Ring of Fire

by Brad Taylor

  —

  Sitting on a broken metal chair underneath an umbrella that was listlessly sagging, Johan licked his popsicle next to Fonzie. The boy was enamored of the rare treat, slurping his tongue over it as if he’d never been allowed one before. So much so that Johan wondered if that were true.

  He said, “You like that, huh?”

  “Yes, yes, Mr. Johan. This is like what Americans do.”

  Johan said, “But they don’t enjoy it like you do.”

  Fonzie smiled and said, “Because they get this all the time. One day, I’m going to be an American. You wait.”

  The boy licked his frozen treat, watching the people walking by in the ghetto, feeling for the first time superior to those around him. He had a delight that they couldn’t afford.

  Johan felt the melancholy creep into him, memories of impoverished children in Africa only wanting a chance. And the fact that he’d let them down.

  He said, “What do you want to be when you grow up?”

  “I’m going to be a pilot. Flying airplanes.”

  Surprised, Johan said, “What makes you think that?”

  Smugly, Fonzie said, “I have skills. I’ve been told so.”

  “By who?”

  “I helped a pilot last month. I was his guide. He said I had the makings of a pilot. He’s going to help me. I have his email address. He told me to wait until I was eighteen to send him a message, but he’s going to help.”

  Fonzie was so sure of himself that Johan felt sick. Some asshole tourist had used a toss-off compliment and an email address to plant a time-delayed destruction of the boy. It reminded him of another boy. One who used to service their camp in Angola. He was a smiling, rambunctious kid who lived in the village down the road and had told Johan he wanted to be a soldier. He hadn’t even made it to eighteen, his village destroyed by terrorists, all within spitting distance of the army camp.

  Johan had found his dismembered body next to his mother’s.

  He shook his head, remembering why he was here. He said, “So, the address is right down that tunnel?”

  “Yep.” Fonzie looked comically sly and said, “Well, maybe not. It might take me a little more time to find it.”

  Johan laughed and said, “You mean, maybe another ice cream?”

  Fonzie nodded forcefully and said, “Yes. Maybe one more and I can find it.”

  Johan saw a man with a backpack walking through the market. He was one of many strolling around, but this one looked furtive. The man glanced his way, then quickly looked away, as if he didn’t want to be remembered. After a lifetime of hunting men and being hunted, Johan could almost smell the tension radiating from the traveler.

  Fonzie caught the shift and said, “What’s wrong, Mr. Johan?”

  He faked a smile but kept his eyes on the man, saying, “Nothing, Fonzie. Nothing at all.”

  When the man turned into the tunnel, Johan felt a hardness settle in his soul.

  55

  Standing with the salesman, I said to Ahmed, “Can he tell us where they live?”

  The man looked at me with annoyance and said, “I speak English.”

  Ahmed laughed, and I said, “Okay. So, can you tell us where they live?”

  “No. I have no idea, but they have a friend. Someone who hangs out with them occasionally. He’s here.”

  Ahmed said, “Point him out.”

  We went up to a balcony, and the stench became overbearing, like I had been thrown in front of a fan with the devil farting on the other side. I closed off my nose and pretended I didn’t notice. The salesman leaned over the railing, and I saw row after row of cylinders like septic tanks, men stomping in each one, working raw leather. He shouted something in Arabic. Someone shouted back. Ahmed said something to the man, and I said, “What’s going on?”

  “He’s trying to find the man. I told him not to mention DGST.”

  The guy shouted something again, and Ahmed punched him in the arm. The salesman looked shocked. I said, “What’s going on?”

  “He didn’t mention DGST, but he said the authorities want to talk to him.”

  I looked down into the hellish pit and saw everyone had stopped working and was looking back at us on the balcony, confused. Then I spotted a man slinking toward the exit. I said, “Who’s that? The guy moving?”

  Ahmed rattled off something in Arabic, and the salesman said something back. Ahmed shouted over the balcony in Arabic. The man took off running.

