Ring of Fire

by Brad Taylor

  He took a seat in front of me and said, “I hope your stay hasn’t been unpleasant.”

  I said, “No worries. You’ve been more accommodating than I expected. It’s been fine. Except I’d still like to talk to my embassy.”

  He said, “I think I can make that happen. But first, let’s talk about what you refuse to discuss.”

  I said, “I have nothing to do with hashish! My God. What evidence do you have?”

  He said, “No. I want to talk about terrorism.”

  What?

  “I asked you if you knew our history, and you became quiet. I’ll ask again.”

  I said, “I have no fucking idea what you’re talking about. What the hell does this have to do with anything?”

  He leaned forward and said, “We fight the same thing, America and Morocco. We fight the bastardization of a religion, and it’s fueled with money. Money from others.”

  Something different was happening, and I was off-balance, probably because he wanted me to be. The questions were way off base from what he should have been asking.

  I said, “I get it, hashish is funding terrorism. But I have nothing to do with that.”

  He leaned back and said, “You Americans want our help when it suits you but disparage us when it doesn’t. We’re the ‘good’ Islamic country. Aren’t we?”

  Aggravated, I said, “Yes, I suppose as far as Islamic countries go, you’re the ‘good one,’ but that’s a pretty low bar to jump over, don’t you think? I want to contact my embassy. Right fucking now.”

  He leaned back, a look of disgust on his face. He said, “So be it.”

  He pressed a buzzer, unlocking the door, and a woman walked into my cell. Short, about five three, with black hair that fell just past her shoulders. She turned around, and I was flabbergasted. Carly Ramirez. She was grinning, enjoying the shock.

  She was wearing a pantsuit like she’d just come from an office cubicle, but she had a healthy tan that belied her being trapped indoors all day, with a sprinkle of freckles on her face and a little upturned nose that was cute for no damn reason whatsoever.

  She said, “I see you’re still making friends.”

  I remained speechless, unsure of what to say.

  She said, “Ahmed, thank you for your courtesy. If there’s any way to repay it, don’t hesitate to ask.”

  Sticking to the cover, I said, “Are you from the embassy? Finally?”

  Carly said, “Yes, it’s the embassy, but it’s a part of the embassy that Ahmed knows.”

  Meaning he thought I was CIA.

  Ahmed said, “As we agreed, we work together. We stop this together.”

  She nodded. I said, “What’s that about?”

  Ahmed looked at me and said, “I’m your new partner, you bigoted asshole.”

  I looked at Carly, watching a smile leak out. I went back to him and said, “That’s not really fair. You have a damn callus on your forehead.”

  Before he could get too upset, I stuck my hand out and said, “Sorry, it’s just me.”

  He smiled and said, “It’s just America.”

  I took his hand, squeezing a little harder than I had to, meaning I almost broke the bones.

  Carly said, “Okay, dick measuring done? Because from what I hear, we have some intel that needs exploring. No rest for the wicked.”

  I said, “You know more than me. I’ve been stuck in a cell by this asshole for a couple of days.”

  —

  Three hours later, I was having dinner at Rick’s Café, a suitable location given that we were now planning skullduggery like we were in the movie Casablanca. The establishment wasn’t from the movie, of course, but it still seemed to fit. There had been no Rick’s Café when Casablanca was filmed, but a career foreign services officer had taken the idea and reproduced the movie set, right down to a Moroccan piano player named Issam. We were upstairs, at a balcony/bar area that Carly had reserved for the night, meaning we had the entire room to ourselves. I had to admit, it was a pretty cool place—the best part was that they served actual steaks instead of kebobs made from camel meat. But then again, as Ahmed would gladly tell you, I was a bigot.

  I, of course, was still a little pissed at the play that had been done to me. My last “interrogation” had been conducted by a man who knew I was innocent. Carly had been outside the door the whole time. It wasn’t something I was willing to forgive, mostly because the asshole interrogator was in the restaurant with us.

