by Roger Weston
Three unveiled women screamed and ran for cover.
Paul took a wrong turn into an enormous, lustrous bathroom that was nicer than the one in the last five-star hotel he’d stayed in. Running through the house, he found an over-sized door, but it was a closet.
The shrieks of the women filled the house. Their tormented wails sounding like a herd of wounded camels.
Kelly opened a door that led to a courtyard. The heat of the blazing sun scorched her instantly.
It burned overhead as they ran through the square. They bolted down a crowded alley lined with merchant stalls, dodging people constantly.
“Slow down,” Paul said, grasping her shoulder. “Running draws attention.”
They started to walk, but everybody was already staring. “Tour bus,” Paul said. “We'll miss our bus.”
Two armed men turned a corner up ahead.
Paul pushed Kelly down a side lane and they started to run again, Paul knocking a young man out of the way as they did.
At first, the smell only registered on a subconscious level, but then the odor hit Paul hard and became overwhelming. Even worse than the sewer, it was a stench as strong and foul as death. Paul turned and came out in an enormous open space that was surrounded by decrepit, multi-story apartment buildings. Thousands of cow-hides plastered the parapets of the buildings that surrounded the open area. Men and boys balanced precariously on stucco edges that separated massive stone vats. The vats swallowed up the floor of this leather-dying haven—a bizarre sight that covered nearly a city block. The vats resembled honeycombs in a bees nest, except the combs in this nest were six-feet across and full of thick, bubbling broth. The ammonia-strength smell of death came from the countless animal skins drying on the walls and the dye mixed with cow urine and human sweat that boiled in the vats.
Paul spotted a way out and headed toward it. A black-bearded terrorist swung a gun around a corner and yelled, “Stop or die!” The leather workers scattered into a few of the dark doorways in the old buildings that surrounded the square.
Paul lifted the pistol and squeezed the trigger—click.
No bullets.
And he heard somebody coming up behind them!
He threw the pistol into one of the gurgling vats of dye. Leading Kelly, he balanced on a stucco edge that lined one of the vat beds. Another armed man stepped out from a doorway.
“Stop or die,” he said.
Paul kept walking toward the flat ground on the far side of the honeycomb like pits.
“Now.” The man spit in a vat.
Paul looked back. Two black-bearded men in turbans shadowed them from the side, guns raised.
“There’s no escape,” the pursuer warned.
Kelly reached out for Paul's arm, but kept moving on the balance beam of a walkway.
“Eric Smith—”
A wave of panic ran through him at hearing his alias spoken by these—
“This is your last warning.”
Paul sensed the man meant what he said, even though his continued health demonstrated that these men weren't anxious to kill him--at least not here. Or maybe they wanted to get close enough to finish him off with a single shot. Would they kill him and take Kelly? Reaching flat ground his boots splashed in a puddle of the thick, stinking slime that overflowed from the vats. He looked around. A few fires and this place might resemble hell. He didn’t want to die here.
Goose-bumps rose all over his body as he waited for the bullet to strike.
Flak. Flak. Flak.
Three silenced shots were fired. Paul's knees buckled even though no bullet hit him. He heard a groan behind him and the sound of guns clattering on the ground.
Paul looked back.
All three terrorists were laid out on the ground. One of the bodies quivered. Paul jerked his head back toward where he thought the sound had come from. Nothing. He twisted around. Nobody there. Again he looked back. The men were still down. He turned and started towards the bodies, then realized more thugs might show up.
Tugging Kelly's resistant hand, he said, “This way, hurry.”
“Were going to die,” Kelly cried.
Paul didn't answer.
“Those men, they're dead. Aren't they?”
“Walk faster.”
Paul continued scanning the numerous shadowed doorways and window openings that surrounded the tannery. No movement.
Reaching a stairway, he climbed two steps at a time. On the landing, he turned and took a last glance over the fetid honeycombs of bubbling slime and the three corpses that lay amidst them. He saw no sniper. He remembered the shooter who’d saved them in Tetouan. What was going on? Didn’t matter, he still had the sense that they could be dropped at any moment.
