security and intelligence officer. When his wife died suddenly of a brain tumor, he left his career, devoted himself to his church and pursued a PhD in humanities abroad.”
“So how did he come to work with your group?”
“Through his church’s global charity network. When Corley learned of us and what we did, he volunteered. He gathers intelligence. He’s one of our best people.”
“And he thinks Worldwide Rio Advogados is involved in a global child-stealing operation that involves illegal adoptions?”
“Yes, but he thinks there’s more. Recently Corley got word of a private meeting of traffickers and their associates in Libya. He managed to observe the players and obtain more intelligence. He now believes the child- stealing network is tied to something bigger.”
“What could be bigger than stealing children for illegal adoptions?”
“Corley thinks there’s a purpose.”
“Money, I would think.”
“No, bigger.”
“Like what?”
“Not sure, but he hinted that there were scary elements lurking in the shadows. He was pressing his sources and hoping to learn more for a detailed report he’s preparing for us. We may take it to a special committee on human trafficking at the United Nations.”
“I need to talk to Corley.”
“I’ve arranged it. He’s agreed to talk to you.”
“Can we do it tonight?”
“No. This is very dangerous. Adam’s convinced that the people behind it are vigilant. He insisted on a face- to-face meeting with you.”
“Fine, where is he?”
“Rabat, Morocco.”
“Morocco? I’ll get my bureau to get an airline ticket and a visa for me.”
“Contact me when you get there, then Adam will get in touch with you.”
When he returned to his hotel, Gannon alerted Lyon in New York about what he’d learned from EGI and that he’d gotten a lead that required him to go to Morocco.
“It’s a good thing you got your shots. I’ll authorize the travel and get the London bureau to get you a ticket and visa as soon as possible,” she said, adding, “We want this story, but I need you to be very careful given all that’s happened so far.”
“I know.”
“That means no more risks, Jack. We’ve lost too much already.”
“Melody, this story was a risk from the get-go.”
38
Rabat, Morocco
The sound of seat belts unbuckling filled the cabin as Gannon’s Air France flight came to a stop at Sale International Airport.
He tried to concentrate on the job ahead but was haunted by what happened in Brazil. He didn’t want to go through anything like that again.
Was he losing his nerve? Or should he chalk it up to jet lag?
Exiting the terminal, he jettisoned his doubts and got into a cab to his hotel. Rabat was Morocco’s capital, and the World Press Alliance had a one-person bureau here. But the bureau chief was on assignment in Tangier.
Gannon was on his own, which made him a little nervous. Rabat was not as big as Casablanca, but terrorism in this region remained a security concern because extremist groups had taken up the cause of al Qaeda. His face was still bruised and he was still shaky from his ordeal with the Blue Brigade in Rio de Janeiro.
He looked out at the city with its modern buildings, mosques, markets and ancient tombs. Feather duster palms lined the main thoroughfares. His hotel, the Orange Tree, was on Rue Abderrahmanne El Ghafiki, in the district of Agdal, Rabat’s center.
Gannon checked in, then, as he had in London, he e-mailed Oliver Pritchett with his hotel information, confirming he’d arrived and was ready to meet Adam Corley as soon as possible.
Gannon then went online and searched for developments on the cafe bombing. Reuters and the Associated Press had each moved items reporting that while no arrests had been made, police had all but ruled out narco gangs. These were obvious follow-ups to his WPA story. It meant the competition was inching closer to his trail.
The phone in his room rang.
“Jack Gannon.”
“Corley. Got your message from Pritchett. Are you familiar with Rabat?”
“No, it’s my first visit.”
“We’ll meet in the medina, when the call to prayer ends in one hour.”
“The medina?”
“It’s the market in the old city. We’ll meet at a little place called the Sun and Moon. Its on Rue des Consuls. Directions are tricky, get the hotel people to get you a map. Be there in one hour.”
“Why not meet here, or at your location?”
“I ran into trouble in Benghazi. I’d prefer to be cautious. I’ve got your mobile number, here’s mine.”
Gannon noted Corley’s number then asked, “How will I know you?”
“I’ve got your picture online, so I’ll recognize you.”
Before going out, Gannon shut down his laptop, tidied his files, then hid them in his room. The concierge was happy to sketch directions for him on a preprinted tourist map. “Very simple. This way, then that way, sir, simple, and you are at the Sun and Moon. Very simple, sir.”
To Gannon, Rabat’s medina was a step back in time. As he followed a network of cobblestoned streets, he saw a group of boys roasting a goat’s head on an open grill. Artisans displayed their handmade wallets, necklaces, lanterns and wood carvings on mats on the ground.
Small cooking fires created haze and seasoned the air. He saw old men bent over antique sewing machines under bare lightbulbs inside storefronts hidden in the market’s shaded narrow alleyways. The medina was choked with people, haggling at stalls and shops over jewelry, leather crafts, vegetables, fruit, pottery, baskets and carpets.
The Sun and Moon was a darkened open-front cafe with six tables and a counter displaying meats, mixed salad and rice dishes, fish and pastries. Gannon ordered a Coke. He pressed the sweating can to his forehead and sipped slowly.
By the time he’d ordered his third Coke, Corley had still not arrived. The calls Gannon had made to his cell phone had not been answered.
He was hungry and ordered a chicken shawarma.
As time passed he was approached by boys offering to give him private tours of the medina, or find him drugs or women. A withered man with an agitated monkey in a cage offered to have his animal perform tricks for him. A one-eyed beggar with rotting teeth put his hands together in an elaborate thankful prayer gesture after Gannon gave him a coin.
Nearly three hours later as the sun sank, Corley was a no-show.
Gannon gave up waiting. He returned to his hotel, where he sent Oliver Pritchett a terse e-mail before reviewing his files in bed.
Gannon did not remember falling asleep.
For a panicked moment he did not remember anything and his torpid brain struggled to give him information as his phone rang.