  Honestly, I didn’t trust Ahmed. He was an Islamist with a burr on his forehead, and letting him stick his nose into our tent was crazy as far as I was concerned. Kurt had sanctioned it, and I understood working with a liaison, but for me, this was asking for trouble. He believed we were true-blue CIA, so the Taskforce was covered as far as his service was concerned, but he still had a seat at the table.

  One that we were now sitting around trying to plan our next moves.

  Jennifer said, “So, we know that Jalal al-Khattibi has cousins in Fez, and we know he contacted them—”

  Knuckles interrupted, saying, “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. We know that Snyder thinks he contacted them. Sticking to the facts, all we really know is that Jalal said he had cousins here. And said that he thought they’d been in contact. It’s not that strong of a thread.”

  There was a little bit of cross talk, with everyone giving an opinion, and then Ahmed waved his hand, saying, “I can find them.”

  I said, “Find who?”

  “The cousins. I can find them. We can bring them in. Get them to talk.”

  I glanced at Knuckles, and he shook his head. I said, “No, thanks. You’re just an observer here. We really can’t be involved with some draconian Gestapo shit, but we understand it’s your country, so if you feel like kicking in some doors and using the rack, that’s on you. Just understand that we won’t be a part of it.”

  Ahmed slammed his hand on the table, livid. He said, “Do you really believe I’m a torturer because I’m Muslim? Is that where we’re at? I’m trying to stop an attack. On your soil. Don’t think I’m doing this because I give a damn about America. I care about Morocco.”

  I was startled. It was the first time he’d shown emotion. I said, “Calm down. Can you find out where the cousins live or work? Without using a cattle prod?”

  He stared at me for a bit, then became the same calculating man he had been in the interrogation room, saying, “Yes, I can do that. But you have to include me on this. You don’t know the culture or the area. I do.”

  Carly gave me a small wave and a stare. I said, “Okay, okay. Sorry.”

  Mollified, he leaned back, muttering about Americans.

  I said, “So, Ahmed will check his database, and we’ll go from there. We’ll fly out of here tomorrow at, say, noon? Will that give you enough time to do your research, now that you have a name?”

  “Yes. That will work, but I don’t have the money for a plane ticket. My government won’t pay for that. I think we should drive.”

  I said, “Don’t worry about it. My company has a lease on an aircraft. It’s coming to Casablanca right now.”

  The food was served, and I said, “Okay, it’s Miller time. Sorry, Ahmed. It’s mint tea time.”

  He laughed and said, “What makes you think I don’t drink alcohol?”

  “The damn stamp on your head.”

  He paused and said, “You really don’t like me, do you?”

  “It’s not a question of ‘like.’ It’s a question of trust. I think you’ll help us because you have to, but you’ll make sure attacks like this occur in the future. Maybe not as a participant, but by excusing those who do the attacks, ignoring the connection to your faith.”

  He looked shocked. I said, “You want honesty or some politically correct shit? That’s just the way I feel.”

  “Becaus
e I worship Islam?”

  I paused, then said, “Yeah. I guess so. It’s just one giant excuse after another. Poverty, lack of opportunity, being shunned, whatever, it’s just an excuse for the real issue.”

  The chattering in the room subsided, the conversation raw. Jennifer looked at me and said, “Pike, now is not the time or place for this.”

  I said, “Why not? He’s supposedly on our team.”

  He said, “You equate Islam with evil. A blanket statement, yet you have your own evil, do you not?”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Let me help, then. You have the Westboro Baptist Church, right?”

  I was surprised that he’d even heard of such a thing. I said, “Yeah?”

  “And they profess a bastardization of your faith to the point where they protest at funerals of your military members.”

  “What’s your point?”

  “Nothing. Just having a discussion.”

  But he drew me in without even trying. I said, “Yeah, well, I haven’t seen a lot of beheadings by Baptists. Even at our worst, the low bar is someone holding a sign and chanting shit. At your worst, someone’s getting raped before getting stoned to death. You want to preach to me, do it without a callus on your head.”

