This Is Not a Pipe (Mike Kingdom Thrillers Book 2), page 23
“Not Johnny Musselwhite, unfortunately, but perhaps Charles Yelland and Yves Dubuisson, I think?”
However, they had moved on. The look they gave each other had absolutely nothing to do with the investigation or pizza but more to do with the painting on the wall above them: The Lovers by René Magritte.
Mike heard a creak. Was it a door opening?
She was at a low point and, oddly, it was worse to get so close and fail; it would almost be better to get nowhere, moan for five minutes, go for a walk through her pine forest and come back to a cold bottle of beer. She now knew there was a plot to blow up the G20 tomorrow at midday – but she couldn’t tell anyone about it. If only she could tell Leonard.
Thinking of Leonard was a mistake. It hit her like a brick.
You fat, lying bastard! It began to dawn on her. You … you …!
She had been set up by him – again. How could she be so naïve? Everyone fell for the fat, stupid façade with the lack of social skills. Clearly, he was no idiot. He had retained his position under two presidents and three CIA directors – this was unheard of. He was accepted by the leadership of the other countries in Five Eyes.
When he had turned up at her cabin just over a week ago, he wanted her to find out the threat to the leaders of the G20 in Marrakech. This was his objective. He wanted her and no one else to find Ramon – and quickly. Leonard did not leave his office in London, even when chauffeur-driven, to have a cup of coffee. The newspaper had not been dropped accidently by her armchair. He knew she wouldn’t accept the job if he asked directly; therefore, he had fooled her into searching for her brother-in-law, Randy – an offer she could never refuse. He knew all along that she was looking for Ramon Ramirez. All along, he knew the cell phone number, the address of the CIA flat in Málaga and probably the room in Marrakech. He gave her this information when she asked for it.
He needed her to find Ramon Ramirez and uncover the plot – which she had done successfully, but all to no avail.
Leonard had acted his role to perfection. He had poked fun at her for not spotting Dr Rose Delavine. It was all to provoke her into getting involved.
You … you …! But this all got her nowhere. There were still some sounds nearby, but she couldn’t identify them – probably rats. Of everything, it was the Berber that she feared the most; he seemed psychopathic. The one who spoke English and had been to university in Vancouver seemed more reasonable, but this might be a major self-delusion.
She could definitely hear movement. She looked at her watch – it was almost 5.00pm and she was hungry. It had been a very long day.
“Ow!” She heard a muffled shout from somewhere nearby. It made her try to stand back up, pulling on the chain.
At that moment, someone came through the door looking quickly left and right. It was Josie.
“Quiet!” she whispered as she assessed the situation. The situation she met was a bald, exhausted woman, bound at the wrists and feet and chained to a ring on the wall above her head. “Shit,” was her follow-up assessment of Mike’s circumstances.
“Josie, get out of here and ring everyone you know. Tell them there will be a bomb tomorrow at midday in Marrakech. Ramon next door said, ‘YSL,’ but I don’t know what that means.”
“The guy next door can’t walk, and I can’t free you. I’ll be back – trust me.” With that, she left the cowshed.
There was silence again, and Mike was left working out what had just happened.
“Mike?” came a mumbling voice from next door.
“Ramon?”
There was one tap and a mumbled, “Yes.”
“Are you OK?”
“My legs aren’t working, and my jaw seems a bit loose. Who’s that woman?” Despite having had the tape torn from his mouth by Josie, he was having trouble speaking.
“She’s Josie, a backpacker from Australia; I met her in Essaouira. She told me she was ex-special forces. I have no idea how and why she’s here.”
“Did you understand YSL?”
“No.”
“It’s the Yves Saint Laurent villa in Marrakech. All the heads of state will be there on Friday, with a group photograph being taken at midday. They’ve planted a bomb.”
“We need to tell Leonard … the shit,” she added, “We will – if Josie comes back. I told her to ring everyone she knows, but I think she has her own plan.”