As Kelly reached the top of the stairs, Paul took her hand and led her down a passageway that led back into the bustling medina.
***
Otto held his pistol in front of his face as he looked out of the exit of the underground passage into the tannery. The powerful smell made him gasp. He froze as he realized that three of his men lay dead. He covered his nose with the material of his checkered head-cloth. He didn't move as a swarthy man dressed in western jeans and carrying a briefcase hurried out to the body of one of his men and rifled through the man’s pockets, grabbing his wallet. Otto’s heart pounded. He felt weak and his finger shook against the trigger of his pistol. The man hurried over to the other bodies and did the same. Otto let the head-cloth material fall away from his nose and walked out into the daylight with his gun raised. “I'll take those.” His voice cracked.
The man froze and turned.
“Who are you?” Otto said as he walked along the raised paths between the pools of dye.
“I’m a Mexican tourist,” the man said. “I found these poor men and . . .” He shrugged.
“Give me the wallets.” With his free hand, Otto wiped the sweat from his forehead.
The man held them out. Otto grabbed them from his hand and pocketed them. The Mexican man violently swung his briefcase, but Otto saw the blow coming. He ducked and fired two shots into his chest. The man collapsed. Otto knelt over the bleeding killer. “I’ll get you a doctor if you’ll tell me who you are and why you protected the Americans.”
“My name is Juan Candelario. They—” Juan grit his teeth, “have $20 million of mine. I came to reclaim it. The man and the woman and an American named Devin Qu—” he groaned in pain.
As Juan lost consciousness, Otto rolled him into a bubbling vat of dye and then fled the scene.
CHAPTER 20
Paul turned the corner and now he and Kelly found themselves walking down an alley lined with booths and shops. A wave of warm, fresh air hit Paul, and he suddenly realized he was free of the deathly stench of the sewers and the tannery.
The locals passed by them without paying much attention, most didn’t even look in their direction. As they walked casually, the smell of food encircled them, but Paul wasn't tempted and doubted he’d' have an appetite for a while. They were still within earshot of the tannery when they heard the shots. The medina felt eerily quiet after that. A few vendors closed up shop.
Paul looked over at Kelly. She was strangely calm, casually looking at the foreign goods as they passed by.
“Leather bags,” a robust merchant hollered.
Paul shook his head. “La shukran. No, thank you.”
“Good price, good low price,” the man said, rolling up his sleeves and puffing a cigarette with gusto.
“No, thank you.” Kelly waved as they kept walking. She looked at Paul. “Where are we going?”
“Away from the tannery.”
“You don't know where we are, do you?”
“Sure, I do.” Paul said as he nodded at a muscular young man who stared at them as he passed by.
“You looking for Paja?” the young man said. He was a lean kid with ripped muscles, fifteen to sixteen years old.
Paul smiled. “No, but could you tell me which way to the medina entr
ance?”
The young man looked determined. “I am Marwan. I can take you to him.”
“No.” Paul pulled some cash from his pocket and offered it to him. “Take us to the entrance.”
“Yes, we'll pay you,” Kelly said, giving Marwan an encouraging smile.
“No.” Marwan shook his head. “The old man with the white beard—Paja. You were asking for Paja.”
Goosebumps raised on Paul's back. He quickly looked around for trouble, but only saw people returning to their shopping and vendors to their peddling. His gaze drifted back to the young man. “Do you know him?” Paul said. He felt Kelly squeeze his arm.
Marwan grinned proudly. “He is my grandfather.”
“Take us to him.”
Kelly's grip tightened on Paul’s bicep. “What are you doing? You’re not going to trust him, are you?”
Paul looked at her and smiled.
She glanced around nervously, and then focused on Paul.
He felt the intensity of her stare. It was stronger than the Saharan sun, but he managed to ignore her. “Can we go see him now?”
“Why are you looking for him?” Marwan said.
“It's about a friend of his,” Paul said, expecting to see black-clad police men infiltrating the alley at any moment.
Marwan nodded. “Okay. Come. He’s expecting you.”
“No,” Kelly said grabbing Paul’s arm.
