The Caliphate Page 11

  “Like a tethered goat to attract the lion. Can you protect me?”

  “I’ll have you covered. The minute you leave the hotel, I’ll have discreet protection on you.”

  “Isn’t this ironic? I came to sell expertise on counterterrorism, and now I’m in the middle of a counterterrorist operation.”

  “Don’t worry; we have our own counterterrorist experts.”

  “Are your Salafists home grown?”

  “In a way. You can compare them to the old Communist parties. Like them, they have local activists, and they have a unifying ideology that comes from outside. This time, instead of Marxism and Leninism, the dogma is subverted from the Quran, written for seventh century Bedouins. The radicals claim it has all the rules that humankind needs. In American terms, it’s the Constitution, the Bible, the Bill of Rights and the rules of the Securities and Exchange Commission all rolled into one. But they regard man-made laws to be sacrilegious, to be an affront to Allah.”

  Steve nodded. “A constituency of one: Allah. Well, I assume that you have a plan, other than dangling me out there to draw their fire, right?”

  Abdelhaq smiled. “You remind me of your father. He’s more concerned with the practical than with philosophical. As a matter of fact I do have a plan, and it should allow you to leave when your business is concluded, whether we have arrested the terrorists or not. You stay in Morocco for a while, go about your business normally. Your continued presence should bring the bad guys out. You’ll be protected, don’t worry.”

  “My father trusts you, so I do as well. Plus, I still have work to do with the Ministry of Defense.”

  “There is a Moroccan proverb that tells us, ‘If you know his father, you may trust his son.’ I know you will do the right thing in a crisis. The minister knows about the threats against you. Go to your meetings. You’ll be protected. And don’t worry—you won’t lose your contract.”

  “And?” Steve said. Despite Abdelhaq’s reassurances, he felt unsure.

  “First thing in the morning, I want you to go see a friend of mine, a photographer, in Fes. He’ll fit you with a disguise and an alias, including a passport that will allow you to leave the country ‘black;’ that is, in a way that will hide the fact that you’ve left. We don’t want to drag this out too long. Marshall would not allow it,” he smiled. “If we don’t catch them soon, you can still leave the country in a few days. I assume the Salafists have their sources and will know as soon as you go through airport controls if you go under your true name. Their searching will make them more visible to me.”

  ***

  Steve was off to Fes in a rental car the next morning. He frequently glanced into the rearview mirror but could see no car behind him. On one hand, if there was a friendly tail on him, he was happy they were so invisible, so professional. But, was there really a friendly team keeping an eye on him?

  Once in Fes, he parked near the Palais Jamai and headed for the photographer’s shop. He was thirty seconds away from the car when he abruptly turned around—he had forgotten to lock the car. When he reached it, a man in his mid-twenties wearing a black, long sleeve Nike sports shirt, sun glasses and with long curly black hair was peering inside. He turned away as soon as Steve came into view. Steve watched him get into the back of a black BMW. Steve concluded the car must have just reached the large parking lot; its engine was running and he could see two people in the front. Steve almost gave a friendly wave to the occupants of the car but restrained himself—it might not be professional to wave to your guardian angels.

  He directed his steps toward the city’s medina in search of Daud, Abdelhaq’s friend, and his shop. The air was heavy with the scent of jasmine. Cascading bougainvilleas lit up the whitewashed walls with brilliant shades of crimson, orange, yellow, and purple.

  The alleys of the medina were crowded with merchants and tourists. Young children wove in and out on their way to the bakeries balancing wooden boards on which rested round loaves of unbaked bread. A donkey carrying cases of Coca-Cola in wicker baskets strapped to his sides rocked and rolled down the alley forcing Steve to step into a shop that sold brass and copper trays. Since the donkey effectively blocked traffic, Steve had time to look at an artisan etching geometric designs on a tray with a hammer and a center punch. He resumed his walk steering clear of the leather tanning area because of its smell of urine and noxious chemicals. But he did like the smell of finished leather in an alley specializing in belts, saddles and babouche slippers.