They fell silent, but that didn’t last long.
“Why the two copies of 1421? It’s been bugging me.”
“I suffer from dyscalculia; I have trouble remembering numbers. It’s my PIN.”
“You are joking? I thought it was the number for your safe in Marrakech or that you were interested in early Chinese exploration of Africa.”
“That’s Hassan’s safe, not mine.” He sounded as if he was dribbling as he spoke.
“Are you American?”
“Florida. You?”
“Portland.” She paused to catch her breath. “What a … mess.”
“Tell me about this Josie.”
“We caught the same bus from Marrakech.” She stopped mid-flow. “Crap! It never went through my mind that she might have been following me.”
“The DEGD, the Moroccan intelligence agency, is really switched-on – that much I discovered. She could be working for them.” He seemed to be getting his speech under some sort of control.
“Is that good? I can’t work out who are the good guys over here.”
“I don’t know if they’re the good guys, but they sure as hell hate the Sahrawis and won’t want world leaders blown up in Marrakech. It would wipe out the tourist industry.” He was still speaking slowly and slurring.
“What about PEGASUS?”
“The Sahrawis hate it because they think the phosphate belongs to their nation. The Moroccans hate it because they think that Western Sahara is theirs, so it’s their phosphate and should go out through their ports.” He paused while he wiped the saliva from his chin. “And they hate the Algerians, backed by the Russians, for getting involved.”
“This region is an utter mess.”
“Nobody would care if they didn’t have gas, phosphates and oil.”
Across the yard, there was an almighty crash.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Josie had been watching the harbour car park when Mike had left her hotel and made her way through the bustle towards the shade of the port building. She had seen the black-and-white dog running around and the arrival of the three men in the white van and car. At this point in time, she had moved next to the taxi rank, from where she could get a better view of the colonnade. She had almost felt the disappointment in Mike when Randy had failed to show up for the meeting at 2.00pm. Josie had been only half-prepared for what happened next. She had seen Mike get in, start the pickup and begin to follow the two vehicles out of the car park. Out of the corner of her eye, Josie had caught the dog leaping into the back and going in through the rear window, but at this point, she herself had been jumping into the taxi at the front of the rank.
It had taken some time for the driver to understand that he was to follow her friend in the pickup ahead, which he knew very well belonged to Meddur, the fish gutter, as did the dog Kella, which everyone in Essaouira loved.
It had been a slow and uneventful journey until the van and car had turned off towards the farm. She had asked the taxi driver to turn around and park under some thorn bushes about five hundred yards away. Josie had watched Mike sneaking around the barren area at the front of the building and emerging finally from the stone arch. When she had seen Mike creeping along the sidewall of the farm, Josie had jumped out and paid the driver. She had taken his crudely produced card and said she may call him. With a shokran, she had pulled the small rucksack onto her back and disappeared over the sandy, red soil, going down through the scrub with an easy stride that had served her well in the Marathon des Sables.
Mike had been making such fundamental mistakes that Josie knew she was likely to run into trouble. Her desire to find her brother-in-law had clearly been stopping her thinking straight. Who takes a dog with them when they’re trying to blend into the background and sneak around? From her vantage point, Josie had seen the debacle and the three men escorting Mike around the back of the sheds. Unfortunately, the dog charging around the place, jumping through windows and barking had made it difficult for her to get close. Josie had been faced with no choice but to sit it out under a very old olive tree, much to the annoyance of a hoopoe, which had flapped away after having been disturbed while feeding on bugs in a large hole created by a broken branch.
Eventually, some men had taken the dog and driven off in the pickup, which wasn’t a good sign. It also wasn’t helpful. The vehicle had also been part of Josie’s hastily cobbled together escape plan for the two of them. While she could run back to Essaouira, if necessary, over several hours, Mike and most of the population could not. She had decided to face that problem when she had found out what was going on.
