Page 33 of The Last Postcard

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Dear A,

I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to insinuate anything, and I promise, I have no interest in blackmail or bribes. I’m a writer, that’s all, and I find myself writing about you, or at least, the things that once belonged to you. You see, in the bottom of this writing case, I found a key and a tag, with a number.

It was the longest letter he had written to date, describing how he’d discovered that the tag belonged to the Hotel Continental, and how he’d searched the storeroom there, and everything that came after.

There was a passport in the suitcase, belonging to a man named Alejandro del Potro. Was he someone you knew? Please believe me when I say I don’t want to get anyone into trouble. I just want to know a little more about you, who you are, your life here. It must sound strange, but you’ve caught my imagination in a way nothing else has.

He paused. Was it too much? Maybe, but he wanted to be honest. The only thing he hadn’t mentioned was the strange, pencil-written letter.

Please write back. I have so many questions.

Sam

He sealed the letter, scrawled A on the front and went to the counter to find Khalid.

‘I’ll be back this afternoon,’ he said loudly.

Khalid nodded, and tucked the letter into his apron. He obviously didn’t relish his role as go-between, no matter what A was paying him. Sam walked out of the café and turned, making sure Khalid saw him pass the windows. As soon as he was out of sight, he stopped and turned. If Khalid wouldn’t tell him who A was, he’d have to find out another way.

The French Embassy stood across from the café, with its stern, clipped hedge and stone pillars, entirely at odds with the grime and hustle of the street. Trying to be casual, he stepped through the gates and looked for an unobtrusive place to wait. He found that by standing in the shadow of one of the hedges, he could see the terrace of the Gran Café de Paris without being seen himself.

All right, he thought, taking the rolling papers from his pocket. Let’s see who you are.

One cigarette became two as the morning grew warmer. Before too long the sun drove the shade away, beating down on the back of his neck. He tried to keep his eyes fixed on the café as it filled up with men in suits and sports jackets and djellabas. A couple of girls went in, American or British students possibly, and he almost gave up on the stake-out. Another twenty minutes, he told himself, another ten.

His scalp was prickling in the heat, feet swollen in the sloppy espadrilles. It must have been nearing eleven. When a man walked past the embassy pushing a cart full of melon, hacked into slices, he couldn’t stand it any more, and ducked out of the gate to buy some.

He ate it with the writing case tucked under one arm, and his eyes on the café, the juice running down the backs of his hands, dripping from his wrists. He almost expected it to hiss when it hit the gravel below. It was lukewarm and honey-sweet, washing the taste of nicotine from his mouth, filling his head with a rush of sugar.

A uniformed guard found him just as he was spitting the pips into the hedge.

‘Qu’est-ce que vous faites?’ the man barked.

‘I’m, ah, waiting for someone,’ Sam said unconvincingly. ‘I’m American and I—’

Something flashed across the street; the glass door of the Gran Café de Paris, reflecting the sun. A figure was hurrying out, looking down, sliding something small and rectangular and white into a shoulder bag, something like an envelope …

Without thinking, Sam broke into a run, though the guard shouted angrily and made a grab for him. He barged through people on the pavement, almost tripping headfirst into a roadside stall filled with broken watches and old shoes. More people shouted at him, he didn’t care. He blinked hard, staring down the street.

There, the figure was walking away, one hand gripping the bag. Whoever it was, they were swathed in a brown djellaba, the hood pulled up against the heat. Sam jogged, trying to close the distance between them, but the person was already nearing the corner of the Rue de la Liberté.

‘Hey!’ he shouted.

The figure paused and half turned towards him. He caught a glimpse of dark hair before they whirled around and disappeared between two taxis.

‘Hey!’ Sam yelled again and lunged to follow, only to almost be knocked down by a moped, the driver screaming at him. Heart hammering, swiping sweat from his eyes, he looked down the street and caught a glimpse of the figure, rounding a corner. He raced to follow. Beyond, the road curved left towards the Place de France and the English Church, right towards the tarpaulined chaos of the medina. He had no idea which way the person had gone. Gasping in a lungful of hot air, he took a gamble, and turned right.

It couldn’t have been a worse time. Late morning, and the narrow paths between the market stalls were swimming with people, crowded with breath and voices and the smell of wet dirt and meat, pungent fish, crushed spices. He fought down one passage, turned left and battled past the stall that sold live chickens and ducks, squawking in their cages. Blood and water ran across the cobbles from the butcher’s stalls, making his shoes stick to the ground. Almost every person there was wearing a djellaba, it would be impossible to …

A flash of movement, the strap of a shoulder bag, a figure elbowing through the crowd towards the Grand Socco. Sam had no breath to shout, could only fight his way to the edge of the market, clinging to the writing case. I’ll never smoke again, he swore as he staggered into a run, lungs heaving. The figure was nearing the edge of the socco and the old city gates, the entrances to the maze of the casbah. If whoever it was stepped through there, he’d be screwed, he’d never find them.

At the mouth of the Bab el-Fahs the figure glanced back over their shoulder. Sam had no breath to call out, but he raised his hand, and the case in it, holding it up like a plea. He must have looked absurd, but for a moment, the figure seemed to hesitate—

‘Hackett!’

Hands were slapping his arms, a face filling his view, white and red and shiny with sweat. Norton.