The Gems of Tsingy De Bemaraha

by Roger Weston

  Paul lay down on the bed. He stirred and rolled and brooded. He kept hearing Ryan’s voice pleading with him to stop. For hours Paul tossed and turned. He felt as if he was sinking in quicksand. Finally, sleep swallowed Paul into a bottomless abyss. He felt the joy of an interminable freefall, complete, pure, without strain or toil, bringing a waterfall of spirit and airiness. There were no problems, no evil forces, and no predators slinking about in the dark. Joy and rush and vigor plunged him into a permanent state of merriment . . . until morning.

  CHAPTER 18

  The 5am call to prayer—”Allah Akbar”—echoed across the medina, joined by a chorus of muezzins from various mosques. Sun poured in through the open window and Kelly stood in front of it looking out at the bustling scene below. Half a dozen mules, all overburdened with red crates of Coca Cola flexing their swaybacks to the point of injury, were gathered in front of the hotel. These work-beasts swatted away flies with their mangy tails. Their human masters stood around chatting leisurely, ignoring the call of the faithful. To Kelly it looked like a hostile world, and she dreaded facing it, but there was nothing else she could do. She had to find Ryan.

  She remembered what Paul said about this being their only hope and she told herself that they had to at least try--something, anything. She had no idea what Paul hoped to do here, but she’d have to trust him. Her life depended on it.

  She closed her eyes and shook her head. How did a small town girl from Idaho end up in Fez, Morocco tracking terrorists? How could her love for a man lead her down such a terrible road? She sat down on the bed and drew a comb through her long, red hair.

  ***

  Paul’s back ached from sleeping on the stiff bed, but after doing his morning exercises and stretches, he felt better. He laced up his hiking boots and checked the internet to see if there was any new information on the prospector killings in Madagascar. He found nothing. In the newspaper that was slid under his hotel door, he read a story about an anti-American cleric murdered in Lebanon. It said that the cleric killed one of his attackers, who had been linked to American intelligence. Muslims all across the Middle East were outraged, and extremists were calling for Holy War.

  Escorting Kelly into the square, Paul scanned the busy scene: Some Moroccans wore traditional robes; others were dressed in western-style clothing. The majority of the women wore colorful hijabs to cover their hair. Two men kissed each other’s hands in greeting under an elaborately-decorated archway. The dome-shaped passageway marked the entrance to the medina.

  As Paul and Kelly approached the arch, a young and friendly looking man with sleepy eyes approached them.

  “My name is Youssef. I am your guide.”

  Paul narrowed his eyes. He glanced around the square, and then said, “I’m looking for someone.”

  Youssef gave him a questioning look.

  Paul showed him the photo that he had found on the man who had attacked him in Portugal. The photo of the white-bearded man in the white robe with albino eyes had been taken within a dozen feet of where they now stood. Paul recognized the spot from his previous visits chasing down scum in Fez.

  “Where I can find him?”

  The guide stared at the photo and as he did the sleepiness banished from his eyes. “I'll be right back,” the young man said. He hurried away into the medina, stopping to exchange a few words with another loafer. This other man glanced over at Paul strangely, and then hurried after Youssef into the medina.

  After a few minutes Kelly asked, “Is he coming back?”

  Paul shook his head and said. “Forget about him. We’ll look on our own.”

  They entered the medina. At first they walked down wide pedestrian streets lined with cheerful shops; but soon the roads narrowed to snaking pathways. A labyrinth of shops and stalls, here covered, there exposed, filled the marketplace. Passageways leading into blackness flanked the streets. The medina crackled with activity. Men and women went about their busy lives of craftsmanship and bartering, without paying much attention to Paul and Kelly. The medina covered the city and was such a twisting maze of narrow passageways and dead-ends that Kelly couldn’t understand how anyone could find their way out of it.

  Nevertheless, Paul led them deeper into the ancient marketplace approaching merchant after merchant, showing them the photo of the old man. Paul talked to potters, vendors of leather goods, carpet dealers. “No,” they said, “never seen him before.”