Mike had not reappeared.
Sitting against the ancient tree, she had swigged some water and then checked the small knife in her bum bag, the three-inch plastic stiletto hidden next to her calf at the bottom of her combat trousers, and the cheese wire around her waist, hidden in her trousers behind her belt. This was all she would need, although her hands were probably her best weapon.
She had retied her ponytail and waited. The peach-coloured hoopoe had flown into the next tree, checking whether it could continue its meal.
Josie had thought she would be glad when this mission was over in a couple of days’ time, and she could fly back to Melbourne. It would be cooler there. Over the last few months, she and her three colleagues from ASIS, the Australian Secret Intelligence Service, had been preparing the ground for their PM’s attendance at the G20. They had picked up rumours of some terrorist threat, but pinning down the details was proving elusive. They were sharing their intelligence through Five Eyes in London, but the dots just wouldn’t be joined up. On Tuesday, she had been directed by her controllers in Canberra to watch Mike Kingdom from afar and make sure that she didn’t fall into harm’s way. This had proved relatively easy while she was in Marrakech, but things had got progressively messy once she had booked the bus journey to Essaouira. Josie couldn’t risk losing her, and the G20 leaders had already flown in. She needed to stay close to Mike. The woman was clearly an analyst not an operative; this was patently clear. Normally, in the intelligence world, these two fundamental divisions never mix; she had wondered if this was different in the US. What are the Americans thinking about? They’re chalk and cheese.
She had been warned via the head of Five Eyes in London that Mike was brilliant at searching but stubborn, and also completely ignorant of why she was looking for Ramon Ramirez. Josie had guessed that Leonard de Vries was the ‘concerned uncle’ who had telephoned Mike while they were sitting outside the café, and she had hoped that Mike would accept her offer to accompany her when she went to the meeting with her brother-in-law. This hadn’t worked. Josie and Mike were both under the illusion that Ramon Ramirez was Randy, Mike’s brother-in-law.
Sitting under the olive tree, Josie had been unaware that Ramon Ramirez was, in fact, in the shed nearest to her, badly beaten up and shackled. Her one concern had been freeing Mike; everything else, including Ramon could follow.
After sitting and waiting next to the farm buildings, she had concluded that a long enough period of time had passed since the two captors had left, and she had returned across the yard to the main building. Josie had decided it was time to look inside the sheds. Using the available cover, she had made it to the first door. Inside was a man bound and chained to a ring on the wall with a piece of tape across his mouth. His white shirt was dirty and covered in blood. She had run over to him and pulled off the tape.
“Ow!” he had shouted as she had tugged at his broken jaw.
“Shh!” she had said before going outside and into the next shed.
It was here that she had seen Mike, chained to the wall, and where she had learnt about the bomb on Friday at midday in Marrakech. Josie had turned, left the outbuildings and moved back behind some trees that gave her some screening. She had sent a message to her controller and, separately, to one of her colleagues in Marrakech. It had warned of the bomb tomorrow, the coordinates of her current location, and that Mike and Ramon were chained up. It was almost late afternoon, and the heat was disappearing out of the sun, but it was still being radiated from the sandy ground.
Toumi had decided to change his plans. He would release the video with the man immediately. The one with the woman he would save until before Friday prayers tomorrow. The video showing Ramon Ramirez reading the statement went viral in a matter of minutes. Moroccan TV, which had also been sent the video, was reluctant to show it at first, but once it started appearing on newspaper websites and international news agencies, it had no choice. The G20 was thrown into turmoil.
“Make a note,” Conrad said, “This is the last time we have a G20, G7 or G-anything in a godforsaken, two-bit country like Morocco. Next time, it’s somewhere safe like in the US, UK or Germany.”
The assembled group of about twelve people were letting the President vent his spleen – again.
He continued without taking a breath, “Who are these Sahrawis? I thought this was all being dealt with by the UN and its peacekeeping force. Isn’t there meant to be a referendum soon?”
