by Gayle Lynds
“Not quite yet.” He took a small backpack from the bottom drawer of the bureau. “This was Billingsley’s. Want to help me go through it?”
“Of course.”
He unloaded it on the table where they’d had breakfast. They sat together.
First was a Luger. “This was what Billingsley pulled on me.” He inspected the weapon. “There’s a round in the chamber. She was prepared.” He picked up a tube of lip gloss, opened it, and pressed all of the gloss out onto a napkin. “Nothing hidden inside.” He handed her the map of Marrakech. “See if she wrote anything on it, will you? Notes, a highlighted route, anything.”
As he opened the wallet, she spread out the map. She studied the street grid then the list of street names. “No handwriting or marks of any kind,” she announced.
The wallet was black microfiber and appeared to be brand-new. He counted the cash. “She was carrying six hundred euros and five hundred dirhams plus a credit card and driver’s license in the name Laura Billingsley.” He looked at his watch and grimaced. “It’s two o’clock. Time for the news.”
He turned on the TV and rotated it so they could watch from the table. National news was beginning, discussing politics and crime from Tangier to Casablanca and Tarfaya. The report was in Arabic mixed with French and occasionally English. Pyotr translated some of it for her. Finally a local newsreader appeared. The first item was a fatal skiing accident in the mountains.
When a colored drawing of a young European woman with a narrow face and long brown hair appeared on the screen, Pyotr said, “That’s her. The police think she died in a robbery.”
“Why was she following you?”
“She was hired by a former colleague of mine who operates under a variety of aliases. Generally he’s called the Carnivore. He’s an independent assassin. I think he’s planning to neutralize me.”
She gasped.
He held up the Droid from Billingsley’s backpack. “I read through the e-mail reports she made to him. I didn’t want him to know she was dead, so I reported in as if I were her. I’ve stayed in touch with him as myself, too. If Billingsley were reporting to the Carnivore about me, then she must’ve told him about you, too. He might come looking for you to find out where I am.”
She frowned worriedly. “What are he and you involved in?”
He jumped to his feet and paced, for the moment anxious and out of place, a Cossack without a horse. He turned. “Let’s get out of the hotel. The walls are closing in. Then we’ll talk.”
They gathered their things. He slid his pistol into a shoulder holster and put on a jacket. She stared at the gun then at him, at his almost nonchalant expression. Her skin prickled uncomfortably. They rode the elevator down to the lobby and were soon out in the shadows of late afternoon.
He hailed a taxi. “We’ve got some time, so let’s be sightseers again. It’s fun with you.” As they climbed inside, he told the driver, “Maison Tiskiwin.”
He seemed to know just what to do, what to say. She had needed to get out of the hotel, too. The traffic was thick and noisy, as boisterous as Marrakech itself.
“Tell me what’s going on.” She studied Pyotr’s dusky face.
He nodded. “A few years ago six of us participated in a series of hits for Saddam Hussein.” He described Saddam’s billion-dollar horde and the financiers who had hidden it for him. “The man Saddam brought in to manage the wet jobs was Burleigh Morgan. His target was a Swiss financier. Mine was an investment banker from Moscow. Eli Eichel had a Saudi. The Carnivore did a banker from Liechtenstein. The Padre wiped a financier from Rome. And Seymour got the financial mastermind himself—Rostam Rahim. I’m going into all of this detail so you’ll know I’m not holding back anything.” He reached inside his jacket, removed an aluminum box, and put it into her hand. “Tell me what you think this is.”
She unhooked the latch and opened it. Inside were four padded mounds. She peeled back the Velcro enclosing each. Puzzled, she said, “They look like chunks of limestone with some kind of funny carving on them.”
“Yes, they’re pieces of an ancient cuneiform tablet, a very valuable one.” He had been glancing out the rear window. Now he stared.
She peered back, too. Twilight was spreading across the city, purple in the waning light.
“Did you see that black Mercedes?” His voice was tight. “It was an E350 with Algerian plates.” When she shook her head, he continued: “I thought it was following us, but it turned the corner.”
Now she understood: “The real reason you wanted to leave the hotel was to find out whether we were still being followed.”
