Disorder (Sam Keddie thriller series Book 1) (14 page)

Chapter 37

Whitehall, London

The Cabinet Office Briefing Room A is a stuffy, windowless room in the bowels of a bland Whitehall building. It’s a place where selected Ministers, armed forces chiefs and emergency services heads are called in the event of a national crisis, whether caused by terrorism, extreme weather, a potential pandemic or other major emergencies.

   COBRA meetings were, as Philip Stirling knew all too well, often a complete waste of time, dragging professionals away from co-ordinating appropriate responses to gather with a group of politicians who were more concerned with their personal ratings than anything else. Many of the MPs, even those who’d previously visited the room, still couldn’t find the place and would hurry in late, gushing with apologies, brows glistening with sweat, having jogged up and down the gloomy corridors outside for ten minutes.

   That said, the media loved COBRA. If it was meeting, it meant the Government was taking something seriously. Today, it was in response to the diabolical weather that Northern Ireland had been having. Following torrential downpours, several towns had experienced severe flooding and the news had been full of Biblical imagery of bridges washed away and cows and sheep floating down high streets. Stirling had convened a meeting to which he’d invited the Home, Transport and Environment Secretaries and – because he knew the man would be asked if this event was due to global warming – the Energy and Climate Change Secretary. Also in attendance were the Head of the Marine and Coast Guard Agency and the Chief Constable of the Police Service of Northern Ireland (via a video link). Frears, ostensibly because of his knowledge of the military logistics involved in such a crisis, had also been summoned.

   In truth, Stirling did not give a crap how much Frears knew about erecting temporary bridges. He was here because the shit had hit the fan. The Guardsman had informed him, in a snatched and wholly inconclusive conversation in a hallway at Number 10, that Keddie and Eleanor Scott had survived their car crash in the Lakes.

   The Prime Minister sat impatiently while the professionals briefed the room and then the Ministers flexed their muscles, selfishly seeing the whole business from their own standpoint. Eventually he pressed for conclusions and, finally, drew the meeting to a close.

   ‘Could I have a word, Frears?’ he said, as the now red-faced attendees began filing out of the stifling room, all visibly grateful for the air in the corridor outside, which contained a degree more oxygen than the space they were leaving.

   Once the door was closed, he wasted no time. ‘It’s clear your men didn’t hang around long enough to ensure the job was done properly.’

   ‘It wasn’t safe to stay at the scene.’

  ‘What the hell were the two of them doing there?’ asked the PM, ignoring the proffered excuse.

   ‘We think they were sniffing around a hotel where Scott stayed with Jane Vyner.’

   Stirling was silent, mulling over the implications of this latest titbit.

   ‘So,’ he asked, ‘how do you intend to find them now?’

   Frears looked momentarily disorientated, a look that worried the PM greatly. The man had many annoying traits, not least his clipped intonation and ‘militarising’ of everything, but he always displayed a confident decisiveness. The thought of Frears not knowing what to do was truly worrying.

   ‘I’m making some calls,’ he said.

   ‘You do that.’

   The door closed behind Frears. Stirling began gathering up the papers in front of him, attempting to convince himself that he was still doing the job he’d been elected to do, rather than walking a tightrope over hellfire, which was how he now felt. He stopped for a moment, running his hands through his unruly locks.

   Outside in the corridor, his Cabinet Secretary and a couple of advisers were waiting. Right now, he couldn’t face them. He wanted to crawl under the table and weep. Surely, with Keddie and Eleanor Scott still alive, he was royally fucked. They now knew unequivocally that an attempt had been made on their lives. They were bound to go to the press.

   Stirling breathed in deeply. Proof. There was no proof that anyone had tried to kill them. And as for their presence in the Lakes, this suggested they were still some way off the truth.

   He moved towards the door. Before he left this ghastly building, he’d pause to visit the gents at the end of the corridor. He was finding it harder and harder to control his bowels. Gone forever was the smooth-operating politician who had risen, almost imperceptibly, to the top. He was now a physical wreck.