  He took the insults without emotion. He said, “Yes, that’s true. But can you separate the difference? Can you see that Islam isn’t evil, in and of itself?”

  I stood up, saying, “Maybe. Maybe not.”

  Alarmed, Jennifer rose next to me, mistaking why I’d stood. She said, “Hey, what are you doing?”

  I said, “Going to the bathroom before I rip his head off.”

  51

  I went to the men’s room, then to the downstairs bar, getting a beer and killing time listening to Issam bang away on the piano. Deep down, I didn’t really think Islam was evil, but there was no denying a connection between the mass murderers and the faith, and it aggravated me when I confronted apologists. Even so, while I held my views, I knew we had a mission to accomplish, and acting like an asshole in Ahmed’s world wasn’t the best way to go about it. We did have some terrorists to find, and if Ahmed helped with that, it was fine with me. My personal opinions could not be allowed to interfere. I finished my beer and figured the heat had bled off from our conversation. I went back upstairs.

  The first thing I saw was Knuckles and Carly, canoodling in the corner. Well, maybe not that bad, but they were definitely ignoring the rest of the table. I really wanted to break that up, but after my argument earlier, it would be a bridge too far. They got to live another day.

  I saw Jennifer leaning over the table with Ahmed, deep in discussion, Veep and Retro listening in. I wandered over, getting close enough to hear but not close enough to shut down the conversation.

  “But you can see what he’s saying, can’t you? It’s not like there are a lot of Christians cutting off heads. I mean, he’s right. Everyone talks about poverty or a lack of opportunity being the genesis of terrorism, but in the Philippines, the poverty goes across religious lines, and the country is predominantly Catholic, yet all of the terrorist-related killings there are done by Muslims. In fact, that group just joined the Islamic State.”

  Ahmed said, “No, no, you’re exactly right. But it isn’t Islam, per se. It’s the very ally America courts. It’s Saudi Arabia.”

  “What do you mean? Islam is Islam.”

  “No, it’s not. Islam is not Islam, any more than the various faiths of Christianity define that whole religion. Abu Bakr al-Baghdadi proclaims a caliphate, and everyone in the West paints all of Islam. How many Protestants listen to what the pope says? Yet they are all Christian.”

  Jennifer smiled and said, “That’s true, but nobody in Christendom is running around lopping off heads.”

  “Look, there is a cancer here, and it has a name. It’s Wahhabism, and it’s coming from Saudi Arabia. We’re fighting that cancer now, but we embraced it early on.”

  I started to intervene, then backed up, wanting to hear what he had to say, knowing that Jennifer would get more out of him than I could.

  She said, “Everyone blames them, but it’s not borne out by the evidence. We just had the redacted pages released from the 9/11 report, and there’s no hard proof of their involvement. How can you say that Saudi Arabia is the root of a Moroccan terrorist in France?”

  “It’s not an excuse, but it is real. Involvement doesn’t mean you carried a box cutter. The house of al-Saud made a deal with the devil. Way back when, they partnered with a bunch of extremists and said, ‘If you back me as the supreme ruler, I’ll support you in your view of Islam.’ They did, and the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia was born, a state held hostage by the Wahhabis and their fundamentalist thinking. This would be nothing but one more agreement in a million of them in the sands of history, except Saudi Arabia found oil. Since then, to keep their kingdom intact, the royal family has funneled money into that extremist brand of Islam all over the world, precisely to keep the radicals in their own country happy. Without their support, the kingdom would fall, so they continue to do so, even as it causes attacks in their own country.”

  Jennifer said, “I don’t see it. The strain of Islam you’re talking about can’t be bred by an infusion of cash. There’s something more at play.”

