Moroccan Traffic (41 page)

‘Before he knew you were leaving him? Or perhaps, even then, did he suspect?’ the man said. ‘Mr. Oppenheim, you have not been the most adept of agents. Even your amateur rival Mr. Pymm is still alive, and has had you attacked with impunity. It might have been better for you if his marksman’s aim had been accurate. I do not enjoy wasting money and time.’

I felt sick. What he said was criminally threatening. Oppenheim’s face had become blank. Beside me, Morgan suddenly slid his arm down mine and took my hand, hard.

‘My dear sir,’ Oppenheim said, ‘you have wasted neither. You will pay no high price for the company. And your income will more than repay your outlay.’

‘My income from Morgan,’ said Mr. B. repressively. He looked at Morgan and then said something short and violent-sounding in Arabic. Morgan replied. The Arab turned towards the table and Oppenheim. He said, ‘It seems that even there, your calculations have gone amiss. The man is an Arab who does not wish to work for his fellow-countrymen.’

‘Without me, he can’t leave,’ Oppenheim said. He held his bandaged arm as if it was paining him.

‘It seems he can,’ said the Arab with continuing calmness. He studied the Fax, his cigarette held between two fingers. ‘According to this, the British Government are about to remove Mr. Morgan and his team from Kingsley Conglomerates.’

‘I don’t believe it,’ said Oppenheim.

‘That there has been a leak? That is apparent. I am hardly concerned with the source. I am only concerned that, at this ultimate stage, my investment has come to nothing. It means, of course, that Kingsley’s are ruined. There would be no question now, Mr. Oppenheim, of our using your services. And Mr. Morgan, I suspect, is threatened with an unhappier future than any of us. A suspicious government, Mr. Morgan, can be more restrictive than a private and generous employer. You would have been wiser and richer, all of you, to have settled for what you were offered. As it is. . .’

He nodded briskly. The two Arabs at the table rose. Sir Robert made to do likewise, and was discouraged by a hand gently pressed on his shoulder. Oppenheim remained where he was. I stood, my hand crushed in Morgan’s. At the beginning, he had flashed me a look, but I had no answer to give him. None of this was part of any plan that I knew of.

‘As it is,’ said Mr. B., ‘none of you can now bring me profit, and all of you could be an embarrassment – Mr. Morgan, of course, in particular. In the present nadir of your fortunes, you may find it a positive comfort to relinquish all responsibility for the future. Omar!’

The secretary had only to run from his own room next door.

Beneath the Arab’s grasp, Sir Robert tried to start up. Oppenheim’s strapped chest heaved and he gave a whistling cough. Morgan, so close to me, began to move, and then stopped.

Omar failed to answer the summons because it didn’t reach him, broken as it was into a whisper. Round Mr. B.’s chest, a creased djellabah arm prevented him from moving. And below Mr. B.’s hair, a business-like revolver was pressed hard at his temple. I knew how he felt.

‘I read about this in a book,’ Johnson said. ‘Tell them to do what I say, or I shoot. Naughty bits first. And remember, Morgan knows Arabic.’

The pinioned Arab, his eyes slewed, looked at the screen behind, and then at his captor. He didn’t waste effort. ‘Who are you?’

‘The late Johnson,’ said Johnson. ‘Go on, tell them.’ He seemed the way I had left him, but with his hood back and his bifocals bland as a sneeze-counter. He waited until the Arab started to speak, and then, rummaging one-handed through the desk, brought out a small, handsome gun, which he tossed to Morgan. Morgan’s face was inflated with happiness. ‘Oh, my God,’ he said. Oppenheim and Sir Robert stayed where they were, stiff as waxworks.

‘Right,’ said Johnson, and prodded his captive. ‘Tell your colleagues to face the wall and lift up their arms. Morgan, search them.’

The two Arabs hesitated and did what they were told. Morgan, patting them, came up with another revolver.

‘Give it to Kingsley. Can you use it?’

‘Yes,’ said Sir Robert. He had risen. ‘You pretended to die.’

‘Of course; it was a lot of damned trouble. Daniel—’

‘You’re alive,’ Oppenheim said. ‘Great God, JJ. . .’ There were actually tears in his eyes. He said, ‘When he picked up the phone . . . I know him. . . He was phoning for help. There’ll be eight men outside these two doors. Give me the gun. I’ll distract them. Take the others and run.’

‘It won’t wash, Daniel,’ Johnson said. ‘As has been said. Were those your boxer shorts? Never mind. Whatever you’re going to say, you can say to someone else, preferably when hanging up by your thumbs in the Channel Tunnel. Go and stand with the rest by the wall. Wendy, get down under the table. Morgan, will you cover the door to Omar’s room? Kingsley, the one to the corridor. And now,’ – in French, to the man in his grasp – ‘call Omar again. Loudly. And only his name.’

