Double Entendre Page 12

  The scene faded, to be followed by another moment, captured in her heart, and then another. The moments were so lovely…even the night before, when she had intended to lure him to sleep and had instead become prey to his touch, to the warmth of his lips, to the longing for it all to be a real marriage, solid and secure.

  Dreams could fade to nightmares, and she began to envision scenes that caused her to whimper in her sleep, to shift and cringe in her first-class seat. She could see his face, deadly handsome, deadly cold, matching his words. He could look so impassive, as if she didn’t matter at all, as if their time together was but an interlude.

  In the mists of sleep she could even relive that political dinner with the senator and her own thoughts at the time. She had watched Bret with a young, lovely and rich widow and wondered if perhaps he weren’t thinking that she’d create beautiful children, that she’d be a perfect mother….

  Colleen had awoken more exhausted than when the champagne served to the passengers in first class had finally let her sleep. She’d been determined to remain angry, rather than become teary eyed at all she had lost. Damn it! She had been right to file for a divorce from him. He had almost literally asked her to by walking out without a care in the world. Flying off to cover her assignment, and returning only because of another assignment, then taking advantage of her for old times’ sake.

  She hadn’t dared to sleep again, so all those long hours had been spent in horrible conflict. She loved Bret so much; it had taken forever for her to believe that he had really left her. She had learned to live without him. Then he had walked back in, and in a single night she had discovered ecstasy all over again—and agony. They’d spoken; they’d made love. And yet nothing had changed. He’d never said that he didn’t want the divorce, that he wanted to talk, that there was a chance for them to make their marriage work. And no matter how bitter the acceptance, even she realized that making love did not make a marriage. In reality they had probably never really understood one another. From the West Coast to the East she had fought tears; from New York to Madrid she’d found anger. And from Madrid to Morocco she had sunk into absolute misery once again. She couldn’t think about Rutger; she could barely remember why she was on the plane. Now that she had landed, she could change that. She could force herself to change that because she had cared for Rutger, because of Sandy and because she was a journalist, and a damned good one at that.

  She had to cling to her work; it was her only defense against a shattered heart for the second time.

  She could let the absolute fascination of the place seep through her, soothe her. She was a reporter; she was young and alive and working, and in her bones she knew that this could be the best work of her career if she could only discover the elusive truth. She could sense the culture in the air, the scent of broiling lamb from the street vendors, the jangle of donkey bells, the high rolling pitch of the criers, or muezzins, calling the faithful Muslims to prayer from the balconies of the countless minarets.

  There were people and animals everywhere. Goats and chickens and sheep. Buses passed overloaded with humanity, men, women and children clinging to windows and doors.

  Her cabdriver, a young man named Ben Arafa, spoke relatively fluent English, and he’d appointed himself her tour guide. She had introduced herself to him, and he addressed her every other second as Ms. Colleen McAllistair until she begged him to stop, wondering how she had managed to wind up on a first-name basis with a cabdriver in such a short time. But he was such an eager and charming young soul that she shrugged and accepted the obvious. This was Marrakech, after all.

  “Marrakech is but one of our capitals,” he told her. “There are also Rabat, Fez and Meknes. The king must spend time in all the capitals. Most of the government offices are in Rabat. It is considered the main capital. But Morocco is a country of diversified people and landscape, and also tradition dies hard. So we keep our four capitals. But I think Marrakech is the most beautiful.”

  Colleen looked out the window at the fine Moorish arch they were passing under. They had gone from the modern to the old again. A group of men walked the street in what Ben called kumsan, long tunics that fell to their ankles.

  “Casablanca is fun, too,” Ben said, ignoring the fact that he was driving to turn around and stare at her. “You know, Casablanca. Humphrey Bogart. It’s a smashing movie.”

  She smiled at him a little distractedly. “Watch the road! Yes, yes, I know Casablanca.” Ben’s usage of the language was very strange, with Americanisms and Anglicisms meshed together.

