Waiting was part of what they did. They listened to the sounds of the working port and watched the sun sink deeper towards the earth far to the west, where they knew the sea to be. None of them had been near the sea in their lifetimes – apart from Abdul, who regularly travelled to Tangier for the boss. The nearest the others had got was a swim in the dam back home. But they still imagined what the sea might look like: sparkling and vast like they saw on posters and tourist pamphlets.
Some time had passed when a blue truck arrived and parked near the vehicles. There were two men – one driver and his passenger – who got out of the cabin and walked towards Abdul. They shook hands and the man gave Abdul another phone, plus several envelopes. He also handed him some papers, which Abdul studied. It was the inventories of the vehicles and Abdul nodded as he looked over them. The man looked satisfied and made a joke about how Algiers women would take care of them tonight. As he and Abdul walked back to the blue truck, more information was given and they shook hands again. The truck drove away and Abdul returned to the men, distributing the envelopes, which contained cash and hotel details. The men were excited and talked about where they might stay and if they’d have a sea view. Abdul smiled. Fawaz bin Nabil was a generous man.
Abdul opened his envelope and saw that he was booked into the Marriott downtown. He retrieved his personal bag from the back of one of the trucks.
‘Don’t go telling long stories about yourself tonight!’ he teased the men in advance. ‘Until we meet again, my friends.’ He walked away. He felt dirty and wondered how he would be seen arriving at the Marriott in such a state. He soon forged a plan and managed to catch a lift with an engineer leaving the port after a long shift. He asked to be dropped off at the nearest McDonald’s. There, in the toilets, he’d wash, change and refresh himself. Enough to look like a weary traveller just off a long-haul flight perhaps, unshaven and tired.
He waved goodbye to the kind stranger who’d driven him downtown and went to do his ablutions in the world’s most anonymous bathroom. After, he ordered a burger and chomped on it, relishing the salt and fat. Outside, he discarded his soiled clothes in a waste bin and hailed a cab.
Chapter 25
Helen stared out over the city far below her and wished she could open a window. Nowadays, upper-floor windows were securely closed due to health and safety regulations, and it stifled her.
Sylvia breezed in and Helen saw it as an opportunity to stretch and walk away from her desk. She’d taken the decision to release a Photofit of the two men who’d vacated the apartment where the Peugeot was impounded, courtesy of the memory of a very sharp old lady. It had gone out to all major European media outlets this morning.
‘If I wanted surveillance equipment set up in Khalil Dalmani’s personal penthouse at the Ritz, who would I speak to?’ Helen asked.
It was the kind of decision not to be taken lightly, but France’s anti-terror laws were laxer than the UK’s. It was another reason she’d joined the RMP; the excitement of a foreign field, with different rules of engagement and higher risk indices, as well as a broader orbit of responsibility all converged on cases like this one, and she was grateful to Sir Conrad – if only for a moment – for sending her. Only one question lurked at the back of her head: why he would put so much emphasis on what was essentially Counter Terrorism’s concern. In her brief moments of pause, she’d read the files – courtesy of Sylvia’s computer – on Afghan drug lords and their poppy trade, but Helen had found nothing pointing to Fawaz, yet Sir Conrad was adamant that this element of the summit was vulnerable. But that was her brief, albeit temporarily. Furthermore, Hakim Dalmani’s case had caused her to wander into the territory of other branches of Interpol, and she couldn’t ignore her findings. To Helen, it was Khalil’s behaviour that was suspect, and it was a matter of international interest to watch him.
She waited for Sylvia’s response to her proposal to bug Khalil’s suite at the Ritz, which wouldn’t be cheap. Her reaction would be a good indicator of Helen’s status here. She couldn’t help feeling that Sir Conrad wanted her out of the way – why else send her to another city? Though perhaps that was Colonel Palmer’s doing. But at the same time, the ambassador had been emphatic in his case to her that he was sure that her new mission was indeed an important one. Hadn’t he himself said to her that she was to dig around Nabil Tradings, to figure out what Fawaz was up to in Europe, as well as keeping one eye on other criminal activities of consequence, such as any noises regarding drug trafficking out of Afghanistan leading up to the summit? But then he’d gone behind her back by briefing Peter Knowles about his concerns. Or was she paranoid? Surely the head of Counter Terrorism had a vested interest in Fawaz’s movements too? What didn’t fit into her mandate was the glaring anomaly that trafficking out of Afghanistan usually went through states such as India and Pakistan, and Sir Conrad was adamant that Fawaz’s presence in Europe was a red flag. Was he being overcautious? A typical civil servant covering his back? He certainly hadn’t displayed the poise she’d expect from a senior foreign office official. She
