The Blue Hour

by Douglas Kennedy

  He looked just a bit confused to find a woman in a niqab standing in front of him. I pulled the veil away. The shock on his face was considerable. But he quickly wiped it away, replacing it with his usual menacing irony.

  “So . . . the most wanted woman in Morocco drops by to say hello.”

  I pushed by him into the apartment, saying, “I need a shower and a passport.”

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  HOT WATER FROM a shower spray. Proper soap and shampoo. A toothbrush and toothpaste. A large towel. A bed with clean sheets. And before that, a late-night supper and several very welcome glasses of wine.

  Basic comforts can seem like huge luxuries when you have been denied them for a considerable amount of time.

  As cautious as I was about being in Ben Hassan’s presence, I also knew from before that he had a nurturing side. Seeing me exhausted and rank, he immediately aroused Omar from bed and got him working. I was shown the shower and handed one of Omar’s freshly laundered light cotton djellabas. Given his slightness—and all the weight I’d lost—it actually fit me. He also saw to it that the clothes I was carrying with me were thrown into the washing machine. While drying off in the bathroom, I inspected the scarring on my face and legs. The bruising from the beating had virtually vanished, but the cheekbone felt fragile to the touch, and the deep rings under my eyes, especially under the possibly fractured left cheekbone, made me look like a haunted insomniac. The facial sunburn was still apparent but subsiding, but there were still severe scars on my legs. I knew that I had to see a doctor as soon as possible about STDs and any lasting vaginal injuries. I also probably needed an MRI on my face and head, and to deal with the slight ringing still in my ear. Had he burst an eardrum when he slammed his fist against my left ear, then kicked me in the head?

  When I emerged from the shower (I had spent almost twenty minutes under its blessed downpour), dried, and changed into the clean djellaba, I found that a small supper had been laid out for me in the living room. The wine was balming. And the pastilla—a pie made with cinnamon, harissa, almonds, and pigeon meat—was quite delicious.

  I had decided on the way north from Marrakesh that my strategy with Ben Hassan would be to say nothing about Paul and the entire fraudulent loan for Samira’s apartment. My desire here was to get a new passport and up to Tangier.

  How much did Ben Hassan know of my ordeal? No doubt, if he called me “the most wanted woman in Morocco,” he was aware that I was still being sought in connection to the disappearance of my husband. No doubt he’d also seen the television footage of the charred body in the desert. I knew, as he made his slow, belabored walk into the living room, that I would soon find out.

  “I must say, from what I’ve learned of your exploits, you’ve been quite resourceful,” he said. “Sorry about the abuse you received. Though I am hardly a doctor, my untrained eye tells me you might have a bone or two broken around your left eye socket. Still, your attacker did get his comeuppance, did he not? But, as I am not the police, who am I to pry into exactly how you burned that man to death? Or what you were doing with him in the desert.”

  I stared straight at his corpulent face.

  “That young man and his accomplice seized me off a street in Tata, drugged me, drove me out into the middle of the Sahara, raped me, and left me to die.”

  “And you struck back.”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “Of course you didn’t. Nor did his accomplice.”

  “So his accomplice has been found?”

  “That’s for you to find out. But as your hope is, I presume, to be out of the country tomorrow . . .”

  “Can you facilitate that?”

  “For a price.”

  “And what is your price?”

  “Let’s discuss that in the morning.”

  “I’d rather discuss it now. I need a false passport. You are the one person I know in Morocco who can provide me with such a document. Here I am.”

  “Availing yourself of my hospitality.”

  “I can leave, monsieur.”

  “And go where? Back into your native garb? How clever of you to go behind the veil to get through all those pesky checkpoints. How did you manage the identity paper problem?”

  “I found a solution.”

  “I’m certain you did.”

  “So how much for a false passport?”

  “We are all business tonight.”

  “I need to know your price.”

  “I presume you were robbed of everything.”

  “That’s right. And I am not going to take out a loan with you.”

  “Smart woman. But if you have no cash on hand . . .”

  “I have a little cash.”

  “And how did you manage to obtain that?”

  “I sold what jewelry I had in Marrakesh.”

  He made a point of carefully studying my left hand.

  “Ah, indeed,” he said. “All vestiges of your marriage vanished.”

  “Except the emotional scars.”

  “You must have done well, given that your most collectible Rolex is also no longer present on your wrist.”

  “I had some debts to settle.”

  “Ah, yes, I also figured someone must have aided and abetted your evading the police. And he must have cost plenty.”

  “Actually, he might have been the most honorable man I’ve ever met.”

  “I’m so pleased for you—honorable men being so infrequent in your life.”

  “Present company included,” I said.

  “So . . . I am right in presuming that you have little money.”

  “You told me your standard price for a false passport was ten thousand dirhams.”

  “I also told you that if the individual was rather problematic—as in, wanted by the police—the price would treble. So I am afraid thirty-five thousand is the amount needed.”

  “Twenty-five thousand is what I can pay—and that must include transport up to Tangier. I’m certain you can get Omar to drive me.”

  “That will be an additional five thousand dirhams.”

  “It’s only a four-hour drive.”

