Inner Truth

by Philip Dole

“Not if she wears a hijab, and my wife’s hijab has a niqab to cover her face. With a hijab and a niqab, they won’t be able to see her face very well. But my wife is quite small. Will one of her abaya be too small?”

  “I don’t think so. Lei is petite. Now hurry. Catch her as soon as she comes out. Fill her in on the plan. Come back with the clothes, and then try to get her out safely. Take our backpacks. Ask Lei to give you my Swiss Army knife. Come back for me, and by then I’ll have come up with some way to get out of here.”

  Little Bo left, and Tyler looked around the small room. He dove into the last stall when several men entered, did their business and left. He waited impatiently for Little Bo to return.

  “Did you warn her?”

  “Yes, I saw her just as soon as she came out, and I showed her your license. I told her about the men showing your pictures around and our plan to have her wear my wife’s clothes to slip past them. It worked perfectly.”

  “Where are the men now? What are they doing?”

  “They’re waiting out front. I brought my wife’s clothes to her, and she sneaked by them, following several Moroccan women. Then I got your backpacks and took them to my taxi. She gave me your knife. They probably wondered why I had two backpacks and no passengers, but they said nothing.”

  “Thank God.”

  “Yes, in Arabic we say humdu’llah, praise to Allah.” Little Bo bowed slightly and touched his heart with his right hand. Tyler immediately returned the universal gesture of gratitude.

  “Great. Lei’s safe for the time being. Now how am I going to get out of this damn prison?”

  “Don’t you have a plan yet?”

  “No, but I’m thinking about that.” Tyler pointed at an air vent.

  “Isn’t that for the bad smell?”

  “Yeah, I think it’s an air vent.”

  Tyler dove back into the last stall when two more men entered and swung the door closed. Little Bo went through the motions of urinating, took a long time rinsing his hands and out-waited them.

  “That was them, the ones with your pictures.” Little Bo used incorrect English for the first time. “They were saying they can’t figure out where you are, but they’re going to stay here until the last plane arrives. They think you might have taken a different plane.”

  Tyler climbed up on the toilet to take a closer look at the grille covering the vent. He estimated the opening’s clearance and realized it would be a tight fit.

  “Let’s see if I can get that grille off.” He took his trusty Swiss Army knife and worked unscrewing the grille.

  “Do you really think you’ll be able to get through there? It looks too small to me.”

  “I read somewhere if you can get your head and one arm through an opening, then your whole body will pass through. If I get this bloody grille off, I can try.”

  The screws came out, but coats of paint held the grille fast. He ran the knife blade around the edges several times without success. Sweat broke out on his brow. He tried prying the grille off with the shortest blade, but it broke off.

  “Let’s see if this one works,” he thought out loud, trying the saw blade. He got the saw blade under the flange, and that blade was strong enough to bend it. He went through a wedging and prying process on each side until he could pull it out.

  “This is going to be tight,” Tyler mused as he looked at the hole.

  He had taken off his leather jacket while he worked on the grille. Now he took off his shirt and stuffed his clothes through the hole. Then he stuck his head and right arm into the opening. He tried wiggling through. The rough concrete surface scratched his skin.

  Then he got one of his brainstorms. Luckily this was a good one. He backed out of the vent opening and called to Little Bo, “The soap! Little Bo, please unscrew one of those round things filled up with the soap and bring it to me.” Tyler poured the yellow-green liquid across his collarbone. “Bring me another, please.” He poured more over his chest and down his back. It stung his scratches.

  The farther he worked his body through the opening the harder it was. But eventually he got through and tumbled headfirst into some bushes. He didn’t see any sign of their pursuers, but he didn’t see any sign of Lei or Little Bo either. After an interminable thirty seconds he saw a late-model silver Mercedes sedan drive up. He recognized Little Bo behind the wheel. Tyler dashed from the bushes toward the rear door that swung open for him. He jumped in and crouched down on the seat as Little Bo drove off.

  “Oh no. The bad men are running for their car.” Little Bo warned. “They’re getting in a black van.”

  “Shit. See if you can lose them in traffic.”

