Authors: Dorian Paul
He flipped through the remaining pages and discovered the longest entry was Dr. Ashe's publications: an endless litany of incomprehensible scientific words, except for the abbreviation TB, which he recognized. Obviously, she spent much of her life at work and her spare time volunteering for medical aid missions. Just his luck . . . a brainy do-gooder who probably hadn't a clue about the real world. How would she react to the suave malice of someone like Varat?
He rarely embraced the participation of other people in his operations. The best of plans were too often useless once real-time events kicked off, and he needed to be free to make instant decisions without consultation. When he sat in James' chair, he'd keep that foremost in mind and defend his people if they had to break with the script.
As I should've done in Kurdistan.
If he'd trusted his instincts then, Jeremy would be alive and Bobby wouldn't have had to risk his own life to save him.
The Bentley stopped outside the family townhouse in Portman Square, his acknowledged residence since his parents took up permanent occupancy at Thorn Hall in the country. He'd relocated here reluctantly, aware it signaled the first step in the inevitability of assuming family responsibilities, but today he took the stairs two at a time. Long practice made short work of packing his bag for this singular field assignment where he would reconnect with Varat. He was exhilarated, save for one thing. He picked up the phone.
"Elizabeth, darling, I must ask a favor."
"For you, anything."
"I need you to ring my parents. I can't make it on the weekend." She didn't respond, and he heard sounds of her successful Beauchamp Place shop in the background. "Elizabeth?"
"Don't ask me to do this. Your parents have been anticipating your visit. They've planned everything around you."
"Right, I'm sorry. But there's nothing for it."
"It's your father's birthday. He'll be so disappointed."
"I understand, but it can't be helped."
"David, really, I think you should speak to him."
"I have to be overseas. It's a matter of unfinished business."
"Kurdistan?"
"I'm not at liberty to discuss details. But if I could, you wouldn't hesitate to do this for me."
"Then it does have to do with Jeremy."
He knew he could rely on his cousin to read between the lines that his mission had to do with her dead brother. "Thank you, Elizabeth."
"Be safe."
In the midst of double-checking his weapons cache he reflected how it had been easier to risk his life when estrangement, not tentative rapprochement with his family, had been the order of the day. Fifteen years ago he altered family dynamics when he chose his profession over inherited responsibilities. But those dynamics shifted once more when his younger cousin Jeremy followed him into harm's way, but not out. After that he convinced himself he should leave the field for a desk job in London and try to fuse the career he believed in and the role he'd been born to fill. Now he realized he was mistaken. Until he faced Varat and his own fatal errors in Kurdistan, he'd never be ready to move on.
A glance at his watch hurried him along so he wouldn't be late for the first round of racquets. He'd agreed to defend his club in the best two of three for the championship. It would be pure pleasure to slip on his whites and spend an hour in a confined four-walled court, slashing away at a small hard ball in close proximity to his opponent, forging victory out of split-second decisions with no time outs. Exactly what he needed before boarding the flight to Casa . . . and snaring Varat.
***
David had no difficulty identifying Bobby's local embassy staffer. Aziz Bouchta was dressed in a sports coat and open-necked shirt like a local businessman come to the airport to greet an associate. In fact, the man waved a small British flag. Fool. Unless he was in on letting someone else watch this pick-up.
"Your flight was agreeable?" Bouchta inquired.
"Indeed." Perfect, in fact. He'd slept like a baby after defending the club's title with a victory in round one. Pity he hadn't had time for the club celebration.
"Glad to hear it."
Aziz's round face radiated hospitality, but all David wanted was to get on the road.
"Let me take your bag."
He'd rather not advertise his stock of weapons to a stranger. "I can manage."
Aziz moved off through the polyglot crowd, drawing attention by sharing a nod, a grin, or a word with every person, whether their skin was light mocha or deepest ebony, their garments fine Italian suits or coarsely woven robes. "We are overrun," he apologized. "Morocco is not so much a country as it is the door through which Europe and Africa visit each other."
To be sure. It was the current gateway of choice for exporting suicide bombers from the Middle East to Spain, France, and Italy.
