Moroccan Traffic: Send a Fax to the Kasbah

  ‘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.

  Chapter 23

  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.

  ‘But it doesn’t really matter,’ said Johnson. ‘Because we faxed all the interesting pages to Whitehall.’

  Oppenheim stared at us for a moment. Then he said to Johnson, ‘Open the transit box.’

  I knew what the black box was for, and so did Morgan. It carried all the company’s disks. All the archives. All the information Mr. B. had brought with him. I shouted at the same time as Morgan, but Johnson had already bent over the carton. He put his hands round it. But instead of slipping the catch, he threw it, hard, against the wall beside Oppenheim.

  It exploded as it was preset to do, had Johnson opened the lid. Oppenheim swung up his gun. Johnson jumped, and Morgan flung himself forward. They seized Daniel Oppenheim and wrenched the weapon from his hand just as the passage crumbled and caved in behind us. Johnson hurled me running into the clear, and for a second, I saw his eyes lock with Morgan’s. Then the two men bent and, grabbing Oppenheim by either arm, dragged him to safety through the dust and the spray to the entrance, and down the steps to the screaming bedlam full of jeeps and cars, vans and horses and crowds of shouting people that was the courtyard.

  For a moment I looked up, and where the hillside had been was a child’s slide of red sludge, ending in a wall of black smoke. The front of the kasbah was intact. Behind, at the highest part of the fort were chimneys and mounds of melting red mud, pouring with water. Small explosions shook the buildings every few moments, and there were flashes of red in the smoke. The sound of rushing water had deepened. On the far side of the courtyard, stretch limousines with darkened windows were drawing off smoothly, and open lorries crowded with people were starting their engines. Men in uniform moved about briskly, blowing whistles and shoving folk into vehicles. Morgan said, ‘The market?’

  ‘Evacuated long ago. And the village,’ said Johnson. He bent over Oppenheim, who lay awkwardly in the mud, one hand to his side, which was bleeding.

  Oppenheim said, ‘What now?’

  Johnson took off his glasses. Underneath was a rather bleak face like a schoolmaster’s. He said, ‘Hospital, I imagine. Someone might murder you there, but it won’t be me. In fact, you haven’t much hope, have you, of eluding the jackals? Or Bernard – he’s in Marrakesh somewhere, by the way.’

  Oppenheim continued to lie and gaze upwards, not really seeing us; still mentally running over the options. Johnson said, ‘But if you come near me again, I shall probably kill you.’

  Then Oppenheim looked at him. ‘With your handbag?’ he said. ‘I’m not even your man: Sullivan is. Wendy will tell you. And Sullivan is quite safe, on his way to the Gazelle d’Or beside Taro
udant. He killed the safe-breaker. He was told to kill you if Pymm’s man didn’t do it. It was his partner’s gun that exploded the lorry. It was his radio message that warned the kasbah to watch out for Pymm and get rid of him. Do you suppose Pymm has survived? I truly hope not.’

  Morgan spoke, looking at Johnson. ‘Perhaps you should leave Oppenheim here.’

  ‘Perhaps he should,’ Oppenheim said. ‘Any nice wussy would.’

  I thought Morgan would hit him. But Johnson had already risen and left us. I saw him rap on an ambulance door and have a word with a driver. A couple of people ran to him, and he spoke to them briefly. Then I got to him and said, ‘Pymm’s told me who he’s working for. Whom. You ought to know.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Johnson. ‘Yes. Well done. Wait. Blackie?’ One of the men who had spoken to him ran up. I had seen him before. ‘Paper. I’ll need an envelope. OK. Go on.’ And he put on his glasses.

  I dictated, while the ground shuddered under our feet. I thought Johnson’s eyebrows went up, but he didn’t otherwise comment. What he scribbled down seemed to have nothing to do with the names I was giving him. At the end the envelope arrived, rather damp. He shoved the paper inside, sealed it and wrote something on the outside. ‘Sooner than soonest,’ he said.

  The man Blackie said, ‘Sir!’ and raced off. The other men had already gone.

  Johnson said, ‘Thank you, Wendy. Gongs have been struck for less. See that Land Rover? It’s ours. Come on. Morgan!’

  It was the only one left, and was the one we had come in. Johnson got there first, and hauled himself into the passenger seat. Hearing, Morgan broke into a run. I didn’t. I halted. ‘Sir Robert?’