  “They’re in the big black Citroen van.”

  “Can you lose ‘em?”

  “I can try, my precious cargo.”

  Cinching their seat belts tighter, they held on for the ride of and for their lives.

  Chapter Twelve

  In the Medina

  Tangier, Morocco

  Tuesday, December 7, 2005

  6:10 p.m.

  Little Bo frantically wove in and out of traffic. Moroccan drivers honk their horns incessantly, and Little Bo was wearing his out. He avoided numerous collisions at the last second. Lei buried her head in her hands, blocking out the sight of imperiled cars, mopeds, and people. Tyler leaned forward to see better as he gripped the top of Lei’s seat with white knuckles.

  “Sidi Tyler, I don’t think I can shake them. What do you want me to do?”

  “I don’t know. Do you think we should just make a run for Ketama?”

  Lei answered first. “That makes no sense if they are right behind us.”

  “We might be able to lose them in the medina,” Little Bo offered.

  “How?” Lei asked.

  “We hide in the souk.”

  “What’s the souk, and what’s the medina?

  “The medina is the big market in the middle of the old city. It’s full of small souks, little markets, shops and stalls selling everything. It’s very crowded, and everywhere it twists and turns. Especially the Socco Chico. I lose passengers in there all the time even when I give them maps. Now I insist I go with them myself. So they don’t get lost.”

  “Go on. How can we lose them?”

  “I was thinking we can lose them on foot. I could call my brother-in-law. He drives a taxi, too. Not as nice as mine, not as nice at all. It’s a piece of junk. But he could meet us somewhere near the medina, and after we lose them, we could use his taxi to get away.”

  “Won’t they still be right behind us?”

  “Not if we can lose them in the crowd.”

  “How do we do that?”

  “We stop on one side of the medina, run into it, lose them in the crowd, and come out at a different place where my brother-in-law is waiting. Then we switch taxis. We drive off in his taxi, and he walks back to pick mine up. The bad men will have to go back to where they entered the medina to get their van. That ought to give us a big lead.

  “But he better not mess up my Mercedes. His taxi is filthy. And if he smokes those French cigarettes in here, it’ll stink for a week. If he does that, I’ll feed him to the dogs. I…”

  Little Bo was working himself into a tizzy, and Tyler interrupted him. “Then we could meet your brother-in-law someplace else after he had picked up your car and switch back.”

  “Yes. That’s very good, Sidi Tyler. That way Mustafa only has my Mercedes a short time. I like that.” He fished out a cell phone from somewhere within his djellaba and called Mustafa, carrying on an animated but brief conversation in Arabic. “It’s all set. We shall leave the Mercedes by the Medina Gate, and he will meet us in the Socco Grande. It’s near the Socco Chico. The Grande is full of taxis, and no one will notice us leaving in Mustafa’s piece of junk.”

  “Are you sure we can we lose them
in the souks?” Lei seemed skeptical.

  “We can if you don’t stop to shop, ma belle mademoiselle.”

  She nodded graciously and replied, “Thank you for the compliment, sir, but if you are willing to risk this marvelous vehicle for us, please call me Lei.”

  “And my name is Meddur, but I insist you call me Little Bo.”

  “Very good, Little Bo.” She had no idea why he wanted to be called that.

  Two minutes later with the black van still dogging them they pulled up to the Medina Gate, an entrance into Tangier’s ancient walled city. Its narrow streets held elegant homes hidden behind heavy wooden doors recessed into arched stonework. Stores built into the thick stone walls spilled merchandise onto the winding alleys. Stalls built alongside and on top of one another burst with goods of all kinds. They packed the wide spaces in the medina. One might carry spices, sold by the scoopful from open-topped burlap sacks, emitting overpowering smells of seasonings like saffron, cumin or cinnamon. Around the corner another stall might carry leather goods, finely tooled with intricate geometric designs, emitting an equally overpowering smell of tanned animal skins. Farmers stacked produce on woven mats laid on the ground. Freshly slaughtered meat hung uncovered from hooks.

