by Brad Taylor
Kurt said, “Don’t worry about that. Just get Pike out. Nobody’s asking you to betray your men.”
Alexander Palmer said, “How soon can you get Carly there?”
“She’ll be there in about two hours. I put her on a flight as soon as I heard about Pike and Knuckles.”
President Hannister said, “You did what?”
Kurt raised his hands in surrender, saying, “You wanted the black magic, sir. I’m just rubbing the bottle.”
48
Jalal took another breath of the fetid tannery air, wondering if the stench was penetrating his skin. He said, “How can you stand working here?”
Wasim glanced at the salesman and said, “You get used to it.”
Jalal nodded and said, “We’ll talk tonight. Can I get a key to your apartment? I’ll meet you there.”
Wasim said, “Yes, of course. You know how to get there?”
Jalal laughed and said, “I barely made it here.”
Wasim pulled out a key and said, “Tell a cab to take you to the old Jewish quarter, next to the royal palace. If they don’t know that, tell them Fes Mellah. You’ll get dropped off at the front of the palace.”
Jalal took the key, saying, “And?”
Wasim explained how to get to the apartment, the instructions a convoluted mess of turns. Jalal had him write the directions on a piece of paper. When he was done, Jalal asked, “Is this going to be like finding you in the medina?”
Wasim laughed and said, “Yes, it might be, but the people there are friendly. The neighborhood is all like us. Families struggling to survive.”
Wasim left him, and Jalal watched until he began to work again, wondering what on earth would make any man willingly do such labor. Jalal thanked the salesman, then retraced his path to the movie set. He flagged a cab and gave the cabby the Fes Mellah address. Fifteen minutes later, the cab stopped on a street called rue Bou Ksissat.
On his left was the royal palace of the monarch of Morocco. On his right was a decrepit maze of buildings long past their prime. Initially the quarter for the Jewish faith in Morocco, it had existed since the fifteenth century. The area was now held up to the tourists as the integration of the faiths in Morocco, omitting the fact that the reason the Jews lived there was because they were forced to, sometimes behind walls. Even so, it had once been the prosperous section of the city, where one went to buy gold, diamonds, silk, or other precious items, and had valiantly tried to hold on to that reputation through the years, but instead had witnessed a slow decline, right up until the state of Israel was created.
Once that happened, the majority of Jews in the country emigrated, with the Arabs of Morocco encouraging them in not so subtle terms to get the hell out.
Now the area was a rotting ghetto of decrepit wood and draining sewers, with the modern day grafted onto the past through electrical lines draped between windows and television dishes hanging off carved wooden balconies that should have been treated as precious museum pieces.
Jalal followed Wasim’s directions, hitting a market selling everything from homemade pharmaceutical remedies to bridal fashions, the people shopping in their own cloistered world. He took a covered alley that reminded him of a tunnel, stooping not to hit his head and searching each door he passed. He went by a narrow slice cut into the alley and saw four boys sitting on the ground, playing video games in a pay-for-play cave, a cheap desk in front with a teenager willing to take money.
He kept going, searching each steel door, finding the one that matched the key at the end of the alley, a bare lightbulb providing illumination. He unlocked it, feeling as if he were back in Tangier. Once again, the key worked. He entered, finding a squalid two-bedroom place, with mattresses on the floor, a small kitchen consisting of a table and a camping stove, and a closet with a hole in the floor for a toilet, a bucket of water next to it.
He set his bag down, satisfied.
He initiated the Wickr application on his cell phone, updating the Sheik.
In Fez. The men are ready. When will we receive the passports?
He waited for a minute, then saw a bubble.
Another day or two. They’re coming in a diplomatic pouch to the king’s palace next door to my father’s hotel.
What about the plans in America?
Good. I have the safe house in Norfolk. Still waiting on the money transfer for the purchase.
I need them when I arrive. I can’t do the mission without the assets.
The response wasn’t something Jalal wanted to hear. It’s almost easier to get explosives than what you want. At least there we can hide what is in the boxes. We can’t buy three of what you want from an offshore account and then have them delivered to a house in Norfolk that nobody’s in. You can buy them when you get there.
Aggravated, Jalal said, Are you crazy?
What? Buy them with the money I send.
HOW IS THAT GOING TO LOOK? FOUR STRANGE ARABS BUYING THINGS? DO YOU NOT REMEMBER THE PLANES OPERATION?
Jalal saw, What do you suggest?
Get them delivered to the safe house before we arrive.
Jalal waited, and nothing came back. He wondered if the Sheik was discussing the problem with someone else. Finally, a bubble appeared with a message on the way.
Okay. I can do that, but you will have to receive them. I have nobody there.
Fine, as long as they show up the day we arrive.
Won’t be that quick. I can’t initiate until you confirm you’re in the house.
Jalal became aggravated again, wondering if the Saudis understood what was at stake. He banged out the next message, pounding each key harder than necessary. We will only have a short span of time before someone starts questioning why four foreign males have moved in. America hates us now. We can’t live in a safe house without someone eventually calling the police.
