He said, ‘
Alors
. . .
Alors
. . .’ and dropped the phone. I was making a dash for the door when he tripped me and carrying me to the ground, fell on top of me. I thought he was more alarmed than vindictive. He said ‘What are you doing?’ and put his knee on my stomach. Before I could answer, he reached up and pressed on a buzzer, and two men with eighteen-inch biceps came in and took me away. I had seen them in the market when they got hold of Pymm. In fact they took me to Pymm. He was with Morgan, locked in a lavatory.
If you convert a kasbah, I suppose bathrooms are the only places left with small windows and locks. This was a very palatial one, with everything done in gold down to the toilet hinges. It had high and low paper, and all the towels and the bathrobes had B on them. Ellwood Pymm sat on the toilet, and Mo Morgan sat on the bidet. It was a really bad moment, until I saw they were both fully dressed and there was nowhere else for them to sit, except the Jacuzzi. Then I was battered aside by Ellwood Pymm making his way to the door and yelling at the two men who were closing it. ‘Let us out! This gentleman is Mohammed Mirghani! Tell your employer! Your employer will give you big money!’
The man said, ‘
Sivahell! Imshi!
’ and shut the door in his face. You could tell that Pymm understood, even without his American phrasebook.
Long before then, I was in Morgan’s peak-climbing hug, and Morgan was saying, ‘Aw Christ, are you all right, Wendy? Oliver?’ Over his shoulder I saw Ellwood Pymm’s distracted red face. He walked slowly round and sat himself again on the toilet. Then Morgan stood me off and said, ‘Did they hurt you?’
I said, ‘Not when Bontine’s around. What are you doing here?’
I didn’t have to underline it. His black eyes glittered and he produced a smile like a double-barbed arrowhead. He said, ‘Oh, maintaining brand share. They think I’m a buddy of Ellwood’s.’
He said it with no particular stress, and Ellwood didn’t react when he said it. During their joint lavatorial session, Morgan clearly hadn’t even touched on the topics of spying and incitement to murder. Morgan’s knuckles were skinned, but not, I would gather, on the candlewick nose and puffed eye of friend Ellwood. Yet I had seen Morgan’s fury at Oliver’s bedside.
So Morgan had thought up a scheme. Morgan, I would guess, was setting up a tripwire for both Pymm and Chahid. I didn’t know what to say. I said, ‘Well, why not explain it to someone? They’re all having lunch in the kasbah.’
‘You know who’s here?’ said Ellwood sharply. ‘He won’t tell me. No one’ll tell me. I am an American. Excuse me all to hell, but no one kidnaps an American.’
Morgan looked at him. ‘Ellwood,’ he said. ‘Everyone kidnaps Americans. There’s a merit scale of award, and a gold watch if their mother speaks English. Will you quit screeching? When the bosses do come, you’ll probably wish that they hadn’t.’
‘They don’t understand,’ said Ellwood Pymm. ‘All Morgan has to do is to explain who he is and they’ll spring us. Here’s a nice girl, you don’t want to scare her. Her mother wants her safely back in the parlour. Mo here, his folks will be worrying. We all want the hell out. If it takes a yell, then it’s worth one in my book.’
I wondered what a yell was in his book. The same as
Hi!,
I should imagine. Morgan said, ‘They’re a bunch of robbers, Ellwood, out for all the ransom money they can get. The whole process will take months. Spring us? Forget it.’
Then I saw what he was after. There was a silence. Pymm got up from the seat and walked the few steps he could and then back again, flipping the bathmat agitatedly out of his way. He leaped on a pipe and tried to see out of the window; failed, and jumped down again, his hand on the cistern. The toilet instantly flushed, and he squealed, snatching his hand back. He said, ‘Don’t you know who’s up there?’
‘Arabs,’ said Morgan.
I never thought much of Ellwood Pymm, but I almost felt sorry for him then, as his need to get free fought with five days of determined self-interest. Then he said, ‘I guess you don’t know what’s going on. I don’t know who the Chief Monkey is, but I can sure tell you who he’s entertaining. And that’s Sir Robert Kingsley of your firm, Mr. Morgan, and also Mr. Daniel Oppenheim, who is meant to be in medical care in Agadir. Now do you see what I mean?’
‘I think so,’ said Mo. He looked thoughtful. ‘But if that’s so, Ellwood, why did they capture you? And how did you know, in the first place?’
There was a long hesitation. ‘I’m a columnist,’ said Mr. Pymm. He glanced again at the window.
Morgan said, ‘Bollocks. They wouldn’t panic over a columnist. Unless it’s serious? Unless you were really tracking down figures? Ellwood, did you stage that kidnapping in Essaouira? I must say I had my doubts when I heard of it.’