   Of course, Prime Ministers were allowed to look tired. But little did the people of Britain know, that the baggy eyed man at the helm was now fighting, not just for his political survival, but to avoid complete and utter annihilation.

Chapter 38

Marrakesh, Morocco

While they’d both experienced a sense of exhilaration as their plane surged down the runway and climbed into the grey September clouds and away from the UK, their arrival in Morocco quickly dispelled the optimism.

   The airport certainly felt European and familiar – a terminal of white steel latticework that could have been built by Richard Rogers, flights to places like Madrid, Paris, Brussels and Amsterdam – but what was happening on the ground seemed altogether less comforting. 

   Appearing like a wall in front of them, a large group of dark-suited men and their wives, all dressed head-to-foot in black robes, were trying to check in. Whatever was holding them up was causing enormous stress. A couple of the women were screaming in high-pitched voices while three of the men were involved in heated exchanges with airport staff.

   Sam and Eleanor passed through the group and then side-stepped a gang of teenaged Arabic girls standing by their bags. They were clad, by contrast, in tight jeans and midriff tops, but their young, thickly made-up faces seemed etched with the same tension.

   Beyond them was a group of Saudi businessmen in long white robes, red check scarves over their heads held in place with thick black cords. Although clearly together, they stood apart, each talking rapidly and with agitation into mobile phones.

   Watching over this scene were around forty policemen, armed and accompanied by restive sniffer dogs, agitating at the ankles of passing passengers.

   Outside, Sam and Eleanor caught a cab and were soon hurtling down a near-deserted highway towards the city. The driver had one hand on the wheel while the other held a cigarette at an open window. The back of the car was filled with warm, dusty and tobacco-tainted air. The radio was on – a jaunty African pop song coming out of tinny speakers in the back of the car. Worry beads hanging from the rear-view mirror swung with the car’s motion. The driver did not speak a word for the whole journey.

   The Sofitel, where they’d decided to stay, merely confirmed Sam’s sense of alienation. They were the only Europeans in the reception area, an atrium dominated by a marble fountain and Islamic motifs on the walls and ceiling. North African businessmen in suits huddled around the fountain speaking in hushed tones. A group of black men in jeans and football shirts were checking out, sullen expressions on their faces. The one suggestion that there was a world beyond North Africa was the tune the hotel pianist was playing, which Sam recognised as a very slow version of
Raindrops keep falling on my head
.

   Finally, once a stressed-looking receptionist had booked them in and given them their keys, they were travelling in a lift to the eighth floor, alone in their thoughts.

   Their room was airless and stuffy. Sam slid open the French doors that led on to the balcony. The sound of a siren gathering strength and a distant muezzin call filled the room. Below were the hotel’s pool and gardens, beyond that a cluster of other large hotels. Sam’s eyes looked further into the distance. It was as if the city unfurled before him, a vast sea of rooftops cluttered with washing lines, water tanks and satellite dishes stretching into the distance.

Chapter 39

Marrakesh, Morocco 

It was Eleanor, sitting on the bed poring over a map she’d picked up in reception, who dragged Sam back into the moment.

   ‘La Mamounia is just round the corner.’

   Sam took one last look at the cityscape before him, then turned to Eleanor. ‘In which case now is as good a moment as any to start asking questions. If our arrival here has been noticed by our friends in the UK, then time’s pressing.’

   Eleanor disappeared into the bathroom then re-emerged minutes later, drying her face. She dropped the towel on the bed then paused, closing her eyes briefly, as if summoning strength for the next stage.

   As they walked through the foyer past reception, the woman who’d checked them in called out, urging caution.

   ‘Because of the riots,’ she added, when she saw Sam and Eleanor’s puzzled faces.

   It was late afternoon in Marrakesh, the sun still beating down hard on the city. Sam felt himself beginning to sweat, his body unaccustomed to the sudden leap of mercury.

   The streets had an eerie calm to them. Just as on the road into the city, there were only a handful of cars on the move. Sam and Eleanor passed several cafés where the scene was the same – men seated at tables, their shisha pipes and coffee cups abandoned as they stared at television screens.