Aziz bestowed his wide smile on a ragamuffin who stood beside a battered Fiat and handed the boy a coin.
"You trust the lad?"
"I know the locals, but I'll start the car before you get in."
He wedged his bag between his legs as Aziz drove downtown, making a decent show of running a stair-step surveillance detection route through Casablanca. Nonetheless, David studied the swirl of chaotic traffic through his own side mirror all the way. By the time they reached the ocean-side mosque whose tall turret aimed a green laser east to Mecca, he was reasonably certain they hadn't been followed. "No tail."
"Of course not. I would be shamed to let down a man of your reputation, Mr. Tiger."
Reputation? Bobby and he disagreed over the value of sharing information with locals. He believed that trust meant different things in different cultures. It wasn't wise to take unnecessary risks, especially on this mission, but it was Bobby's operation, strictly speaking.
Aziz offered him a sack full of dates and honey-soaked pastries as they drove past piers that jutted into the sea, crowded with teeming open-air restaurants and dance halls. He pointed out high-walled sanctuaries erected by Saudi princes and told of the lavish parties in the private nightclubs behind those secret walls. But David didn't want a tour guide. "Tell me everything you know about the man with the scar."
"He was seen moving toward the mountains with some of my countrymen who we have been watching. Scientists holding respectable positions, but they are dissatisfied with the pace of change."
This information and what followed offered nothing new, so he pressed no further. It was up to him to walk into the mountains, find these men, and learn what they were up to. But first he had to get to Taroudannt, nearly four hundred kilometers to the south.
He forced himself to close his eyes until the rising sun made the pretense of napping impossible. Distant parapets grew closer until the tired Fiat squeezed through the city gates of Taroudannt.
"
Place Talmoklate
. Begin by speaking to the men in that café in front of us. They know everything that passes in the
Marché Berbère
."
"With the exception of where precisely to find Varat."
"If that were known, there would be no need for Tiger." Aziz tooted a warning at children walking in the dusty street, and the boys waved sticks while the girls lowered their shrouded faces. "It upsets me to see the girls with their heads covered. This country is going backwards. Do you have children?"
"No." And more to the point, he had produced no heir, as Mother reminded him politely on a regular basis.
"I have two daughters. I want them to grow up here. But free. We must do what we can for them. We must act for the future."
Aziz might be acting for the future, but Tiger's motives lay in the past. Fate rarely allowed one to atone for prior mistakes but this time he'd settle the score with Varat. A life for a life. Bring it on, as Bobby would say before a skirmish.
The Fiat sputtered to a halt outside a small hotel. He was relieved to see both Moroccans and Westerners coming and going. Tiger could hide in plain sight.
"I know the Governor here," Aziz whispered like a conspirator. "I will visit him, and keep my eyes and ears open for news of you."
If only he had himself to think about he would have dismissed this fool who broadcast secrets, but Bobby planned on his own team shuttering Varat's operation. "Right. But be discreet."
A short time later Tiger doubled back toward the café, passing adobe dwellings where families spilled out onto low roofs to enjoy the good weather. He entered the freewheeling marketplace, packed with women wearing black
gouna'a
decorated with colorful yarns and husbands tending donkey carts filled with the week's harvest. The aroma of his favorite round compact yeast bread, delicately light despite its dense appearance, tempted him, but that would have to wait. As he neared the café, men predominated. They loitered, dark, mysterious strangers dressed in layers that might conceal anything from a live lamb to a dagger. He relaxed into their presence.
At last . . . the hunt for Varat commenced in the jungle of the familiar.
Chapter 3
Claire's days in Tivaz were regulated by the earth's orbit around the sun, and yet she felt completely out of synch with the laws of the universe. Every sunrise Red hauled her to the lab, where for the first time in her life she prayed not to solve the scientific problem in front of her. She wouldn't be the one to hand Dr. Black the knowledge he needed to weaponize his TB, but she had to make enough of a show of it to stay alive. At sunset Red would drag her back to her tiny cell, where she'd practice yoga to keep a lid on her anxiety and memorize what she'd discovered that day about Black's TB. She'd pieced together quite a bit about how he'd bioengineered the bacillus, but not enough yet to figure out how to stop him. With or without her she suspected he would get to the finish line, which meant she had to get a sample to scientists on the outside so they could analyze it.