  “But think of the risks involved in getting you there.”

  “I can go back behind the niqab and use the ID papers I have. Then, when we’re at the port, I’ll change back into my normal clothes and use the passport you’ve given me to leave.”

  “My, my, you have this all figured out already. Most impressive. But there is still risk involved for myself and Omar. Still, as a way of showing goodwill, thirty thousand dirhams all in.”

  I put out my hand. “Deal.”

  He seemed supremely uncomfortable proffering his hand for me to take. As before it felt like a hot, bedewed cushion.

  “What time can I get the passport tomorrow?” I asked.

  “As it is now almost one thirty in the morning I will want to sleep in until ten a.m. It will take about an hour or so to put the passport together. I have the camera for the photograph. I will need to get you the appropriate entry stamp placed in the document, and also have it placed on the immigration computer system. That involves me contacting an associate who does this sort of thing for me. I have decided, given your facility with the language, that you will be French. But even at the Port of Tangier the immigration officers now have computers. My associate has a way of ensuring that your date of entry will pop up when they scan your passport.”

  “And does this cost extra?”

  “Of course not. It’s all part of the overall fee. Tomorrow we can choose a name for you. Nothing too absurd. We’ll sleep on it.”

  “Fine. I could use sleep.”

  “The bed awaits you.”

  “One last question . . . in my absence have there been any sightings of my husband?”

  “None whatsoever since you tried to chase him down in Ouarzazate.”

  “How did you know about that?”

  “I have my sources.”

  “Like his other wife?”

&nbs
p; “Perhaps. And I know full well that you are now desperate to ask me why I didn’t give Samira the money that Paul borrowed for her apartment. And did I contact Paul, telling him that, by helping buy his daughter and grandson an apartment, he could atone for his absence from Samira’s life?”

  “Did I even indicate I was concerned about this?”

  “My source in Ouarzazate informed me that you certainly seemed vexed by it. The truth is—”

  “The truth, monsieur, is that dealing with you is like walking through a hall of mirrors in which nothing is ever concrete or real. So be it. I don’t need to know why Samira didn’t get the money. Or if you set all this up as a trap to ensnare my now vanished husband. Let that be on your conscience . . . if you have one. You will be getting close to four thousand dollars from me tomorrow for one hour’s work and a drive to Tangier, which you yourself won’t have to make. Our business is therefore done for the night. I thank you for the hospitality.”

  A very long silence followed, during which Ben Hassan got up and poured us both an eau-de-vie. Then he finally spoke.

  “I don’t entirely agree with your character assessment of me, madame. Yes, I do have my tricky side—and a very long memory for wrongs rendered. But I am also an excellent friend. As I was to your husband all those years ago. And the result . . .”

  He held up his battered, deformed hands.

  “We all have our ways of dealing with the injustices and sorrows piled upon us, madame. We all have our ways of getting through the day. And we all have our moments of malevolence . . . even if, in your recent case, the malevolence you meted out on your attacker was wholly merited. Pushed to the wall, some of us surrender to the brutal inevitable. Whereas there are others—like you, like me—who turn feral. And who fight back with the same brutality visited upon us. Because we know that, in life, the central preoccupation is still the one that existed when we all once lived in caves: survival. You’re a survivor, madame. I salute you for it. But don’t try to capture the high moral ground here. You are exactly like me. You killed to stay alive.”

  “You killed as an act of revenge.”

  “Unlike you, I didn’t have the opportunity to strike back immediately. Two crushed hands leave you at a profound disadvantage. But I did strike back eventually . . . to prove I would never be cowed by such animals ever again. And to let my little community here know that too . . . not that I ever admitted to anything. I didn’t need to. Everyone knew. Everyone also knew they could never pin the crimes on me, because I was too circumspect in my plotting to get caught. But the real lesson that everyone around here gleaned was that I would kill to stay alive.”

  Five minutes later, I was alone in the guest bedroom. As much as my analytic side wanted to deconstruct the skewed logic of Ben Hassan’s attempts to draw a parallel between us, exhaustion won out.

  I had started the day at four in the morning, hearing my friend Aatif being beaten and robbed. I crawled into the first bed, between the first sheets, I had slept in for weeks. Sleep came quickly.

  Then I was awake and wondering where I was, and thinking that I had been unconscious for a very long time. Getting up and wandering out into the hallway, I passed Ben Hassan in his office.

  “My, my, you certainly needed your beauty sleep, didn’t you?” he said.

  “What time is it?”

  “A few minutes before noon.”

  “Oh my God . . .”

  “Not to worry. Have your shower. I will have Omar arrange breakfast for you. Meantime I have a few phone calls to make . . . and then we can get down to business.”

  “Will there be enough time?”

  “To take care of everything and get you packed off? Absolutely. Now off you go. The sooner you are showered and dressed . . .”

  I hurried into the bathroom, noting with pleasure that, as before, a hair dryer had been left there for my use, as well as all my freshly laundered clothes. Ben Hassan was a dangerous customer, but he also knew how to play the thoughtful host. Twenty minutes later, showered, dressed in clean clothes, I was sipping coffee and eating two croissants in Ben Hassan’s kitchen. At which point I heard his front doorbell ring. As Omar went to answer it Ben Hassan came into the kitchen.

