Startled by the action, Everard jumped slightly in surprise, noticing the two men in green uniform who climbed quickly out of the big car. Then, there was darkness. He realised a hood had been thrown over his head, placed there by someone who could only have been the customer at the stall.
Taking each one of the American’s arms, the two men pushed him towards the open car. Everard began to fight them, attempting to struggle free from their vice-like grips, but when he felt a sharp jab into his back — which he guessed was the muzzle of a pistol — he soon ceased this futile action. Turning, he sensed the gun was being held by the customer he had seen at the stall. No words had been exchanged and Everard was too frightened to speak. He wondered who these men could be and more alarmingly, what was about to happen to him.
The boot of the car was opened and he was bundled inside, hearing the clunk as the boot was closed on him.
The pottery trader had observed everything, and being so used to this type of action, he shrugged, feeling safe that once again the Royal Guard were on hand to protect the community from these strange foreigners.
On the Zagora Road, Reynolds felt the breeze on his face as he descended the mountainous Atlas region, into the Draa Valley. He looked at his watch. He still had time to meet Ayesha. Her school would be finishing for the day and it had been a while he had seen the bright smile on his daughter’s face, and the excited sparkle in her eyes. Of course, her mother would also be there, but after his long absence in the Congo fighting the Simba, he was sure that even that witch would allow him a few hours.
The Mercedes slowly turned into a courtyard, coming to a stop at a solitary small white building. In the back, the black hood was wrenched from Everard’s head, and he adjusted his eyes to the glare of the sun.
He turned to glance at the men beside him and then, from the front passenger seat, a large olive-skinned man in a light grey suit stared at him. Everard looked into the face in front of him, recognising the customer from the pottery stall. He took in the man’s dark eyes and thick moustache, then looked down at the Beretta 9mm automatic being waved at him. ‘Please get out of the car, Mr Everard. No sudden moves, you understand?’
Everard was suddenly fearful. This man knew his name. He nodded and complied with his request, and was ushered into the building, carefully manoeuvring around two deep holes in the ground situated just outside the door. He was shown into a room where a frail-looking wooden chair sat centrally.
The other two men escorted him over to it and forced him down. He watched as the big man took out a silver cigarette case and opened it to retrieve a cigarette. He then offered one to his captive. ‘Please take it, we seemed to have spoilt your last one,’ he remarked.
Everard desperately needed it. Nervously, he slid the slim white cylinder from the case, popping it into his mouth.
The big man approached him and lit it for him. He then lit his own and waved away some smoke, leaning on a desk in front of the American. ‘Now, Mr Everard. My name is General Mohamed Kasur of the Royal Moroccan Guard. I would like to ask you a few questions, starting with, why were you with David Reynolds and two of his men in the Hotel La Renaissance? This man is well known to us, he has a history of drug smuggling and arms dealing and is also a known soldier of fortune. Now please, tell me why you met with him today.’
Everard coughed on the smoke from his cigarette. ‘I demand to speak to a member of the United States Consulate! I have diplomatic immunity and you have no right to hold me like this.’
Kasur suddenly jumped from the desk and slapped Everard hard on the side of his face. ‘You are in no position to demand anything, Mr Everard.’ He leant against the table and took a long drag on his cigarette, then exhaled. ‘You Americans, you think that you can walk into our country and conduct whatever business you so wish, then leave us to pick up the pieces, which are usually young people lying dead in the street from your heroin — or from gunshot wounds from your illegal arms.’ He pointed a finger at him. ‘You are in a heap of trouble my friend, so you better tell me why you were with these men, or I can make it very uncomfortable for you. We are miles from the nearest village, and your screams will not be heard. So, I implore you, to save yourself a lot of discomfort, you speak to me.’
Everard sank in the chair. ‘You have me all wrong, general. I am not a drugs or arms dealer, I actually work for the US Government.’
Kasur shot him a cold stare. ‘Are you telling me that you are CIA, Mr Everard?’
Everard shook his head. ‘No, I am not with the CIA.’
‘Then who are you with? Who is your boss?’
Everard knew that he could not reveal this. However, he also knew if he didn’t, it would put him at risk of harm from these brutal men. ‘I cannot reveal that information, general. Perhaps if you allow me to make a call to the consulate… everything will be explained, I can assure you.’
Kasur nodded. ‘Mr Everard, we know who you are. We have had you under surveillance from the minute you stepped off the aeroplane in Marrakech. You will tell me why you are here, and the name of your boss. Then, you are free to go and we will see you safely back onto the plane. You see, it is not you we want — it is Reynolds. But he is very clever. We have been so close, but he manages to slip through our net like a slimy eel. He has a training camp somewhere in the Draa Valley. This we know, and we will get him. All we need is the evidence to do so. And you, my friend, could help us with this. So, please, just tell me who you work for.’
Everard shouted at him. ‘I already told you, I am a representative of the US Government, over here to take some photos of Marrakech for our diplomatic brochure.’
Kasur rose from his chair and paced around his captive. ‘I think you are a liar! If you are here to take photographs, then where is your camera? I need some information, Mr Everard. I need you to tell the truth — now!’ The big Moroccan walked over to the window. ‘I do not want to have to resort to stronger measures, but if you continue with this charade, you will leave me no option.’
Kasur turned to look out of the only window. ‘You may have noticed the two holes outside. They are six feet deep. If you do not tell me what I want to know, we will put you into one of them.’ He checked his watch. ‘It is nearly noon; the sun will be at its hottest. This is an old Bedouin method, used to get information from their enemies — and over the years, they have had plenty of enemies: The French Foreign Legion, the Nazis, Russians…’ Kasur turned to Everard, his scarab eyes drilling into his captive. ‘And now, we have the CIA.’
The American shifted in his chair. ‘I told you already, I am not with the CIA!’
Kasur was losing his patience. Moving across to him, he shouted into the face of the American. ‘Then who are you with, Mr Everard?’
Everard bowed his head, gazing at the highly-polished black shoes of the officer.
Kasur pulled a chair and sat down. ‘In the hole, you will be buried up to your neck and as the sun beats down on your exposed head, you’ll feel the heat as it warms you… and begins to fry your brain inside your skull. In about an hour, your lips will start to feel dry and you’ll be yearning for water. I give you two hours in this heat, before your senses start to go and the last thing you will feel is the vultures picking at your face. They seem to go for the lips first, I suppose this is because the colour resembles that of raw meat.’
Everard had heard enough. He sighed. What harm could it do? Yes, it may jeopardise the operation. But there were other mercenary groups. Tremaine had just been unfortunate in picking one who happened to have a side line in drugs and arms. ‘Oh, what the hell!’ he exclaimed.