“I’m sorry, darling. I didn’t do you any favor by falling in love with you.”
51
Maison Tiskiwin was a large Moroccan house of graceful arches and old tiles, stuffed with art and artifacts illustrating the legendary Gold Road, the caravan route from the Atlas Mountains to Timbuktu. Pretending to study the exhibits, Katia found herself nervously watching the guards and other visitors. Pyotr was covertly scanning, too.
“Besides avoiding the Carnivore, what are you trying to accomplish?” she whispered.
“I’ve got to find Seymour,” Pyotr told her quietly. “During the Cold War, he was Islamic Jihad. Your father, Grigori, met him in Athens when they cooperated on a job. It turned out to be the beginning of a relationship good for both organizations and eventually a friendship between the two men. Then when your father went independent, Seymour did, too.…”
She did not hear what he said next. She struggled to find an explanation for why he had just told her about a close relationship between her father and Seymour.
He peered down at her, questions in his eyes. “I need your help, Katia.”
Fury exploded through her. “Bullshit.” With effort, she kept her voice low. “You son-of-a-bitch. The only reason you came to Marrakech was because you thought you could use me to find my father, and then you could use him to get to Seymour.”
“That’s partly true. But what I told you earlier is true, too—I wanted to reconnect with Roza’s daughter.” His expression was somber. “I wanted to meet you. We share a history few others know even exists. What I didn’t count on was falling in love with you.”
She looked around. Two couples were gazing at displays of belts and scarves, but they were also shooting glances that told her they knew there was a problem. Her voice rose: “You brought me here so I wouldn’t make a scene.” She spun on her heel and marched back toward the museum’s entrance. How could she have been so stupid. So naive.
Pyotr was at her side, a shadow she did not want.
“Please believe me, Katia,” he whispered. “I love you. I really love you. I want to marry you.”
“Liar.”
“You know I’m telling the truth. There’s more.…” He leaned down, talking in a hushed, almost mesmerizing tone: “Grigori and Seymour dropped out of sight in 2003.” He took her hand and pulled her to a stop, facing him. He pressed her hands between his. “I know Grigori was in touch with you. He said so. He loved your mother, and he loves you. There’s no way he’d cut you off. Where is he, Katia? Where is Grigori? I really need to know. I’m sure he can tell me how to find Seymour.”
She tried to keep the bitterness from her voice. “First you pretend we’ve never met. Then you tell me you’re retired. You saw my loneliness and used it to get close to me. You were so nice, so handsome, so compassionate. But all of it was for one reason … because I’m Grigori’s daughter—not because I’m Roza’s daughter. Because you wanted to find Seymour—not because you loved me. Now I know why you’re called Mole. You’re underhanded, a master manipulator. No one ever sees your true motive—until it’s too late.” She yanked her hands from between his. “But it’s not too late for me.” She stepped back.
“Oh, God, Katia. I didn’t mean to hurt you. I’m sorry.”
There was so much despair in his face she almost flinched.
He gestured at the exhibit beside them.
On display were magnificent necklaces, bracelets, and rings. “You sparkle more than any jewelry, Katia. Whoever would’ve thought I’d find someone as wonderful as you to love. You’re right that I came here because I hoped to convince you to help me. But once I met you, everything changed for me. You’re beautiful and sweet and we fit together. I really was retired until this mess about the tablet came up. Can you ever forgive me for asking you to help me find your father?”
She gave her head an angry shake. “Let’s go.”
Silently, they walked through two more rooms and out the museum’s front door. Night had arrived, glistening black punctuated by vehicle lights, streetlights, and the occasional flash of a cigarette lighter.
Pyotr surveyed the traffic and clumps of tourists and locals.
He stiffened. “Did you see a black Mercedes? It slowed as it passed.”
Her throat tightened. “The car that was following our taxi?”
He grabbed her arm. “Yes, run!”
They tore down the sidewalk, weaving around pedestrians, jumping out of the way of a bicyclist. He craned, watching the cars rushing in both directions. Abruptly he pulled her behind a fruit cart. The donkey looked back and brayed. They crouched and watched the street. Then it appeared, the black Mercedes E350 with license plates from Algeria, driving toward them, illuminated by streetlamps. It was almost on them.
