission, and what had brought it about, I couldn’t fathom. If Johnson did, he gave no sign. Only his manner, I thought, relaxed for reasons other than alcohol.

  ‘Troon will drown one of these days,’ he observed, ‘but is otherwise fine. So is MCG, if it’s survived a week without her and Rolly. Now I’m out of the cupboard, I might as well get myself on the board. You might want to poke your nose in. Kingsley put a crimp in her suppliers, but we’ll soon get all that sorted out. It’s really a very good firm. Otherwise the greedies wouldn’t have wanted them.’

  ‘Pymm and the Arabs,’ Morgan said, returning a little to normality. ‘So what about the Lord of the Kasbah? You made a cock-up of that bomb. They’re having to rebuild half Morocco.’

  ‘You do it next time,’ Johnson said. He began, for the first time, to eat. ‘It was a punk bomb with punk timing, but we did get everyone out. The village remains the world centre for goat cheese in oil cans. Chahid’s in jail, and will languish there roughly for ever. Algeria, Canada, ex Foreign Legion; a fraudulent accountant before that. Except for the hard men he fell in with, Pymm might have stayed a role-playing mutt on the take. As it was, Sullivan caught up with him. We couldn’t prevent it, but thanks to Wendy, we do know his principals, and we’ve also skewered the Arabs. Every name goes on file, and will save us all sorts of grief in the future. And one day, if we’re blessed, we’ll get an order from somewhere to waste them.’