Moroccan Traffic (32 page)

There was another pause. Johnson’s voice said, ‘Of course. I’m sorry. Look, I’m helluva sorry, but think. Are you saying what I think you are saying? If so, do you really want to pay such a price to protect her? Is she worth human lives?’

Oppenheim said, ‘She’s my wife.’

‘Now? Still?’ said Johnson’s voice. ‘You’ll show her these, or not show her these, and continue as if nothing happened?’

Oppenheim’s voice sounded distracted. He said, ‘That’s my affair. Hers and mine.’

‘It isn’t your affair,’ Johnson said. ‘If you don’t act, Morgan will stay at Kingsley’s and we shall be very unwelcome in many joyful places. And I like my job.’

‘Do you?’ Oppenheim said. ‘Maybe you liked your job once;

maybe you needed it. But that was a long time ago. Why don’t you take it easy? Why don’t you stick to painting and cruising? I’ll report back and say that I’ve blown it. Who cares what the little shit does?’

‘A large number of villains: that’s the trouble. Oh, come on, Danny,’ said Johnson’s voice. ‘Either the pictures are fake, or Muriel isn’t worth lawyer’s fees. Morgan is ready to walk: the great Cong is an idiot nobody. I can nurse him, but it needs financial credibility. I can’t suddenly drown him in junk bonds.’

Oppenheim said, ‘You really mean he doesn’t know what he’s doing?’

‘I think,’ Johnson said, ‘that he thinks he’s working on washing machines.’

‘Christ!’ said Oppenheim’s voice. ‘Then pretend you’re into consumer durables, and just set about levering him out. You don’t need me.’

‘Dammit!’ said Johnson’s voice.

‘You don’t,’ insisted Oppenheim. Then, after a pause, ‘She’s my wife.’

No one spoke. Then Johnson’s voice said, ‘She’s Jimmy Auld’s daughter. That is all you ever need to know about Muriel. Do what you like.’ His voice was the way it was now, level and metallic and bitter. A moment later we heard footsteps cross the room, and the door slammed. A moment later, there came the sound of my mother’s voice, enquiring after her knitting.

Johnson shut the tape off, and looked at Morgan. He said, ‘Ask.’

Morgan said, ‘Who do you work for?’

‘A British department,’ Johnson said.

‘You and Oppenheim were told to get me out of Kingsley’s?’

‘Obviously,’ Johnson said.

‘Because I make brilliant washing machines?’

‘You know what you make, and what it can be used for,’ Johnson said.

‘What does he make?’ said Charity Kingsley.

Johnson turned to her. He said, ‘He creates microchip programs. He makes fault-tolerant prototype systems for domestic machinery. He does research. He devises experimental machines using advanced alternative architecture. Before he fell out with the blue-collar berks attached to the officially recognised labs, he was blowing their minds with new procedures in molecular electronics. Unfortunately, what’s good for the kitchen can be equally good in the war zone. Adapted, extended, all his stuff has high-performance military potential. He knows this. He has fooled himself that he can handle it. He has been lolling back, enjoying the dogfight.’

‘We all have our hobbies,’ said Morgan. His face was press- creased down the middle.

‘As a bone?’ Johnson said.

‘I refer you,’ Morgan said, ‘to your very own quota-quickie. If they want me, they’re not going to hurt me. Anyway, if I was into the big stuff, why didn’t I keep my own company?’

‘I’ve told you,’ said Johnson. ‘You quarrelled with the authorities. You told the science and engineering boys to go home and stuff it. You were mesmerised by your own precious research; you demanded carte blanche to do it; you didn’t care where it was leading; you couldn’t get any more loans for the equipment you needed.’

‘I could have gone to the States,’ Morgan said. ‘Or to Japan. Or to Germany.’

‘Bully for you,’ Johnson said. ‘So you did know what you were making. Did Sir Robert, when he came to acquire you?’

‘No!’ said Lady Kingsley.

Johnson looked at her. He said, ‘How do you know?’

She didn’t mean to glance at me, I think, but she did. She said, ‘I know him rather well. He’s proud of his country.’

‘I’m not suggesting otherwise, Charity,’ Johnson said.

She pursued it. ‘You may not even be right. About what Mr. Morgan was making.’

‘Washing-machine parts,’ said Mo Morgan softly.

‘When and if,’ Johnson said, ‘you and I, Mo, ever get back to England, I shall take you to a large factory, and I shall show you an exact replica of your washing-machine parts, together with a number of other parts which you will recognise as designed in your workshop. Put together, they don’t make a washing machine. They make the launching system for a nuclear missile.’

‘But they cancelled the project,’ said Morgan. ‘OK, I know what can be done with these things. So what? Everything’s potentially lethal. You could make a bomb out of Lego.’