  Some of them Paul believed; others he left knowing they'd held something back.

  He showed the photo to a man selling live chickens and the man's eyes flashed with recognition.

  “I don't know who he is,” the man said as he eyed his poultry like another man might appraise his wives, before giving in to the interruption, “but I've seen him.” Then he waved a thin finger at the photo. “Many times.”

  Paul raised his eyebrows. “Many--” Paul hesitated. “Where?”

  “In the stall around the corner.”

  “Which one?”

  “You'll see the cow horns in front.”

  Paul quickly headed down the cobblestone path. When he turned the corner he saw hundreds of bull horns in a large mound in the front of the stall. Paul entered and noticed a salty odor right away. He pushed aside hanging leather bags and belts as he made his way to the merchant, a man with shrewd eyes and a curling mustache. When Paul showed him the picture, the man looked at him in a strange way and then nodded slowly.

  “Who is he?” Paul said.

  “A holy man, a cleric.”

  “Do you know where he is?”

  The merchant nodded, his eyes measuring Paul. But then his tension softened and he smiled. “If you want, I'll take you.”

  The man led Paul and Kelly through the maze of alleyways and endless stalls. He stopped at a rough, ancient-looking door and pounded his fist. They entered a high-walled courtyard with a water fountain surrounded by lion statues. The water shimmered in the sunlight.

  The veiled woman who opened the door now forced it shut behind Paul, who turned and realized the merchant had slipped out. Paul stared at the veil of the big woman as he heard the door being locked from the outside. Paul smiled at Kelly in an attempt to keep her calm. The last thing he needed right now was for her to panic.

  Paul returned his attention to the woman who turned her back to Paul and walked toward the open door at the far side of the courtyard, but she was now reaching into her robe.

  Paul hurried toward her. As she spun around, he grabbed her shooting arm and twisted her arm back down. She squealed in pain—but her voice was shockingly masculine. The gun fell to the ground.

  “Pick it up,” Paul urged Kelly.

  Kelly quickly retrieved the weapon.

  Paul twisted the woman's arm harder. “Who are you?”

  She spoke in Arabic, but her voice was . . .

  Paul tore back her veil. It was a man.

  Paul realized too late that he'd loosened his hold during the initial shock. The man spun and jerked his arm free. As he did so, he drew a stun gun from under his robe and lunged forward. The weapon cracked with electricity, and the probes emitted blue-white sparks. A mini volt of lightening burned between two electrodes.

  Paul grunted in horror as the raw volt of live electricity burning brightly between the conductors’ arms shot toward him. While he dodged a direct hit, the shocker glanced off his arm. Voltage flooded his right side with stunning force as he hammered his fist into the man's solar plexus. The stun gun hit the ground. As Paul collapsed to the ground, he felt his hair rising from the hot current. He wasn't out completely, but he was dazed and hurting as he rolled onto his back. For a moment the smell of burnt hair nauseated him.

  Kelly kneeled over him. “Paul! Are you alright? Are you okay?”

  He struggled to get up.

  “He's gone,” Kelly said. “He ran—”

  Suddenly, Paul heard the angry voices of men somewhere beyond the door and getting closer. He got to his feet, spotting the stun gun o
n the floor. He lunged for it.

  “Come on,” he said, hurrying toward the open door on the far side of the courtyard.

  ***

  Devin entered the ancient-looking structure that was Kelly's hotel. He took off his sunglasses and slipped them into the pocket of his brown suede jacket. An emaciated man with dark, wrinkled skin and sad eyes sat behind the counter reading the newspaper. When he saw Devin, he put down the paper and rose to his feet, cracker crumbs raining from his pants onto the desk.

  “I am looking for my friends,” Devin said. “The Americans, a man and a woman?”

  The man walked to the counter and wiped crumbs from his mouth. “They are not here. They have gone.”

  “What room are they in?”

