by Brad Taylor
Called the Borj Nord, the castle had been built in the sixteenth century on the hills overlooking the original medina. It, along with its counterpart in the southern hills, was designed more to control the restless people of Fez than to protect from outside threats. Today, the Borj Nord was a military arms museum, but that wasn’t why Johan was trying to find it. According to Dexter’s contact, the Iraq war picture he was supporting was filming at that location.
He turned off avenue des Mérinides, pleasantly surprised to see a sign directing him to the fortress. He rounded a curve and saw the castle. With four triangular sally ports at each corner, and the top parapet notched all the way around, it looked more like something from King Arthur than from any King Abdullah.
Johan wound into the parking lot, seeing it crammed full of cranes, cameras, and vans. He slowed, looking for one van in particular. He found it at the back of the lot. He started to pull forward, and a Moroccan security guard blocked him. As instructed, he rolled down the window and, in an authoritative voice, said the name of the movie, “Home of the Brave, Home of the Brave.” He knew the man spoke little English, if any at all. It worked. The guard stepped aside. He thanked the man and drove around to the back, ignoring the cast and crew.
He pulled up next to the driver’s window, seeing it was down. Inside was a heavyset man with a full beard, wearing a T-shirt with a USMC globe and anchor, the clothing soaked through with sweat. Eyes closed, he appeared asleep except for the fact that his left hand was working a small travel fan back and forth across his face.
Johan said, “Terry Broadwell, I presume?”
The man started, then sat up. He looked left and right, then leaned out of the window. He said, “You Dexter’s man?”
“Yes.”
He glanced to the passenger seat, and for the first time, Johan noticed a Moroccan boy of about thirteen or fourteen. Terry said something to him and exited the van, going to the rear. He came around to the passenger side of Johan’s car carrying a leather satchel.
He popped the door and slid into the seat. Johan said, “What’s the film about?”
“Iraq.” Terry laughed and said, “This is supposed to be one of Saddam’s palaces. Doesn’t look like any palace I stayed in.”
“Then why do they use it?”
“Hollywood. Nothing has to be accurate. Just different.”
Johan chuckled politely and said, “You have my request?”
“Yes and no.” He patted the satchel and said, “Inside is a Beretta M9. It’s all I could give you.”
Johan rolled his eyes and said, “I hate that damn pistol. Come on, you don’t have anything better?”
“Well, believe it or not, they have a military advisor on set, and he provided the production company with the different types of weapons. This is standard US issue in the military.”
“So they have to be accurate with that shit, but not with anything else?”
Terry nodded. “Pretty much.” He reached into the bag and said, “This is one of four spares.”
He passed it across, below the dash. Johan did a functions check and said, “Will someone know it’s gone?”
“No. Only me. They aren’t accounted for by serial number to anyone but our company, so nobody’s going to miss it.”
“Ammo?”
“Box of nine millimeter.”
“Okay. Thanks.”
Looking hesitant, Terry said, “Can I ask why I’m doing this?”
“No. But trust me, it’s not for something evil. I’m on a contract for Dexter, and I might need the protection. That’s all. I’m not looking to use it.”
Terry smiled, the relief flitting across his face. “That’s what Dexter said, but you never know. I’ve done a few contracts that were sketchy, to say the least. I like this gig and don’t want to lose it.”
“You’ll be fine. I just have to go to some dicey areas down south. That’s all. If something flames up, you won’t be connected in any way.”
“Be careful down there. It’s truly a no-man’s-land.”
“I will.” He pointed to the van and said, “Who’s the boy?”
“Some kid who glommed on to me. He speaks pretty good English, and he’s a wizard at knowing the area. I got him a pass for the set and pay him five bucks a day. He’s a lifesaver.”
Johan slowly nodded, thinking, then said, “Can I use him?”
Terry squinted his eyes, saying, “What do you mean?”
Johan laughed and said, “I have to find an address in this maze of a city, and I had a hard enough time trying to find a damn castle. Can I show him an address?”
Terry chuckled and said, “Sure. Sorry about that.”
Johan hid the pistol, and Terry hollered out the window. The boy came scampering over, wearing sandals that were too large, a greasy T-shirt that could use a washing, and pants that didn’t fit. Terry said, “This guy needs to find an address. Can you help?”
The boy nodded, glad to be of assistance. Johan said, “I don’t have any idea where this is.” He held out the address book he’d taken in Gibraltar, pointing at a page. The boy stared at it for a moment, then said, “Yes, that’s in the mellah. Next to the palace. I know it. There’s a video game place on that street that I’ve used.”
Johan pulled out the tourist map and said, “Can you show me on this?”
The boy looked at the map, sliding his finger down roads, then pointed at an area. He said, “It’s in there, but this map is not nearly good enough to show you. There are many, many alleys.”
Shit.
Terry said, “Take him with you.”
“What?”
Terry looked at the boy and said, “Want to triple your pay?”
The kid nodded eagerly. To Johan, Terry said, “Surely it’s worth ten bucks, right?”
Johan said, “Oh, yeah. Easily.”
