Shadow of the Rock (Spike Sanguinetti) (30 page)

With unsteady fingers, he set about unpeeling the tape. Her hands came free first; he knelt to her ankles and untied them too. She stood shakily and threw her arms around him. The strip of tape on her mouth had been softened by saliva; Spike eased it off and pressed his lips to hers. As they kissed, he stroked the damp hair back from her face.

Above them stretched the bank of CCTV units. One monitor showed the driveway, one the pool terrace. Spike reached up and pressed eject: a large black cassette slid out, the same make as the one he’d just thrown into the pool. He ejected the others and slung them in the hessian sack.

Zahra was still tearing off the last of the dangling strands of tape. ‘They grabbed me outside the hotel,’ she said, ‘they wanted the tape –’

‘Are you hurt?’

She shook her head. ‘One of them kept touching me. I’ve seen him before at the Sundowner, he was –’ She stopped. ‘He had a gun.’

‘Not any more.’

‘How did . . . ?’

‘Shh,’ Spike said. ‘We can talk later.’

He steered her up the vehicle ramp. The lever drew no response so they turned and ran up the garage stairs to the terrace.

‘
Ya Allah
,’ Zahra said, covering her mouth with a hand.

Riddell was floating face down in the water. His legs dangled and his wrists hung limply by his ears. On the tiled base of the pool, the heliopod lay side-on like a space-age shipwreck. The plastic bag containing the tape had caught on a mirrored petal; it flapped in the current beside the set-square shape of the pistol. Above, in the filtration system, bobbed a dark, oily squash ball.

‘Let’s get back to the road,’ Spike said, and they turned and ran down the tunnel.

Chapter 76

They pushed through the shadowy shrubs of the El Minzah gardens. A street band was playing, the music blending with the cheers of a crowd. A police siren shrieked behind; they waited until the blue flashing lights had passed, then carried on through the foliage.

Empty wooden sunloungers surrounded the hotel pool. The underwater lights were on, the sight of the shimmering water giving Spike a queasy feeling in his stomach. He blinked away a flashback of Riddell’s floating body.

They continued towards the glass doors. The first two were draped by velvet; through the next two along Spike made out the same trestle tables he had seen at the Roadshow. He turned back to Zahra, who kept tightening and loosening the knot on her headscarf. ‘You surviving?’ he said. Taking her hand, he led her to the darkest spot by the windows. ‘I’ve got to find Jean-Baptiste. Will you wait here?’

She sat down on a sunlounger; he leaned in and kissed her.

The first glass doors were locked. Spike tried the next, flattening his palms to the glass. The panes came apart; he glanced back at Zahra, then slipped quietly inside.

The buffet was even more lavish than before, skewers of rare lamb, samovars of mint tea, flaky Moroccan pastries, soft cloying nougat oozing with fondant. The curtains at the far end were closed. Indistinct voices came from behind.

Spike crept forward, seeking the midpoint of the curtains. Parting them with his thumbs, he peered through. Nadeer Ziyad was standing at the lectern. Among the Americans, Chinese, Japanese and Europeans in the audience, Spike saw more Moroccans than before, some in traditional dress, most in suits. The blonde bob of Regina Solness leaned towards the governor’s shaven head.

‘The festival of Eid ul-Fitr is a time for thanks,’ Nadeer was saying, ‘a time for universal gratitude. What better day, then, to . . .’

Spike widened the curtains further. The DVD trolley lay ahead in the aisle; beside it, in the same seat that Spike had taken at the Roadshow, Spike saw the lofty, proud head of Jean-Baptiste, dreadlocks tied back in a ponytail.

The screen behind Nadeer was down but it didn’t look as though there were plans to use it. Two porters in fezzes flanked the door. They seemed as transfixed by Nadeer as everyone else.

‘After this long period of hardship,’ Nadeer continued, ‘it is only natural to look forward to something bright, to a chance to make good the . . .’

A black cable snaked up the aisle towards the DVD player. Spike crouched down, feeling under the velvet until he had it in his hand. Looking again through the gap, he gave the cord a tug. There was a click of plastic on wood; he yanked again and saw Jean-Baptiste’s head turn.

‘A truly
global
initiative,’ Nadeer was saying, ‘which the rest of the world will look upon as . . .’

Jean-Baptiste stepped into the aisle and moved behind the DVD trolley. A constellation of red and green lights twinkled on the unit.

‘. . . the
genuine
sense that history – Actually,’ Nadeer broke off, ‘we didn’t book any VT for tonight, so –’ The screen behind him lit up. The porters, not understanding Nadeer’s English, reached for the switches by the door and turned off the lights.

‘
Ama nas aghbiaa
,’ Nadeer hissed in Arabic, but all eyes were on the screen now, making Nadeer himself turn.

The footage was silent. In grainy black and white, two men were arguing. Only one of their faces was visible, a tall handsome man in a turban. His indignant expression was one Spike had come to know well. The tall man raised his hands as though making an emphatic point. Suddenly his turban unravelled like a ribbon, arms falling limply by his sides as he sank to the ground out of shot, as quickly as if someone had flicked an ‘off’ switch. The man he had been arguing with leapt back in panic: Spike caught a glimpse of the thick salt-and-pepper hair of Ángel Castillo. A third man appeared in shot, face to the camera. His dark wavy hair was shorter but the glinting eyes and hawk’s nose were unmistakable. Nadeer held a pistol with a silencer in one hand. He pointed it downwards; it kicked back and a cone of light flashed from the muzzle.