  His sad eyes looked Devin over. “I cannot tell you that.”

  Devin reached into his pocket and pulled out a twenty-dollar bill, which he handed over.

  The runt of a man stared at the bill in his wrinkled hand for a moment.

  “I must get something out of their room,” Devin said. “They asked me to do this.”

  The man nodded, his sad eyes betraying a spark of decision. Without saying anything, he walked toward the stairs. The room was bleak and depressing, and Devin couldn’t understand why Kelly was staying here.

  “Leave me alone,” he said. “I'll be just a minute.”

  The man’s sad little eyes fell on Devin in a way that indicated he would protest. His chest rose, but then his gaze shifted away as his chest fell. He nodded and left.

  Devin’s shoulders slumped. The room was empty. Kelly hadn’t left any of her belongings in the room. Behind him he heard the door open and footsteps.

  “I told you to leave me alone,” Devin said as he turned around.

  Two men in black turbans stood in front of him, pistols trained at his head. “What’s going on?” he shrieked. “Who are you?”

  A broad-faced man with a crooked mouth said, “You come with us.”

  CHAPTER 19

  Paul stepped through the open doorway in the courtyard and peered down a long stone stairway that was illuminated by sunlight flooding in through the door. A putrid odor offended his nostrils.

  “The smell,” Kelly said, making a gagging sound. “Is this a sewer?”

  Paul grasped her hand, “We’re gonna find out.” He noticed several flashlights hanging on pegs that lined the stone wall. He shoved the stun gun in his pocket then grabbed one of the flashlights and gave Kelly another. He pulled the door shut behind him and latched it with a rustic board that swung down.

  “Give me the pistol,” he said. “Come on, hurry up.”

  She gave it to him along with an icy glare. They descended the stairs rapidly. Each step was uneven, worn by centuries of use.

  Kelly bumped into Paul at the landing as he flashed his light down two never-ending passageways that went in opposite directions into the darkness.

  “I’m not going down there,” Kelly said as she grabbed Paul’s arm. “The smell—”

  Paul dragged her along despite her reluctance. They turned a corner and headed down another stinking passageway. Out of the darkness, Paul heard someone yell, “Down here.”

  Kelly startled and bumped into Paul grabbing his bicep. “It’s them.”

  “Quiet!” Paul said.

  He pulled Kelly forward, and together they chased their bouncing flashlight beams. Their footsteps resonated and echoed in the dark chamber.

  “I can’t take the smell,” Kelly said, coughing quietly into her hijab. Paul led her around a corner and down another passageway. This one followed a primitive underground aqueduct which overflowed with sewage. Paul's boots splashed in shallow brown puddles.

  “Let’s turn around,” Kelly said. “We don’t even know who these guys are.”

  “They wouldn't be after us if we weren't on a hot trail.”

  “They're just fanatics who would kill any American they came across.”

  “Why haven't they then?”

  “I don’t know,” she said as she held the hijab over her nose, “but we’re walking in a cesspool. Can we please just get out of here? I need some air.”

  “This is how we’re going to find Ryan.”

  “We aren't going to find him down here.”

  Paul slowed down and motioned for her to be quiet. He saw an orange-red color radiating from the corner up ahead. He turned to Kelly. “Stay back. If I come at you, run back the way we came.”

  “Let’s both turn around.” Kelly whispered. “Please don't go closer.”

  Paul kept moving. Kelly followed slowly behind him, reaching out for his arm as she did, but never quite touching it.

  Paul held the pistol in his calloused hand. Darkness retreated as he moved toward the ruddy glow that bled onto the oozing cesspool.

  He edged closer, pistol leading the way. As he came to the corner he considered how he was going to go around it. He didn't have much room to play with as the sewer aqueduct ran along the far wall. He got down on his knees and peeked around it.

  A dead end.

  He got up and nodded to Kelly.

  As she stepped into the glowing nook, a shiver ran through her. “This is disgusting,” she said, stopping next to Paul.