Terry turned back to the kid and said, “You be back here tomorrow? Can you do that?”
“Yes, Mr. Terry. Of course.”
“He’s yours.”
Terry said good-bye and exited the car, swapping places with the boy. Johan put the vehicle into drive and began retracing his steps from earlier, winding back down the mountain. He said, “What do I call you?”
“Fonzie.”
“Fonzie? Come on.”
“That’s what Mr. Terry calls me.”
“Why?”
“Because I learned English from watching American television.” He began singing, “Sunday, Monday, happy days . . .”
Johan laughed and said, “You didn’t learn in school?”
“I don’t go to school.”
Johan had no answer to that.
53
Our small group was dropped off at the so-called Blue Gate, right outside the Fez medina. I’d sent Retro and Veep to check in at our hotel, then contact the Taskforce for the latest dump we’d received from the capture of Snyder, hoping they’d find something more than just a name. I’d opted to bring Knuckles, Carly, Ahmed, and Jennifer into the medina with me.
By the time we’d linked up with Ahmed, he’d done whatever secret-police stuff he could and had found a group of al-Khattabis—Berbers from Chefchaouen—working in the tannery at Fez. That was the only lead we had. The flight up was only forty-five minutes, but it had been instructive in two ways: One, Ahmed had remarked that the aircraft we were on was just like the ones that had done rendition flights to Morocco in the early 2000s, meaning he didn’t trust that it was just a plane we used, and two, Jennifer cornered him again.
I’ll admit, Ahmed was certainly game, and fervently wanted to get Jennifer to understand that groups like ISIS or al Qaida were not Islamic. It seemed he was almost on a mission of his own, and this time he’d come prepared.
They spent the forty-five minutes in the air sparring back and forth, and I ignor
ed most of it, only tuning in when I heard Ahmed say, “So because of some cultural restrictions in various countries, we’re all terrorists? Is that what you’re saying? Culture is different all over the world. Women in tribal regions in Africa run around without a top on. Do that in America, and everyone would demand clothing. It’s just culture. It doesn’t make it evil.”
Jennifer said, “Women can’t drive in Saudi Arabia. In some Islamic countries they can’t leave the house without a male member of the family to take them. That’s not cultural. That’s religious. How on earth do you think that’s fair? How is that inclusive?”
“Once again, you might not like it, but it doesn’t mean we’re all terrorists.”
Jennifer said, “Well, you’re certainly all a bunch of bigots.”
He smiled and said, “Really? Who’s America’s greatest ally in the Middle East? In the land of all of us terrorists?”
Wary, knowing she was walking into a trap, she said, “Israel.”
“Correct, but ultraorthodox Jews in Israel don’t even want women on public buses that the males ride. They’re forced to sit in the back.”
Jennifer said, “That’s not true—”
He cut her off, saying, “It is true. It’s very true. They even have a name for the segregated bus lines. Israeli ultraorthodox Jews are just as bad as any example you can give for Islam. In Israel their own sons are excused from military service based on religion, while everyone else has to join. You won’t find that here. You can’t look at Morocco and wave such accusations, then turn around and say Israel is your friend. It’s hypocritical. And, by the way, women drive in Morocco. Don’t make me defend an entirely different country on the mantra of religion.”
Ahmed had clearly come ready for the fight, his earlier retreats last night long gone. Jennifer, for a change, was now on the defensive. She trickled off by repeating what she’d said last night, “But you make women pray in the back or in a different room.”
Ahmed said, “Check a synagogue in Israel.”
“Two wrongs don’t make a right.”
He chuckled, then nodded. “Yes. That is a valid point, but not the one I want to make. Just because I practice Islam doesn’t mean I’m a terrorist. I lived in the United States for a long time, and you had Baptists who forbade dancing and alcohol. It was their choice, based on a reading of the Bible. We choose our own direction based on the Quran.”
He looked directly at me and said, “It doesn’t make us terrorists.”
I nodded. “I never said you were a terrorist.”
“You implied I help them by excusing Islam. I’m trying to teach you that Islam isn’t the threat. Terrorists are. And I will kill them wherever I find them.”
His hatred was so strong, it actually turned me a little, but he still hadn’t convinced me. His conviction didn’t alter the facts. There was a reason that ISIS was killing people on a holocaust scale, and it wasn’t because they were all afflicted with the same mental condition. Or maybe it was.
The pilot had come on, saying our short flight from Casablanca was almost over. I said, “Buckle up. Time to land.”
Once on the ground, I’d sent Veep and Retro to the hotel. The rest of us would explore the medina with Ahmed. He would act as our “tour guide,” and we would be two couples on a sightseeing event. Given Knuckles’s obvious infatuation with Carly, we should be able to pull it off pretty well.
We passed through the gate, facing down donkeys and a surging flow of people, all moving with a purpose, apparenty knowing exactly where they were headed in the maze of the medina. I said, “What is it about Moroccans that you don’t like anything allowing vehicles? Everywhere I go, it’s pedestrian-only.”
Ahmed said, “Maybe it’s because our civilization is a thousand years older than yours.”