“The United Nations Mission for the Referendum in Western Sahara, MINURSO, has been there since 1991. Its mission has been extended forty-seven times. It’s basically a failure,” someone tried to explain.
“The Moroccans have been building and resettling its population in Western Sahara for decades – a bit like the Israelis have been doing in the Palestinian areas. They’re now in the majority over the native Sahrawis and would, therefore, win any referendum,” someone else continued the explanation.
“That’s good for the US, right?” The President wasn’t interested in lengthy explanations.
“Yes, if Western Sahara were part of Morocco, it would be great as they are heavily pro-USA.”
“But we’re watching the creation of a new terrorist group. This Sahrawi People’s Army, or SPA, are far worse than the other arm of the Sahrawis, the Polisario Front. This video shows us that Americans will be in danger at home and abroad. It’s just ISIS all over again.” The President’s security adviser was nervous of the future.
“Who’s this hostage?” the President asked.
“A CIA operative, Ramon Ramirez, who’s undercover here in Morocco.”
“Damn.” Conrad put his head in his hands. “How’s this playing out with the rest of the G20?”
“Two are thinking of going home. The rest are waiting for you, I think.”
“Well, we’re not running away. We are only here a few days. Are we safe at the remaining meetings?”
“We’ve all done our best. We believed you to be safe before this happened and this doesn’t change anything in that regard.”
“OK, we stay. What statement should I put out?”
“We are drafting some options, but they basically repeat our support for the UN, for a referendum and for respecting the result. They state that taking and killing hostages will not change policy and will harden the world’s view against the Sahrawis, with whom the US has no beef. The G20 will continue with reinforced solidarity.”
“The Moroccans are going crazy behind the scenes. Every person they have is looking for this poor hostage,” someone said.
“OK, that’s it. Get me the text ASAP.” The President had had enough.
Across Marrakech, a very similar series of discussions was taking place between the British PM and his team.
“Right, what do I need to know? What do I need to say? Are we all safe?” Victor asked the three questions on his mind.
“With regard to your first question, in one respect, we can sit back because it’s the Americans who need to sort this out. What’s worrying is the evolution of a new terrorist organisation that’s going to be anti-West and anti-anyone who supports Morocco. What makes them different from the Polisario – basically, their predecessors – is that they aren’t quite so enthusiastic about Algeria, despite all of the Sahrawis that live in camps there. This new group, SPA, is definitely vehemently against the USA, but it doesn’t like the Russian and Chinese backing of Algeria either. They truly want independence.” His adviser continued by answering the second question: “As to what you say, I think you should condemn hostage-taking; support the UN, which is seeking a referendum; and express solidarity with the other G20 members.” The adviser looked around. “As to your final question, I’ll hand over to Lorna.”
Lorna began to give MI6’s view on the situation: “The hostage is a CIA operative. The Americans have been very active in Morocco, especially in the build-up to this G20. The Moroccans want this G20 to be a success, so they’re doing everything behind the scenes to find this hostage and to nip this new terrorist organisation in the bud. You’ll be aware that any US President is severely restricted by executive orders. These are circumvented by tacit agreement with the President. Basically, he isn’t told about certain things so that he cannot be impeached or prosecuted. In reality, this means that the CIA doesn’t actively undertake certain actions abroad; instead, these are done by third-party organisations supported indirectly by the CIA. One of the most actively used is the DEGD (the Moroccan intelligence agency). The fact that Morocco is so strongly anti-Algeria, anti-Russia and anti-Chinese makes them easy bedfellows.” She paused for her words to take effect. “It hasn’t been necessary for us to be overly active here because we get everything from the Moroccans via the Americans through Fives Eyes in London. The general thinking is that this G20 meeting is safe and this hostage-taking is a small group using the opportunity to grab some headlines. If anything changes, we’ll hear it from either our monitoring of various sources or via Five Eyes. Of course, the Canadians and Australians are worried about the safety of their leaders too.”