“I can’t see the driver’s face,” she said worriedly.
The brim of the driver’s cap was pulled so low, just his mouth and chin showed. He kept glancing across at the sidewalk. Pyotr said nothing, focused on the luxury car. Again the vehicle slowed, then it glided past.
As soon as it was out of sight, they ran again. Hugging buildings, they ducked under awnings, and, when the Mercedes appeared a third time, they dashed into a recessed doorway. The car vanished. He grabbed her hand. They ran another thirty feet into a store selling French goods and out a rear door into a dirt alley. It was like a tunnel, lined with buildings and overhung with balconies. Slowing, they checked around.
Katia was shaken. She had never had to run for her life. She hugged her purse close. She found herself admitting, “I’m afraid for you. Will the Carnivore stop if he can’t find you tonight?”
“Probably not, but I’ll be fine. I’ve been at this a long time, remember.”
She nodded, but she had a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach.
At the alley’s opening, they moved into a dark shadow against the wall where they could watch for the Mercedes. He wrapped his arms around her, and for a moment she resisted. She felt the beat of his heart, solid, reassuring.
“We can’t stay here forever, and we can’t go back to our hotel because the Carnivore knows about it.” He took out his iPhone. “I know a place that’ll be safe for us.” He tapped in a phone number and spoke to someone named Liza, asking for a room. “Yes, we’re registered at Hotel Fashion.” After a pause, he gave Katia a nod, indicating they were all set. When he said good-bye, he dialed again, this time alerting the hotel to be prepared for Liza’s man to pick up their luggage.
Leaving the alley, they walked at a fast clip around the block. With every car that approached, Katia had a few seconds of fear that it was the Mercedes. Staying on back streets, she was soon lost. Her anxiety grew as Pyotr hurried her along a stretch of old buildings with deeply cut windows.
“Where are we?” she asked.
“The back of the souk.”
“I’ve always entered from the marketplace.”
He was looking around alertly. “This part is older, more residential, if you can call it that. You won’t find an array of goods for sale, or the friendly smiles. We’ll be at Liza’s place soon.”
52
They were a nice-looking couple in their thirties, approachable. Mr. and Mrs. Roman. She was a pretty redhead, her long hair pulled back in a ponytail; he had light brown hair and a weathered face. They smiled at each other when they talked. Looking around the lobby of the Hotel Fashion, she commented on the intricate tile work, and he was impressed by the comfortable furniture. They left the registration desk and sat on a sofa near the hotel’s glass entry doors to wait for their friend—Pyotr Azarov.
“Bloody inconsiderate of Pyotr,” the husband, Greg, grumbled loudly. His English accent was thick. “Leaving us high and dry as a martini without a clue when he’ll be back, the wanker. I need a martini.”
“Now, now, dear.” The wife, Courtney, patted his arm. She was obviously American. “He’s just out having a good time. What are vacations for, if not to have a wonderful time?”
They sat down on the sofa, and she put her large straw shoulder bag on her lap. It was heavy—inside was her Glock. She was wearing a dark blue blouse in some sort of light summery fabric tucked into matching trousers. With the sleeves of a yellow sweater tied around her neck, she looked sporty. He wore an eye-bruising Hawaiian shirt decorated with huge green palm fronds and orange hibiscus flowers. His jeans looked designer, but it was hard to tell—the Hawaiian shirt fell sloppily over them, concealing the 9-mm Beretta holstered at the small of his back.
As would be expected, the comings and goings and registrations of more guests soon attracted attention, and Judd and Eva—“Mr. and Mrs. Roman”—became part of the background.
From the sofa, they watched the lobby doors. Eva’s chest was tight. Every time the doors opened, she grew more tense.
After two hours, she was ready to jump out of her skin.
Judd had been glancing at her. “Waiting is always the worst. Let’s find out how Tucker is. I’ll call.”
“Yes.” They had phoned twice and heard he needed surgery.