He looked at me to see if he’d pissed me off, then said, “Believe it or not, this medina is the largest city on earth that has no vehicle traffic. We’re proud of it.”
Jennifer said, “It sure keeps you in shape. I don’t see a lot of fat people.”
He chuckled, and we began weaving through the medina, going deeper and deeper. It was a chaotic environment, with a constant flow of people trying to either buy or sell something, and had an otherworldly feel.
One thing was sure: If the cousins we were trying to question escaped into this maze, they would be long gone. There would be no interdiction by vehicle, or radioing someone to intersect, because every single alley had a branch that led somewhere else. It would take a battalion to lock down the area.
Ahmed said, “See that?” He was pointing at one of the ubiquitous pictures of the king, walking in front of a palace.
I said, “Yeah, what about it?”
“The woman behind him. See her?”
I leaned in, seeing an attractive middle-aged woman wearing a modest dress and sunglasses. I said, “What about her?”
“She is the queen.”
“So?”
Exasperated, he said, “She’s uncovered. She wears no hijab, and certainly no burqa.”
I said, “What’s your point? She gets the benefit of not being forced to dress in accordance with Islamic code because she’s the queen?”
He clenched his fists and said, “No! She does that because the king is the commander of all faiths in Morocco. She refuses to wear the hijab because it would be disrespectful of other religions. She must represent the totality of Morocco, and she does.”
Knuckles said, “Seriously?”
“Yes. We are serious about that. To the point that the queen made a choice, as a Muslim.”
I nodded, grudgingly giving some ground. “Okay, Ahmed, I admit, that’s pretty good.”
He smiled, then said, “I’ll convince you yet.”
I said, “I doubt it, but keep trying.”
He chuckled, and we continued walking. We took a left into yet another alley, and I said, “How do you know where we’re going?”
“I’ve done a lot of operations inside here. I’m no expert, but it’s not that hard to figure out after a few days. Some of these smaller alleys will get me lost, but I know the main ones.”
Eventually, we reached a lane with a distinct odor. And by odor, I mean it smelled like someone had farted into a Ziploc bag holding a dead cat. Ahmed said, “Here we are.”
He pointed at a sign describing the history of the tannery, then went up a narrow stairwell. We got to the first landing, and he said, “Let me do the talking. We need to corner the cousins inside. The tannery is enclosed, but if they flee into the medina itself, we will never find them.”
I said, “Okay, but I want some backup. Where are the exits?”
He nodded and said, “That might be smart. There are three, all on the same alley we came in on. One is the door at the base of the stairs, the other two are up and down the alley. They’ll be the first doors you see. They won’t have any signs selling anything. They’ll just be wood doors in the stone.”
I turned to Carly, Knuckles, and Jennifer. “Stage at the bottom. One of you go left, the other right. Jennifer, post on the door right below us.”
They nodded and went back down. We continued up, getting accosted by some guy trying to sell me a leather suit. Ahmed flashed his badge, and the man immediately became obsequious. Ahmed spoke to him in Arabic, the man answered, then Ahmed turned to me.
“They do work here, but they didn’t show up today. He has no idea why.”
54
Jalal paced down the narrow tunnel as if he were entering a lion’s den. He didn’t like the positioning of the cloistered room the cousins had rented, but there was nothing he could do about it. He passed the gaming center, seeing the same teenager out front, playing with a phone and ignoring him. He was amazed at the poverty of the place, and yet this man still had money for a smartphone. It was all that was wrong with the world.
>
He reached the door to the apartment, and before he could even knock, it was opened by Wasim.
Startled, he said, “How did you know I was here?”
Wasim smiled and said, “Tanan has a camera set up at the entrance. He uses the Wi-Fi of the game center, and it transmits into here. We can see everything.”
Jalal said, “Good, good. Smart thinking.” He entered the hovel, seeing one of the men cooking tagine stew on the tabletop stove, the aroma of the food making his stomach rumble.
He said, “Are you men packed?”
“Yes. It’s not like we have a lot of baggage.”
He saw the other three sitting around the chipped kitchen table, waiting on him expectantly.
He set his bag on the floor and said, “This will be our last meal here. It’s time. The passports have arrived.”
They said nothing, and he saw fear on their faces. The fear of stepping into the unknown. He pulled up a chair and sat down, looking at each man in turn. He said, “Are you committed? When we leave here, it will be the end game. I don’t want anyone who is questioning.”
They nodded hesitantly. He said again, “Are you committed? Truly committed?”
They nodded again, now forcefully. The one known as Tanan said, “I have waited all of my life for this. Yes. Insh’Allah, yes.”
Jalal smiled and said, “That is more in line with what I expect. Powerful people have helped our group. You will be the lions that accomplish what others could not.”
In his mind, he had rehearsed a rousing speech, designed to ensure their dedication, but now he decided it wasn’t necessary. They were Berbers from the Rif. They had struggled together since birth. He had not seen them for close to a decade, but he knew their commitment. They would not let him down.
He unzipped his backpack and pulled out a gallon-size Ziploc. Inside were the passports they would use. He said, “This is your ticket to paradise,” and began calling out names.
