“And this unnamed island contains the Atragon?”
“More specifically, its coastal waters do. The crystals were discovered relatively recently in the wake of those seismic changes I mentioned. They were forced up from the ocean floor, them and some sort of structure housing them.”
“Where’s this island, Professor?”
“That I can’t tell you. Would if I knew, old chap, but the specific coordinates were never made known to me, nor did I especially care to learn them if the truth be known. It would take you days at the very least to find the island on your own. The Biminis stretch further out than you may think.”
“But somebody must have the precise coordinates. Maybe this Sadim you spoke of earlier.”
Clive nodded reluctantly. “Abib El Sadim, the most mysterious man in all of Morocco. Nobody knows much about him, and I know more than most. From what I can gather Sadim not only discovered the reserves of the crystal but was the only man brave enough to challenge the Dragon Fish in its home waters.”
“You don’t really believe there’s a sea monster, Professor, do you?”
“Don’t be confused by my bloody title, old boy. I had an open mind for these things long before the booze turned my brain to mush.”
“Let’s stick to reality,” Blaine told him. “Where can I find this Sadim?”
“You’ll never get close to him. No one does.”
“But there’s got to be a place, a means of contact.”
“Indeed. His bar in Casablanca: the Cafe American.”
McCracken stared across the booth in disbelief. “If the piano player’s name is Sam, I won’t be able to take any more of this.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised if it was. Sadim has recreated the bar almost entirely from the classic film. It’s become one of Casablanca’s hottest spots, especially this week with all the festivals taking place. He has quite a sense of humor, I’m told.”
“You’ve never met him?”
“No, never. I’m sure you’ve learned that after discovering the potential of his find he sought to sell it to the highest bidder. I fielded offers for him from terrorists and cutthroats alike. Sadim wanted to remain out of the picture. I received bids and simply passed them on to him.”
“Were any ever accepted?”
“Not to my knowledge but, then, I would have no way of knowing what happened after I passed the bids along or how far along the process had gone before I came on the scene. Nor did I want to know.”
“Spoken like a man not exactly happy with his work.”
“I wasn’t a fool, old boy. I knew that the groups represented by men like Fass were bidding purely because of the crystal’s potential as a weapon. It made me realize how low I’d sunk. Didn’t care much about the cancer after that. I just stayed here and waited for Sadim to send someone out to kill me.”
“Which you thought was my role.”
Clive nodded. “Better this way, eh? You’ve given me my chance at redemption. Sadim’s the only man who knows exactly where the crystals can be found. You’ll know what to do with them. You’ll do what’s best. It’s the kind of man you are. It almost makes me hope I’ll live long enough to see the results.”
“I appreciate the support.”
“You’ll need a bloody hell of a lot more than that to succeed, old boy. Getting in to see Sadim in Casablanca isn’t going to be easy, convincing him to cooperate even less so.”
“In which case,” Blaine winked, “I’ll just have to round up the usual suspects.”
“Then you’d better know something else about the man you’re after,” Clive told him. “Sadim wasn’t always known as Sadim. He had another name for the better part of his life: Vasquez.”
Chapter 25
It was too late to leave for Casablanca by the time he finished with Professor Clive, so McCracken submitted to his exhaustion and spent the night in Marrakesh. He overslept slightly Monday morning but was unbothered by it; he needed to be at his best if he planned to face Vasquez.
Blaine had been to Casablanca only once before in his career, and his impressions of the vast Moroccan city had been formed mostly by the classic Bogart film. Arriving at the airport after flying in from Marrakesh, he still half expected to see characters with resemblances to Peter Lorre and Sidney Greenstreet, but he would be more than happy to settle at this point for sight of a different fat man.
To think that somehow Vasquez was behind all this. McCracken wasn’t surprised. There was plenty of money to be made from the crystals, a fortune, and money had always been the fat man’s first love. The problem at this point was how to gain access to him, and Blaine could cover that only after inspecting the layout of his headquarters.
The Cafe American was located in a quarter of the city reserved for hotels, shops, and exclusive clubs. Almost there, the taxi became snarled in traffic.
“The festivals,” the driver shrugged.
“I’ll walk from here,” Blaine told him, adding a generous tip to the amount tallied on the old-fashioned meter.
He climbed out and started down the street. Vasquez’s establishment was just three blocks away, but those blocks were jammed with people watching the festivities. The streets had been closed off to traffic and were now filled with various displays of Moroccan culture, from Arab acrobats to Berber horsemen riding with both hands on their long rifles, firing occasionally into the air in demonstration of their famed fantasia rituals.
From the outside the Cafe American was a perfect reproduction, right down to several exclusive canopied tables on the sidewalk. All that was missing were the Nazi spotlights combing the area with their crisscrossing beams. It was mid-afternoon, and Blaine had no problems in gaining entry.
The building’s interior was even more detailed. There were several rooms, separated by majestic archways. Private tables, undoubtedly available only at a premium rate, sat apart in the many alcoves, and the soft light of regularly spaced imitation candelabras cast the rooms in the kind of murky haze that might have been called atmosphere. The tapestries and artwork were detailed replicas, the squat white piano a twin of Sam’s with a young black man sitting behind it playing his hourly rendition of “As Time Goes By” minus the lyrics. McCracken half expected Ingrid Bergman to come sauntering in at any moment.
He took a seat at the bar and continued to gaze around him. The backmost room lay beneath a balcony accessible by a small flight of steps which undoubtedly led to what had been Rick’s office in the film and what was Vasquez’s now. The only things missing were the gaming tables so crucial to the movie’s flavor. Gambling had been permitted by Captain Renaux, but obviously his real-life counterparts had more scruples.
Blaine ordered a club soda and sipped it while considering what his next step should be. The staircase held his best chance for reaching Vasquez, but how could he know the fat man was even here? His eyes fell upon it once again. How to get up the steps without being seen? McCracken knew a number of the patrons seated at the tables were actually the fat man’s soldiers. Vasquez left nothing to chance, and under the circumstances, he would be prepared for McCracken’s expected intrusion. Accordingly, Blaine kept his face turned toward the bar, concealing it as much as possible.
He turned again only when the impossible appeared in the mirror in the form of a woman being escorted across the floor toward the staircase by two beefy guards. It wasn’t Ingrid Bergman.
It was Natalya!
Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world, she had to walk into this one ….
McCracken’s feelings were mixed. He was overjoyed to see Natalya. Clearly, though, she was here as a prisoner, and that was a dangerous situation for both of them.