Disorder (Sam Keddie thriller series Book 1) (21 page)

Chapter 56

Marrakesh, Morocco 

With the door closed, Sam wasted no time, mounting Maalouf’s chair to see what had turned the giant so pale. Unlike the other dusty windows, this one was clear, and Sam knew in an instant what he was watching. Below was a section of broad avenue, seen between two buildings. The street was thronged with the same marchers they’d left earlier that day. They were visibly angrier, chanting, fists raised in unison.

   Sam wondered why, given the protest’s proximity, they hadn’t heard the noise more clearly. And then he understood. The windows were sealed tight, the room’s dark business not for others to hear.

   ‘It’s the march,’ Sam said.  ‘Looks like it’s getting nasty.’

   ‘Oh Christ,’ he said, his voice hushed.

   Eleanor had dragged another chair over and joined him at the small window. Seconds later, they watched as cannisters flew through the air, landing in the crowd.

  ‘Tear gas,’ muttered Sam.

   Thick plumes of white smoke poured from the disturbed canisters, diffusing lazily into the still, humid air.

   The effects of the gas were soon terrifyingly evident. There was a sudden surge, as those affected by the fumes pushed backwards away from the source of the smoke. Sam and Eleanor watched in horror as the people behind them began to compress with this surge. It was clear that the sheer weight of their number meant there was little room to accommodate the new movement.

   ‘Someone’s going to be crushed,’ said Eleanor.

   Whichever force had shot tear gas into the crowd, now engaged water cannons. High-pressure jets hit the protestors, knocking already panicked and disorientated people to the ground, as if the intention was simply to scrub the streets clean of dissent.

   ‘But they’ve got nowhere to go,’ said Eleanor, her voice choked with emotion.

   They heard a muffled screaming as chaos took hold. Those at the front were continuing to drive backwards away from the tear gas and water cannons.

   Soon more people lost their footing. Sam and Eleanor saw an elderly man, distinct in his white robes, drop down and then a wave of people move over where he’d fallen. A woman fell too, only to be pulled up again by two men.

   Despite the insulation of the room, a dull cracking sound penetrated its windows, sending a shudder through Sam and Eleanor. It was the unmistakable noise of gunfire.

Chapter 57

Marrakesh, Morocco 

Sam and Eleanor stood frozen at the small window, convinced they’d see bodies fall to the ground. But it appeared the shots were either fired over heads, or rubber bullets.

   Some easing of the crowd behind meant that the fleeing protestors moved more quickly. But what was left in their wake made Eleanor sharply intake breath, a hand cupping her mouth in horror.

   Sam counted about twenty bodies. There was the old man in his now dirtied white robes; a woman, perhaps in her thirties, her neck twisted at an unnatural angle. The rest seemed to be young men. Faces bloodied.

   Among the bodies were scores of discarded placards. Sam strained his eyes at them, then drew back as he recognised the all-too-familiar image. The Berber girl, lying with those who’d marched in her name.

   Eleanor stepped off the chair, stumbling as her feet touched the floor. She slumped to the ground, her back to the wall, knees drawn into her chest. Sam dropped down beside Eleanor, pulling her to him and wrapping his arm around her shoulder.

Chapter 58

Marrakesh, Morocco 

Hours passed. At one point, the door opened and an unshaven man with thick eyebrows that met above his nose brought food and two glasses of water on a tray. Sam saw the man scan the room in mild alarm, before he noticed them on the ground.

   They downed the water but couldn’t face the food, a plate of stale pitta breads and an indecipherable dip with a hard, dark skin on the top.

   The sun moved round the side of the building, the room taking on a gloomy pall. Neither of them spoke, the images they’d witnessed replaying in their minds.

   Just after 6pm – Sam had just checked his watch – the door opened and Maalouf returned.

   He dragged the seats from under the window, urging them to sit down. Sam and Eleanor eased themselves off the floor, then sat. Opposite them, Maalouf rubbed his face with his hands. When he looked up, he seemed to have visibly aged, the plump bags under his small eyes were swollen, the lines between the meaty creases of his forehead furrowed and dark.

   ‘You saw what happened,’ he said. ‘The march got out of hand. People have died.’

   Eleanor and Sam stared at the large man, too numb to speak

   ‘Believe me, it was not as bad as it could have been,’ said Maalouf. ‘But unless this can be resolved, they will be back, angrier than ever. And more will join them. Whatever you think of the Government of my country, you can see that this benefits no one.’