  “Enjoying your breakfast?”

  I heard voices down the corridor.

  “Do you have visitors?” I asked.

  “We have visitors. Last night, after you went to bed, I thought about our little exchange. I also considered the complexities of risk, and the fact that there are some clients who are just too hot to handle. Which, on reflection, is most certainly the case with you. Another little matter entered my thinking: I need to keep my friends and associates happy. Helping you flee the country might anger several of the men now at the end of the corridor, all of whom want to talk with you, as they are members of the Sûreté. Or, as you Americans might put it, the feds.”

  “You bastard,” I hissed.

  “I won’t contest that. At least be thankful that I allowed you a shower, a good meal, and an excellent night’s sleep before calling them.”

  Then he shouted something in Arabic down the corridor. Moments later I was surrounded by three men in suits and a police officer in uniform. One of the detectives spoke to me in French, asking me to confirm my name. I told him what he wanted to hear.

  “Now, we would prefer not to use handcuffs,” he said.

  “I’ll go quietly,” I said.

  “Very wise, madame.”

  With the two officers in front and two behind me, I was marched out. Ben Hassan insisted on accompanying us to the front door.

  “Do say hello the next time you are in Casablanca,” was his parting benediction. “And do remember there is a subtext to all this: survival is everything.”

  I was marched down the stairs, marched into a waiting unmarked car, accompanied by two police cars blaring their sirens as we shot across the city. Neither of the detectives with me said anything as we traversed Casablanca. I shut my eyes. Why am I surprised it is ending like this?

  The windows on this vehicle were virtually blacked out, allowing me no idea of where we were heading. After a quarter of an hour I saw through the windscreen that we were entering a modern block of buildings, and then driving down a tunnel into an underground garage. Once there, all the officers exited the vehicle before I was allowed to get up. The same deal as before: two officers in front and two behind me as I was marched to a doorway that only opened after one of the cops punched in a number code, and the door swung open. The walls inside were painted an institutional green. I was brought up a set of stairs, and then down another concrete corner until I was steered into a room furnished only with a metal table, four chairs, and a mirror that, no doubt, was two-way.

  The cops deposited me in this room, then turned and left without saying anything. The door slammed behind them with a formidable thud. I could hear a bolt sliding into place outside. Do you really think I’d try to make a break for it? I felt like shouting. Instead I sat down in one of the chairs, put my face in my hands, and thought, Whatever you do, insist on a lawyer, and refuse to answer any of their questions.

  I heard the bolt being slid back and the door opening. In walked a Western woman, late thirties, dressed in a crisp linen suit, a pressed white blouse, a bulging leather briefcase in her left hand. She came over to me, her hand extended.

  “It is so good to finally meet you, Robin.”

  I accepted the outstretched hand, trying to work out who this woman was and why she was here in a Moroccan police station.

  “Alison Conway, assistant consul at the US Consulate here in Casablanca. Now, we don’t have long, as Inspector al-Badisi and the translator will be here in a moment. But what I wanted to explain before he got here—”

  She didn’t have time to finish that sentence, as the door swung open and in walked a man, with thick black hair and a groomed moustache, wearing a light brown suit. He extended his hand and informed me that he was Inspector al-Badisi. He had a dossier o
f documents with him, which he put down on the table. I asked for water. He shouted out to someone in the hallway. Meanwhile a woman joined us—dark suit, black hair tied up in a tight bun, severe features.

  “This is Madame Zar,” the Inspector said, “who will be translating for me today.”

  “But we are speaking in French now.”

  The assistant consul, now seated next to me at the table, put her hand on my arm.

  “I felt it was better, for clarity’s sake, if all discussed here was translated, so there would be no ambiguities.”

  “What’s going on here?” I whispered to her in English.

  “Just let the inspector speak,” she whispered back. “All will be explained.”

  The water arrived. The door was closed. The inspector sat down and opened his dossier, bringing out several copies of what seemed to be the same document. Then he looked up and regarded me with formal severity. As he spoke, the translator waited for a pause every few sentences before rendering his words into English for me.

  “Madame, on behalf of His Majesty and his government, I wish to offer you our sincere condolences for the ordeal you have been put through. We have been, as Assistant Consul Conway can attest, working very closely with the US Consulate here in Casablanca in the search for you. We are immensely relieved and pleased to have you here, alive and, I hope, reasonably well.”

  I said nothing, just nodded acknowledgment.

  “Now, I regret that we must discuss the events that occurred in a sector of the Sahara some forty-three kilometers from the town of Tata. We do know what happened out there—”

  Suddenly I flew off the handle. “How can you know what happened there? I was there. What happened there was inflicted on me.”

  The assistant consul gripped my arm tightly. I shut my eyes for a moment, gathering myself, then opened them and said, “I apologize for interrupting you, Inspector. It has been a very long few weeks.”

  “There is no need to apologize, madame. On the contrary, we should be apologizing to you, considering what you’ve been put through. But as I was saying . . . we are aware of what happened in the desert.”