However, they had moved on. The look they gave each other had absolutely nothing to do with the investigation or pizza but more to do with the painting on the wall above them: The Lovers by René Magritte.
Mike heard a creak. Was it a door opening?
She was at a low point and, oddly, it was worse to get so close and fail; it would almost be better to get nowhere, moan for five minutes, go for a walk through her pine forest and come back to a cold bottle of beer. She now knew there was a plot to blow up the G20 tomorrow at midday – but she couldn’t tell anyone about it. If only she could tell Leonard.
Thinking of Leonard was a mistake. It hit her like a brick.
You fat, lying bastard! It began to dawn on her. You … you …!
She had been set up by him – again. How could she be so naïve? Everyone fell for the fat, stupid façade with the lack of social skills. Clearly, he was no idiot. He had retained his position under two presidents and three CIA directors – this was unheard of. He was accepted by the leadership of the other countries in Five Eyes.
When he had turned up at her cabin just over a week ago, he wanted her to find out the threat to the leaders of the G20 in Marrakech. This was his objective. He wanted her and no one else to find Ramon – and quickly. Leonard did not leave his office in London, even when chauffeur-driven, to have a cup of coffee. The newspaper had not been dropped accidently by her armchair. He knew she wouldn’t accept the job if he asked directly; therefore, he had fooled her into searching for her brother-in-law, Randy – an offer she could never refuse. He knew all along that she was looking for Ramon Ramirez. All along, he knew the cell phone number, the address of the CIA flat in Málaga and probably the room in Marrakech. He gave her this information when she asked for it.
He needed her to find Ramon Ramirez and uncover the plot – which she had done successfully, but all to no avail.
Leonard had acted his role to perfection. He had poked fun at her for not spotting Dr Rose Delavine. It was all to provoke her into getting involved.
You … you …! But this all got her nowhere. There were still some sounds nearby, but she couldn’t identify them – probably rats. Of everything, it was the Berber that she feared the most; he seemed psychopathic. The one who spoke English and had been to university in Vancouver seemed more reasonable, but this might be a major self-delusion.
She could definitely hear movement. She looked at her watch – it was almost 5.00pm and she was hungry. It had been a very long day.
“Ow!” She heard a muffled shout from somewhere nearby. It made her try to stand back up, pulling on the chain.
At that moment, someone came through the door looking quickly left and right. It was Josie.
“Quiet!” she whispered as she assessed the situation. The situation she met was a bald, exhausted woman, bound at the wrists and feet and chained to a ring on the wall above her head. “Shit,” was her follow-up assessment of Mike’s circumstances.
“Josie, get out of here and ring everyone you know. Tell them there will be a bomb tomorrow at midday in Marrakech. Ramon next door said, ‘YSL,’ but I don’t know what that means.”
“The guy next door can’t walk, and I can’t free you. I’ll be back – trust me.” With that, she left the cowshed.
There was silence again, and Mike was left working out what had just happened.
“Mike?” came a mumbling voice from next door.
“Ramon?”
There was one tap and a mumbled, “Yes.”
“Are you OK?”
“My legs aren’t working, and my jaw seems a bit loose. Who’s that woman?” Despite having had the tape torn from his mouth by Josie, he was having trouble speaking.
“She’s Josie, a backpacker from Australia; I met her in Essaouira. She told me she was ex-special forces. I have no idea how and why she’s here.”
“Did you understand YSL?”
“No.”
“It’s the Yves Saint Laurent villa in Marrakech. All the heads of state will be there on Friday, with a group photograph being taken at midday. They’ve planted a bomb.”
“We need to tell Leonard … the shit,” she added, “We will – if Josie comes back. I told her to ring everyone she knows, but I think she has her own plan.”
They fell silent, but that didn’t last long.
