by C.R. Black
"So much to see and experience," Christopher muttered to no one in particular.
Passing by the Medersa Sahrij, he turned down El Adoua, a street he had not taken before. Intending to head back home, he stopped momentarily in front of a small, plain neighborhood mosque. He was able to look inside through the open doors just as the men in attendance were coming out from early evening prayers. Christopher was intent on observing the green zellij tiled interior when he noticed a tall man with a scowling face headed in his direction. Not wanting a confrontation, he quickly stepped in behind an older worshipper who was heading his direction. He held his breath. Being beyond his neighborhood comfort zone, though his knowledge of Arabic was sufficient to carry on conversations with friendly shopkeepers, it was another thing to get into an argument with an angry Islamic fundamentalist, one of the "bearded ones". He was able to avoid an ugly scene, though he did hear the tall man in the white djellaba telling him to "get out of the medina" before he fades into the distance.
Ahead of him, the old man slowly turned and said, "Please forgive him, he has no manners and isn't a real Muslim."
Christopher took the older mans hand and simply said, "Shokran bzzaf; Mashi moshkil," "thanks a lot, it's not a problem," before continuing on to his home.
Continuing towards home, he passed by one of the most photographed sights in all of Fez, the Chouara tanneries, which could be smelt long before they were reached. Established in the 1300s, their limestone pits were filled with a pungent mixture of pigeon droppings, pomegranate peels and the cow urine used to tan the leather. Young men stand thigh deep in those and other pits tanning or dying the famous leather with vegetable dyes using methods that have not changed in a thousand years. At least he didn't live nearby, where the unpleasant smell wafts in the gently blowing breeze adding another complex layer to the zest of the city.
Chapter 7 - Wednesday - 5:18 p.m.
"God pardons the ignorant." Berber proverb
Fettah Bou Chantouf walked out of the small mosque and directly into the tall westerner standing and staring into the interior. At first Bou Chantouf thought he might be a police agent before deciding he was just another tourist. Strange, he seemed to recognize the face and billed cap, but then no, just like so many others who all looked alike.
"Seer f'halek," "Go away," he shouted angrily at the staring foreigner, "get out of the medina."
He knew tourism was an important source of income for Morocco, with over 10 million visitors in the past year, but he also knows with European and American tourists comes Western culture. Eventually this culture would inundate his country and bury its identity just as it had done in so many other places in the world. This was the true danger of the West, and it couldn't be allowed to continue. The coming revolution would excoriate all those in its way.
Turning down a side street, Fettah took a back way to the safe house. He didn't think he had been noticed, but he wanted to make sure. This way he could enter from the building next door, crossing the roof tops. He would once again mentally go through the planned distraction and the act of shooting the dart at the King while making sure their escape route was decided. Tonight, the package would arrive with Hasan, and together they would go over every part of the plan to make certain that nothing was left to chance. There was now less than 48 hours until the beginning of the revolution.
Chapter 8 - Wednesday - 5:43 p.m.
"A wise woman has much to say, yet remains silent." Moroccan proverb
Salima looked up as the door to her office opened, smiling broadly as Chief Inspector Ayrad Afellay greeted her. She often thought of him as almost another uncle.
"Salama malakum, Salima. "Hello!" La bes?"
"La bes, Yes, I am fine," replied Salima, smiling.
"And the rest of your family, your father?"
"They are well also, thankfully. Have you heard lately from Idus?" Salima and Idus, Afellay's son, had attended high school and college together and had been friends, not unusual since both have Berber blood.
"Yes, Al-hamdu-lillah, he is fine and continuing with his architectural work in Casablanca." Afellay had once hoped that a romance might develop between the two, but that was not to be and they remained good friends and nothing more.
Deciding to follow her lead, he sat in the chair opposite the desk. Looking around he took in various accoutrements of a modern office; computer, fax machine, cordless phone, locking file cabinets, as well as other, more traditional touches. On the floor is a nice antique Zemmour Berber rug from the Middle Atlas. Hanging on the wall behind her chair is a very old purple silk kaftan in a glass frame. Other interesting pieces are artfully scattered around the room. He knows that all of these come from one of the families other businesses, an antiquities shop on the Tala'a Kebira. Exhaling smoke through his lips,
Afellay began; "Salima, I am coming to you because I know you and your family and I trust you because you are Idus' friend. A situation has developed and since your family has many ears in the medina, I was hoping you could be of help."
"Yes," Salima slowly replied. She knows that the Chief Inspector often works with the secret police, but that was all she knew and she is not too sure she wanted to know any more or have her family involved more deeply.
"I would like to know if anyone has heard of talk of disturbances, especially any involving the King when he visits here Friday for the festival. Maybe your family has picked up some tidbits on the street. I would go directly to your father, but since I am fairly well known in the medina I don't want to bring any undue attention on to him. Slipping into your office here is a bit different from stopping to chat on the Tala'a Kebira."
As he was saying this he noticed a slight catch, barely noticeable, in Salima's face.
Responding quickly, Salima said, "I have not heard of anything, no, but I will pass your request along to my family and see if they have heard of anything."