  He said, “That’s him!” and started leaping back down the stairs.

  I followed him, slamming down the steps four at a time, calling on the net, “He’s on the run, he’s on the run, everyone get ready.”

  Jennifer came back, “How will we know who it is?”

  “If someone comes by you at a sprint, take him down.”

  We flew out of the tannery back into the alley of the medina, then swiveled our heads left and right. I saw Jennifer, but she shook her head. I called, “Knuckles, what do you have?”

  “Nothing.”

  I looked at Ahmed and said, “You sure he can only escape back into the medina? Can he get out the other way?”

  He said, “I’m almost sure.”

  I said, “Shit, man! You’ve let him—”

  My radio broke open with traffic. “I got him, I got him! He just ran by me.”

  It was Carly. I started sprinting in her direction, saying, “Where’s he going?”

  “Right! He just went right.”

  Given that we were running by one alley after another, it wasn’t a lot of help. I said, “Carly, I need something more. Give me a lock-on.”

  I heard nothing. Knuckles caught up to us, and we kept going. I said, “Carly, Carly, we need a lock-on.”

  I heard a grunt on the radio, then, “Knuckles, get your ass here. I got him, but he’s fucking strong.”

  We passed by alley after alley, pausing to look into them and seeing nothing. I heard, “Damn it, stop fighting!”

  I said, “Carly, give me a damn lock-on.”

  We reached another alley, and I saw a crowd. Knuckles blasted past me and separated them, exposing a simple wooden door that was ajar. We went through it, entering an amazing, wide-open room with a marble floor and twenty-foot ceilings, golden chandeliers and intricately carved wooden wainscoting throughout.

  It was a restaurant, and on the floor was Carly, riding some poor skinny shlep like a broncobuster, him facedown on the tile, arms swinging about wildly, and her doing whatever it took to keep him from standing up.

  Knuckles stepped in, pushing Carly off the man’s back and locking him up in a half nelson, causing him to squeal.

  Some of the patrons in the restaurant began to try to intervene, and I pushed them back. Jennifer went to Carly, checking to ensure she was okay. I saw a bruise on her cheek and a split lip. I turned to Ahmed and said, “Time to get that badge out.”

  He did, talking to the hostess. Watching Knuckles control the man, I said, “Seriously, man, is that the level of instruction you gave Carly? She can’t fight worth shit.”

  He grimaced and said, “We aren’t there yet. Can you help me here? This guy is like an eel.”

  I bent down, getting control of his loose arm and tweaking his wrist, causing a yelp. He quit fighting. I looked over at Carly, breathing hard with a touch of blood on her face. I said, “Maybe you are worth the effort.”

  She said, “What does that mean?”

  Knuckles, still on top of the man, said, “Don’t you dare.”

  I smiled and looked up at Ahmed, saying, “Talk to him. Get us an address.”

  56

  Johan continued his surveillance of the narrow alley, but the only activity had been the children coming and going from the makeshift game room. No other adults had arrived. He was in no rush, so he’d let Fonzie d
rive a hard bargain and purchased him a third ice cream, letting the little urchin slobber it down.

  It had been a good thirty minutes since he’d seen the man with the backpack, and he was beginning to believe his suspect was in for the night. He stood up and stretched, saying, “I’ll be right back.” Fonzie nodded without even looking up, focused solely on his ice cream. Johan casually strolled up the street, glancing into the alley as he passed. He saw multiple doors on both sides of the narrow lane, the only gap in the wall the game room.

  He came back to Fonzie and said, “When you’re finished with that, I want you to find the correct door, then come back out here and describe it to me exactly, to include what’s to the left or right of it.”

  Fonzie licked his treat and said, “No problem, Mr. Johan.”

  Wanting to get a feel for the atmospherics of the area as the workday came to a close, and needing a reason to remain in the area, Johan said, “You do well, and I’ll rent some video game time for you.”

  Fonzie’s eyes widened. He said, “You promise?”

  “Yes. Now, go check it out.”