But how? She'd yet to set foot outside the bunker. Her only excursions were the evenings Red instructed her to dress for dinner with Mr. Brown. And whether she dined solo with Brown, or Dr. Black and other scientists joined, no one seemed overly concerned she might learn secrets. That could only signify her days were numbered unless she provided them with something valuable soon. To take her mind off that cheery thought, and the way Red pawed her en route to Mr. Brown's, she made a game of guessing who'd be in attendance and what would be on the menu, convinced Brown had coerced a five star chef to cook for him. Tonight she actually hoped Black or his fellow Moroccan researchers would be present so she could keep a low profile and try to enjoy the food. She visualized an Italian menu, her favorite cuisine.
She couldn't have known how far off the mark she would be.
A tall, good-looking Westerner with dark brown unreadable eyes stood alone with Mr. Brown.
"Dr. Ashe, meet Tiger. He looks and talks like one of yours, but he and I share many of the same clients."
Attractive and aware of it, Tiger lifted and held her hand like an English gentleman from Masterpiece Theatre. "Pleasure."
Ha, she was right – British! She pulled her hand back. He could only be in Tivaz if he'd turned coat and Brown had said as much. "Mr. Tiger, charmed to finally meet a man named for an animal, instead of a pigment."
Tiger, who was near in age to Brown, gave a sly smile. "Ah, but you've yet to see the color of my stripes."
He might be beautiful, but he was still a traitor. "I've seen enough to know your kind."
His deep-set eyes sparked in challenge.
"Tell me, what made a refined English gentleman like you get into a racket like this?"
He pushed up the rolled sleeves of his fitted khaki shirt above his elbows, flaunting muscled forearms. "Shall we say I had something to prove? How does that strike you?"
"Selling death to the highest bidder for a thrill? Beyond contempt."
"Right," he responded in a very British way while he ran his well-manicured fingers through his long brown hair. "What about you? I understand you're cooperating with Dr. Black."
Shame gripped her. "That's different." Did Tiger know she'd been kidnapped?
"Nonetheless, we may have more in common than you imagine."
Brown chuckled and passed a drink to Tiger. "Our friend drinks martinis. Will you join him? Or me, for a glass of champagne?"
"I don't care to drink tonight."
"I insist. Martini or champagne?"
She chose the devil she knew. "Champagne."
"Are you sure?" Tiger asked. "Making the correct choice is never easy."
What's he driving at?
"Champagne," she repeated.
When Brown passed her a flute, Tiger raised his martini in salute to her alone. Irritated, she snubbed him. There was nothing to celebrate. Eventually, as though conceding their contest of wills, he switched his attention back to Brown. "I cannot believe you've renounced selling arms with genuine firepower to baby-sit scientists."
"My sponsors pay well."
"Well enough to endure life here, in the back of beyond?"
Brown's eyes surveyed his comfortable surroundings and settled on the ornate sword displayed on the wall. "I've brought a few of my favorite objects. Life is too short to live without the small luxuries."
Tiger tilted his martini glass toward Brown. "Quite true. One never knows when it shall all come to an end."
"Exactly. You and I have played this sport long enough to know the only real mistake is ending up dead." He wagged a finger at Tiger. "Your time almost came in Kurdistan. Rumor said you decided to get out of the game after that."
"Rumor was clearly wrong."
Brown relaxed into his leather chair. "Which hurt more, Tiger, losing the arms sale to me or getting caught in the crossfire?"
"Losing to you," Tiger shot back.
"More than bullets?"
"Winning trumps all, and this time we can both win." Tiger fished the olive from the bottom of his martini and popped it into his mouth. "You do not need this American scientist, however attractive, to do your dirty work. I can save you a bit of trouble. Shall we see what she thinks about the prize I offer?"