The lord of the kasbah had a face to save, too. He called Omar’s name. He had begun, rapidly, to say something else in Arabic when Morgan’s gun fired, and he gasped. The wound was in his arm, and superficial. But at the sound of the shot, the door to the passage and the door to the office both burst open.

There were four guards at each, as Oppenheim had predicted. Hovering behind, in the office, was Omar. They saw the revolvers, and their chief in Johnson’s grasp, and they began to spread, their hands to their sides. It was Mr. B., one hand clutching his arm, who shouted at them to stop and Morgan who repeated, in Arabic, the instruction to throw down their guns, or they would have no employer.

For a moment they hesitated; but another hiss from their lord made them do it. The weapons clattered. Morgan, his eyes watchful, went to collect them. Johnson prodded the man in his grasp. ‘Tell them to line up with the others, moving slowly.’ His gaze, too, was running over the room. Crouched on the floor, I saw the feet treading heavily, and then beyond them, a movement much swifter.

Johnson must have seen it as well. I heard his gun fire, and a moment later, a slight figure dropped to one knee in the doorway. The secretary. The Val Dresden of the establishment. I peered up at Johnson. He had turned the gun back to his captive and the man gasped as the muzzle touched his skin. ‘Anyone else?’

No one spoke. Johnson said, ‘I am going to give you orders in French. After that, Mr. Mirghani will repeat them in Arabic. I want you to listen carefully. The gunfire will have been heard. When we leave here, you are hoping for help from your colleagues. There will be none. They are leaving the kasbah. What I am about to tell you will enable you too to escape with your lives. Do you hear me?’

My eyes on Johnson, I got up slowly from under the table. His face revealed bifocals and nothing. Morgan was watching him as intently as if he were lip-reading. Sir Robert stood erect as a soldier, gun in hand, eyes on the uneven line of silent prisoners. Oppenheim had crossed to the young man who was moaning and holding his ankle. Johnson said, ‘Leave him,’ and he straightened.

‘Right,’ said Johnson. ‘Last instruction coming up. There is a bomb due to go off in thirty minutes. There is just enough time for you to leave: I will tell you how to do it. There are horses and cars. Take the staff and the women. If you behave, your master will follow.’

No one believed him. Morgan pursed his short lips. Johnson said, ‘Don’t translate, my dear man, if you want to be buried a dork.’ Morgan shot a glance at him, and started to speak.

‘It isn’t true?’ said Sir Robert. ‘You wouldn’t risk it.’

‘I wouldn’t, but Pymm bloody would,’ Johnson said. ‘Wendy, go and unlock the little brute. The key’s outside the door. Don’t be afraid, he’ll be too keen to get out to harm anyone. Come back here. If you can’t get him, come back without him. There’s half an hour’s margin. Morgan. . .’

Half an hour, he had said. That was all I thought of as I rushed back to Pymm’s bathroom. I rushed because I had an idea that Johnson wasn’t inventing. I was inclined to believe in that bomb. Pymm had been desperate to get out.

He was still desperate. I could hear his cries, and the blows on the door. When I answered, he broke off immediately. ‘Wendy? Is there a man with some keys? Wendy? Tell the man I’ll make him rich? I’ll make you rich, Wendy. And Morgan.’

I said, ‘I didn’t know you were wealthy?’

‘Oh, Christ God, yes! Yes! Yes! Wendy, do you have the keys, honey? You can have it all, Wendy.’

I thought of something suddenly. I said, ‘I don’t want your filthy money. In any case, how could you be rich?’

‘I’ve got money!’ he said. ‘From the people I work for! Big people, Wendy!’

‘The people who paid you to do all this?’ I said. ‘Who are they, Ellwood?’

‘I can’t tell you,’ he said.

‘Then I can’t let you out. I’ve got the key in my hand, Ellwood, but I won’t let you out till you tell me.’

‘Holy shit!’ screamed Ellwood Pymm. ‘Chahid’s planted a bomb!’

‘That’s all right,’ I said. ‘Everyone’s left. Tell me the names of the people who pay you, and I’ll unlock the door.’

I was yelling by then. I was pretty frightened myself. I would have let him out in the next second, but he began shouting names, and I had to wait and listen and memorise them. He had just finished when there was a bang like the end of the world, and everything in the passage jumped and clattered, and the wall I was leaning on shook, and the lights went out and people in the distance began screaming and screaming.