  He turned around again. “I’ve been to America. You know—”

  “Ben! You’re going to hit that goat!”

  The taxi veered and swooped. The road was narrow; with the archways it seemed dark even though it was early morning. Clay buildings crowded on top of one another, and women ducked into doorways when the cab passed, balancing laundry baskets on their heads.

  The cab jerked to a sudden halt.

  “We’re here?” Colleen asked.

  “No,” Ben said, fuming. “There is a donkey cart in the way!”

  He stepped out of the cab and started shouting in Arabic. Someone shouted back. Suddenly it seemed as if the whole street was shouting.

  The donkey sat down.

  “Stupid, stupid, stupid!” Ben muttered in English, and Colleen leaned through the window to look out. Her eyes widened with alarm; a tall man with a dark, weathered and nastily scowling face was edging around the cart on a horse. There was a sword with a long blade attached to the belt he had wrapped around his kamis.

  He was railing at the situation so emotionally that he pulled out his sword and waved it in the air.

  “Ben, maybe we could just wait a little,” Colleen suggested.

  “Berbers!” Ben announced with irritation. “Horsemen, in town to sell their livestock. They should stay in the desert!”

  The angry man on the prancing horse was coming toward them. “Get back in this cab!” Colleen pleaded.

  Ben said something in Arabic, much more softly and pleasantly. The Berber swung down from the horse and looked into the cab. Ben kept talking. Colleen felt herself being raked by dark, inquisitive and lascivious eyes. She felt her face burn a little. It seemed that the street was suddenly filled with men, all watching her and smiling with great interest. She tilted her chin and tried to outstare them with silent dignity.

  The horseman laughed again and said something to Ben, who answered politely.

  “What’s going on?” Colleen whispered uneasily.

  “He thinks you’re beautiful,” Ben responded. “He asked if you were an American, and I told him yes.”

  “Oh. And what else?” she asked, noticing that he was hesitating.

  “He, uh…”

  “What?”

  “He says he’d give me a whole flock of sheep and three gold chains just to see you naked and are you interested?”

  “What?” The word came out in a breathless shriek. The Berber kept smiling. Colleen smiled, too, and convinced herself that the offer wasn’t as frightening as it sounded; surely the man would take no for an answer and go away, as long as she wasn’t insulting.

  “Tell him…tell him that I have a husband.”

  Ben said something, and the Berber shook his head regretfully. Then he spoke to Ben again before bowing low and remounting his horse. He waved his hand and started yelling, and the stubborn donkey was forced to its feet.

  Colleen leaned back against the cushions with a sigh of relief.

  Ben turned around and smiled at her. “He said that your husband is a fool. You should not be let loose on the streets. If he were your husband, he would veil you from head to toe and never let you out of your tent.”

  “Well,” Colleen said lightly, “then I’m certainly glad that he isn’t my husband.”

  Ben kept staring at her speculatively, his gaze musing and fascinated. “Have you really got one?”

  “One what?”

  “Husband!�
�

  “Oh, ah, yes, I do.”

  “And he let you come here—alone?”

  “Ben, I don’t mean to be rude, but would you please drive the cab?”

  He shrugged, turned around and restarted the engine. But then he let the engine die, turned around to lean on the headrest once again and spoke to her passionately.

  “No! I cannot take you to this place, the B;afete Noire. It is a very bad place. The man—the Berber on the horse—he was not a bad man. He was a herdsman, offering you a payment, if you understand. At the B;afete Noire…there are men who are not so good. There are men who smuggle and men who sell drugs. And men who make prostitutes of little children. We have laws, we have police, but you must understand, very bad things can happen.”

  Colleen was first surprised and then touched by the young man’s concern. In her heart she suddenly felt that he was right. If she walked right into the heart of a caldron, she could expect to be burned. She had been a fool to come here alone. But she had come; she was here. And it seemed that the answers to the diamond heist, to the forty-year mystery, to Rutger’s death, were all within her grasp.

