“So we should be able to pinpoint the Cessna’s position just as long as the satellite stays within range.”
“That is correct Jake, but I can do better than that. Watch, learn and be amazed, my old friend.”
The good Father tapped away at his keyboard, until the image that filled the screen was that of a solitary twin engine aircraft, high above the cloud level and travelling along the dark superimposed flight path. “The satellite will track the plane for as long as it is in range,” he said. “I’d say that we have thirty minutes, maximum,” he added.
We were brought freshly baked croissants and coffee. The manner of the rotund monk who had let us in hadn’t changed, he was still aggressive and doubting. We all waited in silence as the Father did his stuff; the small plane eventually changed course. The Cessna was one of the larger twin engine planes, with a forty-foot wingspan. It was apparent that it was ‘coasting’ on a pre-determined course, away from the main commercial routes.
“I would say, Jake, that given the flight path, the aircraft is on auto-pilot,” said Father Pedro.
“What do you think he’s going to do?” I asked.
It was Jason Stewart who answered. “I’d say that he’s probably ‘coasting’, he’ll continue on that bearing until he reaches the coast. Then he’ll drift along the coast until he recognises Marbella. Then the pilot will set himself a new course, using wind direction and velocity according to how far he’s off his original course. That is quite an old plane by today’s standards and he probably has only very basic navigational aids, you see.”
“Will he cross the coast at Marbella?”
“No, he’ll go for maximum cover. It will more than likely be a little bit east of Malaga.”
“Jake, we’re just about to lose the satellite, it will be out of range in two minutes. But we’ll still be able to track the Cessna by using the link with the air traffic control system,”
“OK, Father. You’ve been more than helpful and I’m sorry for dragging you out of bed, but your job isn’t quite finished yet. I must know where that plane lands. Let the computer continue to plot its course and call me on my mobile phone immediately it touches down with the location. We’re going back to that airstrip to question anyone who can or will tell us where Flackyard is heading and to find a plane fast enough to get us to wherever that Cessna is going.”
In the meantime Fiona had slipped out and had brought the 4x4 round to the side entrance of the monastery.
Chapter 38
Marrakech, the old pink city with its narrow streets, lies coiled in the shadow of the High Atlas Mountains like a viper on a bed of rumpled hessian. By June the tourist season is in full swing, although this fantastic city is bestvisited early summertime when the heat is still bearable. In the bars of the big white hotels of the Ville Nouvelle district, drinkers steadily ruin their livers, and wallets get a hammering in the souvenir shops of the Medina, the heart and soul of this mystical city.
In the afternoon heat the bustling square of the Djemaa is crowded with people who seek entertainment; they gather round the many storytellers, acrobats and musicians. American and European tourists stroll around the Koutoubia mosque, visible from practically anywhere in Marrakech.
The call to prayer ricochets down the tortuous labyrinthine alleys of the old Arab quarter, quivering through the lemon and orange groves and out across the dusty walled town. Overhead, interwoven matting squeezes sunrays like orange pips and transforms the dried mud into dazzling patterns. Wispy tentacles of smoke rise through the dusty air from small fires, giving the beams of sunlight tangible dimensions. Sliced kidney crackles in aromatic cedar smoke. Men from all over congregate here, those with black-enamel faces from Timbuktu crowd together with light-skinned Berbers and ruddy-faced men from Fez in the narrow thoroughfares.
Outside the riad where we had settled the crowds moved back as an old black Mercedes saloon came to a halt. It had darkened privacy windows.
The occupants got out of the vehicle and knocked hard on the heavy wooden door.
No sooner had our gracious host’s manservant announced “A gentleman to see you” than he was unceremoniously brushed aside by a short burst of Arabic.
The three men entered the riad’s courtyard and through double doors to the palatial room beyond.
Two of them were dressed in black suits and very dark sunglasses. The third man wore a white linen suit and soft red fez over a round brown face.
His moustache, although sad, was well cared for, and a large nose drove a wedge between his small eyes. He tapped the nose with a silver-topped cane. In fact, as he stood before us, he looked like something dreamed up by Hollywood. He spoke:
“My name is Hassan, Youssef Hassan of the Moroccan Internal Affairs Bureau. I would like to welcome you and your friends to our beautiful country. The fruit is succulent and plump on the trees. The date is moist and the snow is still crisp and firm on the top of our mountain slopes. We hope you will stay long enough to take advantage of the many wonders of our land.”
“Yes,” I said. I watched his two colleagues. One opened the fly screen and spat into the street, the other riffled through my papers, which lay on the table. I’d had dealings with Hassan and his department on a previous assignment. He was not a man to mess with.
“May I ask — Mr Dillon, what is the purpose of your visit is here in Marrakech on this particular occasion? Of course you must consider yourselves the guests of my department. Whatever you wish, it will be arranged and naturally we hope you will have a most pleasurable stay in our country.”
“You know what we European capitalists are like, Hassan, all work, work, work.”
“Without capitalism, Mr Dillon, I would most certainly be out of a job,” he said while snorting a laugh down his nose.
One of Hassan’s sidekicks was looking through the wardrobe and the other was polishing his shoe with a handkerchief. Overhead I heard the whine of a jet engine.
“Yes,” I said.
“I am, of course, fully aware why you and your friends are here. You are, how do you say, on the trail of the multi millionaire entrepreneur playboy Mr Robert Flackyard. Am I correct?”
“You are very well informed, Hassan, and you are quite right, we are keen to have a little chat with Mr Flackyard.” I said.
“So, as with anyone who breaks the law, my country is most enthusiastic that the criminal is apprehensive.”
“I know exactly what you mean.” I said, smiling to myself.
Hassan turned and walked up to Fiona, “I am told by your superior, Miss Price, that you intend to make the arrest of this person and any associates that may be with him here in Marrakech, is this true?”
Fiona was quick to say, “No, that is not true, Mr Hassan, but you are right, it is Robert Flackyard that we have followed to Marrakech. We’re hoping that he can help us with our enquiries, that’s all. I am currently investigating an associate of Mr Flackyard, a Mr Harry Caplin, and American. It is this gentleman that we wish to apprehend, Mr Hassan.”
“Ah, those famous English words of Scotland Yard, ‘able to assist those in their enquiries,’” Hussan, said it again for practice. He stopped twirling his cane for a moment. He leaned close and said. “Then before you make your arrest, you tell me because it may not be permitted.”
“We’ll certainly tell you, Hassan,” I said, “but Miss Price and Mr Stewart are here under special license and by the kind permission of your Government.”
“They will be very unhappy if you do not permit.”
Hassan looked perplexed, to say the least.
“So,” he said, “we shall liase again soon.”
“OK,” I said.