  He took a sip from his glass and said, “What if the entire GDP of the United States funded the Westboro church or David Koresh’s sect? Do you think that would make a difference? Especially if the government made that brand of religion the official state-sanctioned one? What would happen if the enormous force of the United States began pushing a certain church and sending out snake charmers all over the world? Trust me, it’s possible, and we bought into it.”

  “How? What do you mean?”

  “Saudi Arabia had the money. Haven’t you seen the palaces here in Morocco? That country spends it like we drink water. And our previous king, when offered the money to build mosques, agreed to let it happen. He was looking to increase our respectability, but the mosques came with a catch—the imams came from Saudi Arabia. And because of it, their brand of Islam began to infect our society, like it has infected every Muslim country on earth.”

  Jennifer considered what he said but didn’t back down. “But the Moroccans from Belgium and France had never been to Saudi Arabia.”

  He said, “And they’ve never been religious inside Morocco. They were Berbers from the Rif who had no religious learning in our country. They were radicalized somewhere else, and that radicalization was done by a Wahhabi imam. I promise.”

  Now I was actually getting interested. Jennifer said, “So your brand of Islam is the open-arms one? Is that what you’re saying?”

  “You make a jest, but yes. It is. It’s called Maliki, and it’s inclusive. Sufism. We don’t preach hate or intolerance. In fact, the new king has forbidden Wahhabis from our mosques and is exporting Maliki imams for that very reason, fighting fire with fire. Here, unlike Saudi Arabia, he is known as the commander of the faithful and is the ultimate arbitrator of the faith.”

  “So you allow Christianity to practice here?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Then why is it against the law to have a Bible written in Arabic? What’s the fear there?”

  He stammered, saying, “That’s . . . that’s just a law. You in America have such things.”

  “Are you saying we made it illegal to have a Quran printed in English?”

  “No, no. I mean you have such things as blue laws.”

  “Really? You’re going to tell me that not being able to buy liquor on Sunday is the same thing as stifling an entire religion? And why is it that I, as a woman, can’t worship in the company of men. Is that right?”

  He said, “That is completely misunderstood. Men have needs, and having women bent over in front of them is not godly. That is all it is a
bout. Temptation.”

  I saw her stutter, amazed, and I knew she was going to make the same mistake I had. She could chastise me all day long about being a Cro-Magnon, but when it came to women’s rights, she was just as bad. Not that I didn’t think she had a point, but we did have a mission to accomplish.

  She said, “You don’t think that’s backward?”

  I walked forward, getting their attention. I said, “We need to get some sleep. Long day tomorrow.”

  Ahmed looked at me in relief, clearly not liking where Jennifer was taking the conversation. He’d been so sure of himself right up until the last thirty seconds. She gave me the stink eye. I was pretty sure the discussion wasn’t over.

  I held out my hand for her and said, “I, for one, would never make you pray in the back. It would be depriving the world of a view they should see.”

  Which, naturally, went over like a lead balloon with both Ahmed and Jennifer. She jerked her hand away and stomped out. He looked at me like I was a lunatic.

  I said, “Sorry, man. Just trying to help.”

  He shook his head and walked away. I watched him leave the balcony, and I, being me, ended up going for the trifecta. I started to follow them downstairs but saw Carly and Knuckles still in the corner, and I couldn’t resist.

  I went over to them, ending their conversation. They both looked at me expectantly. I said, “Carly, I appreciate the intervention today, but it won’t matter at selection.”

  She looked at me quizzically, while Knuckles scowled like he wanted to stab me in the heart. She said, “What are you talking about?”

  I said, “I’m going to bed. Ask your sponsor.”

  She turned to Knuckles and said, “What’s he talking about?”

  Knuckles spat out, “He’s an asshole. I have no idea.”

  52

  Johan wound across the ridgeline in his small rental car, a tourist map of Fez on the seat next to him. He could see the large castle clearly on the slope, but trying to find the actual road that led to it, like everything else in Fez, was a trial. For all he knew, the bit of blacktop he was on would sail right by the fortress.