  Steve walked into the photographer’s shop where a young man in western slacks and long sleeve shirt approached him. He asked for Daud, the owner. With a knowing smile, the salesman went to the back of the store and disappeared behind a dark curtain. Daud came out quickly. His gray hair and gold-rimmed glasses gave him the air of a professor.

  In a low conspiratorial voice that made Steve feel more nervous than secure, he said, “We cannot meet here. Maybe someone has followed you.”

  Looking toward the front of the shop carefully, Daud guided Steve beyond the curtain with great respect. Steve followed him into a long and narrow room, past boxes and files that overflowed the narrow shelves. Daud managed to squeeze in between the wall and a large wooden desk. He sat behind it and invited Steve to take a plastic chair in front. Steve noticed “HMS Invincible” inscribed on the front of the desk.

  Peering from behind a twenty-four-inch, cutting edge, flat-screen iMac computer, Daud spoke in French.

  “Yes, the desk comes from a sunken British ship. My father, may Allah keep him, bought it in Tangiers many years ago. His Excellency, Mr. al Fassi, has of course told me you would come. We need to go to my house where I will outfit you with all you need. To avoid bringing troublemakers with you, you will follow my directions exactly. There is one long street with nothing but brass plates, lamps, and decorations of all kinds. Do you know where it is?”

  “Yes, I was just there,” Steve said, remembering the Coca-Cola donkey.

  At that moment, the young man from the front of the shop joined them and stood by the curtain keeping an eye on the shop.

  “Start from the east and walk west. My son Youssef,” he pointed to him, “will be at the far end of that alley. If Youssef detects no surveillance behind you, he will run his hand through his hair. That means you’re okay, no one is behind you, and he will lead you to my house.”

  Youssef stepped closer to Steve and said, in good American-accented English, “If I do not signal, that means you are being followed. You should then enter the last brass shop on the left side of the alley, and quickly walk to a door in the back before any surveillants draw abreast of the shop. The door will lock when you close it behind you. A guide will be there to take you to my father’s house.”

  Daud gave Steve precise instructions on how to get to the alley. He said it would take him about twenty minutes.

  Youssef added, “Don’t deviate from that route. There will be friendly eyes on you at key locations until the final checkpoint when you will see me.”

  Steve had not gone farther than the first hundred yards of his choreographed walk when he sensed rather than felt something in back of him. He instinctively put his hand on his wallet and closed his fingers around a small wrist. He turned to find a young boy at the other end of the wrist. The boy began yelling in Arabic, “American, American, money for my mother, in hôpital!”

  Steve retrieved his wallet and was about to focus on the little Moroccan thief, but his attention was diverted by a millisecond sighting of Curly, whom he had seen hovering around his car. Steve thought he had seen him behind a group of Japanese tourists—not a wise concealment choice for a full size Moroccan. But he had disappeared. Likewise, the boy had taken advantage of Steve’s distraction to make his get-away. Remembering Abdelhaq’s assurances, he was tempted to believe that Curly’s presence was a positive sign. However, he was getting confused.

  When Steve arrived at the end of the surveillance detection route he was relieved to see Youssef run his finge
rs through his hair. Youssef walked Steve quickly into the heart of the old quarter. As they went by the historic Karaouine mosque, Steve wondered if this was the smartest route. If Salafists or their sympathizers were around, they’d most likely use the mosque as their Fes headquarters. He put his head down and kept walking—it was too late to change routes and he had no choice but to trust Youssef.

  They walked down an alley flanked by windowless walls about three stories high and came to a nail-studded wooden door with a large iron lock and handle. The door opened instantly when Youssef tapped the palm of his hand against its surface. They stepped into a world out of A Thousand and One Nights, a lush garden, a riot of greens and yellows and pinks, surrounding a bubbling fountain. Several dark-skinned servants hurried about. Daud welcomed him and ushered him inside a room bordering on the garden.