  Except that she didn’t dare move.

  It was daylight. Broad daylight. Ben had just assured her that there were police and law-abiding citizens and…

  “Why are you here?” Ben interrupted her thoughts with a tone of desperation in his voice.

  “I, um, I’m looking for a man.”

  “Your husband? He left you? He is doing something illegal? Is he in the drug trade and hiding out in Marrakech?”

  “No!”

  “He murdered someone!”

  “No, no, no! Ben!” She sighed with exasperation, not sure whether to laugh or cry with exhaustion and confusion.

  “I can help you,” Ben told her, his tone beginning to sound excited. “I told you, I know about Americans. I have a cousin in New York. I have been there. I learned my English there, and it is very good, don’t you think? And I can speak French and Spanish and—”

  “Ben, whoa, wait! I’m sure that you do know all about Americans.” Didn’t everyone have a cousin in New York? she reflected with some amusement. “But I’m sorry, I don’t want anyone else to get involved.”

  “You’re a reporter!”

  She hesitated. “What makes you think so?”

  He laughed, his dark eyes sparkling. “Because only a woman reporter would be…”

  “Would be what?” Colleen persisted with a warning in her voice. But apparently she didn’t sound very vicious.

  Ben hesitated only a second longer. “Stupid enough to come here!” he finished.

  She was too tired to be really angry. And he was probably right. She had been so determined to outdistance Bret that she was rushing toward a precipice.

  “Thanks a lot,” she said dryly.

  Ben was silent for a second. “Let me take you to a good hotel. A decent hotel. And if you wish to find a man, I can make inquiries for you.”

  “Oh, God! Let’s just get out of this alley for starters, shall we?”

  “You’ll buy me a drink at least?”

  Colleen laughed. “I don’t know. How old are you?”

  He grinned, his smile wide and attractive. “Not so young. I’m twenty. How old are you?”

  “Really! That’s not a question you ask a lady.”

  “You asked me!”

  “Fair enough,” Colleen chuckled. She liked Ben. She liked his enthusiasm, and she liked his concern. She watched him drive through the narrow street and back to what passed for a major road. “I’m twenty-six.”

  “See, very young, too.”

  Colleen threaded her fingers through her hair, sweeping it back from her face. “I’ve put on a lot of mileage in those years,” she said lightly.

  “Your husband does not take care of you.”

  “He’s not supposed to take care of me.”

  “Certainly he is! Just as you are supposed to take care of him!”

  “You’re a brat, Ben. Surely you don’t speak to all your paying customers this way.”

  “Only the beautiful women.”

  “Umm,” Colleen murmured wryly. “Oh, what the hell. I don’t know what I’m doing anymore, anyway. Take me to a nice, decent, safe place and I’ll buy you your drink while I decide what to do.”

  Thirty minutes later she had checked into a beautiful, modern hotel that was owned by an American corporation and called, rather appropriately, The Marrakech. She showered quickly and changed into a pair of black jeans and a shirt, then rejoined Ben in one of the plant-laden bars. The clientele was intriguing: there were a number of Americans, a group of German businessmen and dozens of Spaniards on holiday. French wafted melodiously from the bar to Colleen’s table. The bartender was Moroccan, dressed in the traditional kamits and wearing a tarboosh, the tall red brimless hat that was common in the area.

  Ben seemed to watch the people with a fascination equal to her own. He spoke casually about Moroccan customs for a while, telling her that the old way of describing the country in Arabic, Maghrib Al-Aksa, meant farthest west. Then he began to plague her with questions again, which was probably for the best since she had begun to feel numb.

  “Where is your husband?”

  “At home.” I hope, she added to herself. Would he still be there? Or would he already have figured out how to trail her? Knowing Bret, he would have tracked down Sandy Tyrell’s address and gone after her as soon as he decently could. And Sandy…would Sandy have told him everything?

