Moroccan Traffic: Send a Fax to the Kasbah

by Dorothy Dunnett

She looked like a Mardi Gras grotesque. She was wrapped, as she always was, in clashing bright colours, and her hair stuck out from under her various headscarves, and her eyes were like Old English bottles. From the moment he began to come to, Johnson had treated her with absolute indifference. Now he dropped his hands to his knees and let them dangle. He looked terrible.

  ‘Who would want to take over Kingsley’s?’ he said. ‘You tell me, Mr. Morgan. Pymm’s American. He’s only attached himself to a Canadian subsidiary. When you and Miss Helmann meet Sir Robert tomorrow, it’s your American competitors you ought to be studying.’

  Miss Helmann. It had been Wendy, twice, in the warehouse.

  ‘Interfering bloody Wasp, aren’t you?’ Morgan said. He had coloured up, which I had begun to recognise as a mark of elation. He poured three more drinks and took another coffee to Johnson. ‘Are you telling us how not to be taken over?’

  ‘Why not?’ Johnson said. ‘The devil you know. Whoever takes over Kingsley’s might give MCG a tougher battle than you would.’

  ‘If Pymm was really the spy of a raider,’ said Morgan.

  ‘What else? Who else?’ Johnson said. He sat palming the coffee and watching not Morgan, but my mother. I couldn’t understand it. My mother coughed, and tapping her cigarette into her small, grasping paw, glanced at Mo. And as if invited, Mo Morgan answered.

  He said, ‘The fellow who’s trying to buy me.’

  Chapter 10

  ‘Buy you!’ Johnson exclaimed. It was the clearest thing he had managed to say since Essaouira. He said, ‘Who? How could anyone buy you? I thought Kingsley’s had tied you in with a funeral package? I thought they’d take you to court and strip you down to your paddock boots if you so much as re-read your contract?’

  In the respectful silence that followed, my mother heaved herself to her feet and rolled placidly in between chairs, folding Mo Morgan’s T-shirts and pairing his socks. She opened a drawer, tut-tutted and lifted out two Marks and Spencer shirts, heavily crumpled. She dropped them on the floor, capped all the spirit bottles and, opening the thermos, examined it and carried it over to Johnson who kindly allowed her to refill his mug. ‘The direct self-surgery of capital restructuring,’ she remarked. ‘Going for debt, to create added value for shareholders.’ Johnson lifted his eyes.

  I knew what she was saying. What Mr. Morgan had described was a buyout proposal. Someone was keen to persuade him to take his original company back from King Cong and rejoin the unquoteds. Privatise it again, in other words.

  And in one way, the lethargic Mr. Johnson was right. This was tricky territory. Mr. Morgan was stitched to Kingsley’s by an extremely tight contract involving a long term earn-out and all the usual measures. But sometimes – just sometimes – extraordinary ways could be found round that little problem. And the loss of Morgan’s division would be catastrophic for Kingsley’s, and twice as catastrophic if MCG also dodged us. The truly villainous element suddenly hit me. I said, ‘Does Sir Robert know about this? I don’t suppose that he does.’ I said it standing, and coldly.

  ‘Wendy?’ my mother said. ‘Managements’ buyouts is sensitive business. And we’re talking real product, not fruit-flavoured condoms and bubble baths. This is Mo, the cream of the microprocessor intelligentsia, building a personal juggernaut of research. He’s been approached to take himself out of Kingsley’s. He’s playing it cool: he won’t commit himself till he has his next meeting. The party who’s making the offer could be behind all them carpets, and Mo did the right thing when he warned you. And what will Sir Robert get? A personal feedback from you, Wendy, as soon as there’s something to tell.’

  She had prepared another broken-backed cigarette and was lighting it. It came to me that my mother and Mo Morgan had already spent the evening conducting an on-site seminar on Kingsley Conglomerates. Using three well-tried methods, I controlled my emotions. I said to Morgan, ‘May I put it this way? You are privy to your company’s secrets. To fail to report such an offer is a breach of your professional obligations.’

  ‘I swear,’ said Mo Morgan, fanning the smoke out of his way. ‘I swear I won’t tell the new figures to anyone, not even my shrink. Sweetheart, I’m not holding out on the Board. I just wanted to wait and see who the optimist was.’

  I stared at him. ‘You don’t know?’ I said.

  ‘Nope. I don’t know,’ said Morgan. ‘It could be General Electric, Lech Walesa or Junk Johnson here. Whichever, he or she is dealing through a third party.’