  Tall, solid, no longer insouciant, the head of Kingsley Conglomerates was standing alone in the emptying yard, staring at the falling mud as if mesmerised. He looked at me as if he no longer knew me. It was Morgan who said, ‘We have a vehicle. You’d be safer with us.’

  We pushed our former Chairman into the back, among a collection of objects we hadn’t brought with us. I saw a hamper, and some boxes of cartridges, and a stack of new rifles. Sir Robert said nothing and Morgan, if he noticed, pretended he hadn’t. He simply hopped round and took the wheel beside Johnson.

  Except when my mother is there, the front bench of a Land Rover seats three. Johnson gave me a hand, and I vaulted up and sat down between them. Then Morgan rammed his way through the gears, and gunned the Land Rover out of the courtyard.

  As we passed through the gates, I looked back. The place where Oppenheim had lain was quite empty. Nearly all the cars and the people had gone. Behind the yard a mountain of mud yawned and slumped, slowly digesting its banquet of majolica and mosaics and cedarwood, glass and slate, steel and crystal, enamel and silver. Swallowing the telephones and the photocopier and the Fax, and the satin sheets and the pictures, and the tumble driers with the shorts, and the rows of shirts with B. on the pocket.

  Somewhere along the bumpy road between the fort and the road to the south, I fell uncomfortably asleep. Slipping off, I was aware of Johnson’s voice speaking over the radio, and voices answering. Among other things, he was no doubt conveying to the stupefied world that he had been discovered alive. It was before Easter, as well. I didn’t wake until we reached the junction with the main road, and, pulling up, Morgan patted me and said, ‘Hey!’

  I opened my eyes. He said, ‘Halt for major retooling; we’re all knackered. Someone spoke of a hamper.’

  ‘In the back,’ Johnson said.

  Morgan said, ‘Wendy’ll get it. What do you need?’

  He got down, and I scrambled past him. I was aware, climbing in for the hamper, that Johnson hadn’t replied. Sir Robert found the box and, shaking his head, pushed it towards me. He, of course, had had lunch. There were sandwiches in it, and fruit, and a bottle of wine and a corkscrew. Morgan said, ‘Brandy? Or anything?’ He sounded impatient.

  I shook my head, on Johnson’s behalf. His head sunk in the bench-back, he was fast asleep. I handed food to the front, and shared it with Morgan. He drank, but not much. We didn’t talk. As I finished, I risked a low question. ‘Which way are we going?’

  ‘To Taroudant,’ Johnson said. His eyes were still shut.

  ‘But,’ said Morgan, and stopped. I knew what he meant. But it’s nearly two hundred miles. But we were supposed to be going to Rita’s. But there are only two hours of daylight, if that.

  ‘Nevertheless,’ Johnson said. He opened his eyes, eased his position and, looking about, found the bottle in Morgan’s hand and smoothly removed it. He took a sandwich and said, ‘OK, Wendy? Sullivan.’

  I thought what a lot of unnecessary words we use in an office. I said, ‘Well, you heard that he killed someone in London and was all set to kill you. You know his friend Gerry went berserk at Asni. According to Mr. Oppenheim, Colonel Sullivan is working freelance for the men at the kasbah, and not for himself or Sir Robert. He says Sullivan likes beautiful cars, and can afford them from his past with some company. That was all, really.’

  ‘Well, damn Sullivan,’ Morgan said heartily. ‘And damn Taroudant, if you ask me. Come on. Ouarzazate. Let’s go see Oliver.’

  ‘What company?’ Johnson asked. He wasn’t eating his sandwich.

  ‘She doesn’t remember,’ Morgan said. ‘She and I are going to retire to the bushes, separately or even together, after which I shall drive you to Ouarzazate.’

  ‘I do remember,’ I said. ‘It was called after his first vintage car. I had an ashtray made of it once.’

  ‘Dust to dust. Onyx,’ Johnson said. He was good at puzzles. He seemed, with an effort, to brighten. ‘Actually, you’re right. We probably ought to go to Ouarzazate. Sir Robert could fly. Oliver and Wendy’s mother are there. You could set up a base at the studios.’