   The door opened again and Badaoui stepped into the room. Unlike his colleague, the slight man seemed to have been invigorated by the time that had passed. Sitting next to Maalouf, his eyes were bright and he seemed bursting to impart his new knowledge.

   They briefly conferred in Arabic, Badaoui’s excitable voice dominating the exchange. At one point Badaoui gestured towards Sam and Eleanor and muttered a question. Maalouf dismissed the query with an irritated swat of one of his substantial hands.

   The matter – Sam suspected it was about sharing this new information with them – was settled and Badaoui turned to face them.

   ‘We now know,’ he said, ‘that, in addition to Philip Stirling, his wife also remained in the restaurant all night, so we must eliminate them from our enquiries. We have analysed the prints we took from the conference table at the ministry. Of those in the restaurant that night, we have, as yet, no matches for the murder weapon.’

   ‘“As yet”?’ asked Maalouf, barely containing his impatience.

   ‘Two sets of prints remain unaccounted for,’ said Badaoui. He paused a beat, at which point Sam thought Maalouf would grab the man and fling him across the room like a rag doll.

   ‘Two men,’ said Badaoui finally. ‘Charles Scott. And Aidan Stirling, the Prime Minister’s son.’

   Eleanor glanced at Sam, the look of trauma in her eyes now replaced by blind panic, as she came face-to-face with the prospect of her father being labelled a killer. Meanwhile, Maalouf’s face barely registered a jot. The prospect of either men – even the British Prime Minister’s son – being guilty was not even worthy of a raised eyebrow.  

   Badaoui was now explaining in laborious detail how, in all likelihood, Scott’s fingerprints had probably been wiped clean from the conference table while Aidan of course had not attended any of the meetings. Maalouf was barely listening.

   Sam felt Eleanor’s pain, but he was also stunned at the new name in the frame. Save for Eleanor’s memories, he knew little of the PM’s son. Aidan Stirling seemed to live a quiet life out of the public eye. He was, Sam seemed to remember, a designer, or perhaps an architect.

   Maalouf’s voice interrupted his thoughts. ‘If we are to pursue this line of enquiry to its logical end and, God willing, find our man, we must have those two sets of prints.’

   He cleared his throat. ‘You can get us evidence of your father’s prints?’

   Eleanor nodded imperceptibly, Sam unsure whether she’d actually agreed. Despite Maalouf’s plea for both sets of prints, Sam wondered whether her cooperation was even really necessary. The prospect of a dead killer was, again, all too convenient, particularly when the alternative was Stirling’s son.

   ‘What about Aidan Stirling?’ said Badaoui.

   Maalouf’s silence said it all. For Moroccan secret service, such a figure would be impossible to gain access to.

   ‘Leave that to me,’ said Eleanor.

   Sam looked over at her. Eleanor’s face had reddened, the eyes were blazing. She might have had fond memories of Aidan, but she was going to give her father a fair hearing, with all the evidence available.

   ‘You said you knew him?’ said Maalouf.

   ‘That’s right.’ Eleanor’s face was tightly set.

   ‘Then we leave this with you. Get the prints to the Moroccan embassy in London. Leave the rest to us.’

   Sam was suddenly aware of the gear shift, their virtual imprisonment now about to end.

   ‘You look concerned, Mr Keddie,’ said Maalouf. Sam noticed the gap between what had been said and the tone of voice that had accompanied it, one wholly lacking in any empathy.

   ‘I’m a little worried about our safety in the UK.’

   ‘Get this done swiftly and you’ll soon be safe,’ said Maalouf, virtually sneering at Sam’s concern.

   Sam was unconvinced.  

  ‘Think of the attempts on your life in the UK and here,’ Maalouf said, a note of exasperation in his voice. ‘They are discreet, deniable, meant to look like accidents or the work of a petty criminal. Few people involved. No questions. That’s what they want.’

   ‘But they know we’re here. Do you think they’ll just let us re-enter the UK?’

   ‘The last thing they want is for you to be processed by the police,’ said Maalouf. He paused for a moment, as if a thought had suddenly occurred to him.

   ‘But just to be safe,’ he said, ‘we will get our Tunisian friend to contact his handlers. Tell them his job is done. And one other precaution may be necessary.’