“Hello, Gloria,” Judd said into his burner cell. “No, don’t worry. I’m not going to tell you where we are. Hold on. I’m putting you on speakerphone so Eva can hear. How’s Tucker?”
Judd and Eva hunched over the phone, their heads bent, their shoulders touching. As they watched hotel guests come and go, they listened to Gloria’s low voice: “He hemorrhaged, so the doctors operated to reduce the pressure on his brain. They removed part of his skull. It’s apparently standard procedure when the brain swells a lot. They froze the piece of skull and hope to put it back in his head once he’s better.”
Eva took a deep breath. “That sounds ominous.”
“He came through the operation fine, and they’re watching him closely,” Gloria said noncommittally. “I know you want to keep in touch to find out how he is, but Bridgeman has declared war. He ordered me to notify Interpol to look for you. I haven’t done it yet, but I’ll have to pretty soon. He didn’t think to ask whether I’d heard from you, but it’s only a matter of time.”
“What will you say?” Judd asked. Will you lie for us?
“I don’t know. I’ve got to go. Stay safe.” And the line went dead.
Someone new had arrived at the registration desk. A short man with skin the color of dry mud, he wore a black baseball cap and a long white linen djellaba embroidered with black thread. He was speaking Arabic with the clerk. Judd was fluent, and Eva had been studying it. She heard the names Pyotr Azarov and Francesca Fabiano and something about suitcases. The desk clerk made a call. The man in the baseball cap turned to survey the room.
Judd stood up and reached his hand back to her. “Let’s go outside, honey, and get some fresh air. My arse is going bloody numb from waiting.”
“Hasn’t affected its fine shape, though,” she said brightly. Standing, she slid the straps of her straw bag up onto her left shoulder so her gun hand would be free.
They pushed through the doors into the cool air of evening. Taxis and pickups cruised past. They walked to the curb.
“What were they saying?” Eva whispered.
“His name is Hata, and he’s here to pick up Krot’s and his girlfriend’s luggage. They’re staying somewhere in the souk tonight.”
“Let’s bug his car so we can follow the luggage.” She dipped into her straw bag, took out a small case, and popped it
open. She offered him the microtransmitter that lay inside.
He waved it away. “It’s better if you do it. I’ll set you up.”
The glass door swung open, and Hata backed out, pulling a brass cart loaded with two roll-aboard suitcases, a valise, and a shopping bag. In three quick steps, Judd reached the door and held it open for him.
Eva heard him ask the man a question in Arabic—something about help you.
But Hata shook his head. “Mish be eed.” His car was not far away.
As Hata pushed the baggage cart off down the sidewalk, Judd ambled alongside. Hata barely reached Judd’s shoulder, but the short man’s stride was long, aggressive.
Eva followed. She heard Judd say “vacation” and “tourist.” He was asking which sights to see. Hata answered with few words, while Judd played the chatty Brit, gesturing and holding forth. Hata turned the cart toward a black Citroën parked with two tires up on the sidewalk.
Eva closed in, but there was still no way she could plant the bug without Hata’s seeing her.
Hata took out a key chain, touched a button with his thumb, and the door to the Citroën’s trunk lifted. He turned back to his cart just as Judd grabbed the shopping bag and one of the suitcases.
With breathtaking speed, Hata pulled a stiletto from inside his djellaba and aimed it at Judd’s heart. The needlelike point caught the lamplight and flashed.
“Thief, thief!” he bellowed in Arabic.
Judd backed up, talking quickly, still holding the suitcase and shopping bag as he led Hata away from the car.
Eva stepped off the curb and ran. Vehicles rushed past, spinning up dust.
Furious, Hata was dragging the cart after him, leaning forward, stiletto in hand, determined to strike. Judd kept dancing backward, balancing the suitcase and shopping bag, and spitting words out like a nail gun. From what she could understand, Judd was trying to convince Hata he should accept Judd’s help.
Brushing past the car’s rear fender, Eva pressed the bug low against the rear passenger window. As it slid down into the door frame and out of sight, she sprinted away. Hata’s and Judd’s dangerous dance had not slowed. She raised her chin, caught Judd’s eye, and nodded.