  ‘It seems to me,’ said Johnson, reviving vaguely, ‘that Mr. Morgan, in a way, has been rather crafty. Sir Robert will want to know who is wooing his long term meal ticket, and if we can keep it all quiet, there’s quite a good chance of finding out. Otherwise we’ll have to rely on seeing who kidnaps you next.’

  He was feeling momentarily better. I could see the spark, unimpeded by spectacles, in his eyes. It was not reassuring. ‘In any case,’ I said to Mr. Morgan, ‘you can’t go to the Mamounia meeting tomorrow. You’ve an interest in MCG now.’

  ‘Have I?’ said Mr. Morgan. Arm on chairback, he was twirling his pigtail, his glass-holding hand on his knee.

  Johnson said, warming, ‘Of course you have, don’t be silly. If you really plan to buy back your outfit, then your strategy will partly depend on whether Kingsley’s succeed against Rita.’

  I didn’t know he was capable of working that out. He added, ‘Unless you’re talking such megabucks that it wouldn’t matter what Kingsley’s short term cash flow might be?’

  ‘I’m not talking anything,’ Mo Morgan said. ‘But the sums mentioned have been fairly convincing. You mean I’m tainted?’

  ‘Polluted,’ said Johnson.

  ‘At least he tells you,’ said my mother complacently.

  ‘Yeah,’ said Mo Morgan, tilting his head. ‘Notice my broken arm? Watch these Helmann girls, buddy.’

  Johnson’s face, as once before, had relaxed its expression. I looked from Morgan to Johnson to my mother. I realised suddenly that if my mother hadn’t been there, I should probably have learned none of this. She was getting to be like my father. I said, ‘You think this isn’t serious?’

  ‘Now, Wendy,’ my mother said. She had packed Morgan’s two shirts in her handbag and a pair of old socks with big holes in them. She said, ‘Here are two babes in the world of finance. Mo needs them washing machines to support all his habits, and Mr. Johnson’s investing in redheads. He’d rather like Kingsley’s last quarterly totals, but he ain’t whipping your soles to extract them.’

  It was time to mention Company Ideals. I said to Mr. Morgan, ‘What about loyalty? You signed a paper. You took Kingsley’s money.’

  ‘There is that,’ said Mo Morgan. ‘All that caviar. All those yachts, all those dames, all those bikes. Who took the money?’

  ‘Don’t look at me,’ Johnson said. ‘I spend all my money on socks.’

  I couldn’t understand either of them. I wondered why Johnson’s face was still relaxed, and why my mother wasn’t gunning for them the way she gunned for me. I snapped, ‘Well, whoever your approach is coming from, I gather he’s a threat to the company secrets?’

  ‘Could be,’ said Mo Morgan.

  ‘So who’s your intermediary?’ I said.

  ‘Should I tell you all?’ Morgan said. ‘But you’ll pass it on to Sir Robert. Or Wendy will.’

  ‘No, she won’t,’ Johnson said. ‘She’ll keep the whole thing to herself until you’ve met your tempter again. Then you might find out who’s behind him. Or her.’

  I said, ‘I’m not going to keep anything to myself. If you don’t tell Sir Robert about this, then I will. Immediately.’

  ‘Then don’t tell her who the go-between is,’ Johnson said to Morgan. ‘Why are we having this conversation?’

  ‘Because it affects MCG,’ said my mother. ‘All right. I pass. I don’t wish to know who is suggesting this buyout. No more does the painter.’

  ‘I do,’ I said. I frowned at them, thinking. Morgan must have
met this unknown person in Morocco. He must have met him – or her – before yesterday, if my mother thought he – or she – could have caused today’s trouble at Essaouira. It was therefore someone who had access to Essaouira. Someone who frequented the places where Morgan stayed, or went visiting. Where did Morgan stay, apart from this place and the top of the Toubkal massif ?’

  I thought of a woman. A woman saying, We’ve taken a house in Marrakesh for the days between games. We took Dad to Asni, and met one of your men, Mr. Morgan. He’s coming to see Dad. I liked him.

  Muriel Oppenheim. Morgan had said nothing to Sir Robert or me about meeting the Oppenheims in Morocco.

  I said, ‘Mr. Morgan, which of them is the go-between? Mr. Oppenheim? Mrs. Oppenheim? Or Mr. Auld, her father? Or maybe all three?’ And this time, no one at all looked relaxed; even Johnson.

  Then Morgan grinned and said, ‘I deny all of it.’