   Maalouf then turned to Badaoui and, in Arabic, started firing off what sounded like instructions. It was as if Sam and Eleanor were no longer in the room. Sam suddenly realised that, in one respect, they weren’t. They were now simply pawns in a game.

Part III

Chapter 59

Downing Street 

‘Enchantée de faire votre connaissance, Madame,’ stumbled Stirling, his French far from slick.

   The French President’s wife didn’t seem to mind, giggling nervously and offering him a coy smile. In truth, she was not a patch on the previous incumbent, but with her slightly rounded behind and short legs, she was somehow far more human. And besides, Stirling was positively brimming with bonhomie, in love with life and indeed with everyone he spoke to.

   The reception was in the Pillared State Room, its walls of cheery yellow matching his frothy mood. It was the first meeting between Stirling and his French counterpart, a deliberately light affair designed to confirm that, with their countries’ long established friendships, the two leaders were already pals.

   Stirling salivated at the prospect of the forthcoming lunch. The fact that his appetite had returned was a sure sign that life was back on track after the nightmare of the past days.

   They were drinking a sparkling wine from the Camel Estuary in Cornwall with their canapés, before moving into the State Dining Room for a lunch of potted shrimp, rare Aberdeen Angus beef and new potatoes, finished off with a pudding of raspberries and cream.

   Stirling was feeling as enthusiastic about the British food the chef was showcasing as he was about Britain itself. There really was no finer country to govern.  Now that Keddie and Eleanor Scott were no longer in the way – as confirmed by Frears that morning – he could get on with the job he was elected to do. The negotiations with Morocco would, in all likelihood, come to nothing – the place was simply too volatile for the project they’d discussed – but maybe that was a lesson. Domestic issues were clearly where his energies should be directed.

    They were being summoned to lunch. He watched Charlotte link arms with the President. The French leader was clearly charmed by this tall dark woman, a sharp contrast to his shorter, more rotund wife.

   He marvelled at the journey Charlotte had made. Her current role would have been unthinkable just a few years back.

   He studied her briefly as she exited the room, the straight line of glossy dark hair against the pale skin of her neck, her strong, broad back, firm athletic arse and long shapely legs. God, was he getting turned on by his wife again?

   He followed Charlotte’s example and linked arms with the President’s wife. She giggled again. He’d watched her necking the sparkling wine and was fairly certain the woman was well on her way to being pissed. Marvellous, he thought. She was, like him, only human. How he’d beaten himself up about everything that had happened since that fateful night in Marrakesh. How unnecessary that had been. After all, we were all flawed in some way.

Chapter 60

Biggin Hill, London

The jet taxied to a standstill before a small terminal building. From the window, through a veil of drizzle, Sam saw Canary Wharf in the distance.

   A moment later, a car sped towards them, the side of the vehicle emblazoned with the words ‘HM Customs and Immigration’.

   The steps of the jet were lowered and a member of the cabin crew met the vehicle, handing two passports to the driver.

   Maalouf, who had accompanied Sam and Eleanor on the flight from Marrakesh, explained what was about to happen.

   ‘As far as that man out there is concerned, you are a Moroccan diplomat and his wife. This means you are granted unimpeded entry into the UK. You will not be required to pass through the immigration building out there. Once those passports have been examined, a car will draw alongside the plane and you will be free to go.’

   They’d heard this twice already. It was clear that Maalouf was now feeling anxious. In his airless interrogation room in Marrakesh, he was in charge and could talk with ease about a hypothetical operation on foreign soil. But now they were actually in the UK, Maalouf’s discomfort, his obvious desire to extricate himself from any further involvement, was plain to see. Sam had no doubt that foreign powers did all sorts of things undercover in London, but getting caught up, however indirectly, in an operation that targeted the son of the British Prime Minister would be a diplomatic disaster. He and Eleanor were on their own from here on.

   The HM Customs and Immigration vehicle was driving away and now a dark Mercedes was heading towards the plane. As the vehicle stopped alongside, Maalouf stood, offering his hand to both of them. His face had returned to normal – utterly devoid of emotion.

   ‘Good luck,’ he said.

   Sam drew no comfort from the words.
Christ,
he
thought
, this man is the nearest thing we have to an ally. And he can’t get away fast enough
.

   Eleanor was off the plane first. She wore a knee-length skirt and jacket, her thick hair contained in a hijab in case anyone happened to be watching too closely from the terminal building. Sam was down the steps next, wearing a black suit, his face covered with a dark baseball cap.

