A distant radio hissed once before the tones of a Gnaoua song carried across the airwaves, a forlorn lament that stirred on the breeze, chasing after the sound of traffic that dispersed with the last notes of the local music.
Outside the moth-eaten apartment block, a group of men disappeared into the shadow of the building, leaving one of them on guard while the rest retired to a room at the back, bare except for the prayer mats that had been laid down in readiness.
A guard paced the area outside the front door, his eyesight keen, his footsteps carrying upwards to an open window on the third and highest level.
Gregori Abramov tuned out the background noise, bit into an apple, and sent a spray of juice over the computer keyboard under his fingers. He lifted his gaze to glare at the skinny twelve-year old kid that watched him wide-eyed from the doorway.
He could almost hear the boy salivating at the thought of tasting the fresh fruit, which was a luxury in the sprawling urban mass of Laâyoune – especially if you weren’t a Moroccan ex-pat worker.
His thoughts turned to his own daughter, only a year older than the boy, her privileged lifestyle a stark contrast to that of the scrawny kid who watched him intently.
Abramov stopped chewing, the apple catching in his throat.
He’d received the first of the threats several months ago. In the lead-up to the theft of the money, the threats had increased.
Strangers were spotted in their exclusive neighbourhood in Moscow; his chauffeur had reported being followed as he’d driven Abramov’s daughter to and from school, and his ex-wife had complained of phone calls late at night, only for her to answer and be met with silence at the end of the line.
Abramov wiped his chin, lowered his gaze, and finished the apple, tossing the core onto the table.
The boy’s shoulders slumped before he eased away from the doorframe, and the Russian heard him pad away back down the passageway and out into the tiny communal courtyard.
He grunted in amusement and turned his attention back to the laptop. As he wiggled the mouse to activate the screen once more, the back of his hand brushed against the gun he kept near him at all times, the suppressor giving the weapon an elongated silhouette.
‘It’s okay? Everything is there?’
His head jerked up at the interruption, and he frowned.
Galal moved away from the window, his handprints left behind in the layer of dust that covered the sill where he’d been leaning, waiting for Abramov to hack into van Wyk’s computer.
The Russian ignored the question. ‘When will the security alert be lifted at the airport?’
The policeman jerked his arm from his shirt sleeve and checked his watch. ‘Another hour.’ He held up both hands, revealing dark sweat patches under his arms. ‘That’s all I can do, Gregori, without causing suspicion. I’ve got look-outs posted on all roads leading to the airport. They’ll stay in position until we have the American woman.’
‘Any fallout from the road block?’
Galal shook his head. ‘The rumour about the insurance man is that he is a wanted terrorist in Europe,’ he said. ‘He will be blamed for the cold-blooded killing of my men. The others will be well compensated.’
‘Good. Where is Amjad Bassam?’
Galal shrugged. ‘Still at the mine camp,’ he said. ‘They’re treating it as a militant attack.’ He chuckled. ‘Don’t worry, Gregori, no-one will know about your involvement.’
Abramov glared at the policeman. The man was presumptuous, and that made him dangerous. It meant he’d assume he was safe, and that Abramov in turn was untouchable.
Abramov assumed nothing. He planned, double-checked, and included for contingencies.
It ensured a thriving business, and in his line of work, reputation was everything.
He couldn’t afford mistakes.
Abramov exhaled. However, it was much easier to work in a corrupted country, where bribes were recognised as an efficient way to do business, and the people you hired had no compunction about killing to get the job done.
That said, he would have preferred that Galal had managed to kill the forensic accountant and her supposed colleague.
He hated loose ends.
He pulled his handkerchief from his shirt pocket, wiped his brow, and then punched another string of code into the laptop. Surely this time it would work.
His eyes flickered over the screen as a sequence ran its course, the algorithms seeking a way into the machine, probing for a clue to the information Abramov so desperately sought.
The digits and letters jumped down a line and then stopped, the cursor flashing expectantly.
He leaned back and swore.
Galal moved closer. ‘What’s the matter? What’s wrong?’
Abramov didn’t miss the note of panic in the other man’s voice. His Russian temper preceded his reputation, and he’d quickly established a reign of fear amongst those he employed.
He picked up the laptop, stood, and then launched the useless computer at the opposite wall.
The plastic outer casing splintered on impact, carving out a sizeable dent from the decades-old plasterwork and sending shards of stonework scattering over the floor.
The policeman moved back towards the window, his hands seeking out the sill, and tried to put more distance between himself and the Russian.
Abramov forced his breathing under control and rubbed his eyes before he turned and leaned his hands on the desk. ‘Tell me again how they escaped, Galal.’
His right hand moved from the desk to the gun, and he caressed his fingers over the grip. ‘What were there? Eight of you? Two of them?’
Galal’s Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat, and he took a step back. ‘We believe the insurance man saw the road block and chose to escape across country.’
‘He’s not an ‘insurance’ man,’ yelled Abramov.
‘Please,’ said Galal, holding his hands up, ‘tell me what I can do to help.’
The Russian swung his arm around and shot the Moroccan in the chest. ‘You can die,’ he said.
He watched dispassionately as the policeman’s body slumped to the floor, the man’s hand travelling to the gaping wound between his ribs.
Galal’s breath escaped his lips in a mottled gasp, blood flecking his chin as he stared at Abramov. His mouth worked, but no words came.
Abramov sighed, and aimed the gun at the policeman’s head. ‘Christ, you can’t even die properly,’ he muttered, and pulled the trigger.
He tucked the gun into his belt at the sound of running feet and turned as one of Galal’s men appeared at the doorway, his eyes wide as he stared at the body of his boss.
Abramov pointed at him. ‘Now you’re in charge,’ he snarled. ‘Clean this mess up, and tell your men their orders have changed. Don’t kill the woman when you find her. I need her alive.’