“Why the two copies of 1421? It’s been bugging me.”
“I suffer from dyscalculia; I have trouble remembering numbers. It’s my PIN.”
“You are joking? I thought it was the number for your safe in Marrakech or that you were interested in early Chinese exploration of Africa.”
“That’s Hassan’s safe, not mine.” He sounded as if he was dribbling as he spoke.
“Are you American?”
“Florida. You?”
“Portland.” She paused to catch her breath. “What a … mess.”
“Tell me about this Josie.”
“We caught the same bus from Marrakech.” She stopped mid-flow. “Crap! It never went through my mind that she might have been following me.”
“The DEGD, the Moroccan intelligence agency, is really switched-on – that much I discovered. She could be working for them.” He seemed to be getting his speech under some sort of control.
“Is that good? I can’t work out who are the good guys over here.”
“I don’t know if they’re the good guys, but they sure as hell hate the Sahrawis and won’t want world leaders blown up in Marrakech. It would wipe out the tourist industry.” He was still speaking slowly and slurring.
“What about PEGASUS?”
“The Sahrawis hate it because they think the phosphate belongs to their nation. The Moroccans hate it because they think that Western Sahara is theirs, so it’s their phosphate and should go out through their ports.” He paused while he wiped the saliva from his chin. “And they hate the Algerians, backed by the Russians, for getting involved.”
“This region is an utter mess.”
“Nobody would care if they didn’t have gas, phosphates and oil.”
Across the yard, there was an almighty crash.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Josie had been watching the harbour car park when Mike had left her hotel and made her way through the bustle towards the shade of the port building. She had seen the black-and-white dog running around and the arrival of the three men in the white van and car. At this point in time, she had moved next to the taxi rank, from where she could get a better view of the colonnade. She had almost felt the disappointment in Mike when Randy had failed to show up for the meeting at 2.00pm. Josie had been only half-prepared for what happened next. She had seen Mike get in, start the pickup and begin to follow the two vehicles out of the car park. Out of the corner of her eye, Josie had caught the dog leaping into the back and going in through the rear window, but at this point, she herself had been jumping into the taxi at the front of the rank.
It had taken some time for the driver to understand that he was to follow her friend in the pickup ahead, which he knew very well belonged to Meddur, the fish gutter, as did the dog Kella, which everyone in Essaouira loved.
It had been a slow and uneventful journey until the van and car had turned off towards the farm. She had asked the taxi driver to turn around and park under some thorn bushes about five hundred yards away. Josie had watched Mike sneaking around the barren area at the front of the building and emerging finally from the stone arch. When she had seen Mike creeping along the sidewall of the farm, Josie had jumped out and paid the driver. She had taken his crudely produced card and said she may call him. With a shokran, she had pulled the small rucksack onto her back and disappeared over the sandy, red soil, going down through the scrub with an easy stride that had served her well in the Marathon des Sables.
Mike had been making such fundamental mistakes that Josie knew she was likely to run into trouble. Her desire to find her brother-in-law had clearly been stopping her thinking straight. Who takes a dog with them when they’re trying to blend into the background and sneak around? From her vantage point, Josie had seen the debacle and the three men escorting Mike around the back of the sheds. Unfortunately, the dog charging around the place, jumping through windows and barking had made it difficult for her to get close. Josie had been faced with no choice but to sit it out under a very old olive tree, much to the annoyance of a hoopoe, which had flapped away after having been disturbed while feeding on bugs in a large hole created by a broken branch.
Eventually, some men had taken the dog and driven off in the pickup, which wasn’t a good sign. It also wasn’t helpful. The vehicle had also been part of Josie’s hastily cobbled together escape plan for the two of them. While she could run back to Essaouira, if necessary, over several hours, Mike and most of the population could not. She had decided to face that problem when she had found out what was going on.
Mike had not reappeared.
