Authors: Conrad Jones
Slow Burn (34 page)
Richard Bernstein was sweating profusely in the front seat of a battered Mercedes as it hurtled through the Moroccan desert toward the thirteenth century city of Touradant. The compacted sand road was more than a match for the aged suspension of the rusty old taxi, and he was bouncing about like a space-hopper in a giant salt pot. His shirt was sticking to his back, and there were dark patches spreading beneath his arms. All four windows were down but it had no effect on the soaring temperature in the ancient vehicle.
“How much further is it?” Richard asked, wiping sweat from his brow. He was hungry. The breakfast at the hotel in Agadir was paltry; bread rolls and bland cheese were not his idea of a good start to the day. There was no bacon to be had in this godforsaken country.
“See there,” the driver, pointed to the east with enthusiasm. His toothless smile and sundried skin made him look a hundred years old. Richard was immediately sorry that he`d asked the question as the driver`s body odour wafted over to him when he raised his arms. He smelled and looked like he hadn’t bathed for decades. “Ten minutes!”
David Bernstein was asleep in the back seat, as was Nick. They had been up until the early hours of the morning drinking local brand whisky, and it had caught up with them now. The flight from Liverpool to Agadir was under three hours, but it felt much longer. The anticipation of armed police greeting them at the gate was gut wrenching. It had been a huge relief when they breezed past customs and walked out of the airport unhindered. David said they wouldn’t be stopped, but it was still a worry. Their documentation was forged, but they were top of the range quality, and impossible to spot. They stayed two nights at the beach resort, before heading off to Marrakesh, via Touradant. David had contacts in Morocco, and they`d arranged sea passage for them across the Mediterranean to Israel. They had to meet their contact the following day in Marrakesh, and decided to see some of the country on the way there. Richard couldn’t be bothered. It was a shithole of a place, sand and more sand, and no bacon.
David woke up when the taxi hit a pothole at thirty miles an hour. He was jolted violently and his head hit the window frame. The desert wind blew in his face, which would have been pleasant if it didn’t carry the scent of the driver with it. He opened his eyes and wiped the crusty sleep from the corners. They were approaching the walled city, and red-ochre fortified ramparts stretched into the distance as far as he could see. The size of the fortifications were testament to the skill of the thirteenth century Muslim engineers. They drove by groups of local woman, all dressed in blue robes and matching headscarves and veils. The men they saw held wooden staffs, which they used to guide their goats, or whip their donkeys. Their leathery faces were full of loathing and suspicion for foreign visitors that earned more money in a day than they did in five years. As they approached the huge gates the smells and sounds of the city drifted into the car.
It was Friday, and the city was packed with locals heading to Friday prayers. The narrow streets were awash with colours, as traders showed their produce to the faithful as they passed by to their Mosques. Fruit and vegetables of every shape and colour were on sale, and the smell of rotting meat hung heavily in the air as the butchers plied their trade too. The Imams could be heard wailing from the minarets, calling the faithful to prayer. The smell of spices was powerful as they drove near to the Souk, and shoppers flooded out of the exits as prayer time neared. David watched the crowds with his head resting on the backseat. His head was tilted so that the breeze would blow into his face and cool him. He couldn’t care less about the sightseeing, he needed to contact his colleague here, pick up documents and find somewhere that they could drink. The previous months had been hard work, mentally and physically, but they`d been worth every second. Shah and his nest of rats were annihilated and they were nearly a million pound richer. He would call it compensation for his loss. His superiors would be pleased that Malik Shah was no longer in business, but another arms dealer would take his place immediately. The Israelis would also have a place for Richard. He was a very talented man in many ways. Israel is nothing but an arid, salt encrusted desert. The only water supply was the River Jordan, and all the farming and agriculture were created by extensive manmade projects. Richard`s fertiliser expertise would be worth millions there, as would his talent for making explosive devices. Unfortunately, David`s superiors were not happy about the way he had taken Shah out of circulation. The bombing campaign attracted far too much attention, and the world`s media were still focusing on it. It was only a matter of time before the blame was laid at Israel`s door, and an international scandal was on the cards, but David didn’t care. He would face the music when the time came.
The taxi slowed to walking pace as the crowd thickened, and the driver honked the horn constantly to no avail. Locals called abuse and spat at the car as it crawled alongside them. David recognised a barbershop where he`d been shaven once before, it was a block away from the hotel they were heading to. A trader proffered his selection of fruits through the window and David waved him away. The wrinkled old man fired a string of abuse at him for his troubles.
“Turn down here,” David tapped the driver on the shoulder. He wanted to get out of the crowds. The road would take them the back way to the hotel. “Down there!”
The driver nodded and gave him a gummy smile in the mirror.
“This way, only five minute! Five minute!” He grinned as he repeated himself.
“Turn here, it`s quicker, you bloody idiot,” David leaned forward and pointed to the barbershop. “Here by the barbershop.”
“Barbershop?” the driver grinned again. “You want shave?”
“No, I don’t want a shave turn this way!”
“I know best barbershop, good price for you, Asda price for you!” The driver carried on pushing his way through the crowd and David gave up giving directions. They would be there soon enough. The crowd began to thin out as they turned off the main street to their respective places of worship, and the hotel was in sight.