  ‘You can’t,’ said Johnson flatly. ‘Or you fling Muriel and Jimmy Auld to the wolves. It can’t be either of them. So is it Oppenheim?’ He looked reasonably neutral, the way he’d looked when Kingsley’s blew up. Reasonably neutral, except for a single, small blister of anger.

  Morgan, gazing at him, had kept his pruning-slit grin. He said, ‘So you didn’t know. I wondered.’

  ‘I should hardly have had him on my boat if I had,’ said Johnson shortly. It came to me that perhaps Muriel’s friends had not all approved of her marriage. She had married her chief. Perhaps her life hadn’t been as wonderful as I thought.

  ‘But you know Oppenheim,’ Morgan said. ‘So whom do you think he may be acting for?’

  He could have asked that before, and he hadn’t. Of course, he hadn’t wanted me to hear Oppenheim’s name. And perhaps he really did think, before he fully realised what had happened today, that Oppenheim was acting for Johnson.

  Now Johnson said, ‘It would be very hard to find out anything Daniel Oppenheim didn’t want you to. He’s worked a long time in the City. He began life as a banker, and moved from that into insurance investment, and from there to a firm of corporate financial advisers. They looked after Kingsley’s, among other things. He probably advised when Kingsley’s bought you.’

  ‘He did,’ Morgan said. ‘He knows all about me. Is that ethical?’

  ‘Ethical? Since when are we talking soft values?’ said my mother. ‘So where does Mr. Daniel Oppenheim work now?’

  ‘Now he’s left to set up a financial consultancy on his own. He’s rich, he’s his own man; he puts through his own deals and isn’t responsible to anyone else. His client here could be anybody. Assuming, that is, that there is a major client. Do you really know?’ Johnson said, looking at Mr. Morgan. ‘Or is he simply offering to set up a bid vehicle and go for mezzanine debt anywhere handy?’

  Two babes in the world of finance.

  Morgan looked at him. Then he said, ‘I think there are big boys lurking somewhere. The sums involved would have to be large. Too large for most investors. Someone could end up with a good lump of equity. If so, I’d quite like to know who.’

  There was a silence. Then Johnson said, ‘I see. It might be someone benign, or it might not.’ He paused again, and said, ‘I’m sorry. I don’t propose to quiz Muriel.’

  ‘No,’ said Morgan. ‘Well, we shall see. Let’s keep it quiet until D. Oppenheim makes his second pitch. Agreed, Wendy? No need to set King Cong digging trenches and filling sandbags quite yet. Which reminds me. Teacher, may I go to the MCG meeting tomorrow? Honestly, I won’t misuse anyone’s figures.’

  He had a nerve. I said, ‘No! You don’t go to any meetings, Mr. Morgan. Not until the Chairman has heard what is happening.’

  Johnson was looking at Morgan as well. He said, ‘I think she’s right. Must you go to this meeting? I don’t mind, but if you do, I’d have to warn Rita. And Miss Helmann is going to tell all to Sir Robert.’

  ‘I’m interested,’ Mo Morgan said. ‘Wendy and I did a lot of work on those figures. And there’s another reason.’

  ‘What?’ I said sharply.

  ‘Security,’ Mo Morgan said. ‘I think Johnson is right. I think someone is specifically after you. You nearly got done over in Essaouira. It might have been Oppenheim who arranged it, or it might have been Pymm. But the fact is that you need to be guarded, and I don’t mean to leave it to Sullivan. Kingsley’s changed the place for the MCG meeting.’

  My mother knew. I could tell. ‘Not the Mamounia?’ I said.

  ‘No,’ said Morgan. ‘The Chairman has decreed, in his wisdom, that we have a working lunch at the Toubkal in Asni. One hour’s journey away.’

  It sounded like a weight-watcher’s recipe. Then I realised what it was. It was the hotel where Morgan had met Oppenheim.

  ‘Appropriate, isn’t it?’ said Mr. Morgan, printing out a small fiendish smile and distributing it among us. Johnson, who seemed to have peaked, had allowed himself to sink back among the pillows and failed to intercept it. ‘. . . So I shall take you to Asni tomorrow,’ announced Mr. Morgan. ‘I told you, you’ve got a room here for the night. Miss Smith of London, bed and breakfast. Nine o’clock on the floor: nine-thirty departure. Wear a veil.’

  Johnson turned his head. He looked irritated. ‘What’s the use of Miss Helmann wearing a veil if either Pymm or your bloody suitor is going to snatch her? They still want the new figures, even if you’re valiantly withholding them.’

  Mo Morgan sat back. He said, ‘You haven’t been listening. I, me, myself, will protect her.’

