Her mother had drilled many lessons into her during the year that they had spent together in Morocco, and this exhortation – that she must observe the surroundings before approaching a building containing material that could be compromising – was one that she particularly remembered. She watched the comings and goings – the taxis bearing tourists to the out-of-town shopping mall just off the Route de Safi, the trucks and vans of the local traders – until she was confident that she – and the street – were not observed. She gunned the engine of the KLX, crossed the road, put down the kickstand and slid off the bike. She stood outside the door to the unit and waited again, listening. She could hear the screech of a buzz saw from one of the other units, but nothing nearer that gave her cause for concern. She took the key from the string she wore around her neck, slid it into the lock and turned it, then heaved the door halfway up. She took the key for the lockers, pushed it into the lock of the nearest cabinet and opened the door.