  Daud was the perfect traditional Moroccan host. He placed loose tea, lumps of sugar, and sprigs of mint in a silver teapot. At his signal, a servant brought boiling water that Daud poured in the pot. After pleasant conversation concerning the history of Fes, Daud took the teapot and poured, first with the spout close to the glass and gradually extended his arm to produce a long stream of steaming tea between pot and glass, never spilling a drop. They each drank the traditional three cups.

  Then Daud introduced Steve to what he called his atelier, his workshop—an office-sized room with dozens of wall-mounted wooden drawers and cabinets, square work table on one side, running water and a waist-level counter on the other. Out of one cabinet, inside of which were smaller pull-out drawers, he selected several pairs of glasses. He tried several on Steve and finally selected a highly noticeable black-rimmed pair. He then looked at Steve hair and opened another cabinet inside of which were rows of wigs on wire wig-stands.

  “The idea is to make you look older and give the observer something to fix his attention away from your basic, unchangeable physionomie,” he explained, “your height and bone structure for example. We could change those also but not in a couple of hours as Mr. al Fassi wants, and not on such short notice.”

  He outfitted Steve with salt-and-pepper hair and a severely receding hairline. Steve looked in the mirror and saw himself aged fifteen-to-twenty years—an expert job, he thought. Daud took his picture with the disguise on for Steve’s new Canadian passport, then removed the disguise, explained to Steve how to put it on and slipped it into a small cloth bag. He went into an adjoining room for a half-hour and came back with the passport.

  “You are a Canadian tourist, Ian Ross. You came from Paris five days ago. You’re on your way to Dakar, Senegal. The passport has the French, Moroccan, and Senegalese stamps and visas that you need. You were born in Toronto. That will explain your accent when you speak French. I cannot help you with your Canadian past. You will have to create that yourself based on what you can convincingly talk about. You must memorize all this information. It has to come out instantaneously if needed.”

  “Abdelhaq is lucky to have you as his friend. How can I thank you?”

  Daud held up his left palm toward Steve and said, “Not your worry.”

  Steve thanked him again, shook his hand, and Youssef walked with him back to his car. Steve was now extremely aware of his physical environment but he didn’t spot Curly.

  ***

  On his way back to Rabat, Steve noticed a black BMW 740 that stayed doggedly behind him. Whether he sped up or slowed down, the car stayed within sight. Since this tail didn’t seem to be hiding, Steve assumed it was the friendly, protective team sent by Abdelhaq, probably the same BMW he had seen in the parking lot when he arrived in Fes.

  On a straight stretch of road, the BMW sped up and was quickly behind him. There were no other cars on the road. The black car swerved to the left to pass. In his driver’s side mirror, Steve noticed that the black car’s windows on the right, on his side, were open—the hair of the man in the back was blowing around. His mind quickly processed the information and concluded that the face and hair belonged to Curly.

  He checked his mirror again and saw movement. A hand appeared from the front passenger side window, but it was not waving in friendly gesture. Steve caught sight of the barrel of a gun. Instinct powered by fear made him pull on the handbrake hard.

  The BMW shot past him. He heard the popping of the shots. Most of the bullets flew over his car, except for one that scored a long gash across the hood. As the shots punched past him, he pulled the hand brake and whipped the steering wheel to the left triggering his car to skid into a one-hundred-eighty-degree turn, even as it continued down the road.

  He kept his hand on the brake, ready to release it when the car went off the road onto the dirt and grass strip punctuated by poplars every fifty yards. He regained control, released the brake, drove the car back on the asphalt and accelerated toward Fes at full throttle.

  Steve knew that heading in the opposite direction was the only way to put more space between him and the BMW. Without a weapon, surprise had given him perhaps a minute advantage. He was around the first turn and the black car had disappeared from sight. He had a good head start.

  He saw a sign, KHEMISETT 3 KILOMETRES, and reaching Khemisett before the BMW became the most important goal in his life. He urged more speed from his car. There was no one else on the road except for the occasional jellaba-clad peasant walking alongside with his donkey carrying farm produce. He stayed in the middle of the narrow road and took the turns as fast as he could. The BMW had more horsepower and soon appeared in his mirror. But he reached Khemisett with about a quarter-mile lead.