Sitting against the ancient tree, she had swigged some water and then checked the small knife in her bum bag, the three-inch plastic stiletto hidden next to her calf at the bottom of her combat trousers, and the cheese wire around her waist, hidden in her trousers behind her belt. This was all she would need, although her hands were probably her best weapon.
She had retied her ponytail and waited. The peach-coloured hoopoe had flown into the next tree, checking whether it could continue its meal.
Josie had thought she would be glad when this mission was over in a couple of days’ time, and she could fly back to Melbourne. It would be cooler there. Over the last few months, she and her three colleagues from ASIS, the Australian Secret Intelligence Service, had been preparing the ground for their PM’s attendance at the G20. They had picked up rumours of some terrorist threat, but pinning down the details was proving elusive. They were sharing their intelligence through Five Eyes in London, but the dots just wouldn’t be joined up. On Tuesday, she had been directed by her controllers in Canberra to watch Mike Kingdom from afar and make sure that she didn’t fall into harm’s way. This had proved relatively easy while she was in Marrakech, but things had got progressively messy once she had booked the bus journey to Essaouira. Josie couldn’t risk losing her, and the G20 leaders had already flown in. She needed to stay close to Mike. The woman was clearly an analyst not an operative; this was patently clear. Normally, in the intelligence world, these two fundamental divisions never mix; she had wondered if this was different in the US. What are the Americans thinking about? They’re chalk and cheese.
She had been warned via the head of Five Eyes in London that Mike was brilliant at searching but stubborn, and also completely ignorant of why she was looking for Ramon Ramirez. Josie had guessed that Leonard de Vries was the ‘concerned uncle’ who had telephoned Mike while they were sitting outside the café, and she had hoped that Mike would accept her offer to accompany her when she went to the meeting with her brother-in-law. This hadn’t worked. Josie and Mike were both under the illusion that Ramon Ramirez was Randy, Mike’s brother-in-law.
Sitting under the olive tree, Josie had been unaware that Ramon Ramirez was, in fact, in the shed nearest to her, badly beaten up and shackled. Her one concern had been freeing Mike; everything else, including Ramon could follow.
After sitting and waiting next to the farm buildings, she had concluded that a long enough period of time had passed since the two captors had left, and she had returned across the yard to the main building. Josie had decided it was time to look inside the sheds. Using the available cover, she had made it to the first door. Inside was a man bound and chained to a ring on the wall with a piece of tape across his mouth. His white shirt was dirty and covered in blood. She had run over to him and pulled off the tape.
“Ow!” he had shouted as she had tugged at his broken jaw.
“Shh!” she had said before going outside and into the next shed.
It was here that she had seen Mike, chained to the wall, and where she had learnt about the bomb on Friday at midday in Marrakech. Josie had turned, left the outbuildings and moved back behind some trees that gave her some screening. She had sent a message to her controller and, separately, to one of her colleagues in Marrakech. It had warned of the bomb tomorrow, the coordinates of her current location, and that Mike and Ramon were chained up. It was almost late afternoon, and the heat was disappearing out of the sun, but it was still being radiated from the sandy ground.
Toumi had decided to change his plans. He would release the video with the man immediately. The one with the woman he would save until before Friday prayers tomorrow. The video showing Ramon Ramirez reading the statement went viral in a matter of minutes. Moroccan TV, which had also been sent the video, was reluctant to show it at first, but once it started appearing on newspaper websites and international news agencies, it had no choice. The G20 was thrown into turmoil.
“Make a note,” Conrad said, “This is the last time we have a G20, G7 or G-anything in a godforsaken, two-bit country like Morocco. Next time, it’s somewhere safe like in the US, UK or Germany.”
The assembled group of about twelve people were letting the President vent his spleen – again.
He continued without taking a breath, “Who are these Sahrawis? I thought this was all being dealt with by the UN and its peacekeeping force. Isn’t there meant to be a referendum soon?”