  Fonzie jammed the treat in his mouth, getting the last of it, then nodded, his cheeks comically full. He glanced back once, then entered the alley. Johan changed his vantage point so he could watch him walk all the way down.

  Fonzie studied the first door, then the next, determining which way the numbers ran. He skipped the next two but stopped at the video game cave, staring at the screen and the children playing for a good five minutes. Johan was contemplating tossing a pebble into the alley to get his attention; then Fonzie continued on his own.

  He walked deeper and deeper, so far in that Johan would occasionally lose sight of him in the murkiness between the hanging lightbulbs. Eventually, he stopped at the final door on the right side, directly underneath a bare bulb. He paused for a moment, then raised his hand to knock.

  —

  Watching Ahmed talk to the head of the district police, I could see his impatience beginning to show at the length of time it was taking to cordon off the area. Every minute counted, and we both knew we’d probably get only one shot at this.

  Back in the medina the runner had not hesitated to answer any question—especially after Ahmed had shown his DGST credentials—starting off by protesting his innocence about anything and everything. Ahmed asked why he was running, and he said he wasn’t sure. He’d just heard his name and panicked.

  Later, Ahmed told me he was convinced the man was up to no good—drugs, counterfeiting, something—but it wasn’t within the DGST purview. All we cared about was the cell of al-Khattabis, and the runner was more than forthcoming, giving us an address in the old Jewish quarter, now a run-down ghetto. Then he’d given us something a little more ominous: He said that the three men had met a cousin of theirs and were planning on leaving the country with him. Going to the United States.

  After getting the translation, I had Ahmed ask where in the United States, specifically, and the man didn’t know. I then had Ahmed ask how they would travel. Did he know if they had visas? Did they go through our consulate? He didn’t know that either. All he knew was they were flying tonight out of Casablanca. As to the big question of why, he proclaimed ignorance.

  Ahmed had calmed down the workers and patrons in the restaurant, and we’d taken our capture out of the medina. Along the way, Ahmed said, “We should coordinate this with the district police here. The Jewish mellah is much like the medina, and if they run, they may escape.”

  “But they could be loading up in cars right now to drive to Casablanca. If the flight is tonight, they’ve got to be leaving soon.”

  “I can coordinate while we travel. Like I said before, I’ve done many operations here and I have a point of contact.”

  I didn’t say anything, and he said, “It’s a ten-minute trip anyway. It can’t hurt.”

  “Okay, okay.”

  Returning through the Blue Gate, Jennifer took the wheel of our SUV, Carly next to her providing directions to the ghetto. Jennifer said, “We have a list of names, right?”

  On the phone, Ahmed nodded. She said, “The least we should do is get that into the system. Stop them from boarding a plane.”

  Carly snapped her fingers and said, “Give me the list. I know who to call.”

  Ahmed passed it to the front. Pretty soon everyone was doing something except Knuckles and me. I said, “What do you think? Should we stomp right in? Or wait on Barney Fife?”

  “I’m leaning toward Barney Fife. It’s their area, their culture, and we have three names, with a fourth unknown. Even if we could take them all down with just our force, we’re still going to need police cover for the disturbance. I mean, we might actually cause a riot if these guys are upstanding disciples of the ghetto.”

  All good points. I said, “But the time is concerning me.”

  He said, “Can’t have everything perfect.”

  Jennifer came abreast of the royal palace and Ahmed, still on the phone, waved his hand and pointed. She diverted into the parking lot, and he said, “My contact will meet us here. The address is less than a hundred meters away from here.”

  Carly said, “Talked to my guys. They’ll get the names in the system.”

  At least that was something.

  A man pulled up in a police car, and Ahmed went into a deep discussion, then began coordinating the lockdown of the area. Twenty minutes later—ten minutes too long, as far as I was concerned—and now even Ahmed was showing some impatience.

  He said, “I apologize. My friend is not used to working on a strict timeline, but his men are good. Just a little slow.”