  Paul examined the depression intently. It was lined floor to ceiling with tile. A mural had been handcrafted in excruciating detail on the wall. The mural told the story of Muslims beheading Christians; Christians whose bleeding fingers clung to the cross. The work appeared to be thousands of years old, but what disturbed Paul the most was the huge pile of candle wax that had accumulated beneath five bulky red candles. The candles raged under crimson glass shades. It appeared Islamic pilgrims visited this shrine regularly. What kind of person would worship such violent scenes of death in a sewer?

  “Looks like these folks have some pent-up hostility.”

  Kelly turned her head and gagged.

  Voices echoed from the dank corridors. They were coming closer. Paul looked at the grisly mural one last time, said a quick prayer, then turned away.

  At that moment a man leapt from the darkness into the red glow in front of the alcove. Fury boiled in his eyes as he charged Paul, slamming into him. Paul’s gun hit the ground and spun into the darkness of the passageway.

  Paul's back hit the mural, and the now unveiled psychopath began to strangle him with incredible strength. Paul tried to snap his elbows by bashing them out of joint, but the man quickly bent them to counter the blows.

  Pain burned in Paul's neck and lungs. Desperation filled him. Confusion swam through his brain as he saw Kelly struggling to get up off the ground. He didn't remember her getting hit, but things happened quick in the dim tunnel.

  His face grimaced in agony as his fists tried to punish the man, but his blows were ineffective. The grip on his neck tightened to crushing force.

  As his life started to flash before him, a new surge of adrenaline struck him. He propelled the steel toe of his hiking boot into the shin of the lunatic.

  The man yelled in pain.

  Paul drew the stun gun from his pocket and squeezed the trigger.

  A bolt of white hot electricity leapt between the conductors and he rammed the hot bolt into the man's chest.

  Convulsions jumped through the man's torso as he stumbled and fell backwards into the sewer.

  Paul helped Kelly up. “Hurry,” he rasped, “they're coming.”

  Suddenly a flash down the tunnel joined an earsplitting boom. A slug ricocheted off the stone wall, rock chips humming through the air.

  Paul pushed Kelly back into the nook then retrieved his gun. “Come on,” he said.

  They ran down a side tunnel. At a corner, Paul stopped, raised his gun, and glanced back the way they had come.

  Although partially blinded by darkness and by the bouncing glare of several approaching flashlights, Paul squeezed off two shots toward the light. A man screamed and a flashlight hit the floor. Paul grabbed Kelly by the arm, and they ran as a thunder of return
fire erupted.

  They turned another corner, and Paul turned off his light and took position to defend their tail.

  Paul spotted a light approaching the last turn, but then it went dark. He couldn't tell if they were rounding the corner or just waiting. Suddenly, he noticed light coming in from the next passageway.

  He whispered in Kelly’s ear. “When I start shooting, run for that corridor.”

  “What if they shoot back? I'll be in the open.”

  “You wanna die here or get out of here?”

  “Okay, okay.”

  “Go,” Paul urged. “Now!”

  Kelly ran. He followed her, his gun barrel blazing in the dark as he squeezed off three shots.

  They ran down the corridor toward the light.

  As Kelly ran into the brightness, Paul followed her. The passageway dead-ended, at a stairway that was topped by a high-velocity beam that led to a door.

  “Go,” Paul said, and Kelly ran ahead of him up the stairs, turning her eyes to avoid being blinded by the light. At the top, she tried to open the door, but it was locked. She started pounding on the solid, rough-hewn panel.

  “Move,” Paul said. He lifted his hiking boot and hammered the doorknob with crushing force, but the lock held. Two more blows made the handle rattle. He slammed his shoulder into the door, and brighter light flooded them as the door gave way.

  Paul stumbled into the room. The opulence he now beheld shocked him, but he didn't slow down. Kelly stayed right behind him as he navigated through the luxury residence. He noticed a level of wealth he never would have expected to find in a home that had a back door that led into a sewer.