The Moses Stone (4 page)
“I’m
not
‘involved,’ as you put it. If I hadn’t picked it up, somebody else would have, and there would be no chance of making sure it was returned to its rightful owner. I’ll take it back tomorrow, I promise. And then we need never think about it again.”
not
‘involved,’ as you put it. If I hadn’t picked it up, somebody else would have, and there would be no chance of making sure it was returned to its rightful owner. I’ll take it back tomorrow, I promise. And then we need never think about it again.”
2
The pursuers finally caught up with the fleeing man in the open area that lies between Rabat’s walls and the
Chellah
, the ancient necropolis that is now a popular picnic spot for tourists during the day, but is largely deserted in the evening. He’d ducked down among the wild flowers that covered the area, but unfortunately one of the men chasing him had seen exactly where he’d gone to ground, and within seconds they had him, slamming him back against a rock.
Chellah
, the ancient necropolis that is now a popular picnic spot for tourists during the day, but is largely deserted in the evening. He’d ducked down among the wild flowers that covered the area, but unfortunately one of the men chasing him had seen exactly where he’d gone to ground, and within seconds they had him, slamming him back against a rock.
The rest of the pursuers quickly gathered around the captive, and a tall, thin man with a pronounced hook nose stepped forward from the group. He’d suffered from untreated Bell’s Palsy as a child, and the right side of his face was frozen. The condition had also robbed him of the sight of his right eye and left him with a milky-white cornea that contrasted dramatically with his dark brown skin.
“Where is it, Hassan?” he asked, his voice calm and measured.
The captive shook his head, and was rewarded by a vicious blow to the stomach from one of the men holding him. He bent forward, gasping and retching.
“I’ll ask you once more. Where is it?”
“My pocket,” Hassan al-Qalaa muttered.
At a gesture from the tall man, the two guards allowed the captive to reach into one of his pockets, then another, despair replacing exhaustion on his face as it slowly dawned on him that the object he’d grabbed when he ran was no longer in his possession.
“I must have dropped it,” he stammered, “somewhere in the
souk
.”
souk
.”
The tall man gazed at him impassively. “Search him,” he snapped.
One of his men pinned the captive down against the rock while another rummaged through his clothing.
“Nothing,” the man said.
“You four,” the tall man snapped, “go back and search the
souk
. Follow the route we took, and question the stall-holders.”
souk
. Follow the route we took, and question the stall-holders.”
The four men left the group and ran swiftly back toward the entrance to the
souk
.
souk
.
“Now, Hassan,” the tall man said, leaning closer to the captive. “You may have dropped it, or you may have given it to somebody, but it doesn’t matter. It will surface somewhere, sometime, and when it does I’ll get it back.” He paused and looked down at the pinioned man, then bent closer still. “Do you know who I am?” he said, his voice barely more than a whisper.
The captive shook his head, his terrified gaze fixed upon the tall man’s ruined face and unblinking sightless eye.
“Then I’ll tell you,” he said, and muttered a few words into his ear.
Immediately the captive began shaking his head, sheer naked terror in his eyes.
“No, no,” he shouted, struggling violently. “It was only a clay tablet. I’ll pay you. Anything.”
“This is nothing to do with money, you fool, and it wasn’t
only
a clay tablet. You have no idea—no idea at all—what you held in your hands.”
only
a clay tablet. You have no idea—no idea at all—what you held in your hands.”
The tall man made another gesture and one of his men roughly ripped the captive’s clothing aside to expose his chest, then shoved a piece of cloth into the man’s mouth and tied it behind his head as a gag. They held him firmly against the boulder, arms outstretched, his writhing and twisting achieving nothing.
The captive kicked out violently—his legs were all he was able to move—and caught the tall man a glancing blow on the thigh.
“For that,” the tall man hissed, “you will suffer longer.”
Reaching into his
jellaba
, he withdrew a curved dagger with a vicious double-edged blade from a hidden sheath. Rolling back his right sleeve beyond his elbow, to keep the material clear of the blood, he stepped slightly closer. He rested the point of the dagger gently on the man’s chest, feeling for one of the spaces between the ribs, then began slowly increasing the pressure on the handle of the weapon. As the point pierced his skin, the captive cried out, a muffled grunt lost in the folds of the rudimentary gag.
jellaba
, he withdrew a curved dagger with a vicious double-edged blade from a hidden sheath. Rolling back his right sleeve beyond his elbow, to keep the material clear of the blood, he stepped slightly closer. He rested the point of the dagger gently on the man’s chest, feeling for one of the spaces between the ribs, then began slowly increasing the pressure on the handle of the weapon. As the point pierced his skin, the captive cried out, a muffled grunt lost in the folds of the rudimentary gag.