What is your point?
We need to train. We’ve never done this before. We can’t just get the vehicles and execute.
So get some rentals. Train with them.
Jalal considered the recommendation, wanting to push back, but it made sense, if only because it cut the time down. He typed, That is the same risk. But less of one. Are you sure the explosives are in place?
Yes. Are you sure you can wire them?
Of course.
Good. Know that everything is a risk, but Allah always finds a way. Just like the Planes Operation. Allah is with you.
Jalal closed the app without responding. He believed in the mission but had never trusted Tariq or his father. They never contributed anything but money, never sacrificed anything beyond a bank account.
And then he remembered Wasim, feeling the depth of his hypocrisy. He heard the call to prayer echo through the ghetto. Not wanting to risk attending a mosque, he found four rolled prayer rugs neatly tucked in a corner.
He faced east and began praying, searching for salvation.
49
The cell clanged open, and Knuckles was led into the room. They removed his handcuffs, then slammed the door closed. I said, “Well? How was the second one?”
I knew the cell was bugged with both cameras and microphones, because it was the only reason they would put us together in the same room—trying to get us to maybe spill some secrets when we thought we were safe. Knuckles knew it as well, so he wouldn’t give anything up.
He said, “About the same. They keep asking what we’re doing here. I tried to explain Grolier’s mission, but they don’t want to listen. They keep asking about that American named Snyder McDermott.”
I said, “What the hell is this all about? Did you tell them we want to talk to our embassy?”
He hid a smirk, then said in an anxious tone, “Yes! They claimed that they have no responsibility to contact the embassy at all.”
He put his head in his hands for effect and said, “I can’t believe this is happening. It’s
like Midnight Express or something. They’re going to kill us.” He looked at me plaintively, as if he believed our life hung in the balance, and I said, “Hang in there. Grolier Recovery Services won’t let us down. We’ve done nothing wrong.”
In Chefchaouen, we’d been ripped out of our Land Cruiser, splayed on the ground, and searched. They’d found nothing suspicious to tie us to the mysterious Mr. McDermott, which didn’t keep us from being loaded into the van. They’d found only our passports, the hotel key card for the room we’d rented to conduct surveillance—which was not the hotel that had our kit—and business cards for Grolier Recovery Services.
We’d bounced down the road for a good thirty minutes before the suit-wearing guy had turned from his tablet and said, “Grolier Recovery Services. So you men know something about history.”
Because I was a hell of a lot smarter than some third-string Moroccan trying to tie me to a drug deal, instead of saying, I want to contact my embassy immediately, I said, “Yes. We’re just here to look at the historical sites surrounding Chefchaouen.”
I was taking a risk and running against what I’d been taught: Don’t think you can outsmart the interrogator. If you have something to hide, just shut the hell up.
But I was pretty sure he didn’t believe we were drug dealers, especially after looking at our business on the web.
I said, “You have a remarkable grasp of the English language. I could have used you yesterday.”
He laughed and said, “My father was a diplomat. I spent my formative years first in Canada, then in Washington, DC. What about you?”
I said, “What do you mean?”
“Who are you? You aren’t like Snyder.” He waved a hand at Knuckles and said, “Neither one of you are like Snyder. It worries me.”
I said, “Who is this Snyder you keep asking about?”
He rubbed his face and said, “Truly, to build trust, you must exhibit trust.”
I said, “You’ve kidnapped us in the back of a van. What trust do you speak of?”
He was very smooth. Completely relaxed. He said, “Okay, I will play your game. We have a six-hour drive to Casablanca, so let’s talk. Snyder is a major conduit of hashish out of this country. But he’s American, which makes it easy for me to arrest him. I can’t do the same with the hashish farmers here. They have to make a living, and interfering with them would incite the population. Your friend, on the other hand, gives me the ability to show I’m hunting drug runners while leaving the locals alone. Which, as you Americans say, means you’re shit out of luck.”
I said, “Look, we have no clue about any drugs. We came here for the historical sites.”
He ignored my words and said, “We have a problem with drug running into Europe, and it’s not because of the drugs. It’s because of where the money from the drugs goes. Snyder can’t possibly do what he does without Moroccan help. And that is where you come in. I want that man.”
I said, “How in the hell would I know? I just told you why we’re here.”
“You helped Snyder escape.”
“We did no such thing. You stopped us at a roadblock for no reason. You are going to be in big trouble with the United States after this.”
He repeated his earlier question. “So Grolier Recovery Services facilitates work on archeological sites. Is that what you said?”
“Yes. That’s what we do.”
“So you know the history of this country?”
“A little.”
“Do you know its history of terrorism?”
That one took me aback. I said, “I have no idea what you’re talking about. Are you saying I’m a terrorist? Because I drove into your roadblock?”