“We came here for this,” he said, putting his hand on hers. “It won't take long.” He turned to Marwan, “How far?”
“Paja lives nearby, here in the medina.”
Paul turned to Kelly. “You see, this won't take long at all.” He lightly squeezed her hand. “Come on. Everything’s okay. This is how we’re going to find Ryan.”
Her posture relaxed slightly and she let go of Paul’s hand and adjusted her hijab.
Paul breathed a sigh of relief. He didn’t tell Kelly, but he had seen a picture of Paja before in a top-secret briefing about Abu Bakr. That was when he had first learned about the million-dollar bounty on Abu Bakr’s head.
“This way,” Marwan said, starting down the path.
In the shadow of a junk booth, Paul noticed a tough-looking guy staring at them.
Paul patted Marwan on the shoulder. “Let's walk a little faster.”
Kelly glared at Paul and pulled her hijab tighter.
Marwan led them through the maze of alleyways filled with colorful goods and people. Paul kept an eye out for landmarks, but everything looked the same. Stall after stall of merchants all overflowed with goods made of leather, brass, pottery and cloth. Clothing and bright leather shoes on racks climbed their way up the walls. Wood slats two stories above topped the market, casting eerie rays of light on the hazy street below. Occasionally, the door of a private residence broke up the mind-numbing repetitiveness of the market. Marwan stopped at one of them that emerged from a sandy stucco wall. It was an arched wooden door that had been painted vivid blue. He produced a key, and they entered a small dark room.
“Paja,” Marwan called out as he fumbled with the window shade. Daylight flooded in through the glass illuminating the horror.
“No!” Kelly gasped.
“Paja,” Marwan said as he dropped to his knees.
Paul turned Kelly away.
“Oh, Paja,” Marwan cried. He laid his cheek on the old man's chest. “No, please, no.”
The old man's throat had been slit from ear to ear. His white robe was bloodstained and his white beard was covered in crimson.
Kelly started for the door.
Paul stopped her. “Just a minute,” he said.
“No!” she screamed. “I'm getting out of here.”
“You can't walk out there by yourself. They will be looking for us. Wait.”
Marwan was still hugging his grandfather around the chest. “Murderers,” he said.
Paul looked at him. “Who?”
“I'll kill them.” Marwan glared at him.
“Marwan, listen to me. Do you know—”
“Abu Bakr.” Marwan's eyes turned venomous.
“He did this?”
“I will kill him,” Marwan said. “In the name of Allah I will spill his blood and avenge Paja.”
Paul looked at Kelly. Her posture was rigid and her face was frozen with fear.
“How do you know that Abu Bakr did this?”
Calmness settled over Marwan. His eyes were wet and puffy. He ran his fingers through the old man's long white hair. “Paja was a cleric, a favorite spiritual leader of Abu Bakr and his soldiers. But three weeks ago Abu Bakr accused Paja of being an Israeli spy. Twice he had Paja interrogated. They tortured him. Then he let Paja go. Paja went to Tangiers. He was looking for a place for us to hide.” He looked back at the old man and shook his head.
“Where can I find Abu Bakr?” Paul said
The boy didn’t respond.
“Marwan, you've got to talk to me so I can help you.”
Marwan looked back at Paul, face drooping, eyes glazed. “You will help me avenge Paja?”
“Where can I find Abu Bakr?”
“I will go with you.” Marwan clenched his fists, muscles bulging in his forearms. He stood up and glared at Paul with eyes full of hate. His fists clenched, and the ripped muscles of his farms flexed.
Paul nodded his head and spoke slowly. “We've got to go now. His men are already searching for us. We were hoping that your grandfather could help us.”
Marwan straightened his posture. He said good-bye to Paja, then turned to the door.
Paul didn’t move. “Where is Abu Bakr?”
“He's not in Morocco anymore.”
“How do you know?”
“I know a way out of the medina. We won't be seen.” Marwan kneeled and kissed Paja one more time, then with his forehead touching the floor, said a prayer to Allah. Finally he got up and started out the door.