The tall man pressed harder still and the front of his captive’s
jellaba
suddenly turned a deep red as blood spurted from the wound. The tall man worked the knife in slowly, his gaze never leaving the dying man’s face. When he estimated that the point of the weapon was about to touch the heart, he paused for a few seconds, changed his grip on the knife, then rammed the point home and twisted it sideways, the tip of the blade ripping his victim’s heart virtually in half.
jellaba
suddenly turned a deep red as blood spurted from the wound. The tall man worked the knife in slowly, his gaze never leaving the dying man’s face. When he estimated that the point of the weapon was about to touch the heart, he paused for a few seconds, changed his grip on the knife, then rammed the point home and twisted it sideways, the tip of the blade ripping his victim’s heart virtually in half.
“Do you want us to bury him? Or dump him somewhere?” one of the men asked, as the captive slumped onto the ground.
The tall man shook his head. “No, just drag him over there,” he instructed, pointing toward a clump of slightly denser undergrowth before bending down to clean the blood off the blade of his knife on the dead man’s clothing. “Somebody will find him tomorrow or the next day.
“Spread the word,” he said, as he and his men headed back toward the
souk
. “Make sure everyone knows that Hassan al-Qalaa died because of what he did; ensure that everyone knows that if they talk to the police, they will suffer the same fate. And offer a reward for the recovery of the tablet. We
must
find it, whatever it takes.”
souk
. “Make sure everyone knows that Hassan al-Qalaa died because of what he did; ensure that everyone knows that if they talk to the police, they will suffer the same fate. And offer a reward for the recovery of the tablet. We
must
find it, whatever it takes.”
3
Just after ten the following morning, Margaret walked back into the
souk
with the clay tablet secreted in her handbag. She’d examined it carefully in their hotel room the previous evening, and taken several photographs of it.
souk
with the clay tablet secreted in her handbag. She’d examined it carefully in their hotel room the previous evening, and taken several photographs of it.
The tablet was actually remarkably dull. Perhaps five inches by three, and maybe half an inch thick, it was a light gray-brown, almost beige, in color. The back and sides were smooth and unblemished, and the front surface covered with a series of marks that Margaret assumed was some kind of writing, but not one that she recognized. It certainly wasn’t any form of European language, and it didn’t even look much like the Arabic words and characters she’d seen on various signs and in newspapers since they’d arrived in Rabat.
In exchange for her promise that she’d simply go back to the stall, hand over the object and come straight back to the hotel, Ralph had agreed not to come with her.
But when Margaret stepped into the
souk
and walked through the twisting passageways to the stall, there was an obvious problem. Neither the small Moroccan nor the collection of ancient relics she’d observed the previous day was there. Instead, two men she’d never seen before were standing behind a trestle table on which were displayed rows of typical tourist souvenirs—brass coffeepots, metal boxes and other ornaments.
souk
and walked through the twisting passageways to the stall, there was an obvious problem. Neither the small Moroccan nor the collection of ancient relics she’d observed the previous day was there. Instead, two men she’d never seen before were standing behind a trestle table on which were displayed rows of typical tourist souvenirs—brass coffeepots, metal boxes and other ornaments.
For a few seconds she stood there, irresolute, then stepped forward and spoke to the men.
“Do you understand English?” she began, speaking slowly and clearly.
One of the men nodded.
“There was a different stall here yesterday,” she said, her words again slow and measured, “run by a small man.” She made a gesture to indicate the approximate height of the Moroccan she’d seen previously. “I wanted to buy some of his goods.”
The two men looked at her in silence for a few seconds before exchanging a couple of sentences in rapid-fire Arabic. Then one of them looked back at her.
“He not here today,” he said. “You buy souvenirs from us, yes?”
“No. No, thank you.” Margaret shook her head firmly. At least she’d tried, she thought as she walked away, but if the man who’d dropped the clay tablet wasn’t there, there obviously wasn’t any way she could return it to him. She’d just take it with her, back home to Kent, as a strange souvenir of their first holiday outside Europe, and a reminder of what they’d seen.
What she didn’t notice, as she walked away from the stall, was one of the stall-holders taking out his mobile phone.
