The Exchange: After The Firm

Ten minutes later, Riley Casey called with the startling news that he, too, had been summoned to 10 Downing Street. The prime minister was demanding details. Mitch nodded at Jack, who said, “Go! And tell him everything.”

At 6 A.M. Eastern Time, Jack called Senator Elias Lake at his home in Brooklyn and left a voicemail. Ten minutes later, the senator called back. An aide had just awakened him and sent over the video. Jack asked him to call the secretary of state with the plan to corral the British and Italian foreign services into a gang of three and find some damned money.

With only a carry-on bag, Abby moved quickly through Menara Airport in Marrakech. She followed the signs, in Arabic, French, and English, to the taxi stand, and as she walked through the revolving circular doors she was hit with a jolt of hot, humid air. A dozen dirty taxis were waiting and she took the first one. She wasn’t sure which language the driver might speak, so she handed him a note card with La Maison Arabe Hotel’s address.

He said, “Thank you. No problem.”

Fifteen minutes later she arrived at the hotel and paid him in U.S. dollars, which he gladly accepted. It was almost 6 P.M. and the lobby was empty. The receptionist seemed to be expecting her. A nice corner suite on the second floor had been reserved for three nights. Abby finally knew how long she was supposed to stay. She took the elevator to the second floor, found her room, and locked herself inside. So far, she had seen no one but the receptionist. She opened the curtains and looked out onto a beautiful courtyard. A knock at the door startled her and she instinctively said, “Who’s there?”

There was no answer. She cracked the door without unfastening the chain. An impeccably uniformed bellman smiled through the opening and said, “A letter for you.”

She took the letter, thanked him, and closed the door. In block letters on hotel stationery, someone had written, Please join me for dinner in the hotel restaurant this evening. Hassan. Friend of Noura.

She called Mitch on the green phone and they went through the latest developments. There was plenty of activity but little progress. He described the video and said that it had evidently negated all efforts to settle the lawsuit. The Libyans were in no mood to negotiate or do anything but find the terrorists. Mitch and the others believed that the U.S. secretary of state herself had spoken to her counterparts in the U.K. and Italy. Luca was feeling better and monitoring his phones. During the day, Jack had called every member of Scully’s management committee and lobbied hard for approval of the loan agreement, but there was no movement. He surprised Abby with the news that Cory was also in Marrakech and would contact her soon.

Having Cory in town was certainly a relief.

She unpacked her carry-on and hung up two traveler’s dresses, one white, one red, both wrinkle-free. The minibar had nothing but water and sodas and she needed something stronger. Morocco was staunchly Muslim with strict prohibitions against alcohol. It was also a former French colony and an historic melting pot of cultures, religions, and languages from Europe, Africa, and the Middle East. In Marrakech, somebody somewhere consumed over two hundred tons of alcohol each year. Surely she could get a glass of wine in the restaurant. She took a nap, then a long hot bath in a clawfoot tub, washed her hair and dried it, and put on her red wrap dress.

If she felt safe, why was there a knot in her stomach?

The restaurant was a grand dining room with a blue Persian-style ceiling and heavily draped tables. It was beautiful and small, with only a few tables distanced discreetly apart. It felt more like a private club.

Hassan stood as she approached, and flashed an impressive smile. “Hassan Mansour, Mrs. McDeere.” She was afraid he would start the usual hugging and cheek-smacking but he was content with a gentle handshake. He helped her into her chair and took his across the table. The nearest diners were thirty feet away.

“A pleasure to meet you,” she lied, only because she had to say something polite. Whoever he was and whatever he did, he was in bed with the enemy. Their relationship would last only hours and she was determined not to like him, regardless of how much phony charm he tried. He was about fifty, with short graying hair slicked back severely and small black eyes that were too close together.

The eyes took her in and liked what they saw. “How was your flight?” he asked.

No wedding ring but a diamond on the right pinkie. Fine designer suit, light gray in color, linen probably. Brilliant white shirt that contrasted nicely with his swarthy skin. Expensive silk tie. Matching pocket square. All the trimmings.

“Okay. The British know how to run an airline.”