“I’m not leaving the hotel.”
“As you wish.”
At 9:15 a wire transfer arrived from a bank in Cyprus. Ten million dollars, as promised by Omar Celik, from a Lannak subsidiary in Croatia. Mitch, Stephen, Jennings, and Frick all smiled and took a deep breath. Neither Jennings nor Frick knew the backstory. They had no idea where the money was going or what it was being used for. However, given the Scully lawyers’ anxiety, it was obvious that time was crucial. Jennings, British to the core, suspected it was related to the Scully hostage the press had been salivating over, but he was much too professional to ask. His job was to simply advise his client and oversee the wires coming in and the big one going out.
Mitch called Riley Casey in London, not really expecting to learn anything, but just to inquire anyway and ask, “Where is the damned money from the Americans?” Not surprisingly, Riley had no idea what the Americans were up to.
At 10:04, a wire arrived from a bank in Mexico City. The last installment of $15 million had just landed, and now the question was what to do with it. Solomon Frick stepped into another office to call his client with the good news. Mitch called Abby with the same.
By 3:45, Abby was ready to go. She had been there for only two nights but it seemed much longer. She felt captive in the hotel, as nice as it was, but when you’re afraid to leave the premises and you know you’re being watched, the clock slows considerably.
At 4 P.M. she walked into the lobby and smiled at Hassan. Though no one was around he whispered anyway, “What is the status?”
“Nothing has changed. We have seventy-five million.”
He frowned because he had to. “Very well. We will accept it.”
“Not until I see Giovanna.”
“Yes, well, to see her, you must leave the hotel.”
“I’m not leaving the hotel.”
“Then we have a problem. It’s too risky to bring her here.”
“But why?”
“Because you cannot be trusted, Mrs. McDeere. You were told to come here alone but we suspect you have friends in the vicinity. Is this true?”
Abby was too stunned to answer quickly and lie convincingly and her hesitation revealed the truth. “Well, uh, no, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Hassan smiled and pulled out his phone, which appeared to be another Jakl. He stuck it in front of her and said, “You don’t recognize this person?”
It was a shot of Cory leaving the front entrance of the hotel. Even with sunglasses and a cap he was recognizable. Nice work, Cory.
She shook her head and said, “Don’t know him.”
“Oh really,” Hassan said with a nasty smile as he slid the phone back into his pocket and glanced around the lobby. It was still deserted. Softly he said, “His name is Cory Gallant and he works in security for the law firm of Scully and Pershing. I’m sure you know him well. He’s here in the city with at least two local agents he thinks he can trust. So, Mrs. McDeere, we are not foolish enough to bring the lady here to the hotel. You can’t be trusted either. The entire operation is on the verge of a terrible collapse. Giovanna’s life is in danger. Right now she has a gun pointed at her head.”
Stunned as she was, Abby tried to think clearly. “Okay, I was told to come alone, and I did. I had nothing to do with this guy showing up and I’ve never seen any local agents. You know I traveled here alone because you watched me. I’ve done everything you’ve asked me to do.”
“If you wish to see her, you must take a walk with me.”
Among her many thoughts, the most prominent at that moment was: I’m not trained for this. I have no idea what to do next. Somehow, she managed to say, “I’m not leaving this hotel.”
“Very well, Mrs. McDeere. Your refusal is putting Giovanna’s life at risk. I am offering to take you to see her.”
“Where is she?”
“Not far. A pleasant walk on a nice day.”
“I don’t feel safe.”
“How do you think Giovanna feels?”
With a gun to her head? There was no time to ponder or negotiate. She said, “Okay, I’ll walk, but I’m not getting in a vehicle.”
“I didn’t mention one.”
They left the hotel through the front entrance and turned onto a busy sidewalk. Abby knew the hotel was in the center of the city and near the medina, the original walled settlement that is the heart of Marrakech. From behind oversized sunglasses, Abby tried to see every face and every movement, but she was soon overwhelmed by the crowd. Wearing jeans and sneakers and carrying a bulky designer shoulder bag, she got a few looks, but there were other tourists, mostly Westerners, roaming about. She prayed that Cory and his boys were somewhere close behind, watching, but after his getting busted by Hassan she was not so confident.
Hassan said nothing as they strolled along. She followed him through an ancient stone entrance and into the medina, an incredible maze of narrow cobblestone streets packed with pedestrians and donkey carts. There were a few scooters but no automobiles. They drifted with the waves of human traffic, passing endless rows of stalls selling everything imaginable. Hassan weaved deeper into the maze, in no particular hurry it seemed. Abby stole a few looks behind her in a futile effort to see a landmark she might remember later, but it was impossible.
The medina had been centuries in the making and its markets, called souks, sprawled helter-skelter in every conceivable direction. They walked past souks for spices, eggs, textiles, herbs, leathers, carpets, pottery, jewelry, metals, fish, fowl, and animals, some dead and ready to eat, others alive and looking for a new home. In a large, dirty cage a pack of howler monkeys screeched but no one seemed to hear them. Everyone spoke loudly, some practically yelling, in a dozen languages as they haggled over prices, quantity, and quality. Abby heard a few words in English, a few more in Italian, but most of it was incomprehensible. Some of the merchants barked at the customers, who were quick to bark right back. In a crush of people, Hassan yelled over his shoulder, “Watch your bag. The pickpockets are aggressive around here.”
In an open plaza they walked with caution near a row of snake handlers playing their flutes as their cobras danced from colorful urns. They slowed to admire a troop of acrobats and transvestite dancers. Young boys were boxing with heavy leather gloves. Street magicians were trying to draw enough people for the next show. Musicians strummed away on lutes and santirs. In one souk a dentist appeared to be pulling teeth. In another a photographer was coaxing tourists to pose with his beautiful young model. Beggars were everywhere and seemed to be doing a brisk business.
When they were hopelessly lost in the depths of the medina, Abby asked, above the din, “Where, exactly, are we going?”
Hassan nodded ahead but said nothing. Surrounded by swarms of people, she did not feel completely vulnerable, but seconds later she felt lost and terrified. They turned in to another section, another narrow street with squat shabby buildings lining the cobblestones, and a souk for spice on one side and carpets on the other. From the open windows upstairs, colorful rugs hung by the dozens and shaded the stalls below. Hassan suddenly took her by the elbow, nodded, and said, “Over here.” They stepped into a dark, tight passageway between two buildings, then through a door that was covered with a faded rug. Hassan shoved it open. They entered a room with walls and the floor made of rugs, then walked into another room, seemingly identical. A woman was placing a tea service on a small ivory table with two chairs. Hassan nodded at her and she disappeared.