The Rift, Rachel Lynch [books recommended by bts .txt] 📗

the covers over him. The bedside clock had an alarm setting, and he quickly worked out how to use it and closed his eyes, sinking his head into the soft pillow.

When he awoke to the piercing sound of the alarm, he took a minute to remember where he was. His body was rested, and he sat upright, stretching, wondering if he lived like this all the time, what it might be like. Would it make him lazy and godless? Suddenly, the awe with which he’d approached the grandeur of the place left him, and he realised that he was hungry, and ready to complete the final leg of his mission. One afternoon asleep in such surroundings was enough to make a man soft. Now, he was alert and wary of falling for the lure of the trappings of the rich. He dressed quickly into the only other outfit he had with him and stuffed the soiled clothes into the empty bag. He ignored the cologne on offer, but only after removing the cap and smelling it. Why had Fawaz given him this room? What was he trying to achieve? Fawaz left nothing to chance. Why show him this place when he was to return to his village tonight or tomorrow? Then, he realised that it was a small reward for his efforts. Fawaz was bestowing his gratitude, and inside his head, it made him feel better about accepting to stay in such a place.

He was ready quickly and called the cab number. They would be outside in five minutes. He took the elevator back downstairs and noticed that the woman on reception was still there; she smiled at him. He did not smile back.

The journey to the port was quick, and he was dropped off at Gate 302. The car sped away; he was to use a different company on his return to the hotel. He waited in the shadows, close to the huge metal entrance that was big enough to fit an aeroplane through. A car arrived, and its door opened. Abdul got in the back and, apart from the driver, there was only one other man inside. He spoke Darija, and Abdul conversed with him comfortably in his native vernacular. They were to oversee the loading of the consignment, and Abdul was given papers to give to the customs official who would inspect the transit bound for Marseilles.

‘Don’t worry, he’s one of us – it’s just a formality.’

Abdul nodded. They drove in silence and arrived at another gate, but this time, it was busy and bursting with activity. Forklift trucks whizzed around, men in overalls lugged boxes and officials swanned around with clipboards.

‘There’s ours,’ the man said. The car stopped, and they got out. An official greeted them and Abdul handed over the paperwork, which the man in high-visibility clothing perused and signed. Abdul recognised the load from what had been separated between the vehicles that had been driven thousands of miles from Morocco. He also spotted the five boxes picked up in Mali.

‘All good?’ he asked. The official nodded, and they shook hands. The man then walked away after handing him a docket, containing the shipment number, block and sequence that were to be handed over at Marseilles, and Abdul watched, alongside the man who’d brought him, as a forklift picked up the load and drove it to the side of a quay. It was only now that Abdul realised that a container ship sat there in the water, serene and silent. He looked up, thinking that the metal wall was part of the quay. The ship was enormous and Abdul had never been so close to what he’d only seen on posters. He couldn’t believe that a ship of such size could float.

‘Now we wait,’ the man said. They walked back to the car and sat in the back, watching as the ship was fully loaded. It was ready to depart in under an hour and activity on the quayside subsided as the doors were closed and ramps drawn up. At first, Abdul didn’t think it was going to move, but slowly, it drifted away from the quayside and he saw three tugs ahead of it, swirling water as they worked their engines. The great thing moved forward and Abdul sat in awe.

‘We go.’

The ship was about a hundred feet away from the quay, but Abdul still stared at it.

‘We will drop you at another quay and you can call a cab from a payphone. Keep the docket safe; that’s the number you need. Scan it in to this phone,’ he said, pointing at the document and handing him a new Nokia. Abdul knew that this was the information he needed to pass on over to the number he’d been given to whoever was waiting in Marseilles to receive the goods.

His job was done. He was dropped off and saw a row of payphones, from which he called a cab.

Back at his hotel, the receptionist had gone home, replaced by a man. He strode confidently to the lift and returned to his room to make the call.

Chapter 29

Grant made his way across the city on foot. He was heading to the Lyon address he’d retrieved from the phone inside the flat in Paris. His pal Winston had prompted in Madame Bisset a speedy response, and she’d given him a name, but it meant nothing to either him or Khalil. He committed it to memory, hoping it would come up and provide answers. Meanwhile, Madame Bisset was still held at the flat, watched by his old pal, whose real name was Derek.

Grant slipped through the streets unnoticed and anonymous. He didn’t know what to expect, only that he needed to be fully alert. Always expect the worst and hope for the best, he told himself. He wasn’t familiar with Lyon, but it didn’t matter, anonymity was an art performed anywhere if one knew the tricks. He remembered driving through the city with Helen a couple