THE BOY FROM THE TANGIER SOUK

by Richard Savin

  As they got to within a hundred metres of the hotel, Jordan pulled the Packard to a halt. ‘This is as far as we go. You don’t wanna to be seen stepping out of car with diplomatic plates – it might send the wrong message. Let’s catch up tomorrow. Same place at ten in the morning.’

  Grainger stepped out onto the roadside, thought for a moment then said, ‘Not there, it’s not good to be in the same place twice.’

  ‘Where then?’

  ‘There’s a café that serves food in the Medina: El Berber, I saw it earlier today as I was coming to meet you. There seemed to be a lot of Europeans in the place. We’ll blend in nicely.’

  Grainger stepped a few metres to a doorway then hung back in the shadows till the Packard disappeared into the gloom. The last of the light had gone as he walked the short distance back to the hotel. He went straight to his room and having removed his jacket threw himself onto the bed. He needed to think for a while; later he could go down to dine in the hotel restaurant, there being nowhere else conveniently close.

  *

  The morning dawned bright, clear and warm. At breakfast he studied the other guests, instinctively looking for anything out of place. There was nothing; just a group of overdressed elderly doñas and their middle-aged husbands, chattering over their teacups and toast. They seemed curiously unaware of the war going on only a few miles away across the sea.

  Outside, he found a caleche that had moored itself up by the hotel front entrance. ‘Medina,’ he called to the driver. The driver tapped the horse’s rump with his whip and flipped the reins.

  As they left at a slow trot a man wearing a straw boater and a pale linen jacket came down the hotel steps. He stood and watched the disappearing caleche until it was lost from sight then began to walk at a leisurely pace in the same direction.

  The driver of the caleche reined his horse to a halt at the Medina gate. No sooner had Grainger stepped down into the street than a ragged hoard of street beggars descended on him like a plague of flies. He ignored them. Pushing past the outstretched hands and shouting urchins, he walked quickly into the souks where they followed him like a trailing plume of rags. In ones and twos his pursuers abandoned the chase and drifted away to find more easily persuaded victims. Eventually they were gone; he had shaken them off, but now he was not sure where he was. In his scramble to get free from the nuisance he had lost his direction.

  He looked up and down the souk he stood in. It was no more than a narrow alley, lined with crumbling shops and jostling people. He randomly chose a direction but as he began walking someone shouted; the voice was vaguely familiar.

  ‘Hey mister, mister you want Jamil help you.’

  Grainger stopped and turned. It was the kid from the port. The boy’s eyes lit up as Grainger raised a hand in greeting. This Grainger thought, was providence.

  ‘What you need mister – I can find for you. You want nice girl. Jamil can find anything.’

  Grainger laughed at that, at the same time shaking his head. ‘No girls.’

  The ragged child stood there bemused. ‘You want boy?’

  ‘No boys.’

  ‘So what you want? You want kif?’

  Grainger carried on shaking his head. ‘Do you know the café El Berber? I want to go there. Five sous if you take me there.’

  The boy saw an opportunity, this foreigner was lost. He screwed up his face and made a sort of whining sound. ‘You give one franc?’

  ‘Ha!’ Grainger laughed. ‘You’re a thief as well as a beggar. Ten centimes.’

  The boy considered it. ‘I will take you – for fifty centimes.’

  ‘Agreed. Lead on Jamil.’

  The boy jerked his head and set off at a fast walk. When they got to the end of the alley he turned left into a wider street, walked another fifty metres to where it decanted into a square and stopped. ‘There,’ he said emphatically, ‘Café El Berber. Now you give one frank.’

  Grainger stood there, a faint smile on his face. ‘Huh, cheeky bugger. We agreed fifty centimes – and it was only round the corner.’

  Jamil shuffled his feet and put out an imploring hand. ‘You rich man, Jamil very poor, all Moroccan peoples very poor. One franc, pleeeease mister, no mother, no father, Jamil starves.’

  Grainger suppressed a laugh. It was the ritual chant from every beggar in the city. ‘Okay, you do this for one franc. Go to the café and look at who is in there. Then come back and tell me what you see.’

  The boy’s face brightened. ‘Okay, I go.’