  Maybe it would be for the best if she had, Colleen thought morosely. Maybe it would be best if Bret did take over. He wouldn’t be afraid to go to the B;afete Noire, nor would he have to worry about turning down offers of sheep from eager horsemen!

  Ben leaned across the table and lowered his voice. “There is no reason for you to fear me. I am a Moroccan. I know how to move about the city, I know how to say the right things and how to keep away from danger. I could be a messenger. I can find this man for you.”

  “I don’t think so….”

  “Colleen McAllistair,” he said sincerely, “I have been on my own since I was a boy. I have been a beggar and a thief. I swear that I can do this for you.”

  Colleen hesitated. “Why should you?”

  “Because I like you. And you will pay me, right?”

  Colleen started to laugh. “Sure. Right.”

  “And you will trust me because you’ve been on your own, too, right?”

  She narrowed her eyes slightly, surprised by his comment. “What makes you say that?”

  He grinned. “You have the look.”

  Colleen sipped her drink, a Coke. Anything stronger and she might have crashed onto the table. “I’ve never been a beggar or a thief,” she told him with a smile.

  “But you’ve been on your own. Survivors have the look.”

  She shrugged. “I guess. Although I don’t know if I’d really call myself a survivor. My life has been blessedly comfortable compared to many I’ve seen.”

  Ben shrugged. “My father died when his horse trampled him. He was drunk. Three months later my mother died having a child that never breathed. I was twelve.” He spoke flatly. “Yours?”

  “My parents?” Colleen hesitated, feeling the familiar jolt of pain. She had learned that time healed all wounds, but never completely. “They were killed together in an accident. There was an earthquake—just a minor tremor—but apparently it cracked a faulty beam and our roof fell in.” She shrugged. “I’d gone out to get the mail.”

  “I’m very sorry. How old were you?”

  “Seventeen. Not as young as you. Well,” she said briskly, “What next?” She didn’t want to sit there getting maudlin with a young man she still barely knew, even if he was eager to help.

  “The B;afete Noire. You tell me what you wish. I will go there.”

  “I can’t. I just can’t be responsible—”

  “I told you! I have been in that district. I was a very good thief b
efore I went…straight.”

  If she weren’t so tired, she could probably think a little more clearly. Ben sounded so outraged and certain. And maybe he was right. He was a man; he was a Moroccan. He could probably throw out a feeler for her and come to no harm. If he had told her the truth, he had been surviving on some pretty rough streets for a long time.

  “All right, all right, Ben!” she said. What else could she do? Just sit in Marrakech? “I’m trying to find a man named MacHowell. There’s supposed to be another man, who can be reached through the proprietor of the B;afete Noire, who can contact him. The contact’s name is Eli Alibani. Just see what you can find out. Don’t—please, I mean this—don’t put yourself in any danger.” She hesitated. “Ben, the man who was trying to reach him first was murdered in the States. This could be a very bad situation.”

  “Murdered?” Ben’s eyes widened. “And you are here alone—after him?”

  “Let’s not go through this again. Involving you is definitely a mistake. Let’s just forget it.”

  “I’ll need some money. This Eli will surely want to be paid for information in advance. One hundred American dollars.”

  “Ben…”

  He stood up, grinning. “I’ll be fine. I am a man, a thief of Marrakech.” He grinned. “Humphrey Bogart.”

  “No, no, no. This isn’t Casablanca.”

  He chuckled. “No, the plot is different. I am going now. I will go home first. I will wear my baggy trousers, my saraweel, and my full hooded cloak, my jallabiya. I will blend right in. And I will come back to the lobby and call your room. You must slip me the money now, before I go.”

  Slip him the money! He’d probably run away with it. He had just told her that he was a thief.

  She was too tired to care. If he stole the money and deserted her, she’d either have to give up or pray that some sleep gave her a few answers.