Forty-seven

At Casa Voyageurs, Mortimer Wu climbed down from the Marrakech train, amid the heaving frenzy of luggage and confusion that accompanies the major stops.

He had horn-rimmed glasses, a spike of jet-black hair, and a week’s growth of stubble on his cheeks. Wu was like any other backpacker – scruffy, lost, and in need of a good hot meal and a bath.

Exiting the station, he pushed through the droves of taxi drivers touting for a fare, and made his way to the café across the street.

In his left hand was a rolled-up newspaper, that morning’s Le Matin, and in his right was a soft pack of Marlboro, even though he didn’t smoke. He took a seat with his back to the road, ordered a nous-nous, coffee mixed with milk, and he waited as he had been instructed.

An hour passed, and then another.

Wu felt certain he had missed the contact, or that he had got the wrong café, when a man in a tweed jacket and matching cap rushed in and sat down.

‘There was a problem with the supplier,’ he said, helping himself to a cigarette. ‘I have the documents now.’ He slipped a brown manila envelope into the folded newspaper, and lit the cigarette.

‘Once I’ve done this, I’m free to go, right?’ said Wu anxiously.

‘Do the job right and you’ll be notified, do you understand?’

The contact took a long hard drag, breathed out, and disappeared behind the smoke.

Mortimer Wu thought of his boyhood in Hong Kong, an elderly aunt leading him around the Wet Market in search of live turtles for soup. He picked up the newspaper and pulled out the envelope. It was thicker than he had expected. Stuffing it into the inside pocket of his fleece jacket, he left a coin for the coffee, and went out onto the street.