Free In Cold Blood by Mark Dawson Page B

said.
    “Yesterday, an American drone fired a missile at a village in Pakistan. Many dead. Innocent people, dead. The American government must understand that comes at price. Nothing is free, Joe, you understand? Consequences for everything.”
    The chef was hauled to his feet and dragged to the door. Joe looked into Farax’s eyes and saw implacable purpose.
    It was the most frightening thing he had ever seen.
    “We talk later, Joe, yes? We talk about the man with the long gun.”
    He left the room and the door was shut and locked again.
    “What are they doing?” Harry Torres said.
    “They’re moving faster than I thought they would,” Joyce said.
    “What the fuck does that mean?”
    Joyce pressed himself upright and walked across to the other side of the room where the ventilation bricks offered a restricted view into the yard.
    Joe followed him. “What does that mean?”
    “Look,” he said.
    Joe did. It wasn’t easy to make everything out because the view was up high but, as he stood on tiptoe, he could see a large group of fighters, recognisable from the long skirts or ma’awiis that they were wearing, and then the pasty white legs of the chef as he was dragged between two men to a spot in the middle of the group. He heard Farax’s voice, speaking in English, the message difficult to hear at a distance, but the anger and indignation readily apparent.
    Farax finished speaking, there was a pause, and then a shrill, blood-curdling cry.
    Joyce turned away. “We need to get out of here,” he said.

CHAPTER ELEVEN
    THE BRITISH GOVERNMENT had sent Michael Pope to Marrakech aboard one of the Gulfstream G650s that MI6 leased to get its agents around the world without worrying about commercial flights. The sleek jet was parked just off the taxi-way and they were transported to it aboard a courtesy car. The whole process of passing through the airport had been easy. They had proceeded through the terminal building without needing to stop, with just a cursory check of their credentials as they went airside. The rucksack that contained Beatrix’s equipment was treated as a diplomatic bag. She had dropped it onto a trolley and pushed it through the terminal without it being scanned or otherwise disturbed. The treatment was familiar to her from her old career.
    She had stopped at duty free and bought a bottle of water for the flight and then, seeing a shop that specialised in Islamic dress, she had purchased a niqāb and a jilbāb. The veil and cloak might prove to be useful, she thought, as she stuffed them into her bag.
    The car drew to a stop and Beatrix stepped outside into the heat of another fine day. She drew in a deep breath and exhaled, wondering whether she would see the city again, those spectacular mountains, the clamour and bustle of the medina. And then she thought of her daughter and the reluctance to leave became much more difficult to resist.
    She paused at the steps that led up to the open door of the jet.
    “All okay?” Pope called down.
    “Yes,” she said, shrugging the concerns aside. “All fine.”
    She climbed the steps and entered the jet. There were half a dozen reclining leather seats, two tables and a large flatscreen television fitted to the partition that separated the cockpit from the cabin. Beatrix sat down and strapped herself in, watching pensively as the pilot guided them out onto the runway and fired the twin engines. The jet launched down the runway and into the air, cutting to port and climbing steadily. Beatrix watched through the porthole as the Red City dwindled into miniature. She tried to look for the riad but, of course, it was impossible. The crazy scramble of streets quickly looked identical and even when she had oriented herself with the broad expanse of Jemma el-Fnaa and the minaret of the Koutoubia mosque, it was still impossible to tell one street from the next.
    The pilot turned to the east and the view was replaced by the sandy dunes of the Sahara, occasional oases