Relative Danger

by Charles Benoit

  He showered and dressed—“Why didn’t I bring any lighter pants?” he thought—and reviewed the game plan he wrote out last night in the hotel’s two-stool bar. He made four stops the day before; the first was promising and the last three were dead ends. Today he’d head back to Le Café du Desert to talk to Mr. Ahmed some more, try the last name on the list, and call Edna Bowers to bring her up to date.

  It was a short plan.

  In the movies the hero always knew where to go, who to talk to, and how to follow a lead. It amazed him how James Bond could be playing baccarat in Monaco and stumble onto a plot to take over the world before the opening credits. Here he was in Casablanca, with only a small possible lead, one more name to check and then…what? And what was he supposed to tell Edna? So far he had spent well over a thousand of her dollars and what did he have to show for it? He looked at his plan again as he went downstairs for breakfast, hoping that something more would have magically appeared on the list.

  There was one other guest in the small café setting, an older gentleman in a tan linen suit sipping mint tea and breaking apart a fresh pastry. Douglas sat at a table near the window and drained a tall glass of orange juice—another one of Morocco’s pleasant surprises—and ate a fruit-filled pastry. He stared out the window wondering if anyone he knew actually cared that he was here.

  “Do you remember that perfect rejoinder Rick Blaine supplied the Nazis as to why he was here?”

  The question startled Doug out of his daydream. He looked around to the well-dressed gentleman, the only other person in the room. “I’m sorry,” Doug said. “What was that?”

  “Casablanca. The movie. Humphrey Bogart’s character is asked why he came to this Allah-forsaken city.” The man stirred even more sugar into his mint tea as he talked. His voice was smooth and comforting, like a voice-over in a nature documentary, a European documentary by the accent. “‘I came for the waters,’ he tells Major Strasa. ‘But there are no waters in Casablanca, Mr. Blaine.’ And then, with perfect timing, Bogart says ‘I was misinformed.’ Every time I come to Casablanca I am reminded of that scene. I was misinformed. That sums up nicely my experiences with this city.”

  “Yeah.” Doug added, “Great flick. Too bad the real Casablanca isn’t still like that.”

  “It never was, I’m afraid,” he said as he brushed some flakes of pastry out of his close-cropped white goatee. “I’ve been in and out of here since the Forties and this is about as exotic as it ever got. It still has the red light district, but the old quarter—the medina—is all but gone and they still don’t have a single decent museum in this city, although there are a few interesting mosques and that monstrosity they are building by the coast, the Mosque of Hasan II. Have you seen it? No? I had heard it was breathtaking but again, I was misinformed. They say it will be the second largest mosque in the world, it being bad form to go one larger than Mecca, and it will prove to the world that, while we can surpass the Blue Mosque in size, we have fallen woefully behind in style.”

  They have a red light district here? thought Doug.

  “No, if exotic locale is why you came to Morocco, I suggest you get out of here, bypass Rabat and get straight to Fez. Better yet,” the man said as he sipped his tea, “go south to Marrakech. But they are more religiously inclined there. It’s easy to forget that Morocco is an Islamic country if all you see is Casablanca.”

  Doug had never paid for sex before and was deciding if he had any strong moral code that prevented him from starting now.

  “Was it tourism that brought you here?” the gentleman asked.

  “Sort of. I’m doing a favor for a friend.”

  “Well your friend should consider himself extremely lucky to have a friend like you. Personally I’d be afraid to ask any of my friends to come to Casablanca for any reason. I just couldn’t stand hearing them scramble to make up excuses.”

  “I had some time on my hands and figured, what the hell, right?” Doug said, trying to sound as if jetting off to obscure international locations was something he did regularly for his fabulously interesting cosmopolitan friends.

  “Yes,” the man said as he smiled, “what the hell. What have you seen so far?”

  “Nothing, really, just a few shops and a café.”

  “Did you get to La Petite Roche for dinner? Le Mer? Le Cabestan?”

  “No, it was Le McDonald’s I’m afraid.”