‘No one got hurt,’ Ellwood said. ‘Come on. Shout through the door. They’ll be so upset you’ve been harmed, they’ll do anything.’
‘And the bug at Asni?’ Morgan said. ‘Of course, you wanted to know if MCG would agree to a takeover. Ellwood, you’ve been naughty.’
‘Everyone does it,’ said Pymm.
‘And persuading Wendy’s mother to leave her recorder in Oppenheim’s room? You were really serious, Ellwood. Who were you going to report it all to?’
‘Just my paper. She didn’t mind. Did you hear the tape?’ said Pymm, suddenly casual.
‘Oh, yes,’ said Mo. ‘I know we’re talking war fodder.’
There was a silence. Then Pymm said, ‘Then you know we’re thinking in telephone numbers. Money you’ve never dreamed of. Get me out of here, and it’s yours.’
‘I don’t know,’ Morgan said. ‘If you arranged the self- kidnapping at Essaouira, then Chahid is your man?’
I saw the name strike home. Up till then, he had felt reasonably secure. Up till then he was a columnist, or a magnate, with an alibi or a bribe as a shield. Then he said, ‘Who? Never heard of him.’
‘I think he’ll say differently,’ Morgan said. ‘He threatened Wendy and Johnson at Essaouira. He helped the man who shot Oppenheim and he tried to knife Johnson himself. He assaulted Wendy’s mother, and lured Johnson to where he could kill him. On the hill just now, he smashed up Oliver, Johnson’s young crewman.’
‘That’s a goddamned lie,’ said Ellwood Pymm. He sat on the seat, and looked as if he wanted to use it. ‘I’ve never heard of this man. Why the hell should he want to kill Oliver? The poor guy fell. I was told.’
‘With bullets in his tyres. We have the bullets. We have Oliver’s testimony. We know why Chahid did it. Oliver was watching him. He saw Chahid park his car. He saw you leave the Lancia and walk towards it. Why did you try to kill us in the Lancia?’ Morgan asked.
‘I didn’t!’ said Ellwood.
‘You damned well did. Because you saw Mrs. Helmann, and didn’t notice that I was driving? Why did you join Chahid’s car if you didn’t know him?’ said Morgan.
‘I didn’t!’ said Ellwood.
‘Then how did you come to the market? And why? And where is Chahid now?’
I could have told him. Pymm said, ‘How should I know? What does it matter? I tell you what matters. Getting out of his bloody shit-house but fast.’
‘Ellwood,’ Morgan said. ‘If you get out of here, you’ll meet the guy who wanted you captured. If you learn the identity of the guy who wanted you captured, you’ll never leave the kasbah alive. We shall. He needs us. But you won’t. So calm down. Give them time to consider it all. And in any case, if I can put in a good word for you, I won’t.’
I really was sorry for Pymm. His nose had started to bleed by itself. He might have found something witty to say, but just at that moment the door rattled, and a key turned, and two men came in, looked about, and took possession of both my arms.
‘Marche!’
one of them said. And I did.
The big room with the conference table looked quite different with six people sitting round it, the glasses of water half full, the papers at odds and the chairs at different angles. I saw Sir Robert at once, in a pale hot-weather suit that was wrong for the snow, and his hair gummed down flat, and the bantering lines nowhere visible. Oppenheim sat beside him, solid, handsome, the white ribs of his teeth firmly shrouded, his shoulder and arm in a sling. The PA sat near the top. The other three I didn’t know, but I looked at the man at the end, who wore Western dress exquisitely tailored, and viewed me through the undisturbed smoke of his cigarette. He said, addressing Sir Robert in French, ‘This is your mistress?’
Once, it would have been the end of the world. Once it would have been an anguish, at the very least, not to be bathed and made up and dressed in a way that matched my Chairman’s importance. Now my hair was uncombed and tangled, my shirt creased, my jeans filthy from the mud of the grille, and to see Sir Robert’s cheeks flush did my heart good.
He had flushed because of the gibe, but my presence hadn’t astounded him, or startled Oppenheim. I said, ‘You knew I was here!’
It was far more awkward for Sir Robert than it was for me. He said, ‘We heard there was a young woman. It didn’t seem possible. . . You were going to London. What were you doing with Pymm?’ Something made his voice very sharp.
‘Pymm?’ I said. ‘I wasn’t with Pymm, I was with Mr. Morgan. Remember? I’m his Executive Assistant.’
Daniel Oppenheim was staring at Sir Robert. The Arab at the head of the table laid down his cigarette and exhaled delicately. Sir Robert said, ‘Morgan is here? Where is he?’