There had been a bomb all right. But it hadn’t had a margin of anything. It had gone off right now.

I had hardly turned the key in the lock when Pymm wrenched back the door and began blundering out. He had no idea where to run. I took him by the arm, and began to drag him back the way I had come.

The screaming came from the women’s wing, and was only partly because Morgan had dashed in to rescue them. They came out, hauling black cloth over the Ungaro, the Jean Muir, the Bill Blass, and warbling like muezzin. There were some children with them. Morgan pushed them before him towards the front of the kasbah, yelling over his shoulder. ‘Learn to Delegate Interesting Tasks’ was, I think what he was saying. Towing Pymm by the elbow, I followed him.

If we had had any doubts about the way out, we need only have followed the servants. They raced before us, up and down stairs and over courtyards while solid vibrations ran under our soles, and vases toppled and crashed. As soon as we caught up with the backrunners, Morgan thrust the women among them and darted off sideways, yelling to me to follow. I looked at Pymm, running beside me. I could see the whites of his eyes. I said, ‘Listen. Chahid.’

I didn’t expect him to care, but he did. He stopped dead. ‘Oh, my God, Chahid,’ he said. ‘He doesn’t know that I’m here. He’ll set off another. He has set off another. Hear that? Oh, Holy Shit, Holy Mother, I don’t want to die.’

I heard what he had heard, a rumbling crash from the back of the building. I said, ‘He can’t have set off another. Ellwood, he’s tied to a grille by the conduit. You’ve got to go back and free him.’

‘He is?’ said Pymm. His face filled with relief and he kissed me. ‘Wendy baby, I love you.’ Then he scampered off after the others.

Morgan yelled ‘Wendy!’

I pelted after him. He had come out of the office, and his arms were full of files and boxes. ‘It’s all right,’ I said. ‘That was Pymm leaving Chahid to perish.’

‘Another Pymm Number One Cock-up,’ said Mo. ‘Johnson told the gendarmerie where Chahid was left. He’ll survive to be sentenced.’

‘The gendarmerie?’ I said. I took some of his files and set off running again at his side. Several further shocks ran through the building and a crack appeared in one wall.

‘Uh, uh,’ said Morgan, and taking my hand, began to pull me along very much faster. ‘Yes, the police. What d’you think Johnson was doing, all that time he had in the office? Phoned and faxed everyone, including his bookmaker. Courtyard’s full of fleeing Arabs and incoming policemen and cowboys.’

Suddenly, the only thing that interested me about the courtyard was getting there. Smoke had begun to fill the passage behind us. I could hear masonry falling. I couldn’t hear anyone else running anywhere any more. They had all got out except us. I said, ‘It’s an earthquake!’ I shrieked it.

‘No, it isn’t,’ said Morgan irritably. ‘It’s Johnson, playing silly buggers with bombs. He reburied Chahid’s, so that it blew up the stream and the hillside. That’s the hillside falling down on the kasbah, and the kasbah’s nice pisé bricks beginning to pisé into the water, and all the water preparing to electrocute us, if we don’t get out pretty damn quick. This is all your bloody doing!’ he roared.

‘I know,’ said Johnson, appearing at the end of the passage. Something like Pymm’s relief showed for a second behind the glasses. He was dressed like us again, in his lock-knit collared jersey with his gun in his pocket. Then he said, ‘Is that why you’re crawling? Drop the files.’

‘Drop the files,’ commanded another voice at the same moment. ‘And put up your hands. All of you.’ Behind him was Oppenheim, with a gun in his good hand.

Johnson turned round rather slowly, and they faced one another. Then Johnson said, ‘It’s no good. Even if you save the papers, that set of jackals won’t take you back. It’s all been for nothing.’

Oppenheim’s fine hair was a mess, and his strapped chest rose and fell painfully, but his manner fell short of the apologetic. He said, ‘Don’t let it trouble you. Whose bomb was that? Pymm’s?’

‘Adjusted by me. The back of the fort is collapsing as the river comes through. Why did you detonate the one in London? For fun? Or did Sullivan do it to cover the shooting?’

‘Muriel thinks you paint very well,’ Oppenheim said. ‘If you like that kind of thing. Never made a pass at her, have you? And all the chances you had. Kick the files towards me.’

‘If you really want them,’ said Johnson. ‘But I shouldn’t hurt yourself bending. Wendy and I have been through them all already.’

‘In the office,’ I said. ‘While you were lunching.’

‘Shit!’ said Morgan. He stood on my foot, getting in front of me. Behind us somewhere, I could hear running water. There was another rumbling thud, and plaster fell from the ceiling. Lamps swayed.