  Grainger retreated a few paces into the side street to a point where he was hidden in the shadows but could still see the front of the café. A few minutes later he saw the boy come out of the place and make his way back across the square.

  ‘Tell me what you saw.’

  ‘There are seven Moroccans, one Frenchman and an American.’

  ‘How do you know one is an American?’

  ‘He dress like all American dress. I ask him to give cigarette, here, he gave me one, see – American. That is how Americans are. They give.’ He held out the slim white tube of tobacco. Grainger took it. There was the small image of a camel printed on it. He nodded in agreement with the boy. ‘And the Frenchman?’

  Jamil gave an upward jerk of his shoulders and a sneer crumpled his mouth. ‘Simple, when I asked him for five sous he told me to fuck off – in French. That is how the French are – putains.’

  ‘Here.’ Grainger handed him a two franc coin. ‘One franc for the errand, one for baksheesh. Now you have to go.’ The boy flipped the coin into the air, gave a gracious salaam with a ragged salute, and strode off into the souks.

  Grainger ambled across to the café where he found Jordan sitting inside. He was wearing a brown leather bomber jacket and sunglasses. The boy was right, he looked like an American.

  ‘I have some news,’ he said quietly as Grainger sat down. ‘We should go to Fez. I have an address.’

  ‘The place they’re holding him?’

  ‘Nope, but it’s the next best thing; an informer. We’ll have to buy him. I’ve arranged a payoff with the embassy.’

  Grainger turned it over in his mind for a moment. ‘Fez is in the Vichy zone. How do we deal with that?’

  Jordan put a hand into the inside pocket of the leather jacket and pulled out a folded paper. ‘The embassy has arranged a permit. You’re a buyer for the Toronto office of a US shoe company. We’re gonna buy some leather.’

  Grainger looked impressed. ‘You guys certainly don’t stand still. When do we go?’

  ‘As soon as we’ve downed this.’ He looked at his watch. ‘I’ll pick you up at your hotel in an hour.’

  Grainger stood up. ‘Right, in that case I’d better get going.’

  ‘Sure, oh and by the way, do you have a gun in your bags? I have a feeling we may need a little protection on this caper.’

  Grainger held up a hand and grinned. ‘My dear chap, like my toothbrush, I wouldn’t go anywhere without one.’

  An hour later Grainger paid the bill and checked out of the Cecil. A short walk along the street the Packard was waiting for him. ‘We’ll go to my place. I’m waiting for a package from the embassy. We can leave early tomorrow for Fez.’

  On the outskirts of the city the car slowed. It turned off the road and in through the gates of an elegant residence. Grainger gave a long low whistle, ‘Nice,’ he said as they pulled to a halt in the courtyard of a villa. ‘Living in style.’

  ‘That’s what you get working for Uncle Sam,’ Jordan grinned.

  Chapter 6

  The seller of souls

  The route to Fez ran west to Tetouan before turning south into the desert. There was little moving on the road save for here and there the odd donkey, laden with packs. That or the occasional string of camels tramping disdainfully along the unmade margin, linked one to another by a sagging tether, their handler walking out front. The road was potholed and irregular, dusted by windblown sand that spurted in a plume behind the Packard, marking out
its progress towards the border at Beni Scar. Just over an hour out of Tangier a lone building showed up on the horizon.

  ‘This looks like it,’ Jordan said quietly. ‘Shouldn’t be a problem, the embassy tell me Vichy is desperate to do business with the US.’

  He slowed the Packard right down to a walking pace as they approached what was little more than a mud stucco hut, flying the red and yellow flag of the Spanish Protectorate.

  The barrier was up and the post was deserted, its doors and windows closed and shuttered. Jordan tapped on the clock set in the Packard’s dashboard. ‘Two o’clock; siesta time, I guess. No point stopping here; let’s see if the Frenchies are awake.’

  ‘They look to be in business.’ Grainger pointed up the road to where the French tricolour was flying. As they drew to a halt at the barrier two, Zouaves, native conscript soldiers, emerged from the shade of a low whitewashed building which formed the post. They were followed by a sergeant who was clearly European. One of the Zouaves raised the barrier and the sergeant beckoned them to move forward, finally putting up a hand commanding them to halt. The barrier was dropped behind them. Jordan got out of the Packard and gave a sloppy half salute in greeting.

