Harding was drenched with sweat by the lime he got all the way across the bazaar to its southeast corner, where a dilapidated shanty was built against a larger stone building. A beggar, who seemed at least ninety years old, sat cross-legged on the dirt in front of the door, which was simply an open space in the wood covered by a cloth hanging from an eave. There was a bent metal dish next to the beggar.
Harding knew he had to do something specific. He reached into his pocket and found ten dirhams in coins and dropped them into the tin. The old man mumbled something and gestured to the cloth. Harding turned to make sure no one was watching, then he ducked under the drape and went inside the shack.
It stank like a toilet. Harding was forced to take a handkerchief from his jacket pocket and hold it over his mouth. Other than the rancid smell, the room was empty. Harding immediately went to the stone wall and put his hand out to touch it. He felt the ridges along a crack, searching for a catch that couldn’t be seen. He found it, then pushed it with the requisite force. The secret door slid open, revealing a passage lined in steel. Harding stepped through, and the door closed behind him.
At last! Air-conditioning! And his ticket out of this dreary place. The hard work was over. He had come to claim his reward and move on to the next phase of his life, which would resemble nothing of what he had left behind in England. He hoped that Le Gérant wouldn’t create a problem about Lee Ming’s plane being hijacked. He had done his job and that part of the operation was completely out of his hands. Harding had delivered Skin 17 in precisely the manner that the Union wanted him to. They had better not renege on the five million U.S. dollars he was being paid!
Harding knew, however, that Le Gérant was capable of anything. He would consider himself lucky to get out of Morocco alive.
An Arab dressed in fatigues appeared and gestured for Harding to follow him. It was unnerving, especially when the clank-clank of the man’s boots on the metal floor echoed throughout the tunnel. The corridor took a right turn, and they went down eight steps to a wider, open area with a table, computer terminals, banks of video surveillance screens, and other sophisticated, high-tech equipment. Two more guards were waiting there.
“Spread your legs and arms,” one of them said.
Harding did so while the other one ran a metal detector around his body.
“Look into here,” the first man said. He pointed to a device that resembled a microscope. Harding stepped to it and looked in. He knew that this would identify the tattoo that had been burned into the back of his retina when he initially joined the Union. He often wondered what an optometrist might say about the tattoo during an examination. Luckily, it looked more like scar tissue than any recognizable symbol.
It was discernible only to members of the Union.
Harding felt the beam of light pass over his eye. He straightened up and looked at the guards, one of whom studied a computer terminal on the table. The other one stared at him with a look of distaste.
“All right, he checks,” said the man at the computer. Harding’s escort tapped his shoulder and led him around the table to a door.
The guards pressed a button and released a lock. The escort pushed the door open and held it for Harding.
“Le Gérant is waiting,” he said.
Harding nodded and grinned nervously, then went through the door.
The room was dark, long, and had a very low ceiling. The only illumination was provided by lamps hung over the seven men and three women who sat at a conference table, each with a legal pad in front of them. However, there was no light hanging over the man at the head of the table, the one sitting in shadow.
Le Gérant. The Manager.
Harding had never met him face-to-face. Very few Union members had. The inner circle, those sitting around this table, were the only individuals who were so entitled. Nevertheless, it was still difficult to discern what Le Gérant looked like. His silhouette disclosed that he was tall and broad-shouldered, but thin and fit. The face and hands were in shadow, but there was just enough illumination to reveal him to be Caucasian. He was more likely a Berber, a descendant of an ancient race that has inhabited Morocco since Neolithic times Berbers characteristically had light skin, blue eyes, and often blond or red hair. Harding knew that they were famous throughout history as warriors and notoriously resistant to being controlled by any system beyond the tribe.
Le Gérant wore a beret and was dressed in dark clothing. His face was further shielded by dark glasses that completely hid his eyes. Harding had once heard a rumor that Le Gérant was blind. Perhaps he really was . . . .
As the doctor stepped into the room, conversation halted abruptly and everyone turned to look at him.
“Come in, Dr. Harding,” Le Gérant said. His voice was educated and smooth, and its deep timbre sounded vaguely French. If the man was indeed a Berber, he didn’t sound like one. “Sit down there at the end of the table. We have saved a seat for you.”
Harding took the chair and swallowed. Now he was nervous as hell.
“It is good to meet you at last, doctor,” the leader said. “We have been following your progress on the Skin 17 project with great interest. I must congratulate you on everything you’ve done on behalf of the Union. It must not have been easy to find the courage to betray your country and steal the specification right out from under the noses of the DERA.”
“Thank you, sir,” Harding said.
“You also did a splendid job getting the formula to Belgium and into our client’s pacemaker. Was that your idea, planting it there?”
“Yes, sir,” Harding said. He felt a thrill that perhaps the meeting was going to go well after all.
“You also acted responsibly with regard to the physician who was caught in Brussels. Having him eliminated was the right thing to do. I’m still a little confused as to how he was caught in the first place, but nothing ever goes perfectly, does it?”
“No, sir,” Harding said, swallowing and managing a smile.
Le Gérant took a moment to extract a cigarette from a gunmetal case that he removed from the inside of his jacket. He kept his head straight, staring ahead at a spot on the wall just behind Harding. The man was blind! the doctor thought. How extraordinary! The head of the Union couldn’t see a damn thing.\
Le Gérant lit the cigarette with a gold-plated Dunhill lighter, took a deep drag, exhaled, and spoke again.
“That brings us to the problem of what has happened to Skin 17.”
Harding involuntarily closed his eyes with dread.
Le Gérant continued. “As I understand it, Lee Ming was in Kathmandu, awaiting instructions for his transfer to Tibet. However, precisely one day earlier than scheduled, he was kidnapped from his hotel and taken to the airport. There, he was shoved aboard a tourist Himalayan sight-seeing flight that was hijacked by his kidnappers and flown into the mountains, where a storm knocked it down. Do I have the facts right?”
Harding cleared his throat. “That’s what I understand happened, sir, yes, I think that’s what happened.”
Le Gérant took another drag on the cigarette and shifted slightly in his chair.
“This is highly embarrassing for the Union, you understand that, Dr. Harding? We’ve let down our Chinese clients. They want their money back. After all, the Skin 17 specification wasn’t delivered as promised.”
“We did our part, sir,” Harding protested. “Our obligation was to get him to Kathmandu. We did that. Our people in Nepal didn’t keep a close watch on Lee. Apparently the Union weren’t the only ones that wanted that spec. Someone got to him first.”