At 6 A.M. Eastern Time, Jack called Senator Elias Lake at his home in Brooklyn and left a voicemail. Ten minutes later, the senator called back. An aide had just awakened him and sent over the video. Jack asked him to call the secretary of state with the plan to corral the British and Italian foreign services into a gang of three and find some damned money.
With only a carry-on bag, Abby moved quickly through Menara Airport in Marrakech. She followed the signs, in Arabic, French, and English, to the taxi stand, and as she walked through the revolving circular doors she was hit with a jolt of hot, humid air. A dozen dirty taxis were waiting and she took the first one. She wasn’t sure which language the driver might speak, so she handed him a note card with La Maison Arabe Hotel’s address.
He said, “Thank you. No problem.”
Fifteen minutes later she arrived at the hotel and paid him in U.S. dollars, which he gladly accepted. It was almost 6 P.M. and the lobby was empty. The receptionist seemed to be expecting her. A nice corner suite on the second floor had been reserved for three nights. Abby finally knew how long she was supposed to stay. She took the elevator to the second floor, found her room, and locked herself inside. So far, she had seen no one but the receptionist. She opened the curtains and looked out onto a beautiful courtyard. A knock at the door startled her and she instinctively said, “Who’s there?”
There was no answer. She cracked the door without unfastening the chain. An impeccably uniformed bellman smiled through the opening and said, “A letter for you.”
She took the letter, thanked him, and closed the door. In block letters on hotel stationery, someone had written, Please join me for dinner in the hotel restaurant this evening. Hassan. Friend of Noura.
She called Mitch on the green phone and they went through the latest developments. There was plenty of activity but little progress. He described the video and said that it had evidently negated all efforts to settle the lawsuit. The Libyans were in no mood to negotiate or do anything but find the terrorists. Mitch and the others believed that the U.S. secretary of state herself had spoken to her counterparts in the U.K. and Italy. Luca was feeling better and monitoring his phones. During the day, Jack had called every member of Scully’s management committee and lobbied hard for approval of the loan agreement, but there was no movement. He surprised Abby with the news that Cory was also in Marrakech and would contact her soon.
Having Cory in town was certainly a relief.
She unpacked her carry-on and hung up two traveler’s dresses, one white, one red, both wrinkle-free. The minibar had nothing but water and sodas and she needed something stronger. Morocco was staunchly Muslim with strict prohibitions against alcohol. It was also a former French colony and an historic melting pot of cultures, religions, and languages from Europe, Africa, and the Middle East. In Marrakech, somebody somewhere consumed over two hundred tons of alcohol each year. Surely she could get a glass of wine in the restaurant. She took a nap, then a long hot bath in a clawfoot tub, washed her hair and dried it, and put on her red wrap dress.
If she felt safe, why was there a knot in her stomach?
The restaurant was a grand dining room with a blue Persian-style ceiling and heavily draped tables. It was beautiful and small, with only a few tables distanced discreetly apart. It felt more like a private club.
Hassan stood as she approached, and flashed an impressive smile. “Hassan Mansour, Mrs. McDeere.” She was afraid he would start the usual hugging and cheek-smacking but he was content with a gentle handshake. He helped her into her chair and took his across the table. The nearest diners were thirty feet away.
“A pleasure to meet you,” she lied, only because she had to say something polite. Whoever he was and whatever he did, he was in bed with the enemy. Their relationship would last only hours and she was determined not to like him, regardless of how much phony charm he tried. He was about fifty, with short graying hair slicked back severely and small black eyes that were too close together.
The eyes took her in and liked what they saw. “How was your flight?” he asked.
No wedding ring but a diamond on the right pinkie. Fine designer suit, light gray in color, linen probably. Brilliant white shirt that contrasted nicely with his swarthy skin. Expensive silk tie. Matching pocket square. All the trimmings.
“Okay. The British know how to run an airline.”
He smiled as if this was supposed to be humorous. “I’m in London a lot and I always enjoy British Air. And Lufthansa, two of the best.” Perfect English with a slight accent that could be from anywhere a thousand miles south of Rome. She would bet serious cash his name was not Hassan Mansour and she didn’t care. He was nothing but a facilitator, a connector between the money and the hostage. If she ever saw him again, maybe he would be wearing handcuffs.
“May I ask where you live? I’m sure you know a lot about me. Apartment, office, kids’ school, important stuff like that.”