‘And that’s your damned answer?’ Johnson said. ‘Because of you, two men are dead, and several others and a woman were in serious danger. And that’s not including what I owe you, thank you very much. You think Sir Robert is a charming, extrovert capitalist of only moderate intelligence? Oppenheim a dangerous and ambitious opportunist? Pymm a silly, vicious man who has seen too many private-eye movies? So do I. But the big Daddy in this scene is Morgan, an intellectual slob with the boredom threshold of a brain-damaged hen.’ He had forgotten Charity’s presence. Or perhaps he hadn’t.

‘Dear, dear,’ said Morgan easily. He had turned a deep red. ‘This from a man who runs a whole upper-class lifestyle on the proceeds of back-to-back spying, painting and secret investments? Who the hell do you think you are to criticise me?’

‘The man who wrote the handbook on slagging,’ Johnson said. ‘Listen to me. You’re killing people.’

‘I’m a
designer
!’ said Morgan.

‘Hard luck,’ Johnson said. And a long silence fell.

It was my mother who broke it. She said, ‘You know what I’d do? I’d tell those hicks at the laboratories to apologise.’

Johnson looked at her. He said, ‘Doris? Were you listening? What the hell do you think I’ve been doing?’

I gazed at them both. When I looked at Morgan he was staring too, but in a different way. I didn’t know why I was sorry for him and not for Johnson, who had saved my mother, and whose self-righteous story had two whopping holes in it. I said, ‘You told Mr. Oppenheim that Mr. Morgan didn’t know what he was making. And you as good as told him to go public and declare his wife is a tart.’

Johnson’s eyes left those of Morgan with what seemed to be reluctance. Then he said, ‘Of course I told him. I knew he couldn’t. Muriel worships her husband, and would never, ever, in a million years do anything that would harm him.’

‘But the photographs?’ my mother said after a while. Her voice, for her, was moderate.

‘They didn’t exist,’ Johnson said. He didn’t say it immediately. It was as if two dialogues were taking place, one audible and one not.

Lady Kingsley spoke without moving. She said, ‘My husband saw them.’

Johnson looked at her; and I remembered that he had wanted her to leave, and began to guess perhaps why. He said, ‘He pretended to see them.’

She said slowly, ‘Pretended? Why should he pretend?’

He had lifted his glass, and found it empty. Replacing it, he left it sealed with his palm. He said, ‘Because the whole scene was a pretence. Oppenheim knew he was coming. You didn’t tell Sir Robert about Morgan’s meeting. I trusted you not to, and you didn’t. No one could have told him but Oppenheim. And as I’ve said, the pictures couldn’t have been real. Couldn’t. Not with Muriel. So the entire quarrel was staged, so that Morgan would report it. Staged by partners who wanted to appear to be enemies. Oppenheim never really intended that Morgan should leave Kingsley Conglomerates. Quite the opposite.’

He removed his palm and interlaced his green fingers. Lenny watched him. Johnson said, ‘My guess is that Oppenheim has found a buyer for Kingsley Conglomerates, and provided Morgan will stay, and provided another predator doesn’t step in before him, both he and Sir Robert are about to become very rich men.’

Everyone was looking at him. It was my mother who said,
‘Oppenheim?
Daniel Oppenheim is alive?’

Johnson looked as if he might have shrugged, but didn’t want to. ‘He was wearing the same kind of proofed vest that I was. I didn’t know until Oliver told me. That’s why I am officially missing.’

It was Morgan, of course, who pursued it. ‘Wait a minute. Oppenheim was your partner and double-crossed you? For Sir Robert?’

‘For someone rather bigger than Sir Robert,’ Johnson said. Between sentences, the pauses were longer. ‘In fact, I don’t fancy Sir Robert will last very long after the takeover. Your very particular skills are about to transfer themselves to an unknown if wealthy consortium. It’s my job to find out its identity. I’ll find it easier if Oppenheim thinks I’m dead. I’d also find it easier if you felt like cooperating. But of course, you haven’t, up till now.’

His own people, now, had fallen silent. Rita and Rolly were mute, and Oliver waited uneasily. My mother sat watching them all. Lady Kingsley said, ‘I think you underestimate Robert. Perhaps he thinks the firm needs new capital, and Oppenheim is the best person to help him. Perhaps he sees Mr. Morgan simply as a maker of brilliant components for domestic machinery. Is anyone interested in what else he can do? Surely, most governments are reducing their arms?’