   Watching over the streets from above, on huge banners, was the face of the King. Sam dimly recalled coverage of riots in Morocco in 2011 before events in Libya, Egypt and Syria became the dominant stories of the Arab Spring. He had a sense that protests had been met with more restraint than in other countries – and there’d been enough promise of reform that things had calmed. But the omnipresent face of the monarch was a reminder that one family still dominated life here. Sam also remembered how both the US and UK were said to have farmed out the interrogation of terrorist suspects to the Moroccans, who were, it was alleged, less squeamish about using torture to extract information. The image Sam had in his mind was of an iron fist in a velvet glove, an impression compounded by the palpable tension on the streets.

   Inside La Mamounia, the entrance reached through a large gate in the walls of the medina, the staff were doing their level best to dispel the unease outside in the city. Sam and Eleanor walked into a grand, air-conditioned lobby of Islamic
horseshoe arches, marble flooring and vast blood-red sofas.
In the background, soft musak – laced with some hint of North Africa – filtered out of concealed speakers. The clientele was mainly Arab, men in well-cut suits seemingly immune to the tense world beyond the hotel’s walls.

   Neither Sam nor Eleanor had discussed how they were going to approach this. Suddenly Eleanor took the lead, marching up to reception where a man in a black jacket greeted her with a warm, five-star smile.

   ‘Hello Madam,’ he said. ‘How can I help you?’

   ‘My father came here recently. Charles Scott.’

   The receptionist’s eyes lit up. It was as if Eleanor had just mentioned the name of a favourite uncle. ‘Of course,’ he said, beaming. ‘How is your father?’

   ‘I’m afraid he died,’ she said. ‘He committed suicide.’

   Christ, thought Sam. She isn’t pulling any punches.

   No amount of corporate hospitality training could prevent the man’s face from falling. ‘Oh,’ he said. ‘I am very sorry.’

   Eleanor placed both hands on the dark, highly polished wood of the reception desk. ‘I wonder if you can help me.’

   The man’s head tipped to one side sympathetically. ‘Of course.’

   ‘Morocco was one of the last places he visited. Do you remember anything strange about his time here?’

   The man shifted on his feet. ‘Your father was not a guest here, just a delegate at a seminar. The people at these meetings – they go into a room at 9 o’clock. We take them lunch at midday. They come out at the end of the day. We really didn’t see much of him.’

   ‘What about the meetings he was attending?’

   The man smiled uncomfortably, saying nothing.

   Eleanor’s hands tensed. ‘I’m sorry, but the way you remembered him suggested that you knew him better.’

   ‘He was a good man, and I am very sorry for your loss. But as I have said, he was not a guest here. So no, I do not remember him well.’

   Eleanor walked away, slumping in one of the sofas, her head in her hands.

   Sam left her alone for a moment, moving away from reception down a broad corridor. By a door on his left there was an artfully rusted plaque etched with the words ‘Le Français’. Sam looked inside. It was a restaurant, with starched white table-clothes and swathes of heavy fabric framing the windows. Just two tables were occupied. Sam moved on. The next door opened on to a more informal restaurant, with subdued lighting and dark walls, again barely inhabited. Further on down the corridor were more doors – one to a hamman, which was closed, another to a ballroom, which was ajar. Sam eased it open and found himself in a vast area, its ceilings hung with huge chandeliers. A woman in a white tabard was guiding a floor polisher, the machine slowly inching across the acreage of marble.

  Sam then tried a door opposite. This room was slightly smaller but still, he guessed, capable of holding around 200. As many seats were stacked in one corner. He could easily imagine the chairs arranged in a square and Charles Scott sitting on one side with his British team. But discussing what – and to what effect? Had what happened in these anonymous-looking rooms really been so significant that a Minister would commit suicide and the Government would kill innocent people? Sam stared at the bland décor, the huge framed photographs of what he guessed was the souk in the 1920s, with French policemen in white uniforms moving among locals dressed in djellabas.