  At the entrance closest to the famous Grand Mosque, they jumped out. Tyler and Lei grabbed their backpacks as Little Bo checked that all four doors and the trunk were latched and locked. The only thing he carried with him was a faded Oakland Raiders stadium cushion the legendary Bo Jackson had given him.

  Little Bo raced through the massive stone archway. To move faster through the warren of haggling buyers and sellers pressing in on them from every direction, Tyler carried both backpacks, one on his back and the other in his arms. Small and nimble, Little Bo was able to thread his way through the crowd quickly, and Lei kept up with him.

  Tyler’s size was both an advantage and a disadvantage as he pushed through the swarming crowd. His height enabled him to see over the heads of the throng, and he could follow the wake left by his companions as they parted the crowd. But his bulk took up a lot of room in a place where there wasn’t any room to spare. He couldn’t avoid bumping into people. So even if Little Bo and Lei escaped notice, he didn’t. He realized he left as distinct a trail as footsteps in new-fallen snow.

  After fifteen minutes zigzagging in the medina’s maze, Little Bo finally led them through a final archway. A cacophony of mopeds’ two-stroke engines enveloped them. They emerged from the medina into a large plaza filled with dozens of waiting taxis and buses. Little Bo made a beeline to Mustafa.

  Mustafa’s taxi was an older white, four-door Fiat in need of some serious bodywork. Little Bo grimaced when he handed Mustafa the keys to his Mercedes. Tyler slid into the back seat of the Fiat, and as he began wiggling out of his backpack, Lei got in the other side.

  Little Bo tossed his Raiders cushion on the driver’s seat, mumbling something. Tyler assumed he was making threats against Mustafa if he trashed his Mercedes. Little Bo extracted the Fiat from the tangle of waiting taxis and headed back to the Grand Mosque. He wondered what their pursuers would do when they lost track of their quarry. He hoped they would assume the trio were trying to hide in the medina and would waste a lot of time searching for them. In any event their pursuers had to backtrack to the Medina gate to retrieve their van, and the trio were assured a sizable lead.

  “Little Bo, I know how much your Mercedes means to you, but we’ve got to change plans. We must get out of town as soon as possible. We don’t have the time to rendezvous with Mustafa. We can’t chance that.”

  “But I must get my Mercedes back. I can’t leave it with Mustafa. He’ll ruin it, Sidi Tyler.”

  “I understand, my friend. Why don’t we hire Mustafa also? We’ll pay him specifically to not drive your Mercedes. At all. We’ll pay him to just park it someplace safe and secure, and we take this to Ketama.” Little Bo said nothing. “That way your Mercedes is safe from Mustafa and the bad guys. He doesn’t lose any money, and you can still drive us. And whatever you were going to charge us, we’ll pay double. Money is not an issue, but we can’t take the time to switch cars. Of course if you want, you can just drop us off at a car rental place. We can always drive ourselves to Ketama if you don’t want to. But you must understand we can’t waste any time.”

  Little Bo slowed down as he weighed the proposal. “So you’ll hire both of us even if it takes a week?”

  Tyler looked at Lei. She nodded agreement. “Yes, absolutely, positively, but I hope it doesn’t take that long. But to make up for changing our plan, we’ll pay you both for a week even if we’re only in Ketama for two days.”

  “You’ll pay for my Mercedes and for this tin can.”

  “Yes, double whatever you were going to charge us. Think of it as saving the wear and tear on the Mercedes going up into the mountains. And your brother gets paid for doing nothing. That’s a sweet deal.”

  Little Bo didn’t answer for a long moment. Then he fished out his cell phone again and called his brother. He concluded the call with a soft touch of his fingers on his heart and his lips, undoubtedly making a silent prayer for his beloved Mercedes.

  “We accept.” Little Bo extended his hand, and Tyler enveloped the Moroccan’s small hand in both of his hands. They shook vigorously as Lei reached out and grasped both of their hands.

  “Now let’s get the hell out of town before those guys find us.” Time was precious. But they had some errands to run first. Tyler listed what they needed to do.