  ‘After which you will drive to Taroudant. Like hell you will,’ Morgan said. ‘If Sullivan could radio to the kasbah about Pymm, the kasbah could radio back to him that you haven’t popped your clogs after all. Tell me I’m wrong.’

  ‘Wendy and Kingsley?’ Johnson said. I suppose because we were so tired, everyone was talking in shorthand.

  I had forgotten Sir Robert could hear. He said, ‘I owe Sullivan something I’d like to repay.’

  ‘But Wendy?’ said Morgan. He was looking at Johnson. ‘Come on, pal. You’re shagged.’

  ‘That’s all right,’ Johnson said. ‘You’re going to do most of the driving. Wendy is getting out here. The police will give her a lift.’

  ‘No!’ I said.

  ‘Why?’ said Morgan. He said it quite gently.

  ‘I’m your EA,’ I said. ‘I want to put in for overtime.’

  I know he didn’t like me as much as he did my mother or Rita.

  But he put his arms round me then, and kissed me soundly.

  For the next hour Johnson slept, and no one wakened him. It was necessary, but it was also expedient. In daylight, on the busy road south, Sullivan wouldn’t do anything.

  I slept and woke, and so, in the rear, did Sir Robert. I saw him lying there on the bench, his body shaken, his hair unloosed over his face, and thought of Val, and his wife, and wondered who the other little girls were, who obliged when he felt like it. I felt, of a sudden, a rush of feeling for my mother that made tears come into my eyes. Then I fell asleep again while Morgan drove, his tough, scarred arms spinning the wheel.

  I wondered, as I sank into sleep, what he was thinking. I wondered if, when I opened my eyes, there would be yellow stickers all over the dashboard, with brilliant ideas for the mechanism of bombs and missiles and rockets. The cause of everything that had happened was a man with a ferocious imagination and a pigtail who went climbing on Toubkal, sure as death, at precisely the same time every year.

  Johnson woke, as if he had been programmed, when the Amerzgane junction was reached. Morgan drew in to the side of the road. He said, ‘Don’t you want to get out? I’ll come with you.’ The glasses looked at him. Then Johnson opened his door and stepped out.

  While t
hey were away, it was very quiet. I could hear a donkey braying, and birds I didn’t know were singing in the silence. Sir Robert said, ‘Wendy?’

  I didn’t want to talk. I didn’t want an excuse, or an apology. Least of all, I wanted cajolement. I said, ‘It’s stopped. It never happened. Don’t be worried: I’m not going to talk about it.’ And he didn’t speak again.

  When the others came back, it was Johnson who sat at the wheel and Morgan who took the window seat. There were smudges under his black eyes. He sat with his right hand tucked between his threadbare knees, but I caught the gleam of his gun. They had tried to make me sit in the back but I wouldn’t. I was fresher and younger than they were. I didn’t have to wear glasses.

  The road to Taroudant is classified as Pre-Sahara, and passes through only two fair-sized hamlets, Tazenakht and Taliouine. It runs southwards as far as the first, and then west through the upland plateau that forms the juncture between the High and the Anti-Atlas ranges of mountains. After that it descends, for the last third of the journey, into the easy, lush valley of the Sous. Long before that, night would have fallen.

  We drove into the eye of the sun. The traffic thinned in the passes and shepherd boys crossed the road, directing their flocks with shrill cries and the sting of small stones. The bends were easier now, sweeping round the flanks of the mountains; and all the snow was on the great bank of peaks to the right. I saw Morgan watching them, and supposed he knew what they were. Once he said, ‘North end of the top ridge. Rotten rock.’ And Johnson said, ‘Sirwa? Yes.’

  The rest of the time, we travelled in silence. Occasionally Johnson would brake without obvious reason, and I realised that he was only half concerned with the broken road and slow lorries: he was watching for other dangers. He didn’t need to talk any more, because he had said it all at the beginning.

  ‘In case you think Morgan and I are paranoid: I believe, although I’ve no proof, that the kasbah was set up as a trap, and Sullivan and his friend are here to mop up escapees. They’ve got radio. They must know I’m alive and Morgan’s classed as expendable. The Gazelle d’Or is the end of their line: they’ve got to finish there with the rest of the Vintages. Hence they have to waylay us between here and Taroudant, and before it gets too dark to spot us. Whatever happens, it will have to look like an accident. They know we expect them. They don’t know we have rifles.’