Tangier July 1978
Tangier
Loyalty.
Sam sat on the edge of his narrow bed, staring at the writing case and the stack of pages next to it: a story half told.
It was a story that had resurrected the past, that had dragged it from a forgotten basement, from beneath dusty piles of wares in a casbah junk shop out into the hot light of the present.
He’d done that. He had been following this story as if he owned it, as if it was in his control.
But of course, it wasn’t. He had barged into a series of events that had begun fifty years ago, and hadn’t yet finished. And now there was a chance that someone could be hurt.
If the authorities thought they could tie Ale to a murder, however long ago it happened, they’d use it as an excuse for an arrest, an investigation.
He had to take Zahrah’s word for that, but it didn’t matter either way. He’d promised.
He hurried down the stairs, the writing case gripped in one hand.
What on earth was Ale involved with? If the authorities were a threat, then it must be serious.
Part of him felt uneasy, wondering whether he should report Alejandro del Potro himself.
He knew he’d never do that, but what if Norton was right to be asking questions?
Sam had only Ale and Zahrah’s words to go on, and there was still so much he didn’t know. Not least that note.
I am sorry.
He screwed his eyes shut.
‘Monsieur Hackett!’
Madame Sarah was standing in the kitchen doorway.
‘Sorry,’ he said, flushing. ‘I – what is it?’
Her lips were pressed tight, as if she was working up to something. ‘Monsieur Hackett, if you want to stay after this week, you must pay me in advance. I cannot allow any more late rent.’
He stared at her, trying to haul his mind into the present. ‘In advance? But …’ He’d just about been managing to pay a week in arrears. ‘Can’t we just carry on as normal? I won’t be late with it, I promise.’
In truth, he wasn’t entirely sure how much money he had left. Most of the cash from the typewriter had gone on rent, the rest on kif and a supply of paper, new ink and coffee and beers.
Madame Sarah looked unhappy. ‘My sister says I should not let you stay here unless you pay in advance. Last night, when you did not come back, I thought you might have run off without—’
‘I’d never do that! Last night I was with a … a friend.’ He sounded so guilty. No wonder she was frowning at him. ‘OK, I’ll pay a week in advance, I swear. As soon as I get back later.’
She looked unconvinced. Not for the first time, Sam wished he was a better tenant. Or a better liar. Behind her shoulder, the clock was pointing at two. He’d have to run if he wanted to catch Norton before he got back to the office.
‘Here.’ Impulsively, he held out the writing case. ‘This is incredibly important to me. Keep it as a security deposit. Tomorrow I’ll give you the rent, I promise.’ Perhaps he could borrow a few dirhams from Ale.
Madame Sarah frowned at the leather case, with its scuffed corners. ‘All right,’ she said quietly, taking it. ‘But tomorrow, please.’
Sam’s hands felt empty as he hurried through the casbah.
He stuck them in his pockets, full of kif dust and rolling papers and small change.
Facing Norton would be easier in a suit like Ale’s, something smart and elegant, rather than his usual scrubby jeans.
He straightened his shirt as much as he could before stepping into the El Minzah.
He needn’t have bothered. Norton wasn’t there.
The desk clerk, side-eyeing Sam’s attire, told him coolly that Mr Norton had not returned at all that day.
Grimly, Sam strode out into the street and started in the direction of the new town.
Was Norton putting in extra hours to dig around the archives, looking for information about Langham?
He walked as rapidly as he could through the sweltering afternoon, until he saw the brown glass windows of the Interpress building glinting up ahead.
He stopped in the middle of the street, staring at the lobby.
What the hell was he going to say? Norton might be a bastard, but he was on the right track, there was a scandal to be uncovered, Sam was sure of it.
How was he going to convince Norton otherwise?
He swallowed hard, and walked towards the building.
The reception was hot, a couple of fans shunting cigarette smoke about the place. The woman from the day before was pushing typewriter keys one at a time, struggling to stay awake.
‘Hello,’ Sam said, clearing his throat. ‘I’m here to see Ellis Norton.’
The receptionist blinked at him. ‘Mr Norton? I’m afraid he just went out.’
Sam hesitated. He’d come here ready for an argument. Did this mean he’d have to sit and wait like an idiot until Norton returned? Frustrated, he nodded and turned away, gritting his teeth when he pictured how Norton must have swiped the passport …
Sam stopped. The passport. Norton had taken it for a reason.
It was proof, he realized, the only concrete bit of evidence Norton had that someone else might have been involved in Langham’s death: the only thing that named Alejandro del Potro.
If he could get the passport back, Norton would have nothing, just speculation, rumours.
No editor would accept an article without verifiable evidence.
Quickly, he searched through his jeans pockets until he found what he was looking for. A business card, crumpled and a little grubby:
ELLIS NORTON
JUNIOR FOREIGN CORRESPONDENT
INTERPRESS
‘Actually, do you mind if I wait for him upstairs?’ Sam waved the card at the receptionist. ‘Ellis and I are working on a story together. I was here yesterday, remember? You gave me some money for a taxi.’ He felt as though his smile was creaking.
‘That’s right,’ the woman said, stifling a yawn. ‘You were in a rush.’
‘I’ll go wait at his desk, then.’ He moved towards the elevator, his heart beating faster.