Margaret decided to take one last look around before she returned to the hotel. She was quite sure Ralph would never agree to return to Morocco, because he really hadn’t enjoyed his time in Rabat. This would be her last opportunity to take in the sights and get a few final pictures.
She wandered through the
souk
, snapping away whenever she could, and then walked outside. She hadn’t, she remembered, managed to persuade Ralph to visit the
Chellah
, and she really ought to walk around the gardens, even if she didn’t visit the sanctuary itself.
souk
, snapping away whenever she could, and then walked outside. She hadn’t, she remembered, managed to persuade Ralph to visit the
Chellah
, and she really ought to walk around the gardens, even if she didn’t visit the sanctuary itself.
But as she headed toward the old walls of the necropolis, she saw several police officers and other people milling about directly in front of her. For a moment, she wondered if she should simply call it a day and go straight back to the hotel.
Then she shrugged her shoulders—whatever the problem was that had attracted the small crowd, it had nothing to do with her—and pressed on. Curiosity had always been one of her virtues, or her faults in Ralph’s view, and so as she walked past the handful of men she looked closely at what was going on.
At first, all she could see were their backs, but then a couple of them stepped slightly to one side and she could see exactly what they were all staring at. Fairly close to a large boulder, a slight figure lay on the ground, the front of his
jellaba
sodden with blood. That was startling enough, but what stunned Margaret was that she immediately recognized the dead man’s face. She was so surprised that she stopped in her tracks.
jellaba
sodden with blood. That was startling enough, but what stunned Margaret was that she immediately recognized the dead man’s face. She was so surprised that she stopped in her tracks.
Suddenly, she knew exactly why the small Arab wasn’t behind the stall in the
souk
. She also guessed that the clay tablet in her bag—the object he’d dropped as he ran past them—might be more important and valuable than she’d ever thought.
souk
. She also guessed that the clay tablet in her bag—the object he’d dropped as he ran past them—might be more important and valuable than she’d ever thought.
One of the policemen noticed her standing there, her mouth open as she stared at the body on the ground, and irritably waved her away.
She turned back toward the
souk
, lost in thought. She wouldn’t, she decided, follow her original plan and simply leave the clay tablet in her handbag when they left for the airport. She’d have to think of a way of getting it out of Morocco without it being detected.
souk
, lost in thought. She wouldn’t, she decided, follow her original plan and simply leave the clay tablet in her handbag when they left for the airport. She’d have to think of a way of getting it out of Morocco without it being detected.
And there was one obvious way to do that.
4
“I won’t be sorry to get back home,” Ralph O’Connor said as he steered their hired Renault Megane out of Rabat toward Casablanca and their flight to London.
“I know,” Margaret replied shortly. “You’ve made it perfectly clear that Morocco is right at the bottom of your list of desirable places to revisit. I suppose you’ll want to go back to Benidorm or Marbella next year?”
“Well, at least I feel at home in Spain. This country’s just too
foreign
, somehow, and I don’t like it. And I still think you should have just thrown away that blasted stone you picked up.”
foreign
, somehow, and I don’t like it. And I still think you should have just thrown away that blasted stone you picked up.”
“Look, what I did was the best option in the circumstances, and I’m not going to discuss it any further.”
They drove for some minutes in silence. She’d not told Ralph what she’d seen near the
Chellah
that morning, though she had sent her daughter a hasty e-mail about it just before they left the hotel.
Chellah
that morning, though she had sent her daughter a hasty e-mail about it just before they left the hotel.
About five miles out of Rabat, the traffic died away almost to nothing, and they had the road virtually to themselves. The only vehicle Ralph could see in his mirrors was a large dark-colored four-by-four jeep some distance behind them. Oncoming traffic grew less frequent as they got further away from the city.
When they reached a stretch of road fairly near the Atlantic coast, the driver of the jeep accelerated. Ralph O’Connor was a careful driver, and began switching his attention between the road ahead and the jeep, which was gaining on them very rapidly.
Then he saw an old white Peugeot sedan coming in the opposite direction. He eased his foot slightly off the accelerator to allow the driver of the jeep to overtake before the Peugeot reached them.
“Why have you slowed down?” Margaret demanded.
“There’s a jeep coming up on us fast, and a fairly sharp bend in front. I’d rather he overtook us before we reach it.”
But the jeep showed no signs of overtaking, just closed up to about twenty yards behind the O’Connors’ Renault and matched its speed.
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