Paul stopped him. “Where is he?”
“In Mali.”
“How do you know this?”
“Paja told me. Paja took me there before.”
“Why Mali?”
“He has a camp there near Timbuktu. Paja said he is looking for lost papers.”
Paul narrowed his eyes. “What does Abu Bakr look like?”
Marwan looked at Paul as if he couldn’t believe that someone would ask such a stupid question. “Everyone knows what he looks like. He was nearly killed by a prospector in Madagascar last year. Now he has a cleft in his forehead.”
Paul noticed Kelly was suddenly paying closer attention. He thought back to the house in Tetouan and the man with the gaping scar on his forehead who’d nearly killed him. He felt anger at himself that he’d been so close to Abu Bakr and let him slip away.
Marwan opened the door a crack, looked outside, and then shut it. Paja told me that one night Abu Bakr and one of his men were trying to rob sapphires from a prospector, but the man came out of his tent like a demon and cracked Abu Bakr's skull with a hatchet. Abu Bakr survived, but he had such pain that he had to have a medical device—a pump—surgically implanted in his abdomen. Now he cannot feel pain.”
Paul remembered Abu Bakr's reaction when his hand was immersed in the boiling soup. “What about the prospector? Do you know who he was?”
“Lebarge.”
Paul was silent for a moment. He looked over at Kelly whose face was overcome with shock.
“Ryan Lebarge?” Paul said.
“Yes, I think so.”
Paul’s jaw hung slack. He had never heard a word about this. And from the look on Kelly's face, it was clear that Ryan hadn't told her, either.
Paul looked back at Marwan. “Is Ryan Lebarge alive?”
“I don't know. He got away after he--” Marwan looked back at Paja. His face crumpled and he wiped away tears. He started to go back to the old man, but Paul motioned to the door.
“We've got to go now, Marwan. We’ve got to get out of the medina.”
Marwan nodded and squared his sho
ulders. “Follow me.” He led them out the door.
As they hurried down the alley, Paul wondered if Ryan's cracking Abu Bakr's skull with an ax a year ago was related to the murders of the foreign prospectors in Madagascar. They had been picked off one by one all year long. Maybe . . . but he wondered if more than revenge was going on here.
The biggest question Paul had right now was could Marwan get them out of the medina alive?
CHAPTER 21
Marwan led them down an endless maze of cobblestone walkways packed between the high walls of surrounding dwellings. They came to an open lot where several donkeys and carts were assembled. Paul dodged manure as Marwan ushered them to a small wood lean-to. Marwan spoke Arabic to a small boy who looked at Marwan with innocent curiosity. The kid hitched up a cart full of hay to a donkey. Paul, Kelly and Marwan climbed in, and the boy covered them with more hay. Then he tugged on the rope and led the donkey down the lane.
The bumping wagon rattled Paul’s joints as the wheels clamored over the cobblestone. After ten minutes, the cart stopped. Paul heard a man’s voice question the kid.
The ride resumed for a minute, then stopped. The boy spoke quietly to Marwan. Marwan told Paul and Kelly, “Be quiet. Abu Bakr's men are searching the medina.”
The cart jack hammered down a staircase, shaking Paul to the bones. A dog barked ferociously. The donkey began squealing in protest, then the spooked animal lurched and Paul rolled as the cart crashed to a halt. Kelly rolled tightly against him.
The kid spoke in fever-pitch Arabic.
Marwan told Paul, “The wheel has come off the cart. It will take hours to fix.”
“How close are we to the medina entrance?” Paul said.
“Not far,” Marwan said, “but we must wait in the cart.”
“We're leaving right now.”
“The risk is too great,” Marwan said.
Kelly looked at Paul. “I'm not waiting in this cart.”
Suddenly a man yelled out and the boy answered.
“Quiet,” Marwan whispered.
Paul heard the sounds of several men's feet clapping the ground as they approached the disabled cart. Only one man spoke and Paul didn't like the sound of his voice. The cart shook and suddenly Paul felt the jab of a hard object, which he took to be a gun. As he grunted in pain, he seized the object and jumped up.