  “Now that is just not fair. Any man who would be such a good friend deserves at least one good night in Casablanca. You’ll probably find this quite forward—my friends are always telling me I lack propriety when I meet new people—but are you free for dinner this evening? The woman I had planned to dine with decided quite late last night to return to Paris. Most unexpected. I would be honored if you could join me. Perhaps I could pick up a few tips on cultivating better friends.”

  But there’s a red light district in Casablanca, Doug thought.

  “Sure, I’m not doing much I guess, nothing I can’t do tomorrow.” Damn, damn, damn, he thought.

  “Excellent,” the man said. “Let’s say that we’ll meet here at nine? Despite all I have said I will admit that there are some splendid little restaurants here.” He motioned for the waiter and signed for the meal.

  “My name is Sergei Nikolaisen,” he said as he stood up, and Doug was surprised since the man had seemed taller when they had been sitting. He looked fit and trim, and his tan suit was tailored and exaggerated his height by highlighting his narrow hips.

  “Doug Pearce,” he said extending his hand. Sergei had a strong grip for such soft hands.

  “Douglas Pearce, it is a pleasure, but….” Sergei Nikolaisen stood still for a moment, glancing slowly to his left and right. He waited for the waiter to leave and leaned forward, motioning to Doug to do the same. “I must warn you,” he said in a hushed voice, “you are in great danger.”

  Doug felt his eyes widen and breathing stop.

  “What?”

  “You are in great danger and I’m afraid it is too late to help you.”

  “Danger? Me?”

  “Oh yes,” he said, “you. You have foolishly accepted the dinner invitation of a world class old bore and if the Moroccan wine does not kill you my endless stories and obscure anecdotes will surely do the trick.”

  Doug couldn’t help but smile.

  “Till tonight then. Do try to enjoy your day and,” again he dropped his voice to a stage whisper, “beware of foreign strangers.”

  ***

  Nothing had magically appeared on Doug’s list. It still had the one name, Hammad Al-Kady, and the note about seeing Mr. Fahad/Ahmed. He could add on the dinner invitation but that meant mentally crossing off the red light district.

  What’s a red light district like, he thought as he left the hotel. It was already blindingly bright outside, the shine amplified by the uniform white buildings, and Doug found he even squinted with his sunglasses on.

  Would there be actual red lights? Would it be like all the Hollywood images he’d amassed in his fantasies with micro-skirted, spiked heeled, big titted babes leaning in car windows, or would that prove to be as disappointingly inaccurate as his whole image of this city? Jay, the guy who worked in the keg filling section of the Odenbach Brewery, used to live with a girl who, he said, was a hooker in Pittsburgh, a scrawny, foul-mouthed chain smoker with a Joan Jett haircut who, all the guys agreed, wore the sexiest smelling perfume. Despite the smell, Doug could never imagine paying her for sex. Not her, anyway. What would the prostitutes in Morocco look like? Would they be French or Moroccan and would he be able to tell the difference? How much would it cost? Would they overcharge him just like every cab driver and souvenir vendor? And would they guess he was an American and rip him off or stick a knife in his ribs or have their pimp—or are pimps only an American thing?—beat the crap out of him? And what about diseases? Would he even be able to find a condom here? The more he thought about it the less upset he got about his new dinner plans.

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nbsp; He had left the hotel and had decided to walk the few blocks to Le Café du Desert, confident he could find the right block of white buildings. He took a seat among the older men who were sipping their tea or smoking the elaborate water pipes, the aromatic fruit-flavored tobacco creating small clouds around the heads of the smokers. When he asked for Fahad, the name Mr. Ahmed said he went by these days, the waiter’s face changed expression. He bit his lower lip and looked toward the small group of waiters passing time by the cash register. “Wait a moment, please,” the waiter said and walked over to the other waiters. They talked a few moments in Arabic and glanced over to Doug. He watched as one of the waiters took a deep breath, set down his tray and walked over to his table.

  It took the waiter five minutes to get around to the sentence “Mr. Fahad is dead,” and another five for the details to be made as plain as possible considering his heavy Moroccan French accent.