  “I know just where to go.” Little Bo took charge. He sent Lei into a pension, a cheap hotel, to change money at its reception desk and sent Tyler into a clothing store to buy the biggest djellaba they had. When they got back to the Fiat, Little Bo wasn’t there. They wondered if he had deserted them.

  “Where did you go?” Lei asked when he returned.

  “To get something else we might need.”

  “What’s that?” Tyler asked.

  Little Bo didn’t reply. Instead he dug in a paper bag and pulled out an ordinary cigar box, handing it to Tyler. He lifted the lid. In the box lay a red and white checkered cloth bundle, tied with a ribbon. He untied the ribbon, unfolded the cloth and smelt the unmistakable, sweet aroma of gun oil. Inside was a U.S. Army WWII service-issued Colt pistol M1911 and two boxes of .45 bullets.

  Chapter Thirteen

  On the road to Ketama

  Headed toward the Rif Mountains, Morocco

  Tuesday, December 7, 2005

  7:30 p.m.

  “Sidi Tyler, you’d better keep out of sight.”

  “You’re right. I’m probably easy to spot even in a djellaba.”

  They had left Tangier just after nightfall. Beyond the city the road entered the sparsely inhabited countryside. Scattered groves of fig and olive trees dotted the semi-arid hills largely denuded of their native oak and cedar forests. The valleys were used for livestock grazing, principally sheep. An occasional residence might double as a general store and a stopping place for the intercity buses. Some locations might host a weekly souk, drawing the neighboring farmers to peddle their produce.

  “Little Bo, you have no idea how thankful Lei and I are for your help. We wouldn’t have made it out of the airport without you. I just want you to know we believe you’ve done us a very great service for which we owe you a very great debt. I don’t know how we can repay you.”

  “Sidi Tyler, one of the five pillars of Islam is to give alms to the poor. That is the same as showing kindness to strangers. I think the Prophet would say so. And you were in danger. What if you ended up in those men’s hands? They are evil men. They use the mosque to preach hate.

  “Islam is not about hate. The Qur’an says love is Allah’s will for mankind. Do you know in Islam there are no priests to tell us, the believers, what our religion means? It’s true. So the Prophet, may all praise his name, speaks di
rectly to me. Everyone may hear the Word a little differently, but these jihadists are forcing their views on others. That’s wrong.

  “They want us to accept that Islam justifies violence. They say America is Satan. And good Muslims must fight Satan. But if America is Satan, I think Allah will deal with it. After all, the Prophet has promised to protect me if I’m a good Muslim.

  “I don’t hate America. Why should I hate a country? I hate violence and cruelty. That’s what I hate as a good Muslim. That’s what the Qur’an says. These men are committing crimes as bad as Satan ever did.”

  Tyler pondered what this third-world taxi driver had said. It made more sense than anything he had heard from either side’s diplomats and politicians. Little Bo was not only brave but also principled. “Little Bo, you make good sense. But why don’t our leaders realize that?”

  “Because it’s just talk for them. Talk, talk, talk. Death and destruction are just words for them. They’re safe and warm and well-fed. No one has blown their flesh and blood into pieces. But they blew up dear Grandfather, Sidi Tyler. Blew him up to pieces. I had to choose Grandfather’s arm from three other arms. Just arms, no bodies.” Tears rolled down Little Bo’s cheeks. “The body parts were just laid out on a bloody sheet on the floor like meat. It was up to me to put Grandfather’s body together. How do I choose? How do I know? Did I bury my grandfather or someone else? Will his soul ever be at peace? Praise Allah.” He wept shamelessly. “That’s why I’m proud to help you.”

  Tyler digested what his Moroccan friend had shared. He marveled how sorrow yields wisdom even if at a terrible price. “Has your grandfather been gone a long time?”

  “It seems like a long time. But it was only May two years ago. He was visiting his ill sister in Casablanca, and a suicide bomber blew him up. Dozens of others, too. Strangers. Totally innocent people. All Moroccans and Muslims. Tell me how bombing other Muslims hurts The Great Satan, America. Those bombers are terrorists, lower than swine. So despicable.”

  “I am so sorry. You carry a heavy burden.” Tyler glanced at Lei who seemed to be asleep.