‘Locked up with Pymm,’ I said. ‘The men thought they were partners. They captured Morgan as well.’
Oppenheim swore. The man at the head of the table sat slowly erect. He said, ‘Morgan? The man we are speaking of? He is here?’
‘He and I were in the market,’ I said.
‘But,’ said the man, ‘you were found in the kasbah. Why were you in the kasbah?’
‘Looking for Mr. Morgan,’ I said. ‘And I found him. He is angry.’
‘I expect he is,’ said Mr. B. very softly. He had large dark eyes, well-trimmed hair and a fine moustache. His olive skin was perfectly smooth but he was older, I thought, than at first he seemed. He said, ‘Well, gentlemen, what is your recommendation? This Mirghani, you say, is a genius. He must have an idea of his worth. Why not confide in him, and trust his good judgement?’
‘And Mr. Pymm?’ one of the other men said.
The lord of the kasbah glanced at him. He said, ‘Of course, we wish him no harm. He will be released. First, as a civility, he will perhaps tell us the names of his employers. We wish no other favour. As for Mr. Morgan, Omar will take our apologies. Clothe him if necessary. Give him whatever he wants, and ask him, of his kindness, to join us.’
The secretary left. Whatever he offered, I could imagine the answer he got. Morgan was at the door in three minutes, his pigtail springing. He crossed to where I stood in the middle, and put one hand on my shoulder, and proceeded to examine the men round the table. Last of all, he gazed at Sir Robert and Oppenheim. ‘Well, well,’ he said. ‘After all that drama at Auld’s. How’s your wife, Mr. Oppenheim? Working up a few other snaps for your album?’
Oppenheim rose slowly to his feet. He looked mildly haggard. He said, ‘I understand. You think it strange to find us together. I thought I’d never speak to Robert again. But we’ve talked, and he’s persuaded me that you ought to stay with the firm. It means raising finance. Hence this meeting.’
‘All this is true,’ said the man at the head of the table. He also rose. ‘Mr. Morgan, I trust you will forgive me. My men are fools. We suffer, you understand, from the paparazzi. Learning that one was about, they restrained both him and one they thought his companion. I cannot hope to make amends. But perhaps you will indulge me to the extent of taking this chair by my side. What may I bring you?’
‘A self-drive car would be nice,’ Morgan said, shoving his hands in his pockets. ‘Wendy and I would like to leave, and while I’m not fogging up over Pymm, there’s no doubt he’d feel safer with an independent appraisal.’
Mr. B. sank into his seat, and directed his case to Sir Robert. Sir Robert took up the running. ‘Don’t be an ass, old boy. All you’ve ever wanted is freedom and money, and now you can have what you like. Send off Pymm and the girl by all means, close the doors, and let’s get down to some wonderful planning.’ His tone, while urgent, held a trace of genuine excitement. It was quite odd, really.
‘My God, that’s wacky,’ said Morgan. And when Mr. B. cast him a look, he translated immediately, ‘No.’
‘Why?’ said Oppenheim, reseating himself. His hair didn’t stick up, and he didn’t play with pens, or visibly wish he were somewhere else. He said, ‘Is it because of Muriel? The photographs? I blamed Sir Robert as you do, until I saw why he’d done it. I had to tell myself my marriage couldn’t have lasted. I agreed to join him, and why? Because the most important thing for us all is your work. Isn’t that so? Can there be any question now of leaving Sir Robert?’
‘No, there can’t,’ Morgan said. ‘I’m sure as hell leaving him, the moment I crack how to do it.’
I didn’t stop him saying it. If I could have, I probably would. Then Sir Robert said, ‘Well, you can’t. Don’t be a fool, Morgan. You know you’re on to a hot deal.’
Morgan didn’t speak. Neither did the three Arabs. It was Oppenheim, thoughtfully tapping a lip, who withdrew his hand, slapped the table and said, ‘I think we have to talk about this. Morgan, I want to ask you a question. Is it the management of your firm that disturbs you?’
‘Among other things,’ Morgan said.
‘Specifically,’ said Oppenheim, ‘the quality of its leadership?’
‘That specifically,’ Morgan said. He knew what he was saying. He was looking straight at Sir Robert.
Oppenheim, on the other hand, had turned to the head of the table. Mr. B., in his Savile Row suit, and his fine Charvet shirt accepted his cue in a leisurely way. He said, ‘Perhaps, then, we should reconsider our Board. Would that alter your view, Mr. Morgan?’
He didn’t even look at the present Chairman of Kingsley Conglomerates, whose Board he appeared to think that he owned.
Sir Robert was, however, staring at him. Sir Robert said, ‘I beg your pardon!’
Mr. B. paid no attention. ‘Would it?’ he repeated.