  “It was an accident. He was walking home, up on the sidewalk. It was dark and the car came in quickly. It did not even stop when it hit him.”

  Doug Pearce felt a sharp chill deep in his chest despite the climbing temperature. Dead. The man lived in Casablanca all his life and less than a day after talking to Doug about a past he had almost forgotten, he was killed when a car jumped the curb, a high curb at that, and ran him down from behind as he walked home from a place he had walked home from every night for fifty years. Mr. Ahmed was his link to Russell and Charley, to the missing jewels, to the Casablanca of the past, and now he was dead. His only link.

  It could just be a coincidence, Doug said to himself. People have accidents all the time. And considering how they drove, they probably have more than their share of accidents at that. It probably had nothing to do with him and his one question. It wasn’t his fault.

  If he said it enough times he figured he’d eventually start to believe it.

  Doug Pearce sat at the café for over an hour, the nervous waiters replacing his empty teapots with fresh ones. He tried to figure out what to do next but his mind kept wandering off into the strangest directions—names of old schoolteachers, the new batting order for the Pirates, the break room at the brewery. He remembered what his high school math teacher once told him, that he had a mind like a rudder-less speedboat. So he thought about boats for a while, too. After discovering that the bathroom was just a hole in the floor, he took out his list of things to do and a pen.

  At the top of the page he wrote “jewels stolen” and at the bottom he wrote, “jewels recovered” and then, after looking at the list, added a question mark after “recovered.” About a quarter of the way down the page he wrote “Uncle Russ killed.” He stared at this for another fifteen minutes. On the other side of the paper there was one name and an address. This was it, he decided. If he didn’t get a decent lead, a strong idea about what the hell he was doing from one Mr. Hammad Al-Kady, he’d call Edna that night and tell her he was coming back.

  Chapter 5

  As he sat with Mr. Hammad Al-Kady, holding onto yet another cup of tea, Doug Pearce was hoping that Mr. Al-Kady had not just died. His head had drooped to his chest and his labored breathing had become imperceptible. The top of a real fez was all that Doug could see of the man.

  That’s it, Doug thought, I quit.

  The old man sat like this for five minutes before jerking his head back up, the tassel of his fez stuck to the corner of his mouth by dried spit. He chewed noisily on air, cleared his throat and said for the third time, “Who are you?”

  Doug took a deep breath and was ready to apologize and leave when he heard someone approaching through the living area of the house. It was an impressive house, new, but designed in the Moroccan tradition, with elaborate tile work on the white plaster walls and, in an open air courtyard in the middle of the house, a lap pool ringed with the same tile pattern. Doug turned towards the sound and couldn’t believe what he saw.

  Her thick, black hair hung loose on her shoulders, contrasting with her white tee shirt, which was pulled taut by a chest that Doug found spectacular. She had the kind of body built for tight, black jeans and Doug found that spectacular, too. She had a face, but he hadn’t noticed that yet. When he did, he saw that it matched the body—almond shaped eyes and deep honey-colored skin with a designer smile.

  “Hi. You must be Doug. The maid told me you had called to speak to my grandfather. Maybe I can help you.” She extended a well-manicured hand as she walked towards the two men.

  “I’m Aisha Al-Kady.”

  “Doug Pearce.” Doug kept it simple. He knew he tended to get stupid around beautiful women and could feel his IQ dropping as she sat in a chair next to him. She looked over at the silent figure in the stripped garabella, the traditional Moroccan costume.

  “My grandfather used to be so active. I would race him up the driveway of our old home and, until recently, he usually beat me. About four years ago he had a stroke and, well….” Aisha Al-Kady let the words trail off. She had a slight accent, part French, part Arabic. Doug decided that it fit her well.

  “So anyway,” she continued, “down to business. First, let me tell you that no one makes it harder, or longer lasting, than Al-Kady.”

  “Excuse me?” Doug said.

  “Concrete? The family business? I assumed you’re the contractor that called about concrete.”

