tune shepherds might play totheir flocks. The scent in here was all spice—cloves and ginger—and a paddle fan lazily twirled the air around and around.
The floor was wooden and scarred. Though the jewelry gleamed, most of the glass was dull and finger marked. Remembering her role, Gillian toyed with necklaces of blue and red beads. She sighed, thinking how delighted little Caitlin would be with a few strands.
“Bonsoir.”
His transaction completed, the shopkeeper cupped one hand in the other. “It’s been a long time, old friend,” he continued in French. “I did not expect to see you in my shop again.”
“I could hardly come back to Casablanca without dropping in on an old and valued friend, al-Aziz.”
The shopkeeper inclined his head, already wondering if a profit could be made. “You have come on business?”
“A little business …” Then he indicated Gillian by turning his palm upward. “A little pleasure.”
“Your taste is excellent, as always.”
“She’s pretty,” Trace said carelessly. “And not smart enough to ask too many questions.”
“You would purchase her a bauble?”
“Perhaps. I also have a commodity to sell.”
Annoyed with being shut out of the conversation, Gillian moved to Trace. She twined an arm around his neck, hoping the pose was sexy enough. She tried for the clipped New York accent of her assistant at the institute. “I might as well have stayed back at the hotel if you’re going to speak in French all night.”
“A thousand pardons,
mademoiselle
,” al-Aziz said in precise English.
“No need to apologize,” Trace told him after giving Gillian’s cheek a light, intimate pat. The trace of Ireland was still there, but he doubted anyone who wasn’t listening for it would have noticed. “There now,
chérie,
pick yourself out something pretty.”
She wanted, quite badly, to spit in his eye, but she fluttered hers instead. “Oh, André, anything?”
“But of course, whatever you like.”
She’d make it good, Gillian decided as she bent over the display counter like a child in an ice cream parlor.Good and expensive.
“We can speak freely,
mon ami
,” Trace went on. He too rested against the counter, but he moved his hands quickly, competently, then folded them together on the glass top. “My companion understands no French. I assume you’re still … well connected.”
“I am a fortunate man.”
“You’ll remember a few years ago we made a deal that was mutually profitable. I’m here to propose another.”
“I am always happy to discuss business.”
“I have a similar shipment. Something that was liberated from our capitalist friends. I find the shipment, shall we say, too volatile to store for any length of time. My sources indicate that a certain organization has relocated in Morocco. This organization might be interested in the supplies I can offer—at the going market rate, of course.”
“Of course. You are aware that the organization you speak of is as volatile as the supplies you wish to sell?”
“It matters little to me, if the profit margin is agreeable. Are you interested in setting up the negotiations?”
“For the standard ten percent commission?”
“Naturally.”
“It’s possible I can help you. Two days. Where can I reach you?”
“I’ll reach you, al-Aziz.” He smiled and ran a fingertip along the side of his jaw. It was a trait peculiar to Cabot. “There is a rumor I find interesting. A certain scientist is, let us say, employed by this organization. If I had more information about him, the profit could very well increase, by perhaps twenty percent.”
Al-Aziz’s face was as bland as his voice. “Rumors are unreliable.”
“But simple enough to substantiate.” Trace drew out a money clip and extracted some bills. They disappeared like magic into the folds of al-Aziz’s cloak.
“Such things are rarely impossible.”
“Oh, darling, can I have these?” Gillian grabbed Trace’s arm and drew him
The floor was wooden and scarred. Though the jewelry gleamed, most of the glass was dull and finger marked. Remembering her role, Gillian toyed with necklaces of blue and red beads. She sighed, thinking how delighted little Caitlin would be with a few strands.
“Bonsoir.”
His transaction completed, the shopkeeper cupped one hand in the other. “It’s been a long time, old friend,” he continued in French. “I did not expect to see you in my shop again.”
“I could hardly come back to Casablanca without dropping in on an old and valued friend, al-Aziz.”
The shopkeeper inclined his head, already wondering if a profit could be made. “You have come on business?”
“A little business …” Then he indicated Gillian by turning his palm upward. “A little pleasure.”
“Your taste is excellent, as always.”
“She’s pretty,” Trace said carelessly. “And not smart enough to ask too many questions.”
“You would purchase her a bauble?”
“Perhaps. I also have a commodity to sell.”
Annoyed with being shut out of the conversation, Gillian moved to Trace. She twined an arm around his neck, hoping the pose was sexy enough. She tried for the clipped New York accent of her assistant at the institute. “I might as well have stayed back at the hotel if you’re going to speak in French all night.”
“A thousand pardons,
mademoiselle
,” al-Aziz said in precise English.
“No need to apologize,” Trace told him after giving Gillian’s cheek a light, intimate pat. The trace of Ireland was still there, but he doubted anyone who wasn’t listening for it would have noticed. “There now,
chérie,
pick yourself out something pretty.”
She wanted, quite badly, to spit in his eye, but she fluttered hers instead. “Oh, André, anything?”
“But of course, whatever you like.”
She’d make it good, Gillian decided as she bent over the display counter like a child in an ice cream parlor.Good and expensive.
“We can speak freely,
mon ami
,” Trace went on. He too rested against the counter, but he moved his hands quickly, competently, then folded them together on the glass top. “My companion understands no French. I assume you’re still … well connected.”
“I am a fortunate man.”
“You’ll remember a few years ago we made a deal that was mutually profitable. I’m here to propose another.”
“I am always happy to discuss business.”
“I have a similar shipment. Something that was liberated from our capitalist friends. I find the shipment, shall we say, too volatile to store for any length of time. My sources indicate that a certain organization has relocated in Morocco. This organization might be interested in the supplies I can offer—at the going market rate, of course.”
“Of course. You are aware that the organization you speak of is as volatile as the supplies you wish to sell?”
“It matters little to me, if the profit margin is agreeable. Are you interested in setting up the negotiations?”
“For the standard ten percent commission?”
“Naturally.”
“It’s possible I can help you. Two days. Where can I reach you?”
“I’ll reach you, al-Aziz.” He smiled and ran a fingertip along the side of his jaw. It was a trait peculiar to Cabot. “There is a rumor I find interesting. A certain scientist is, let us say, employed by this organization. If I had more information about him, the profit could very well increase, by perhaps twenty percent.”
Al-Aziz’s face was as bland as his voice. “Rumors are unreliable.”
“But simple enough to substantiate.” Trace drew out a money clip and extracted some bills. They disappeared like magic into the folds of al-Aziz’s cloak.
“Such things are rarely impossible.”
“Oh, darling, can I have these?” Gillian grabbed Trace’s arm and drew him
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