  ‘Permis, monsieur,’ the sergeant grunted, holding out a hand for the papers. He looked at them then disappeared into the building.

  ‘It’s a bit bloody hot.’ Grainger pointed to the shimmering haze that was rising from the road and off the engine cover of the Packard. ‘Hope they aren’t going to keep us hanging around too long.’

  ‘Well, if they do they’re gonna end up with a traffic jam.’ Jordan pointed out into the distance where another vehicle was stationary at the Spanish post.

  A captain in the uniform of the Legion Étranger appeared. He looked from one to the other. ‘Messieurs, vos documents, s’il vous plaît.’

  ‘He wants our passports,’ Grainger said, turning to Jordan. As he did he noted the new vehicle was still waiting at the Spanish post. He nudged Jordan and nodded in its direction. ‘Whoever he is he’ll sit there till mañana.’

  The captain smiled, handed back the passports and saluted. ‘Bon voyage, messieurs.’

  ‘He still hasn’t got the message,’ Grainger laughed as they got back into the Packard, once more pointing to where the other car still sat waiting. ‘He’ll sit there all day.’

  Minutes after they had left, the second car, a green Renault, moved off the Spanish territory. When it arrived at the French frontier a man wearing a straw boater got out to present his papers. The sergeant who was checking them looked up as a double blast of horns took his attention. A bus, leaning slightly on the camber of the road, top heavy with baggage on the roof, its open windows bristling with the waving arms of the passengers crammed inside, lurched towards him.

  As it reached the barrier and stopped, a boy jumped from the ladder at the rear of the bus, where he had been taking a free ride on the roof. Unseen by the sergeant, he skirted around the back of the frontier building and entered the territory of Vichy France, unannounced, and through a hole in the back door.

  Twenty minutes later as the departing bus laboured to gather speed, the same boy, ran out from behind a tree and jumped onto the ladder at the rear of the moving vehicle. He clambered his way up to the roof where he settled comfortably in amongst the swaying bags and bales, to resume his journey.

  *

  As the afternoon wore on and the Packard drove further south the air became hotter. The desert surrounding them shimmered, distorting the horizons and throwing mirages out into the distance. The water temperature gauge in the car rose and the radiator began to rumble and emit steam. ‘We have to stop and let this thing cool down,’ Jordan observed, ‘otherwise I think she’ll blow.’ He pulled over and onto the margin of the desert scrub and switched off the ignition. The engine stuttered and shuddered to a halt. ‘There’s a can of water in the trunk but we’re gonna have to let this baby cool down a bit first.’

  Grainger wandered a few feet into the scrub, kicking idly at the stony earth. ‘So who is this fellow in Fez? You haven’t really told me a lot.’

  ‘Ali Ben Boukhari; he’s a trader.’

  ‘In what, hides?’

  ‘Yup – but not the sort you have in mind. He trades people. He’s a slaver. Mostly blacks, from the south, up through Mali and across the Southern Sahara.’

  ‘You’re kidding me. This is the twentieth century; slavery was abolished a hundred years back.’

  ‘Not here, my friend. These people have been doing it for centuries. Welcome to the real world.’

  ‘Sodding hell, the bastards.’

  Jordan found a pack of cigarettes in a glove locker and lit one. ‘Don’t let it get to you. We have to deal with this guy. We’re in a war – in case you forgot.’

  ‘All the same, it’s bloody immoral.’

  Jordan shrugged off the remark. ‘Like I said, this is a war. We need this guy so we deal with it.’

  The landscape had changed. Earlier they had gone from the dry plains where little grew and only goats thrived, feeding on the scrubby trees. Now they wound their way up into the mountains. Two hours later, they left the heights and ran down onto a fertile plain of olive trees and date palms.

  It had taken all day to make the near 300-mile journey. The late afternoon air was beginning to cool as they caught their first sight of the city walls rising up out of the horizon – brown mud brick, washed pale yellow in the setting sunlight.

  ‘Fez coming up.’ Jordan noted dryly. ‘There’s a halfway decent hotel in the centre. I had the embassy book us a couple of rooms.’