   ‘Hey,’ said Eleanor behind him, startling Sam. ‘What have you found?’

   Sam sighed. ‘Empty rooms.’

   ‘I think we need something to drink. I’m kind of spun out.’

   Sam took another look at the photos on the wall. ‘Let’s go to the souk,’ he said. ‘Be tourists for a change.’

   They took a cab from outside the hotel up to the Djemma el Fna. Sam had an image in his mind of a place packed with dancers, acrobats, snake charmers and countless food stalls. What greeted them was anything but.

   Bar a couple of calèches – the horse-drawn carriages that took tourists on tours of the city – the square was deserted. Around its edges the bars and cafés were all closed, their shutters drawn. A handful of shops had remained open, but trade was clearly not good. Boxes of cucumbers, tomatoes, mint and peppers were stacked high outside a grocer. The shopkeeper stood pensively in the doorway, drawing hard on a cigarette. The frontage of a hardware store – jammed with pots, pans and a huge selection of Tupperware in every colour – seemed more like armour than goods to sell.

   They paid the driver, who was then gone, accelerating away as if the place were cursed.

   Sam and Eleanor moved across the square in a slight trance. They passed one calèche, the horse’s weeping eyes thick with flies. In the carriage, his owner sat sullenly, staring into the middle distance.

   A figure they hadn’t noticed from the cab window now approached. He wore faded jeans and a dirty green t-shirt, and carried a small monkey on a chain.

   ‘Take picture with monkey,’ he said.

   Sam lifted the palm of his hand in response but, in the absence of any other tourist, the monkey man seemed disinclined to give up, moving right into their path. He repeated his terse sales pitch. Sam and Eleanor sidestepped the man and tried to continue on but he was quickly at their side. The monkey made a hissing sound and bared its teeth in a snarl.

   Eventually Sam turned to the man and barked ‘No!’

   The man stared Sam hard in the face, a look of venom in his eyes, and started spouting an angry barrage of Arabic, his free hand gesticulating violently. Then, admitting defeat, he walked away, muttering to himself.

    Shaken, Sam led Eleanor on across the square, eventually reaching its north eastern corner. There they stopped and turned, Sam relieved that the monkey man hadn’t followed them. Now, apart from the calèche drivers, who were being given an ear-bashing by the monkey man, the only other figure in the square was a man in a black leather jacket who appeared engrossed in the window of a closed patisserie.

   ‘Shall we move on, see if we can find anything open in the souks?’ Sam suggested.

   Eleanor nodded listlessly.

   They progressed up a broad cobbled avenue and moments later, the light and heat were partially extinguished as a slatted metal roof cut out all but narrow shafts of sunlight, beams in which thousands of tiny dust specks danced.

   Just a handful of places were open, shops cluttered with colourful kaftans, scarves and richly embroidered shirts. But there was little sign of the pestering sales techniques the souk was famous for. The shopkeepers sat subdued in front of their stalls, the sight of two foreigners failing to ignite even a glimmer of a pitch.

   As they moved on through the souk, Sam glanced back and noticed the man in the black leather jacket, about 30 metres behind. On seeing Sam, the man suddenly looked away to study a shop display. Sam tensed. He exhaled, dismissing his paranoia and the idea that anyone could be following them out here.

   After a couple of minutes the darkness intensified as they moved into a narrower alleyway in which the sunlight barely registered. The few open shops here sold leather goods – wallets, backpacks, handbags and purses that were hung in floor-to-ceiling displays, filling the air with a dense and cloying smell of hide and polish.

   ‘I need to find a bar or café,’ Eleanor said. ‘Somewhere to sit down.’

   Sam happened to look behind and saw the man again. He was still the same distance away and was staring right at them. When he caught Sam’s eyes he looked away again. A sickeningly familiar feeling returned to the pit of Sam’s stomach. This was no longer a coincidence. They were being followed, again.

  
Sam grabbed Eleanor’s hand. ‘Don’t panic,’ he said. ‘But when I say run, run.’