My mother got up and began collecting coffee cups. ‘A lot of people don’t recognise governments,’ she said. ‘The man who pays Mr. Pymm, who is he? He wants to control Kingsley’s, and I do not think it is because of their washing machines. And who, behind the screen of smoke, are Mr. Oppenheim’s bosses likely to be? I suspect arms manufacturers or dealers, or those who buy from them. Sir Robert may know nothing of this. You are a good wife, and you think so. I say he wants to know nothing, which is to say he has a very good suspicion but will not admit it. He is a young man at heart. A nice boyfriend, your Sir Robert would be.’

She had stopped beside Morgan. She said, ‘You listen to what they are telling you. You make a good microchip, the world will beat a path to your door with live mines in it. I say no more. You are mad, but not stupid.’

‘A minority opinion,’ said Mo Morgan. From red, he had turned a paler colour. He said, ‘So what is teacher going to do? Make a team of the trusties and lock up the rest?’

Johnson was looking at Charity. He said, ‘If it would make it easier.’

She seemed to know what he meant. She said, ‘I’m sorry. But of course, I couldn’t agree not to tell Robert. I’ve done as much as I can.’

‘I know,’ Johnson said. ‘I know what you’ve been doing. I wish I deserved it. If you’ll let us, we’ll send you somewhere safe for a day or two. Sir Robert will be told you’re with friends.’ He turned his head a little more. Mo?’

‘What are you asking? Can you trust me? No, you can’t,’ Morgan said. ‘How bloody condescending can you get?’

‘You’d be surprised,’ Johnson said. ‘Now you’ve heard what is happening, will you let me organise you out of King Cong?’

‘No,’ said Morgan.

‘No. All right,’ said Johnson. ‘If I bring you proof that King Cong is about to be taken over, and by someone who will twist your bloody pigtail out of your skull, will you let me organise you out of King Cong?’

‘I might,’ said Mo Morgan.

‘That’s what I thought,’ Johnson said. ‘So for God’s sake don’t commit yourself till I’ve done it. And hand over the tape, there’s a sport.’

‘Why?’ said Morgan.

‘Because,’ said Johnson, ‘Ellwood Pymm wanted to hear it, and I think that he should. Good and early. Before the rally sets off. When does it set off?’

‘Early. About nine,’ Oliver said. ‘It’s a horrendous trip, and they need daylight to do it in. Pymm could catch them up, though. If, that is, he thought Oppenheim was going as well.’

‘Of course he’s going,’ Johnson said. ‘We’re all bloody going. Rita and Rolly with the convoys, trundling down to Ouarzazate and forming the radio link. Oliver and myself on the Harley. Morgan by morning plane to Ouarzazate once Mr. Pymm has been motivated. Doris, would you extend your dissembling performance with Ellwood if I were to ask you nicely?’

‘You mean give him the tape?’ asked my mother. She liked to edit her theses.

‘With four sure-fire apologies that make him feel like a company favourite,’ Johnson said. ‘You meant him to have it. You muddled them up by mistake. You’ll never sleep again if he doesn’t forgive you. Then leave for the airport, nine-fifteen at the latest.’

‘Why?’ said my mother.

‘Because you and Wendy are going to London,’ Johnson said. ‘Aren’t you?’

She didn’t even consult me. She said, ‘If you and Mo ain’t going to protect us. We thought we had an offer. We thought we’d accepted it. We want to go to Ouarzazate.’

Johnson said, after a moment, ‘You had an offer. You nearly let it go past the expiry date, that’s all. All right. Amendment. You present yourselves at the airport as if you were going to London. You tell Ellwood Pymm you are going to London. In fact, you fly to Ouarzazate with Morgan. Mo? This is all for your crappy benefit. Will you go along with it?’

‘For the moment,’ said Morgan. His eyes were tiny, like currants.

‘Well, don’t hurt yourself. Oliver, wake me at six with a map, and we’ll do a little serious plotting. Are there enough beds for this lot?’ He wasn’t speaking French; he was just speaking very quickly indeed.

‘Now, there’s a problem,’ Rita said. ‘You could come with me and count them, and then we’ll see how many pillows and blankets we’ve got. I reckon you’ve got about three minutes left. Come on. Get up.’

She was on her feet at his shoulder. So were Lenny and Oliver. ‘Boil an egg,’ Johnson said, getting up by degrees. ‘Boil a
green
egg. Rolly? The MTBFs are getting a teeny bit close.’

Mean Time Between Failures. He knew a lot of jargon. It isn’t jargon. It’s the necessary vocabulary of global business relations. He was almost at the door when Roland Reed answered. ‘They always were. What the hell do you want? Job satisfaction?’

The green face considered him, and the green hand made the smallest and rudest of gestures before our portrait painter turned and plodded out, Lenny and Oliver with him. The door shut. Lady Kingsley said, ‘What is wrong?’