He tapped his thigh, then looked up, saying, “Yes. That’s what I’m saying. Do you know who has you right now? Who owns your life? It’s not the local police force. My name is Ahmed al-Raffiki. I represent the Direction Générale de la Surveillance du Territoire. I’m responsible for keeping this country safe. And I think you’re responsible for doing something bad.”
I heard the words and knew we were in deep trouble. The DGST had some pretty horrible human rights abuses. A state-run secret police, it had gone hog wild after the Casablanca bombings in 1994 and had been supported by the monarch every step of the way. The only thing going for us was that we were Americans, and he apparently wasn’t too sure of our guilt.
I said, “We have done nothing wrong, besides driving down a road.”
Ahmed glanced out the window, then turned back to me. He said, “History. That’s what you deal in, right?”
Now wary, I said, “Yes.”
“Do you know the history of what you’re doing right now? The deaths you are engendering through your drugs?”
“I keep telling you I don’t know what you’re talking about, but if it’s terrorism, you’re looking at the wrong class of people. It’s you guys who strap on the vests and kill. You are responsible for the deaths. Don’t give me that crap about ‘Americans are the biggest terrorists.’ Look in your own house.”
He surprised me. He said, “Yes, I suppose you have a point.” He chuckled and said, “We don’t get a lot of Catholic suicide bombers over here.”
Confused, I said nothing. He said, “I suppose it’s all about Islam, isn’t that right? Selling hashish isn’t helping terrorism at all. You can’t be responsible just because you’re making a profit. It’s the Islam thing.”
I said, “I told you, we don’t know Snyder. We don’t sell hashish. We don’t know anything about what you’re saying.”
His eyes bored into me. He said, “You understand Islam, though, correct?”
I said, “I understand the callus on your head.”
The discoloration I’d seen earlier was from placing his forehead on the floor when he prayed. The only people who had it were devoutly religious, to the point that some intentionally created the physical mark to show their devotion. He was a true believer.
He smiled, apparently ahead of me, and said, “Yes. I am devout with my faith. And devout in stopping those who destroy my faith.”
I remained quiet. He said, “But you Americans know all about it, don’t you?”
I spat out, “Yes. I do. I’ve lived among Muslims. You want to charge me a jizya tax now? Can that get me out of this van?”
He raised an eyebrow and said, “No. That won’t help. But I’m intrigued by the fact you even know the term. Where did you hear it? Where have you lived among the faithful?”
“My company has taken me many places. Iraq. Afghanistan. Beirut. Syria. A few other countries.”
“So you have seen firsthand what I’m talking about. You understand the reason I have taken you in my van.”
“What’s that mean?”
“Islam isn’t the Islamic State. It isn’t the Taliban. It isn’t Hamas. It isn’t Iraq.”
I leaned back and said, “I’m not going to argue about religion with you. Let’s just contact my embassy and sort this out.”
He nodded, and said, “Okay. That would be fine. But because we have so much time, let’s discuss why you’re helping the very people you hate.”
I said nothing.
He said, “So, now the cat’s got your tongue?”
Truthfully, I was thinking furiously about where this conversation was going, and realized I should just shut the hell up. He was trying to trick me, and he held all the cards.
He said, “Do you know the history of this country? The actual history?”
I remained mute. He said, “Surely, as a company coming here to look at the past, you have done some studies.”
He was twisting the knife of my cover, trying to find a seam. Smart. I said, “Yes, I understand the French and Spanish colonization. I know the Roman history. Is that what you mean?”
Thank God for Jennifer’s history lessons.
&n
bsp; He surprised me, saying, “No. I mean the history of modern day.”
Now genuinely intrigued, I said, “Maybe? I’m not sure what you mean by ‘modern day.’”
He toyed with a thread on his pant leg and said, “It’s something you should study, if you want to sell hashish.”
And that had been it, for the next four hours of our ride. He didn’t say another word. We’d been locked up in DGST headquarters in Casablanca and left to rot. I was sure that Jennifer and Retro had contacted the Taskforce, and all we had to do was remain in our cover, doing one thing: deny, deny, deny.
I’d had one interrogation, which had been pretty light, with a guy in uniform. Then Knuckles had been taken out, and he’d had the same. I was thankful for being an American, because they couldn’t make a mistake with us, and I was beginning to think they’d had second thoughts about arresting us. Especially after Knuckles’s second interrogation.
When he hadn’t come back lumped up, I was pretty sure we were good to go. And then the door to our cell had clanged open, a guard waving me forward.
It was my turn.
50
I was led down a narrow hallway, pristine in its cleanliness, making me wonder how much blood had been mopped up in the past. The guard pushed me against a wall and waved his finger, as if that meant anything to me. He unlocked one of the interrogation cells, then led me in. He handcuffed me to an eyebolt on a table, the door to my back, and left the room.
Same as before.
The door opened behind me, and a man came around the table. It was Ahmed, still dressed in his suit.
This was not like before. The first interrogation had been with some jerk in uniform who barely spoke English, and both of Knuckles’s interviews had been the same way.