  ‘Looks much like Tangier,’ Grainger commented as they drove in through the main gate to the city, ‘except it smells a lot worse. What is that?’

  ‘Piss: camels, donkeys, horses, but mostly human. They use it to tan the hides. The locals piss in buckets and sell it to the tanneries.’ Jordan grinned. ‘You should know that; you’re supposed to be the leather man. Leastways, that’s what it says on the permit.’

  Grainger shrugged. ‘I need to find a new occupation.’

  After they had checked in and been shown to the lift, the receptionist picked up a small brass bell and shook it. The high-pitched ring brought a youth dressed in a djellaba scurrying to the counter. The receptionist passed a folded note to him, spoke to him briefly and waved him away on an errand.

  The following morning the telephone in Jordan’s room rang. He picked it up and listened. ‘It is the reception, Mr Jordan sir, you have a visitor waiting in the lobby. Shall I tell him you will come down, sir?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I’ll be right down.’ From his suitcase he took a colt .38 automatic handgun and tucked it into his belt, then buttoned his jacket across it.

  He went quickly along the corridor and knocked on the door of Grainger’s room. ‘We’re on,’ he said quietly as he stepped inside. ‘I suggest you come armed. I don’t know how trustworthy these guys are.’

  In the lobby the receptionist pointed to where a man in a business suit and wearing a fez hat was sitting in an armchair. The man got up as he saw them approaching. He gave them an ingratiating smile, at the same time extending his hand. ‘Gentlemen,’ he said, shaking each hand in turn. ‘Welcome to my city. Which of you will be coming with me?’

  ‘Well, we’d kinda figured we’d both string along,’ Jordan replied. Grainger nodded his accord.

  The man’s face stiffened. He looked from Jordan to Grainger then back again. He raised a half smile. ‘I am afraid the invitation is only for one.’ He tilted his head sideways a little and raised his eyebrows. ‘You will understand, gentlemen, that my employer is anxious to be discreet. Two foreigners visiting could raise suspicions in the eyes of those who might be watching.’

  Jordan turned his glance to Grainger who had put up his hand. ‘I’ll go, Tommy. It’s my show.’ Jordan gave a brief nod of agreement.

  ‘Come then, sir, let us go.’ The man resumed his full smile. ‘It is not far from here. I hav
e a car and driver waiting for us outside.’

  The house of Ali Ben Boukhari was a substantial villa set in a compound and guarded by a high mud-brick wall with pierced iron gates set in it. As the car they were travelling in approached the gates the driver sounded the horn. A man who looked like he might be a gardener hauled them open and stood back to let the car pass through, then closed them with a noisy clang.

  The vehicle pulled up at the front of the residence. The driver got out and came round to open Grainger’s door. At the same time a man appeared on the front steps of the house. He was African and dressed in a white djellaba with a white headcloth. At first Grainger took him to be Boukhari but when he greeted them it was clear he was no more than a servant.

  The man in the fez stretched out an arm and, with a small deferential bow, indicated that Grainger should enter the house. After the brightness of the light outside what he stepped into seemed gloomy and for a short while he could see only shades of darkness. The air, too, was cool, almost chill and for a moment he felt exposed and vulnerable. He let his hand fall onto the gun in his pocket and felt the comfort of its presence.

  As his eyes recovered he saw through the gloom that they were standing in a wide tiled hallway. The man in the fez walked a few steps then stopped. ‘Please to follow me,’ he said. The words were short and curt, spoken in a manner that sounded more like a command than a request.

  From the hallway they entered a long corridor at the end of which they came to a heavy cedarwood door. Here the man stopped. He raised an ornamental iron knocker and banged it down hard twice.

  They waited. Seconds passed, then there was the sound of a bolt being drawn. A hatch opened and through a fretted screen dark eyes looked out at them. The man in the fez said something. The hatch shut and there was the sound of a key turning in a lock. The door swung open and they stepped into an inner courtyard, roofless and open to the sky. The flood of light again rendered Grainger temporarily sightless. When he regained his vision he saw they were in a large airy space. In the centre a small fountain sprinkled water over a shallow marble bowl. It was a place that spoke of wealth and secrecy.