had soaked right through the paper towels he’d packed around the wound in the restroom at the Marseille airport when he changed clothes.
Marwan hung his jacket over the hook on the door, washed his hands with soap and warm water, and then carefully dabbed water on the paper towels on his shoulder until he could peel them off. It was a painful process and took longer than he had expected, and soon a flight attendant was knocking on the door.
“Sir,” she said, “is everything okay in there?”
“Yes, thank you,” Marwan replied.
“Are you sure?” she pressed.
“Yes, I’m fine. I’ll be out in a moment.”
“Please, sir, we will be landing soon. You need to return to your seat and fasten your seat belt.”
“Yes, yes,” he said. “I will be right there.”
The last thing Marwan wanted to do was cause a scene or attract attention to himself. As horrible as he felt, he hurried to wash the wound—wincing as he did—and redress it with new, moist paper towels. He splashed some water on his face, dried himself off, along with the sink and small counter, and stuffed all of his used paper towels into the trash. Marwan put his jacket back on, checked himself again to make sure there were no signs of blood on him, and then stepped out of the lavatory.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” the flight attendant asked as he reemerged.
“A bit of airsickness, I’m afraid,” he said, hoping that would seem normal enough for her to leave him alone.
“You really don’t look too good,” she said. “Would you like me to have a doctor waiting for you on the ground when we arrive?”
“That won’t be necessary,” he said as he began to perspire again. “My girlfriend will take care of me when I get there. But that’s very kind. Thank you.”
She let him go for now. But as Marwan returned to his seat and closed his eyes on the approach into Casablanca, his fears began to rise again. Yes, he was out of Marseille, out of Europe. But he was drawing far too much attention to himself. This woman would remember his face, his eyes, his demeanor. How soon until she was questioned?
He had the Monaco police hunting him, and very possibly the French and Italian police by now as well, not to mention Claudette Ramsey and her thugs. How close were they to catching him? He had left too many clues in the airport, he knew. Once those were found, they would know he had headed for Morocco. He’d be lucky to live another two days.
The plane finally landed. After making it through passport control without incident, Marwan rented a car and made his way into Casablanca. A cold November rain was coming down hard, and he could not get the heat or windshield wipers to work properly, making it difficult to read street signs in a city he had been to only a handful of times.
To make matters worse, his fever was rising. He felt weak and disoriented. Twice he realized he was about to fall asleep at the wheel and had to swerve to keep from hitting oncoming traffic. He knew what was happening to him, and there was nothing he could do but press on. He had lost too much blood. His wound was becoming infected. He hadn’t slept. He hadn’t eaten. And his body was in danger of slipping into shock.
It was almost midnight when he reached the address he had scratched out on a small slip of paper he kept in his wallet. The two-story, whitewashed villa was surrounded by a stone wall with two openings, one for cars and one for people—both protected by heavy iron bars.
As he pulled himself out of his rental car, Marwan began questioning his decision to not let Kadeen know he was coming. Would his friend even come out and open the gate at this time of night?
But there was nothing to do about it now. What was done was done. All that mattered was getting through that gate.
Without bothering to close the car door, he stumbled around the rear of the vehicle but lost his balance and fell to the ground at the base of the wall. Delirious with pain, he
Marwan hung his jacket over the hook on the door, washed his hands with soap and warm water, and then carefully dabbed water on the paper towels on his shoulder until he could peel them off. It was a painful process and took longer than he had expected, and soon a flight attendant was knocking on the door.
“Sir,” she said, “is everything okay in there?”
“Yes, thank you,” Marwan replied.
“Are you sure?” she pressed.
“Yes, I’m fine. I’ll be out in a moment.”
“Please, sir, we will be landing soon. You need to return to your seat and fasten your seat belt.”
“Yes, yes,” he said. “I will be right there.”
The last thing Marwan wanted to do was cause a scene or attract attention to himself. As horrible as he felt, he hurried to wash the wound—wincing as he did—and redress it with new, moist paper towels. He splashed some water on his face, dried himself off, along with the sink and small counter, and stuffed all of his used paper towels into the trash. Marwan put his jacket back on, checked himself again to make sure there were no signs of blood on him, and then stepped out of the lavatory.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” the flight attendant asked as he reemerged.
“A bit of airsickness, I’m afraid,” he said, hoping that would seem normal enough for her to leave him alone.
“You really don’t look too good,” she said. “Would you like me to have a doctor waiting for you on the ground when we arrive?”
“That won’t be necessary,” he said as he began to perspire again. “My girlfriend will take care of me when I get there. But that’s very kind. Thank you.”
She let him go for now. But as Marwan returned to his seat and closed his eyes on the approach into Casablanca, his fears began to rise again. Yes, he was out of Marseille, out of Europe. But he was drawing far too much attention to himself. This woman would remember his face, his eyes, his demeanor. How soon until she was questioned?
He had the Monaco police hunting him, and very possibly the French and Italian police by now as well, not to mention Claudette Ramsey and her thugs. How close were they to catching him? He had left too many clues in the airport, he knew. Once those were found, they would know he had headed for Morocco. He’d be lucky to live another two days.
The plane finally landed. After making it through passport control without incident, Marwan rented a car and made his way into Casablanca. A cold November rain was coming down hard, and he could not get the heat or windshield wipers to work properly, making it difficult to read street signs in a city he had been to only a handful of times.
To make matters worse, his fever was rising. He felt weak and disoriented. Twice he realized he was about to fall asleep at the wheel and had to swerve to keep from hitting oncoming traffic. He knew what was happening to him, and there was nothing he could do but press on. He had lost too much blood. His wound was becoming infected. He hadn’t slept. He hadn’t eaten. And his body was in danger of slipping into shock.
It was almost midnight when he reached the address he had scratched out on a small slip of paper he kept in his wallet. The two-story, whitewashed villa was surrounded by a stone wall with two openings, one for cars and one for people—both protected by heavy iron bars.
As he pulled himself out of his rental car, Marwan began questioning his decision to not let Kadeen know he was coming. Would his friend even come out and open the gate at this time of night?
But there was nothing to do about it now. What was done was done. All that mattered was getting through that gate.
Without bothering to close the car door, he stumbled around the rear of the vehicle but lost his balance and fell to the ground at the base of the wall. Delirious with pain, he
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