‘Wait!’ The receptionist’s voice stopped him. She was leaning over the edge of the counter, holding a pen. ‘You need to sign in first.’
Trying to steady his hand, he took the pen and wrote a name in the register.
‘Thanks, Mr –’ she glanced down ‘– Langham. You want the second floor. I’ll tell Mr Norton you’re here as soon as he arrives.’
Sam nodded, and made for the elevator. He’d have to be fast.
The second floor turned out to be a messy open office space, blinds pulled down over the windows to keep out the fierce sun.
He expected someone to stop him at the door and ask what he was doing, but no one did.
He passed one man snoozing behind a huge stack of files, a woman who was working at a typewriter, her glasses sliding down her nose with perspiration.
‘Excuse me,’ he asked her. ‘Which is Ellis Norton’s desk? I’m meant to wait for him and—’
‘Who?’ she asked, not looking up from her typing.
‘Norton, Ellis Norton, he’s a junior correspondent.’
The woman tutted over a typo and pushed her glasses up her nose. ‘Corner desk.’ She jerked her head towards the windows. ‘Next to metro.’
Sam had no idea what that meant, but he walked confidently in that direction, until he saw a piece of paper pinned to a cubicle divider that read E NORTON.
He was sweating now. So was everyone else in the room, though he wagered they were sweating from the heat rather than nerves. He lowered himself into the chair at Norton’s desk, ducking behind the divider.
The workspace was cluttered, carbon copies strewn around a typewriter, newspapers in French and English piled up next to it.
This could have been his own life, Sam realized, with a bizarre rush of clarity.
If he had followed a different path, if he had studied harder at college and made the right connections, he might have been sitting at one of these desks working, rather than skulking like a thief. He wasn’t sure which was worse.
Quickly, he began to search. No one seemed to be looking his way.
The only man within eyeshot was smoking and reading a copy of Al-Alam.
He found a handwritten note and snatched it up only to discover that it was all in shorthand, like a taunt.
Think. The passport was Norton’s proof. He wouldn’t just leave it lying about in the open.
Beneath the desk was a squat metal filing cabinet. The top drawer opened with a metallic squeal, and the man opposite gave him half a glance. Sam smiled back. Be calm, he told himself.
The drawer was full of cardboard files, all the same shade of beige.
The passport could be in any one of them.
He started to lift covers at random, peering at the papers inside.
They were full of cuttings, edited notes, picture references.
He began to scrabble through them faster.
It would make him look suspicious, but he didn’t care; he didn’t know how much longer his nerves would hold out.
He opened the fourth file down and felt smooth card beneath his fingers, thicker than carbon copy. He yanked it out.
PASAPORTE.
Thank god.
The photo of Alejandro looked up at him, defiant and sullen. He recognized Ale now, so young, and felt his chest tighten with sympathy, with admiration. What had happened, during those dark, hot days of July 1928? He still didn’t know.
Englishman Drowns in Strait.
Skin prickling, Sam shoved the passport into his back pocket. He was reaching down to close the drawer when something else caught his eye, a photograph of a familiar location. He pulled it out.
The picture was black and white and grainy, as if taken in low light, but he could tell it showed the entrance of The Hold.
Two blurred figures were standing by the door.
He squinted, trying to make them out. Only when he saw the shape of a cigar did he realize that one of the figures was Bet.
Bet and Kline, his head near hers, as if in quiet conversation.
Sam’s fingers tightened on the print. What the hell was Norton playing at?
Abruptly, he remembered the intent way the journalist had stared at Bet across the bar, the way he’d feigned drunkenness as he declared, I’ve just been hearing the most marvellous stories from Giles. He said that you were a smuggler!
‘Bastard,’ Sam hissed.
‘Hackett!’
He shot up from the chair, the picture still clutched in his hand. Norton was striding across the office, pale beneath his sunburn. ‘What in god’s name are you doing?’
People were looking now, but Sam didn’t care.
‘What in god’s name are you doing?’ he said. ‘What the hell is this?’
He threw the photograph at Norton, who barely managed to catch it. When he saw what it was, his face went even paler.
‘It’s my job,’ he said, with deliberate control. ‘I’m doing my job, Hack, investigating what I think needs to be reported. This isn’t personal.’
‘Yeah, right.’ People were standing now, craning to see what was going on. Let them, Sam thought recklessly. ‘Stalking isn’t doing a job. Neither is stealing from my suitcase. It’s theft.’
‘That suitcase wasn’t yours,’ Norton snapped. ‘And that passport is a fake. I called the consulate, they have no record of any Alejandro del Potro—’
‘I asked you to wait.’ Sam stepped towards Norton. ‘There are people who could be hurt by what you’re doing!’
‘People who deserve it.’ Norton shook his head, as if Sam were a child, throwing a tantrum. ‘You have no idea, do you, the kind of people you’re dealing with? I found Langham’s record. He was a crook, just like this del Potro character, or whoever it is living in that house.’
‘You don’t understand!’ He was shouting.
‘No, you don’t. You’re so bloody naive. That lot at The Hold, Bet, Kline, all of them, they’re criminals. They’ve charmed you with their stories, flattered you into thinking you’re special, but I’m not fooled, I can see them for the scum they are—’
Before he could think twice, he raised his arm and punched Norton square in the face.