  Meaning they were on Moroccan time but weren’t really lazy. They’d thump heads when push came to shove.

  I said, “Don’t worry about it. I understand. I would like to stage a little closer, though. Can we do that?”

  He nodded and said, “Yeah, let’s go.” He turned to his contact and said something in Arabic, holding his phone in the air. The policeman nodded and pointed at his radio.

  Ahmed said to me, “Same profile as before. I’m your guide, you guys are tourists.”

  I laughed and said, “Tourists in the ghetto. That’s stretching it.”

  “No, it isn’t. Believe it or not, the old Jewish mellah is a constant stop for tour guides. It has a lot of history, showing the inclusion of other faiths in Morocco.”

  We crossed the street and I said, “Meaning this is a government-mandated stop for that reason?”

  He said, “No. It’s some Islamic plot and I’m lying to you.”

  Jennifer rolled her eyes and said, “This is like a tourist trip from hell.”

  Ahmed laughed, then said, “Okay, right through that alley we’ll be in the mellah proper. I recommend only going a few meters inside, because our address is less than fifty meters from here, and the police haven’t positioned yet. There is a spice store around the corner. Jennifer, if you could do the honor of leading us to it, then ask me a question about it, I would appreciate it.”

  She said, “Of course,” and started walking. Soon we were inside an area with different architecture than the Moorish examples we’d seen outside. Jennifer said, “Why do you call this ‘mellah’ instead of a ghetto?”

  Ahmed said, “I don’t know. I’m not really a tour guide. It’s just always been called that.” He flicked his eyes to the left and Jennifer caught the hint, saying, “Hey, what’s that? That basket of stuff?”

  Ahmed went into a speech about the spices, slowing our march to a standstill. We gathered around like it was fascinating, then Ahmed dialed his phone for an update on the district police.

  A crack split the air.

  Ahmed stopped talking, searching me with his eyes, asking a question without speaking. Another crack sounded, muted by distance, but I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt what it was: gunfire.

&
nbsp; I nodded at him and said, “Time to go, police or no police.” He hung up and we took off running toward the sound of the guns.

  57

  Jalal sampled the chicken tangine stew and found it delicious. He said, “Someone here has become quite the cook.”

  Wasim said, “It’s what you learn when you have no women,” and the table laughed. Jalal said, “Tanan, how did you set that video system up?”

  Showing modesty, he said, “It was simple. You just buy a Wi-Fi camera, hook it and your computer to a Wi-Fi node, and you can start using it.” He opened a cheap netbook computer and said, “I paid the teenager at the game stop ten dirham for the password. He didn’t care, because it’s not his Wi-Fi.”

  He raked a finger over the trackpad, bringing the screen to life. It showed a backward-looking view, as if someone was outside, at the gaming center, looking toward their door. Tanan said, “This way, we could see if anyone from the police were coming.”

  Jalal surveyed the feed, seeing a small boy at the gaming center. The boy began walking toward them, reading each door’s address. Jalal recognized him, and an electric jolt of adrenaline raced through his body.

  “Grab your stuff. Right now. Is there a way out of here that doesn’t involve that alley? A back way?

  “No. There’s a cut-through in the gaming center, halfway up the alley. That’s our planned escape. That’ll lead to the market on the other side. Why?”

  “I passed that boy on the way in. He was sitting with a European eating ice cream. The European took an interest in me, and now that boy is checking door addresses.”

  “Jalal, it’s coincidence.”

  “Nothing is a coincidence. I promise.”

  They watched the screen, and the boy came closer and closer, checking each door as he walked. Jalal said, “He’s searching for our door. The man outside is against us. Do you have weapons?”

  “Yes.” Wasim flicked his head at Tanan, and he raced to the back bedroom, flipping over a mattress to expose a trapdoor. He pulled it up, revealing a shallow pit holding four folding-stock AK-47s and a Makarov pistol. He handed the AKs out, each man taking one and loading a round. He kept the Makarov for himself, looking at Jalal.