Page 98 of The Atlas Maneuver

COTTON HAD ALWAYS LIKEDMARRAKESH. THEREDCITY. NAMED FORits countless buildings of beaten clay. It sat in the Tensift valley, an oasis at the edge of the Sahara Desert, a river passing along its northern edges. A vibrant former caravan town and imperial capital full of Islamic architecture, steeped in ancient aristocracy, and littered with commerce. Nearly eight miles of powder-pink ramparts still encircled the old city. Once needed for protection, now they were just one more tourist stop in a place where over a million people lived.

They had flown from Basel straight to Morocco aboard a private United States Air Force jet. Stephanie had arranged for the quick transportation which had whisked them from Switzerland to Africa in just over three hours. Online flight tracking indicated that the jet with Suzy was ninety minutes ahead of them, which meant she was already on the ground. Thankfully, the PSIA had assets waiting and they’d already reported that Suzy and Kyra Lhota were driving south, toward the mountains, their destination most likely Catherine Gledhill’s estate.

He and Aiko had remained in Marrakesh to touch base with other PSIA operatives and get a better idea as to the lay of the land. Knowledge was without question power, especially in thischaotic spot. A taxi had brought them from the airport to the central medina. He recalled the drivers who were notorious for saying the meter was broken and quoting rates ten times the standard. Aiko seemed to know them too.

“Here,” she said, handing the man fifty euros.

The driver started to protest and she tossed him a glare that dared him to challenge her. The guy seemed to know when to hold and when to fold and pocketed the money before speeding off.

“I detest people without honor,” she muttered.

The scene around him seemed to beat with a frenetic pulse and gavebustlea whole new meaning. The medina was the heart and soul of the city. It was easy to get lost among its countless narrow alleyways that all wreaked havoc with any sense of direction. A World Heritage Site. And his experience with those was anything but good. Bad things always seemed to happen when he visited one.

“Why are we here?” he asked her.

The sun had begun its retreat to the west, but a hazy warmth still cloaked the air.

“As opposed to heading for the Gledhill estate,” he added.

“Follow me,” she said.

They left the crowd for one of the loopingderbs, narrow alleys lined with one storefront after another. Hawkers bid them welcome in a litany of languages. Smoke from restaurant grills plumed the air. Odd to be here. He should be in Copenhagen, closing up his bookshop for the day. They rarely stayed open past seven, after the busy summer months. But business had been especially good for the year. An upturn. And though he made some money from the buying and selling of used books and some new frontlist material, the big bucks came from the private collectors who were always on the lookout for the rare and unattainable. There, he’d excelled and gained a reputation as someone who could find what you wanted. He enjoyed book hunting. As much as the intelligence business? The jury was still out on that one.

Aiko marched at a steady pace, oblivious to the push and pullbetween old and new that surrounded her. They turned a corner and found a quiet, white-walled street lined with more houses squeezed tightly together. Closed doors lined both sides. Behind those he knew wereriads, homes built around courtyards filled with palm trees and bougainvillea. She stopped at one painted an emerald green and turned the brass knob. Beyond was a passageway where a set of ladder-like steps led up to the next level. There another door waited, partially open.

She froze and he read her face.

“That’s not good?” he asked.

“Not at all.”

He reached back beneath his jacket and retrieved a Beretta. Two weapons with spare magazines had been waiting for them in the jet. Aiko had refused the one he’d offered her. Which he hadn’t challenged. Carrying a gun was a personal choice every field officer had to make.

He eased open the door.

Beyond was a small apartment, the furniture a mismatched array. The air smelled heavily of tobacco. Nothing seemed out of place. But his senses were on high alert. He led the way inside with Aiko following, watching their backs. A small kitchen was visible past a counter. A second archway led to another room. He swiftly moved there and glanced past to see a bedroom with a man sprawled across the bare mattress, two bullet holes in his forehead, the skin drained white, death freezing the eyes and mouth open. Aiko came up behind him, stepped past, and approached the body.

“Your man?” he asked.

She nodded. “This is a problem.”

“Who was he?”

“Head of the detail here. In charge of the contingent.”

“How many?”

“Six.”

“You need to see about them.”

Not a hint of emotion filled her face, and he assumed that her docile and unassuming mask had seriously misled more thanone enemy. He made a mental note never to play poker with this woman.

She found her phone and began tapping.

He took a moment to look around and see if there was anything there that might be useful. His soft-soled shoes moved noiselessly across the wood floor. But there was nothing. No phone. Computer. Laptop. Not even a piece of paper. Zippo.

“I can’t contact any of them,” Aiko said. “They made a report less than two hours ago. The CIA is clearly ahead of us.”

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