  “No, not really,” Doug said, trying unsuccessfully to disprove the family slogan as he pictured her naked, gliding through the pool. “This is going to sound really weird but I got your grandfather’s name from a woman in Toronto. I’m trying to track down some of her old friends and she thought Mr. Al-Kady could help.”

  “Oh, that’s not so weird,” she said as she smiled, as if she knew some things that were.

  The old man snorted and shifted in his chair, looked up, mumbled something, and put his head back down.

  “That’s okay,” Aisha said, “he gets like this. You can talk. Even if he hears you he won’t have any idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Oh great.”

  “At times it’s convenient….”

  “No, what I meant was that I had hoped to ask him some questions and, well, I guess now I won’t be able to.”

  “Well,” she said sitting forward and smiling again, “you can always try me.” She said something else after this, something about tea, but Doug didn’t hear it. He could, however, hear the water drip off her sculpted arms as she paddled her naked self across the pool. She had refilled Doug’s cup and was pouring one for herself before he snapped back. Jesus, he thought, it’s not like you never talked to a beautiful woman before.

  “So what would you have asked my grandfather?” she said.

  “Let’s see. Have you ever heard him talk about a couple of guys named Russell and Charley?”

  “Russell Pearce and Charley Hodge. Oh yes, many times. And the jewel heist and Russell’s murder and how Charley got blamed and how the jewel was smuggled out of Casablanca and it went to Nasser Ashkanani in Cairo then on to Singapore. It was one of his favorite stories to tell, that and the stories about the resistance movement and the Nazis. What do you want to know?”

  It’s about time, thought Doug.

  “Russell Pearce was my uncle. I’m trying to find out more about him and to see if I can find the jewel.”

  “Well,” she said with a laugh, “you came to the wrong place. If that jewel were in West Africa my grandfather would have had it years ago. But I thought you said you were doing this for some woman in Toledo?”

  “Toronto. Yes, a Ms. Edna Bowers. She knew Russ and Charley, too, and she’s helping.”

  “Don’t know the name, sorry,” Aisha said, sipping her tea. They fell into an uncomfortable silence, interrupted by the old man’s chewing sounds.

  Now what, Doug thought. In the movies the guy would steer the conversation around to her and before you could be back with the popcorn, they’d be having NC-17 sex. Do I talk about Uncle Russ? Do I bring up my exciting life in Pottsville? Do I sneak out
now before I say something stupid?

  “I suppose you want to know more about the jewels and the theft then?”

  “Yes, that’s it. I mean I’d like to know more, sure.”

  Aisha glanced over at her grandfather, who was mumbling something unintelligible as he lifted his head and rubbed his eyes. “This is not very comfortable after all,” she said standing up. “Do you mind if we talk somewhere else?”

  She assumed he’d agree and led the way back into the house and up a flight of stairs, through a door that led to a private sitting room. It was decorated in the same Moroccan style but with more modern touches, like the abstract painting above the leather chair and the elaborate computer system on the glass-topped desk by the window. Aisha tossed herself into one of the overstuffed couches and at the same time tossed her hair back, out of her face. “Get comfortable,” she said. “I’m going to tell you a story.”

  Doug wanted to sit on the couch, right next to her, but opted instead for one of the matching loveseats. Focus, he thought. Pay attention. Be professional.

  “Since it was your uncle I assume you know something about him, right?”

  “All I know is that he drifted from place to place and was involved in a lot of interesting things.”

  “‘Interesting things.’ Well that’s one way of putting it.”

  “Okay,” Doug said, “he was a thief.” Where did that come from, he thought.

  “Better. But I’d prefer to call them all adventurers. You see at that time, right after the war, the line between good guy and bad guy was not so clear and if your uncle and my grandfather ever ripped someone off you can bet that that person was a bigger thief than they were. From what I’ve heard they did a lot of harmless smuggling, some drug dealing, and the occasional burglary. My grandfather liked to tell of the time—this before the war, I think—that he and some friend from France stole and sold, and re-stole and resold the same antique carpet six times. I’m sure the things your uncle was involved with were similar. But of course, the jewel was different.”