A heavy silence hung for two heartbeats. This was a very well known and respected family within the medina and he knows that he was treading on thin ice. After a few moments of small talk, mostly about Idus and his architectural work, Afellay rose, kissed Salima on both cheeks and wished her goodbye.
"Shukran, Salima. Thank you! I knew I could count on you. Please give my regards to your family. I will be in touch with you again soon."
"Beslama" replied Salima. "Goodbye!"
After Afellay left Salima sat quietly before going to the front door, locking it. She returned to her desk for a moment, collecting her thoughts before picking up her mobile phone and punching in a number.
"Akmed? It's Salima. I need to talk to you quickly my brother. Not over the phone, come by the office and we'll maybe go for a walk." Chief Inspector Afellay's visit has turned a completely different light on Friday's festival and the royal couple's visit to Fez.
Chapter 9 - Wednesday - 6:02 p.m.
"Boil the water and the scum will rise to the top." Berber proverb
Chief Inspector Afellay had sent his investigators to all the usual spots and all their usual sources. They flooded the barbershops and beauty parlors, which are scattered about the medina like dandelions across a summer lawn. The many tailoring shops sprouted in even greater numbers as well as neighborhood hanoot convenience stores; over 200 public bath houses; the list went on and on, and all had to be checked for the smallest scrap of information.
Afellay chuckled, thinking of the one honest statement in the famous 1942 movie Casablanca. Major Louis Renault says, "Round up the usual suspects," followed by "Realizing the importance of the case, my men are rounding up twice the usual number of suspects." They got that part true at least, thinks the Inspector, if nothing else.
So many American tourists came to Casablanca and expected Humphrey Bogart and Ingrid Bergman to walk around the corner. He hated to tell them that Casa was really just another big, not too picturesque industrial city filled with too many people trying to get by as best they could.
The usual suspects were ro
unded up. Known fundamentalist agitators, anti-monarchy radicals and general trouble makers were combed off the streets by the hundreds, but as yet there were no real leads into what organization or individual hoped to bring off the attack on the king.
This is not how Chief Inspector Ayrad Afellay of the Sûreté Nationale wanted to end his career and he vowed to do whatever was necessary to bring this case to a successful conclusion and wipe out a threat to the monarch and the Kingdom of Morocco.
Lighting another cigarette, he tossed the now empty pack of Marlboro's away and stepped around a meter deep hole and pile of ancient cobbles meant to repair yet another water or sewer line in the crumbling infrastructure. He continued slowly on through the Andalusian section. As he walked he mentally went over the few pieces of information that were available.
Knowledge had come from a known radical, who, under what was euphemistically called "enhanced" interrogation, revealed to secret police questioners that an attempt was going to be made on the monarch's life during his upcoming visit to Fez. Further questioning had made it known that the attack would be carried out by a locally based terrorist cell and would use a weapon only targeting the King.
That the terrorists were members of a small cell based in the Fez medina associated with the fundamentalist group as-Salfiya Magreb was no surprise. The country was plagued by so-called "lone-wolf" attacks made by small cells. The city also had a long history of birthing revolutionary movements. He knew that during the colonial period of his childhood, Fez was a center of anti-French rebellion. Given the right set of circumstances it could again be the center of rebellion.
Could the weapon referred to be one of the reported shoulder-fired missiles that disappeared from Libya following the downfall of Gaddafi? What about poison gas? A suicide bomber might get close enough before detonating his explosives, but then none of those methods would strike only the King. What if it was a woman? And how could they only target the King?
A long-range sniper rifle was a possibility, maybe someone who received training and experience in Iraq or Afghanistan. Have someone in the office check on any known returning mujahideen fighters and make sure the roof tops were covered. Little enough to go on with weeks to develop leads. Now, less than two days separated him from disaster unless something broke.
Pulling his mobile phone from a pocket, he called and requested that his car meet him at the Bab el Khoukha. While awaiting the cars arrival he noticed the familiar red "hand of Fatima" sign seen all over Morocco expressing in English, French and Arabic languages "Say No to Terrorism" and "Keep out of My Country." Ayrad Afellay knew that 99% of Moroccans believed in that sign, but it only takes one or two to change placidity to madness and terror. It was his job to see that this did not happen. As he waited he remembered hearing an old Jewish saying in his childhood; "Man plans and God laughs."
3
Chapter 10 - Wednesday - 6:32 p.m.
"Better to be watched by a wild animal than a nosy man." Moroccan proverb
Opening the door and admitting Akmed into her now closed office, Salima looked askance at her brother. She had already cancelled one appointment with a client in order to be able to devote full attention to what was now a potential problem.
"Akmed, there is a problem with Friday's plans" said Salima.
"What problem?" asked Akmed, concern showing on his face for the first time.
"Chief Inspector Afellay visited me earlier and asked if any of the family had heard about any disturbances planned for Friday's visit by the King. Do you think they know?"
"Lla!" says Akmed emphatically; No! "There is no way the police could know, only five of us are involved in the actual work. I'm sure that it is still a secret. It must be something else, maybe something religious since the festival revolves around the Sufi groups."
"Remember little brother, this is not just the gendarmerie that we are talking about; it is also the DST, and they do not play games."