  ‘After Miss Helmann spills the considerable beans? After Bobs Kingsley kicks you out of the meeting? Cornbollocks,’ said Johnson.

  Morgan’s expression flattened. He said, ‘No one kicks me about. What about you?’

  Johnson gazed at him. He looked like an unshaven bean in a beanbag. He said, ‘Miss Helmann will tell him tomorrow everything that you have just said. Won’t you, Miss Helmann?’

  I looked at them all. I said, ‘Give me any good reason why I shouldn’t.’

  It was my mother who shook her head. She said, ‘Fellas, you’re up against all them courses. A whole seminar she went to, on Plugging the Leaks. Wendy, you stay here and sleep on it.’

  It seemed a reasonable enough request. I could see they were going to argue for ever. I promised I’d sleep on it.

  My mother rose to go back to the Hotel Golden Sahara. I took polite leave of Mr. Morgan and Sir Robert’s coked-out portrait painter having been offered, and refused, a Morgan T-shirt to sleep in. My mother picked up her bag full of washing and assured me she’d send me round a nice outfit early tomorrow. Her last words to Mr. Mo Morgan were: ‘You touch her, you marry her.’

  ‘I marry her, Doris, and you stick to stud rules,’ said Mr. Mo Morgan. ‘NFNF and no nonsense.’

  It sounded obscene, but my mother merely cuffed his ear lightly. I saw her out to the lift. On the way, she raised her leg-of-pork arm and ruffled my hair, her expression amused and forgiving and loving and insupportable. ‘You’re a Striver, Wendy,’ she said. ‘You’re an Achiever. You keep your eye on the gravy train, and leave all them nice men to me.’

  I pushed her in, and slammed the lift doors and hammered the button.

  I hate her.

  I went to my room. I waited. Then walking quietly out of the hotel, I took a petit taxi to the Hotel Mamounia.

  It looked just as it had before, with the twenty-four hour clocks set to the time of Rome and London and Paris, and roses floating in the light of the wall basins.

  Charity was out, as I’d hoped, and Sir Robert was dining with friends. I said I’d wait. I passed the mirrored pool and the white leather tub chairs and the marble reliefs and the snarling gold leopard leaping on the snarling gold camel and sat in the Moorish kiosk with the fountain, and in half an hour the clerk came to tell me that Sir Robert was back, and to lead me to the suite. The Chairman welcomed me himself, and asked my permission to leave off his jacket, which he had thrown over the sofa. He helped me take off mine.

 
; The room was restful, with pools of light from the table lamps, and gold and marble glimmering. There were fresh flowers, too, on the coffee table and in the comfortable rooms I could see beyond. There was no one else there.

  I knew him well after two years. I knew he didn’t want to talk business, not at first. He would ask, when he wanted to. So, when the time came, I began with the kidnapping at Essaouira. Then he chose to stand at the window and listen quietly to all I had to say, with the curtains undrawn and his eyes on the garden below. I wished I had seen him in the cricket field, on the tennis courts. For a big, solid man he always stood and moved well. I could smell cigar smoke from his shirt and a breath of some liqueur. He looked tired.

  At the end of the recital he turned. ‘I’m appalled. You should never have had to go through that. And no one knows who was responsible? Only that Pymm was the agent?’

  I said, ‘I believe Mr. Johnson’s version, I think. It wasn’t Rita Geddes. It might have been, through Pymm, an American predator. Or it might have been someone else, through Daniel Oppenheim.’

  He didn’t answer at once. When he did, his voice was very quiet. He said, ‘Oppenheim? What has he to do with this?’

  I felt I should stand, but I didn’t. I stayed, my hands clasped together. I said, ‘I’ve just found out. He and Mr. Morgan have been meeting. He has asked Mr. Morgan to consider buying himself and his team out of Kingsley’s.’

  ‘Financed how?’ Sir Robert said.

  ‘I don’t know,’ I answered. ‘Mr. Morgan doesn’t yet know.’

  ‘And Morgan has said?’

  ‘That he wants to hear more. There is to be another meeting between him and Mr. Oppenheim.’

  ‘How do you know this?’ said Sir Robert.

  ‘From Mr. Morgan. He wanted to warn me. I guessed the proposal was brought by Mr. Oppenheim, because his wife mentioned they’d met.’

  ‘And do you think Mr. Morgan will try to leave?’ said Sir Robert.

  I had thought about it. I said, ‘I don’t see how he can. I don’t know if he wants to. I think he’s intrigued, and would like to know who’s behind it. When he does, I think he’ll tell you. He’s odd, of course, but he means well, I think.’