The driver – the man who’d pulled him over the cliff edge – said nothing, but listened to terrible Europop on the radio. They’d taken the coastal road across into Spain and on to Seville, where he was dropped off at a farmhouse outside the city. For the first time since leaving his mansion in Marrakech, he was alone, but he had a bed, fresh water and a shower. He slept for two hours before the courier for the next leg of his journey arrived. Fortified with Spanish tortilla and sweet tea, he sat in the passenger seat of a one-litre Peugeot that whined all the way to Madrid, around the city and on to Pamplona, where he rested in a small hotel for a few hours.
Now, Fawaz held on to the ceiling handle of another truck. He was unshaven, sweaty, fatigued and bored. This leg of his journey was over the Pyrenees, and he stared out of the window at the panorama of the mountains and valleys. The scene took his breath away. He was used to the colour of heat; Saharan blasts that forced eyes closed, but not technicolour like this. Africa was a medley of golds, browns and beiges. Europe – or parts of it like this – were pockets and explosions of colour. If it weren’t for his discomfort, he might have felt at peace taking in the vista.
It wouldn’t be long before his beard took real shape, rather than the higgledy-piggledy shadow it was at that moment. He could pass as a Spaniard, rugged from the mountain air, skin dark from the clear altitude, and eyes darker still from perhaps Moorish heritage. They approached a shack selling cold drinks and offering tapas and tortilla. All the people who had helped his journey to this point had done their jobs silently and without question; that’s what money bought. His current driver turned to him, but Fawaz shook his head. It was too risky. All it took was for an international notice to be put out for him and some farmer to make a phone call. It was treacherous enough travelling in the light.
Despite there being plenty of other easier ways on offer to him, he’d chosen this long and arduous entry route into Europe for just that reason: no one would look for him out here on the road. Not a man who had private jets, power boats and helicopters available to him. And not a man who surveillance showed was still at home in Morocco.
Back at the riad, he’d arranged for a body double to stand in for him. It wasn’t uncommon for figures of such wealth to do so; even the Queen of England had one. He’d known for many years that the Americans used their drones to track those under surveillance when they could no longer follow the money trail. His dealings were watertight, and his bankers all over the world stayed three steps ahead of any investigative institution wanting to get to the heart of Nabil Tradings. The money was the only way they could catch any criminal today. It was the only proof of illegal profit, but if it slipped away and disappeared, then nothing was left, and he stayed out of court. His father had taught him how to hide money. Movement. That’s all it ever boiled down to.
They were almost at the French border and, thanks to the European Union, they should be across in minutes. At the San Sebastián border crossing, it was mainly wanderers and tourists who passed there. The truck passed several cyclists, and Fawaz marvelled at how that might be, to live with such freedom and abandon, and experience the world with only the sound of the rushing wind and the exhilaration of downhill speed. He watched as one particular athlete dressed in bright Lycra reached the top of the hill just ahead of them.
But something was wrong. The back wheel of the man’s bike was off centre, and it began to wobble. They’d only just navigated the highest point on the route and were travelling down a narrow pass. It all happened so quickly, and Fawaz watched in horror as the cyclist lost control and hit a rocky outcrop jutting over the edge.
Fawaz couldn’t help himself as instinct took over. ‘Stop!’ he shouted to his driver. The truck halted roughly and Fawaz jumped out. He rushed to the cliff edge and peered over. The man hung on with his bare hands and Fawaz reached down to grab him. He could see that the man’s leg was mangled but the fear in his eyes was not to do with his leg: it was the prospect of falling two thousand feet to his death. Fawaz looked him in the eye and said in French: ‘Hold on!’
He pulled with every fibre in his body and was thankful that cyclists were featherweights. Fawaz heaved the man’s body over the edge, and they both collapsed on the road. By then, the other cyclists had stopped and surrounded them. A barrage of noise began: questions about the man’s state, thanks for the stranger who saved him, debates about whom to call. Fawaz stood up, panting. He looked to where the truck was parked and the driver stared at him, expressionless.