"DST or gendarmerie, it is all the same and we have taken every precaution. The event will come off exactly as planned, at the royal reviewing stands with all of the TV cameras rolling. The movement will continue to press for a parliamentary monarchy, freedom, social justice and dignity."
These were the goals of the February 20 Movement, M20F for short, of which her younger brother, and herself to a lessor extent, were associated. Most young Moroccans had not involved themselves in politics until this movement was born, and it was now a driving force in Moroccan politics, proclaiming both the general rise of the youth movement and participation of young women in politics.
Pacing the floor Salima turned and said, "Do not bring any hint of disgrace down upon the family, you know it would kill our father besides harming our business interests. And be careful."
"Don't worry about me. My part is essentially over. I was a behind the scenes player, at least this time I was. Who knows about next time, if there is a next time?"
With that, Akmed kissed his sister on both cheeks and left the office with Salima noticing the look of unease in his eyes. Salima didn't dare go to any of the rest of the family to tell them about their involvement in the M20F to bring a true constitutional monarchy to Morocco with the King only as a figurehead.
Though she considered herself a modern Moroccan woman, believing that Moroccan men and women should walk hand in hand towards the future, she was still very much bound by age old rules of behavior and custom. This was especially true where the authority of her father was concerned. He was a peaceful man who believed that all was the will of Allah; that God would decide what should or should not take place and would work his miracles accordingly. Her father was against anyone or anything threatening to upset the status quo. A very tolerant and spiritual man, he still talked fondly about the good Jewish customers he had before most Moroccan Jews left in the 1950s and 60s. No, Salima would have to take a few hours to think this problem through. She hoped that Akmed was telling the truth when he said he was behind the scenes and their group was completely hidden from police view.
Deciding she would go for a walk to clear her mind and maybe do some shopping, Salima locked the door to her office and walked down the narrow street. She knew that most of the tailoring shops were turning out fancily embroidered silk kaftans for the coming festival. Maybe she could find one that struck her fancy.
Electing to walk up the Tala'a Saghira and shop along the way, Salima found nothing that she liked. Leaving the medina she took a red petit taxi to the nearby Fez el J'did district, barely a mile away. There she looked at various clothing and fabric stalls while walking down the covered market way, finally finding the right one.
The shop owner started with a price of 1000DH, about $125.00 in America. With bargaining skills learned from birth she was able to get the price down to 500DH, about $60.00. She knew she could probably get the price a bit lower, but if she stopped now the storeowner would probably also throw in a scarf that complimented the outfit. Price agreed upon, scarf included, she took her purchases out to find another taxi that would take her to the family home. She was tired and she had much to think about before tomorrow.
Chapter 11 - Thursday - 4:41 am
"The morning hour has gold in its mouth." Berber proverb
Christopher Harris, 36 year old divorced father of a growing son, writer, traveler, insatiable street food addict and landlord of the small Riad Mirabelle in the heart of Fez el Bali, greeted the early dawn as he often did; awakening to the local muezzins loud and off key singing of the Adhan, the call to morning prayer. In many cities and at many mosques it was truly a hauntingly beautiful song. When referring to most foreigners' captivation with the call to prayer, the Algerian poet Malek Alloula came up with a compelling interpretation. "In the blankness of cloth, the Westerner sees his own ability not to comprehend, and is titillated by the experience of being shut out."
"Allahu Akbar, God is Greatest.
Ash-had al-la ilaha illa llah, I bear witness that there is no God except the One
God.
Ash-hadu anna Muhammadan rasulullah, I bear witness that Muhammad is God's Messenger.
Hayya 'ala-salahh, Come to prayer. Hayya 'ala 'l-falah, Come to success.
As-salatu khayru min an-nawm, Salat(prayer) is better than sleep.
Allahu akbar, God is Greatest.
La ilaha illallah, There is no God except the One God.
Looking at the clock on his bedside table he saw that it was 4:45 in the morning. Christopher frowned momentarily. Yes, Adhan "could" be a thing of beauty he thought, except this muezzin started earlier than all the others in the city, often dropped or coughed loudly into the microphone during the call and his off-key cry to the faithful was certainly not a thing of beauty. Oh, if this muezzin would suddenly get a year long case of laryngitis thought Christopher.
Rolling out of bed, he stumbled over a stuffed camel left by Eian. Smiling while pulling on a t-shirt, he headed downstairs to make himself a cup of tea. Maybe he will get a chance to enjoy the garden before the four guests came down for breakfast. Walking through the courtyard, he sat overlooking the garden below, listening to the awakening city's distant sounds of motorized traffic competing with the chirping birds and distant crowing roosters. Breathing in the faint scent of jasmine on the breeze, he decided today he would get to work on that faulty door latch in the upstairs guest room. Well, he would if nothing better came along. Right now though he would just sit and greet the morning sun and maybe dash off a few lines of poetry.
Sometime later he welcomed Fatima as she came smiling in to start her day.
"Sbah I-khir, good morning."
"Bonjour" replied Fatima brightly. She thought that Monsieur Chris should not only practice his Arabic, but his French as well.