  He hit the brakes and turned onto a side street, passed a restaurant-hotel sign, and furiously jammed the car into the parking lot in back. He grabbed the keys and the bag with his disguise and went into the building through the back door. He entered the kitchen where he saw only one person, the cook. He put his hand on his heart, smiled and said “labess-alik,” a Moroccan greeting he had picked up, and kept moving. The cook barely paid attention to him. Steve went through the only other door and saw the letters WC on a green door on the left.

  He hadn’t anticipated he’d ever have to use his disguise, but now he was glad to have it. In a few minutes, a middle-aged man with a receding hairline came out of the bathroom, walked through the dining room and out the front door. Steve reasoned that, with his car in the back, this restaurant would soon be the object of the search.

  With his eyes out for his pursuers, he walked down the street and soon found a taxi with the driver asleep in the front seat. The driver demanded an absurd sum to drive him to Rabat. Steve, not in the mood to bargain, got in the back seat of the yellow Simca and cut the sum in half.

  He told the driver, “I’ll give you the entire amount if you can break the world’s speed record on the way to the Tour Hassan Hotel in Rabat.”

  Only a few minutes later, Steve knew he had made a mistake. The driver had already used two of their lives passing trucks around blind curves.

  But the Simca was no match for the BMW. Fifteen minutes later, the black car appeared. The hit team drew abreast of the Simca and two faces peered out of the open windows, hands held out of sight. Steve knew what they would see: a sleeping passenger in black-rimmed glasses, the back of whose graying head was leaning against the far window. The BMW dropped back. Steve glanced at the side view mirror and saw the BMW pull off the road, turn around, and head back toward Khemisett to conduct a more thorough search. He breathed a sigh of relief, though his body was still wired with adrenaline.

  ***

  As he neared the Tour Hassan, Steve wondered about the wisdom of returning to his hotel. Had the guys in the black BMW called ahead? Would he have a bad surprise waiting in his room? What did he have there that he couldn’t live without? He had left most of his cash and American passport in an envelope in the hotel safe, for one thing. But he had his credit card and alias passport with him. He decided to go in, retrieve his stuff, and check out that evening. He didn’t think this group was seeking martyrdom. If and w
hen they tried again, there would be an escape route in their plan, which probably meant no attack in a public place.

  In order to gain entrance to the hotel without being challenged at the reception, he had put Daud’s disguise back in its cloth bag and out of sight by the time he walked through the lobby.

  He tried to record everything he could see without obviously moving his head. A thousand thoughts and possibilities were going through his mind. Everything and everyone was suspicious. What about the guy in the white jellaba just sitting in the lobby not even pretending to read a newspaper like they did in the movies? On an impulse, he went to the reception desk and told the clerk that he would like to stay a week beyond his original reservation. Steve thought that would allow his adversaries to think they had plenty of time to plan their operation. He didn’t want them to do anything hasty. With an officious smile, the clerk said that would be no problem and he made a notation.

  He went up to his room, gathered some essentials in a small bag, and left his suitcases, most of his clothes, and his toilet articles. He would go to another hotel—that should buy him more time. He knew there was a Rabat Hilton. There would undoubtedly be shops there where he could get what he needed.

  He called Abdelhaq. A woman answered in Moroccan Arabic then in French. Abdelhaq was not home and Steve left a message: “Steve will be at the Hilton.” He hung up and cursed himself. Someone might have been listening. He wondered about the hotel receptionist. Steve took a deep breath.

  Think clearly, he told himself. You cannot afford even one mistake.

  He went back downstairs and asked for access to the safe, explaining apologetically that he wanted to place other personal documents in the care of the hotel. In the privacy of the small closet-like room provided for this purpose, he extracted all of his cash and passport from the manila envelope, replaced it with hotel stationary and a thick leaflet from the Moroccan Office of Tourism to give the envelope some weight, sealed it, and gave it back to the clerk.