He kept smiling and said, “We could spend hours batting questions back and forth, Mrs. McDeere, but I’m afraid there would not be many answers, not from me anyway.”
“Who is Noura?”
“I’ve never met her.”
“That’s not what I asked. Who is she?”
“Let’s say she is a soldier in the revolution.”
“Certainly doesn’t dress like a soldier.”
A waiter appeared and asked if they wanted drinks. Abby glanced at a short wine list and said, “Chablis.” Hassan ordered herbal tea. When the waiter was gone, he leaned forward a few inches and said, “I don’t know as much as you might think, Mrs. McDeere. I’m not a member of the organization. I am not a soldier in the revolution. I am being paid a fee to broker a deal.”
“You’ve seen the latest video, I’m sure. Released this morning.”
He kept smiling. “Yes, of course.”
“Giovanna with a rope around her neck. Three men in the process of being murdered. Chain saw noise in the background. Its timing was perfect and it was obviously intended to put even more pressure on Giovanna’s friends.”
“Mrs. McDeere, I had absolutely nothing to do with the events recorded in that video. Is your husband responsible for the actions of his clients?”
“No, of course not.”
“Then I rest my case.”
“Spoken like a real lawyer.”
He smiled and nodded as if to concede that he was indeed a member of the profession. “We can discuss many things, Mrs. McDeere, but we’re not here for social reasons.”
“Right. Is it fair to assume that our deadline is still five P.M. Wednesday, May twenty-fifth?”
“That’s correct.”
She took a deep breath and said, “We need more time.”
“Why?”
“Rounding up another ninety million dollars is not something we have much experience with. It’s proving to be rather complicated.”
“How much time?”
“Forty-eight hours.”
“The answer is no.”
“Twenty-four hours. Five P.M. Thursday.”
“The answer is no. I have my orders.”
She shrugged as if to say, Well, I tried.
“Do you have the money?”
“Yes,” she said, with a confidence built on plenty of practice. The only answer was “Yes.” Anything else could set in motion events that would become unpredictable. Just as quickly she added, “We have commitments. It may take a day or two to gather the money. I don’t see how an extra twenty-four hours will harm your position.”
“The answer is no. Are you having problems?” The smile was gone.
“No, not problems, just a few challenges. It’s not a simple matter of getting the law firm to write a check. There are many moving parts that involve various entities.”
He shrugged as if he understood.
The drinks arrived and Abby took her glass as quickly as possible without appearing desperate for the wine. Hassan toyed with his teabag as if time meant nothing. She had checked with the front desk and knew that room service was available. After five minutes with Hassan, the last thing she wanted was a long painful dinner with the man as they bobbed and weaved around topics they could not discuss. She had even lost her appetite.
As if reading her mind, he asked, “Would you like to discuss dinner?”
“No, thank you. I’m jet-lagged and need rest. I’ll order room service.” She took another shot of Chablis. He had yet to lift his teacup.
The smile was back as if everything was okay. “As you wish. I have some instructions.”
“That’s why I’m here.”
Finally, he raised his dainty little cup to his lips and wet them. “As soon as possible, your husband travels to the island of Grand Cayman, in the Caribbean. I believe he knows the place. When he arrives tomorrow afternoon, he presents himself to the Trinidad Trust in Georgetown and asks for a banker named Solomon Frick. He will be expected. Mr. Frick represents my client, and your husband will do exactly as he says. He will know immediately if anyone attempts to track the wires. Any hint that someone is watching, that someone being the FBI, Scotland Yard, Interpol, Europol, or any of the other boys who carry guns and badges, and bad things will happen to your friend. We’ve come this far without the interference of the police or military, and it would be a shame to do something stupid at this late stage of the game. If you have the money, Mrs. McDeere, Giovanna is practically free.”
“We’d like to confirm she’s still alive.”
“Of course. She is alive and doing well and on the verge of going home. Don’t allow a bad decision to lead to her demise.” He reached into the pocket of his jacket and withdrew a folded sheet of paper. “Here are the instructions in more detail. Your husband is to follow them closely.”
“He’ll be traveling tomorrow, from New York to Grand Cayman.”
Hassan offered the widest smile yet as he gave her the sheet of paper and said, “Mitch is not in New York, Mrs. McDeere. He is in Rome. And he has access to a private jet.”