Free Moroccan Traffic by Dorothy Dunnett

our table. Her face beneath the black drapes was creased like the top of my coffee, and she carried a polythene bag in one claw. I waited for my neighbourhood philanthropist to pull out his dirhams and fulfil the old country custom. Instead, she leaned over his shoulder and popped into her bag the wrapped sugar he’d left in his saucer. Then she moved on to the next table and did likewise.
    Twisting round, we watched her get nearer Johnson and Sullivan. We watched her stop by their table, and Sullivan detain her with a hand on her arm, and Johnson rapidly unwrap a coarse block of sugar and taking his pen, write something on the sugar paper. Then he rewrapped it and gave it to her smiling. Along with it went a packet of dirhams. I saw them. We all saw them. Mo Morgan said, ‘What was that?’
    ‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘But I’d like to know.’
    ‘Then you follow her,’ said my mother. ‘Or you are afraid. Or you have no sense of what is necessary.’
    ‘Or we don’t want to leave you, Mrs. Helmann,’ said Mr. Morgan.
    ‘In a café? In the French quarter of Marrakesh, with taxis passing before us? You are speaking to Wendy’s mother,’ my mother said.
    I saw Mo Morgan hesitate. I didn’t hesitate. I said, ‘Come on. Leave her the bill. If we don’t get out now, then we’ll lose her.’
    To his credit, he came. We slid out of the café. We mingled with the throng on the pavement, briefly held up by a heap of live turkeys. The small black figure hurried on, aiming south-west. I said, ‘That’s the way to the Assembly of the Dead and the souks.’
    ‘So what is the Assembly of the Dead?’ said Mo Morgan. He still carried his bag, in which were his holiday snapshots. He said, ‘It is just the square Jemaa-el-Fna where all Morocco comes to do business, and then spends the afternoon and evening having a ball, if you will forgive the understatement. And what are the souks to a stout-hearted woman? They are crowded, that is true. It is easy to get lost in them: that is true also. But they are no more than the quarter of the old Arab markets, where things are made and sold and bartered. She’ll exchange the sugar for something she needs.’
    ‘She’ll exchange that message for something she needs. Think!’ I said urgently. ‘Johnson is painting Sir Robert. Sir Robert is setting up an extremely sensitive deal. Seb Sullivan earns his living sussing out secrets. Don’t you see it matters who Johnson is writing to?’ As I spoke, I could hear myself panting. I was wearing a nice cotton dress and strap sandals, and my heels were blistering already.
    ‘Of course I do,’ said Mr. Morgan. ‘Mind you: it must be a very small message. Hardly room for more than a line and the Black Spot.’
    ‘Room for an assignation,’ I said. The woman, speeding up suddenly, staggered off round a corner. ‘Or he could have slipped a note in his dirhams.’
    ‘So he could,’ said Mo Morgan. He spluttered. ‘But who is he trying to meet, remembering there is such a thing as the telephone? The man who planted the bomb in the Boardroom? The guy who killed the guy who planted the bomb in the Boardroom? The Old Lady of Threadneedle Street in bed with Smith and Dow Jones, diabetics?’ He calmed and said, ‘OK. Let’s see where she goes. And then I’ll show you my pictures of Toubkal.’
    Just then we wheeled round the corner. The pavement was empty. It took a moment to spot our old woman beside a line of parked bicycles. As we strolled hurriedly forward she unlocked one, hoisted herself into the saddle, and disappeared billowing into the traffic, her sugar bag bumping the handlebars. Mo Morgan swore, for once, in genuine surprise. Then he hailed a small mustard taxi and shouted, ‘ Suivez la bicyclette!’ to the driver.
    The driver stared at him. I hauled out Ellwood Pymm’s American–Arabic phrasebook and opened it. The first column said:
     
    My name is Joe.
    You are very beautiful.
    I love your eyes and your long