There was an intake of breath from the audience. A woman screamed. Nadeer looked round from the screen. ‘I don’t know what kind of prank this –’

The sequence restarted: Jean-Baptiste had edited it into a loop. A murmur rose as the turbaned man fell again from shot. ‘This is outrageous . . .’ Nadeer said as he stepped down from the lectern. He shouted in Arabic, then began striding down the aisle towards Jean-Baptiste.

The
danse macabre
was on its third showing; Spike heard a low sobbing from behind. He spun round to see Zahra watching the screen from over his shoulder.

Nadeer was running now towards the DVD unit as Jean-Baptiste backed up the aisle.

‘
Oho
,’ Spike heard behind. ‘
Oho, oho
 . . .’

Most of the audience were on their feet. Heads turned as Zahra lurched for the gap between the curtains, flailing her arms at Nadeer, who stopped now, staring at her, face transformed for a moment into the small, scared boy Spike had seen captured in a school photograph.

The DVD was still playing as Jean-Baptiste came marching through the curtains and helped Spike drag Zahra, shrieking and clawing, back through the glass doors.

Chapter 77

They sat together in the darkness beneath the Medina walls. ‘I’ve just spoken to my friend,’ Spike said to Jean-Baptiste. ‘He’ll get you into Spain by tomorrow night. From then on, you’re on your own.’

Spike turned to Zahra. Her arms were clasped around her knees, forehead leaning against them. Her shoulders shook. ‘Zahra?’

She looked up, eyes brimming.

‘We should get going. The man said we have to be there in half an hour.’

Zahra swallowed then gave a weak nod.

The three of them looked up as a firework exploded above, fired from the festival celebration on the beach, arcs of red glittering streamers embracing the night sky. Spike got to his feet, Jean-Baptiste following.

Zahra was still sitting; Spike reached down and took her hand. She stood, then hugged him, closing her eyes as the unshed tears spilled. ‘Feels like my heart has been cut out,’ she whispered.

‘It’s better to know,’ Spike said.

Another volley of fireworks; Spike held Zahra’s hand as they set off up the coast road. A few metres on, Spike turned. Jean-Baptiste was still standing beneath the walls of the Medina, chin raised defiantly to the burning sky. ‘What can I say?’ he called out. ‘I must like this city.’

Spike smiled and continued hand in hand with Zahra towards the port.

Part Five

Gibraltar

Chapter 78

Spike threw open the French windows. It was a fine day outside, a few wisps of cloud, not too much wind. A new collection of Paganini’s chamber music was playing on the iPod dock. Spike detected the gentle, fast-fading notes of a mandolin beneath the violin and bassoon. Altogether a more charming tone than the caprices. He wondered if he shouldn’t take a trip to Italy when the weather cooled, see if he couldn’t find the run-down quarter of Genoa that had produced this strange, lugubrious man.

The tax books were up on the shelf; open on Spike’s desk were Blackstone’s
Criminal Statutes
and a copy of the Immigration, Asylum and Refugee Act, the latter coffee-stained with scrutiny.

After switching off the music, and enjoying a brief but necessary burst of the ceiling fan, Spike put on his suit jacket and stuck his head into the adjacent office. ‘Making any sense?’

Galliano looked up. He’d trimmed his goatee into a pointy, Lenin-style prong. A pudgy arm was bent protectively around the documents on his desk. ‘I’ll let you have a butcher’s once I’m done.’

Loose sheets of paper littered the floor; billowing from his picture rail was a large white dress shirt. ‘See you at the party later?’ Spike said.

‘
En plan
nice.’

Spike strolled up Main Street towards the Moorish Castle. Two police vans were parked outside; he buzzed himself in and approached the front desk.

‘You can’t seem to keep away these days,’ Alan Gaggero said, looking up from his crossword.

‘Got a secret crush on you, Alan.’

‘I’ll ask Ida to take you down. I-
da
! Long queues today at the border, they tell me.’

‘That’s the Spanish for you, Alan.
Slopis
and
chiteros
all.’

The stout form of Ida Milby-Low materialised to escort Spike past the scanner and into the dank, lower reaches of the castle.

Chapter 79

Spike stood beneath the CCTV camera and planted a flake of tissue on the lens. He stepped away from the wall just as the door opened. ‘Quarter of an hour do you?’ asked Ida.

‘Better make it half.’

‘
Vale vishi
.’

The moment the bolt closed, Spike pulled the detainee towards him. They kissed for a full minute, each holding the other close. Spike heard Arabic words rustle in his ear like palm fronds in the levanter.

‘What does that mean?’ he asked as he sat down at the table.

‘I’ll give you a full demonstration once I’m out of here,’ Zahra replied.

Spike bent down to remove a stack of papers from his briefcase. ‘The good news is we’ve been able to fast-track your application,’ he said. ‘The hearing’s set for Wednesday. I just need you to initial this.’

Zahra took the pen then signed.

‘Aren’t you going to read it first?’

‘I trust you.’

Spike reached over and turned the page. ‘We’re going for “Asylum from Persecution”. Given the latest events in Tangiers, I can’t see there being a problem.’

Zahra initialled the other document, then sat back, slim arms folded across her kaftan. Her face was drawn but her eyes were bright. ‘Tell me,’ she said.