Nightmare in Morocco

Published
by Loretta Jackson and Vickie Britton

Copyright
2012 by Loretta Jackson and Vickie Britton

Cover design by Book Graphics

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.
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, events, and places portrayed in this book are products of the author’s imagination and are either fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

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To friend and mentor,

Leon Woods

Chapter One

Noa felt the familiar shiver of fear Morocco always caused in her as she looked across the
deep blue water of the Mediter
ranean toward Tangier
.
From the ferry she watched the sloping hillside, packed with square blocks of buildings, gleam white in the brilliant sun.

From this distance Noa could not glimpse the thic
k, ancient walls of the medina
the old town
behind which tiny, open fronted shops on each side of narrow passageways wound in intricate,
endless mazes, yet the medina seemed once again to enclose her, as it had as a child of eight, when she had become separated from her father and had fled for hours in those terrifying passageways,
intensely frightened, hopelessly lost.

Noa leaned out over the railing trying to spot the silver car lettered Carlson Rand Tours
.
She knew why her boss Wendell Carlson had insisted on meeting her himself at the ferry landing
.
He wanted her to guide his new tour, which ventured deep into the heart of Morocco
.
Noa straightened her shoulders determinedly
.
She was satisfied with the schedule she had kept for the past five summers, managing in depth tours of Spain and Portugal, countries she knew so well
.
Mr. Carlson could be very persuasive, but Noa was going to remain firm in her decision not to include Morocco in her agenda.

With a sort of panic she thought again of the medina. She recalled how darkness had started to fall upon the shadowy shops hung with woven rugs, blankets, and brass
.
The tourists had thinned leaving turbaned peddlers with dark, unapproachable faces, and strange, hooded figure
s, like medieval monks, terrify
ingly slow of step
.
Noa would never be able to forget the foreign cries of street vendors intermingling with the chanting of a beggar, as helpless as she, cane tapping in front of him.

Noa's father had enlisted boys on donkeys to find her
.
When many hours later, they had succeeded, Dad, to distract her, had set her astride one of the
straggly animals
.
Noa had sat sobb
ing upon the donkey until they had reached the hotel
.
Strangely, fifteen years later, she could still feel the same terror.

"In just an hour," said a voice next to her, "you can go from Christian Europe to Moslem Africa
.
Into another world
.
Doesn't seem possible."

The woman drew closer to Noa and gripped the railing with the same
tightness.
Noa saw her hands before seeing her face
strong, work hardened hands, free of the polish and jewelry that characterized the tourists
hands that spoke of strength and
independence.

The face she next observed had that same quality
.
The words the woman had spoken to her had sounded dry and stilted rather than enthusiastic, as if she were accustomed to making forced comments she did not feel.

Because Noa's maroon jacket bore black on gold letters Carlson Rand Tours, she was used to strangers approaching her
.
She loved their excited remarks and never tired of their questions
.
This woman was obviously not a tourist. "Are you from Spain?"
"I'm Marie Landos
.
I was born in California, but I work in Madrid."

"Noa Parker."

"I know Wendell Carlson,"
the woman volunteered,
eyes falling to the insignia Noa wore
.
Her voice, like her face, had a tinge of hardness
.
Rigid, clipped curls, tinted a darkish yellow, gave her an air of artificiality
.
She was probably in her late fifties
.
Her eyes were the same color as the ice blue Mediterranean, and, Noa thought, just as cold.

"Do you know this hotel?"

Noa glanced at the paper where the words Hotel Maroc were printed
.
"Yes
.
If you catch the local bus at the ferry station, this hotel will be your first stop
.
It's the tall, white building on the corner
.
Very elegant
.
You can't miss it."

"So here we are," the woman said
.
"Enjoy Morocco."

Enjoy Morocco
.
Something Noa couldn't do
.
They started down the long plank together, but became separated in the jostling crowd
.
Noa soon forgot their brief companionship in trying to locate her trim, aristocratic boss
.
Turning down Wendell Carlson's offer wasn't going to be easy
.
Besides being the owner of the tour company that paid her generously, he was a
lifelong
friend of Noa's late father
.
She must take great care declining, do so with some semblance of grace.

As Noa stopped to scan the crowd, she noticed a tall, lean man watching her
.
His face, sharp and dark, caused Noa to think again of the medinas, in spite of the fact that he wore a white business suit as the British often don when traveling in warm climates and had about him that same assured air
.

His handsome face lit in a smile of recognition as he strode toward her
.
"Noa Parker?"

Standing very close now, he looked even more Arabian, gave her images of slender, white horses and desert sand
.
About him was a scent of tangent spice
.
Dark eyes gazed deeply into hers
.
He spoke in perfect English
.
"Wendell Carlson can't meet you
.
He sent me instead
.
I'm Taber Rand."
He took her arm and began guiding her through the swarm of people, saying as he did,
"I wouldn't have known you without the insignia
.
Mr. Carlson didn't mention all that tawny hair
.
Noa," he smiled
.
"I guess I expected a long, white beard and someone carrying a dictionary."

"And I didn't expect Rand instead of Carlson
.
Are you related to Thomas Rand?" "I'm his son."

The words brought to Noa an instinctive wariness
.
All Noa really remembered about Thomas Rand was a strong British accent and a bad temper, but what she suspected was fraud and deception.

"It was a mistake from the very start, letting Thomas Rand into the business," Wendell Carlson had confided in Noa once, several years ago, just after the two partners had fallen out
.
Mr. Carlson had bought Rand's half of the company, and had never spoken of him or to him again
.
For some reason that still puzzled her, Wendell Carlson had left the Rand name on the tour
.
Once more Noa wondered why, or what now possessed Mr. Carlson to hire Thomas Rand's son.

"You expected me to look like Father."
Taber's smile revealed very white, even teeth
.
"Everyone does
.
But my mother was Moroccan."
He opened the door to the tour car
.
"It's my duty to talk you into committing yourself to this tour
.
It's very important to Mr. Carlson
.
He won't hear of another guide."

"I could give you my answer right now," said Noa.

Taber laughed
.
"Give me a chance, Noa
.
Over lunch."

* * *

"I had lunch on the ferry,"
Noa told him after they had parked and were walking along a street which gave an impression
of intensive medievalism
.
Such a
contrast from the stately quiet
ness of Spain
.
Her thoughts echoed the woman's words she had
heard on the ferry
another world!
Noise encircled them: a
hammering and banging of craftsmen, a call of "
Balak
," from a
man on a donkey, rising above the cries of street traders
.

Noa hurried slightly ahead of Taber Rand
.
The faces of the hooded people sitting on the ground in the midst of
squawking
chickens and carts of vegetables made her grow more and more uneasy
.