“The United Nations Mission for the Referendum in Western Sahara, MINURSO, has been there since 1991. Its mission has been extended forty-seven times. It’s basically a failure,” someone tried to explain.
“The Moroccans have been building and resettling its population in Western Sahara for decades – a bit like the Israelis have been doing in the Palestinian areas. They’re now in the majority over the native Sahrawis and would, therefore, win any referendum,” someone else continued the explanation.
“That’s good for the US, right?” The President wasn’t interested in lengthy explanations.
“Yes, if Western Sahara were part of Morocco, it would be great as they are heavily pro-USA.”
“But we’re watching the creation of a new terrorist group. This Sahrawi People’s Army, or SPA, are far worse than the other arm of the Sahrawis, the Polisario Front. This video shows us that Americans will be in danger at home and abroad. It’s just ISIS all over again.” The President’s security adviser was nervous of the future.
“Who’s this hostage?” the President asked.
“A CIA operative, Ramon Ramirez, who’s undercover here in Morocco.”
“Damn.” Conrad put his head in his hands. “How’s this playing out with the rest of the G20?”
“Two are thinking of going home. The rest are waiting for you, I think.”
“Well, we’re not running away. We are only here a few days. Are we safe at the remaining meetings?”
“We’ve all done our best. We believed you to be safe before this happened and this doesn’t change anything in that regard.”
“OK, we stay. What statement should I put out?”
“We are drafting some options, but they basically repeat our support for the UN, for a referendum and for respecting the result. They state that taking and killing hostages will not change policy and will harden the world’s view against the Sahrawis, with whom the US has no beef. The G20 will continue with reinforced solidarity.”
“The Moroccans are going crazy behind the scenes. Every person they have is looking for this poor hostage,” someone said.
“OK, that’s it. Get me the text ASAP.” The President had had enough.
Across Marrakech, a very similar series of discussions was taking place between the British PM and his team.
“Right, what do I need to know? What do I need to say? Are we all safe?” Victor asked the three questions on his mind.
“With regard to your first question, in one respect, we can sit back because it’s the Americans who need to sort this out. What’s worrying is the evolution of a new terrorist organisation that’s going to be anti-West and anti-anyone who supports Morocco. What makes them different from the Polisario – basically, their predecessors – is that they aren’t quite so enthusiastic about Algeria, despite all of the Sahrawis that live in camps there. This new group, SPA, is definitely vehemently against the USA, but it doesn’t like the Russian and Chinese backing of Algeria either. They truly want independence.” His adviser continued by answering the second question: “As to what you say, I think you should condemn hostage-taking; support the UN, which is seeking a referendum; and express solidarity with the other G20 members.” The adviser looked around. “As to your final question, I’ll hand over to Lorna.”
Lorna began to give MI6’s view on the situation: “The hostage is a CIA operative. The Americans have been very active in Morocco, especially in the build-up to this G20. The Moroccans want this G20 to be a success, so they’re doing everything behind the scenes to find this hostage and to nip this new terrorist organisation in the bud. You’ll be aware that any US President is severely restricted by executive orders. These are circumvented by tacit agreement with the President. Basically, he isn’t told about certain things so that he cannot be impeached or prosecuted. In reality, this means that the CIA doesn’t actively undertake certain actions abroad; instead, these are done by third-party organisations supported indirectly by the CIA. One of the most actively used is the DEGD (the Moroccan intelligence agency). The fact that Morocco is so strongly anti-Algeria, anti-Russia and anti-Chinese makes them easy bedfellows.” She paused for her words to take effect. “It hasn’t been necessary for us to be overly active here because we get everything from the Moroccans via the Americans through Fives Eyes in London. The general thinking is that this G20 meeting is safe and this hostage-taking is a small group using the opportunity to grab some headlines. If anything changes, we’ll hear it from either our monitoring of various sources or via Five Eyes. Of course, the Canadians and Australians are worried about the safety of their leaders too.”