“I turn, I turn.” The driver drove by the hotel entrance and he eyed David in the mirror. David was immediately suspicious.
“Stop the car!” He leaned forward and grabbed the driver`s seat.
“I turn around, okay boss man!” he grinned like an idiot again, but he looked nervous and his eyes darted all over. He slowed and turned the wheel full lock. The turning circle was too tight for the taxi to make it in one movement, and the gears crunched painfully as he engaged reverse. “I turn around.”
David relaxed a little as he attempted a three-point turn in the narrow street. A haggard face appeared at his window, and a wooden board filled with melon slices was thrust toward him. He jumped. “Fuck off!” he shouted at the old woman.
“I`m starving,” Richard turned around. “How much are they?” He shouted to the woman but she was gone, only to be replaced by another blue clad figure.
David Bernstein was about to tell her to go forth and multiply when the taxi driver pulled on the handbrake, opened his door and bolted. The blue robes parted for a second and he caught sight briefly of an Israeli manufactured suppressed Uzi nine-millimetre machinegun. The first rounds ripped David`s jugular and larynx out of his throat, and arterial blood spatter soaked the interior of the taxi. Nick didn’t get time to wake up as four rounds smashed his thickened brow bone and sprayed his brains all over the back window. Richard Bernstein opened the passenger door and tried to get out but he was too fat and awkward to do it quickly. Not for the first time in his life, he wet his pants in fear as the assassin reloaded. His troubled life flashed before him as they emptied the second clip into his bloated body, and he lay twitching half in and half out of the taxi. His blood soaked into the Moroccan dust. A Nissan truck pulled up and the assassin jumped into the back of it, while two men emptied the boot of the taxi. A gallon of four-star petrol was splashed around the Bernstein brothers and the taxi became a raging inferno as the Mossad team sped away. The last remaining evidence of the embarrassing events in the United Kingdom was erased from memory, and the Israeli government were off the hook. The Bernstein family were officially extinct.
CHAPTER 62
Major investigation team
Alec Ramsey folded his newspaper in half so that he could read it without it falling into his breakfast. He was enjoying a Sunday morning off work for a change, as they were rare. His organic sausages tasted like cardboard, and apparently, there was no such thing as organic black pudding.
“Are you sure black-pudding is bad for me?” he moaned as he slotted another piece of tasteless banger into his mouth. He slurped his tea to wash it down.
“Positive, Alec, it`s disgusting, don’t you dare ask for that,” Gail raised her eyebrows and gave him that look, the look that could turn the milk to cheese in an instant.
“What about free range black pudding, now that can`t be bad for me can it?”
“Shut up and eat your sausage.”
“I`m not sure this can be called a sausage, it doesn’t taste of meat and it`s a little bland.”
“There is no meat in it.”
“What?”
“It`s vegetable and soya, organic vegetables of course.”
“Of course,” Alec stared at the sausage on his fork and decided not to bother. He dunked a piece of wholemeal toast into his free-range fried egg instead.
He was about to moan again when a piece in the paper caught his eye. It was a paragraph long and very brief. It described the murder of three western tourists in the Moroccan city of Touradant. They were robbed and burned to death in a taxi, and local bandits were being blamed. According to the reporter, their belongings were stolen, and they had no identification on them. Alec felt the hair on the back of his neck tingle. He didn’t know why, but he knew it was the Bernstein brothers and their friend. Flights to Morocco from Liverpool were scheduled every day. He took another mouthful of toast and reached for the phone.
“I thought you were having a day off?”
“It`s these sausages, I`m going to have to call it in.” Alec joked as he dialled. “I am charging them with attempting to impersonate a sausage, and for assaulting my taste buds.”
“Silly man.”
“Silly sausage,” he stuck his fork into one and held it up.
“DI Naylor,” Will answered the phone.
“I thought you were having a day off?” Alec scolded him.
“Morning, Guv, I thought you were.”
“I am,” Alec looked at the article again. “Get Interpol on the blower and see what you can find out about a triple murder in Touradant last week.”
“Where?”
“Touradant,” Alec spelled it out for him.
“Any particular reason, Guv, or are you being nosey?”
“Just my spider senses tingling again.”
“Leave it with me, I`ll make a few calls.”
Alec hung up and went back to his newspaper for ten minutes. He played with his breakfast, but his appetite had gone. He kissed Gail on top of the head and put his plate on the side.
“Thanks for that, it was very interesting,” he joked. “I`m going for a shower, Darling.”
“You`ll thank me for looking after your cholesterol one day.”
The telephone rang.
“That`ll be for you,” she frowned and picked up the breakfast plates. Alec grabbed the phone and connected the call.
“Hello.”
“You were right, Guv.” Will smiled at the other end of the phone. Alec could tell he was smiling.
“What am I right about?”
“Three western tourists robbed and murdered in the street. Their belongings were stolen and they had no identification on them. The police don`t know what country they were from. They identified their ethnicity by DNA.”
“Is that it?” Alec was disappointed.
“The only thing not damaged beyond use was a wrist watch. The strap was destroyed but the body protected the back of it.”
“Go on, go on, don’t wind me up, and excuse the pun.”
“There was an engraving on the back of it. Happy birthday Einstein.”
