A Foreign Country

20

The name at the top of the bill was A.M. Farrell. The room number was 1208.

Kell went back to his room and immediately called Marquand in London.

‘I’ve found your missing girl.’

‘Tom! I knew you would do it. What’s the story?’

‘She’s staying at my hotel. The Valencia Carthage. Malot is across the road.’

‘So they’re shagging and staying apart so that nobody can trace them?’

Kell steered around the theory. He had learned to deal solely in facts. ‘She’s using a legend we haven’t seen before. Farrell. Initials A.M. Can you run a credit-card check? Should be plenty of activity through Paris, Nice, Tunis.’

‘Sure. Did you speak to her, Tom?’

‘Now why would I want to do something like that?’

‘Well, thank God she’s all right.’ There was a delay on the line, as though Marquand was trying to think of the appropriate thing to say. ‘Fucking Frogs,’ he offered eventually, ‘always stealing our best women.’ Truscott and Haynes would surely be told that Amelia was in Tunisia on little more than an extended dirty weekend. ‘Can’t Malot get his end away at home? Aren’t there supposed to be thousands of beautiful girls in Paris?’

‘You tell me,’ Kell replied.

‘What’s the story?’ Marquand asked. ‘Is Malot married as well? We can’t seem to find anything about him on the wires.’

‘Hard to tell. I’ve only seen them from a distance, sunbathing by the pool …’

‘Sunbathing by the pool!’ Marquand sounded combustible with excitement. ‘Imagine that.’

‘He’s what you might call a poser,’ Kell said, trying to keep the conversation on an even keel. ‘Wafts around the place like Montgomery Clift. Not exactly the grieving son.’

‘Perhaps he’s feeling cock of the walk about Amelia. What do they call the older woman nowadays? Cougars?’

Marquand had made himself laugh. It was the relief of a crisis averted.

‘That’s right, Jimmy,’ Kell said. ‘Cougars. Look, I have things I need to do. I’ll take a closer look at Malot. There’s always the possibility he’s DGSE. Amelia might be running a joint op in Tunis.’

‘And screwing a colleague on the side.’

Kell shook his head in disbelief. ‘Have a drink, Jimmy,’ he said. ‘You deserve it.’

He hung up, put the phone back on the desk and retrieved his camera from the bed. Looping it over his shoulder, he went outside into the corridor. In the street between the two hotels he found Sami at the wheel of his cab, lazily turning the pages of a newspaper. He tapped on the window.

‘Got something to show you.’ Kell climbed into the passenger seat and handed Sami the camera, showing him how to click through the photographs of Amelia and Malot. A day’s BO hummed around the cab. ‘These are the people I’m interested in,’ he said. ‘The woman is staying at the Valencia. The man is a guest at the Ramada. Do you recognize them?’

Sami shook his head. Two other drivers, standing beneath the bougainvillea, were staring into the car with an almost insulted impatience, like girls at a party who have not been asked to dance.

‘Maybe they’ll go out for dinner tonight,’ Kell said. ‘They left the pool twenty minutes ago. If you see them, be sure to call me. If my phone doesn’t answer, go through the hotel switchboard. I’m in room 1313. Follow them if they get into one of the other taxis. If you pick them up yourself, don’t risk speaking to me in their presence. The woman speaks English, French and Arabic, all of them fluently. Send a text message with your destination.’

‘Of course.’

Kell indicated the other drivers with his eyes. ‘And if those two start asking questions about me, tell them I’m just a jealous husband.’