   The door of the Mercedes closed with a soft but heavy thud. The car moved past a series of hangars – the huge doors of one open to reveal a black helicopter and the sleek white lines of a private jet not dissimilar to the one they’d arrived on – then a car park filled with high-end vehicles, before speeding out of the airport’s exit.

   There was no relief at their safe re-entry into the UK. All Sam could see was the challenge ahead, something he and Eleanor had run through on the flight back.

   Eleanor planned to use her father as an excuse for getting in contact with Aidan Stirling. As Aidan’s godfather, Charles Scott had seen him regularly over the years. Eleanor had concluded that it was perfectly logical to ask Aidan whether he could spare some time, maybe over a drink in a bar or pub, to reminisce. It was then a question of discreetly removing the glass he’d drunk from.

   It was, as Sam had repeatedly said, an incredibly risky plan. What if Aidan Stirling was a killer? What if the people who’d so ruthlessly hounded them also minded him? What if, in contacting him, she alerted them?

   But Eleanor’s blood was up. Time after time on the plane she talked of what they’d seen from the interrogation room window.

   ‘People died,’ she said. ‘And unless we act, more will. I have to do this, Sam. Not just for the Moroccans, but for myself. I have to prove Dad wasn’t a murderer. And all we need is a glass.’

   A glass, thought Sam. But what if Eleanor was captured? And even if Sam did then manage to get the glass – and it provided proof of Aidan’s guilt – would that be enough to guarantee Eleanor’s release?

   The Mercedes was slowing to a halt. Sam had asked to be taken to King’s Cross so that they could book into the same anonymous bed & breakfast where he’d holed up when this nightmare had first erupted. 

   They stepped out on to the pavement, a chill wind hitting them both in the face. The drizzle that had greeted them at Biggin Hill was now a steady rain.

   The car sped off with indifference, joining a busy stream of morning traffic on the Euston Road. People spilled by them, heads down to avoid the elements. Sam took Eleanor’s hand and led her down a side street.

   A little later, in a small, dark room that overlooked the pipework and windows of the back of another building, they stood just inside the door, holding each other tight. The weight of the task ahead had been momentarily suspended when the door closed and Eleanor dropped her bag, wrapping her arms around Sam. There was a pause and then she looked up at him. The eyes Sam had got to know so well in the past days – dark pools set in delicate, gently freckled skin still pale despite the intensity of the Moroccan sun – bore into him. The previous night, exhausted after their ordeal with Maalouf and Badaoui, they had collapsed fully clothed on the hotel bed and not moved till morning. Now, as if a precious opportunity had presented itself, Eleanor kissed Sam. He felt her tongue in his mouth, her breasts pressed against his chest and would have loved nothing more than to cast aside the task ahead, and escape with her into the warm haven of the bed. But the job that needed to be done hung over the room like a black cloud and, a moment later, a tacit agreement passed between them, and they peeled apart.

   Eleanor phoned home and spoke to Jill, Wendy’s carer. In addition to passing on the message that she was now home from her trip and would be back by the weekend for her father’s funeral – and at this, Sam tensed, hoping to God that Eleanor was right – she asked Jill to root out her father’s address book in the study. In it, Eleanor said, Jill would find a mobile number for Aidan Stirling.

   There was a pause, and then Jill returned to the phone. Sam watched Eleanor’s long fingers, the nails gnawed to the core, as they scribbled down the number on a scrap of paper. She then thanked Jill, and hung up.

   ‘Right,’ she said, her voice tight and breathless. ‘No time like the present.’

   Her fingers were trembling as they pressed the keys of her mobile.

   ‘Oh hi,’ she suddenly said, ‘this is Eleanor Scott, Charles’s daughter.’

   It was clear from her tone that she was leaving a message. Sam’s shoulders dropped a fraction.

   ‘I realise it’s been a long, long time.’ She laughed slightly at this, clearly as much from nerves as from the effort of sounding light and breezy, ‘but I was wondering if we might get together for a drink. It’s kind of hard to explain on the phone, but I guess I just want to talk to people who knew Dad. Anyhow, if you’re free, and you can spare a bit of time to meet, it would be lovely to see you. Here’s my number.’

   She repeated the number for good measure, then hung up, collapsing on to the bed.

   Ten minutes later, her phone began to ring.