by C.R. Black
The two friends then talked about the upcoming festival bringing a tourist influx and its effect on their respective businesses as well as the coming Fall weather. Khalid asked about Eian's progress in French class at school and laughed at his refusal to learn and use more than just the basics of Arabic. All of this was done while sipping sweetened tea.
"Anything exciting happening on the tala'a today?" Khalid was often a font of gossip about what was happening up and down the tala'a and today proved no exception.
"Something is going on my friend. The gendarmerie has been talking with all their informants. Even DST agents are everywhere."
"What's that all about?"
"It has to be something connected with the Kings visit tomorrow and the moussem" said Khalid, shaking his head. "It's more than just a sweep for troublemakers."
"We can hope that the police and security forces are on top of everything. I'm supposed to take Eian to meet the royal couple as part of a delegation from the international community living in the medina. Are the Salfist's behind this?"
"That would be a good guess," replied Khalid, "though they have recently made statements saying that they are now willing to renounce violence and work within the political system. Of course there are quite a number of different Salafist groups and not all are associated with 'repentants,' those who have come out against violence."
Christopher thought over what Khalid had said, comparing that with what he knew of the few bearded fundamentalists here in the medina. It was easy to become freaked out by this group of religious puritans who were against basic democratic principles and human rights. He had travelled enough in the Arab world and East Africa to know how religious intolerance could be used to hold a country in a state of perennial stasis.
"I know the 'bearded ones' are for the most part not held in great esteem here in Fez el Bali, though I suspect that more than a few support their efforts to limit change."
"What you need to understand about Morocco" said Khalid,"is that at our core we are a nation trying to bridge an ever widening gap between the past and the future. In our heads we know that our future is with the West; with modernization and everything that it brings, yet our hearts long for a simpler time based on tradition without these outside influences that churn through Morocco like currents in the ocean."
They sat discussing everything from the weather; it was warmer than usual, to an upcoming visit by the new French president to Rabat to various construction projects around the medina. Finally Christopher rose to leave.
"Baraka allahu feek, may God bless you," said Khalid, embracing his American friend.
"And you also, Khalid. Beslama, goodbye."
Christopher worried over Khalid's story of possible trouble involving terrorists in the medina. He remembered back to 2003 when there were terrorist attacks at various locations in Casablanca, which killed 45. Those attacks had targeted foreigners specifically, and being a resident of the medina meant he stuck out no matter how low a profile he attempted to display. As his Muslim friends would say, In'shallah, God willing, everything would turn out okay. Realizing that it was almost lunchtime he wondered idly if his friend Mohammed was working at Le Bab Cafe today? Heading towards Bab Bou Jeloud, the Blue Gate, he climbed the steep stairs in the 3 level cafe, quickly finding his friend Mohammed. Ordering a lamb kebab, French fries and a Coke he casually remarked,
"Life can be good, even if there are crazy people in the world." Mohammed, smiling and rushed as he always seemed, agreed and hurried off downstairs to fetch his order while Christopher sat and looked out at the people passing through the open gateway below decorated in typical Fassi Zellij tiles; green, the color of Islam on interior facade, and blue, the color of Fez on the exterior facade. It was said that sooner or later all who visited Fez passed through the Blue Gate and it certainly looked that way today with a huge diversity of people; young, old, fat, thin, male, female, tourist or local, passing below him as he gazed out.
Chapter 15 - Thursday - 2:48 p.m.
"The abundance of money is a trial for a man." Moroccan proverb
Bou Chantouf had sent Hasan off to gather the final ingredient in their plan, a supply of stinging hornets, genus Vespa, commonly found throughout North Africa. These would be loosened near the royal viewing stand immediately prior to the attack. This would not only provide a cover for Bou Chantouf to shoot the poison dart from the air gun, but in the confusion they would cover their escape.
Though willing to die a martyr to the cause as long as the monarchy was destroyed and the pathway to the new Morocco started, practicality demanded that they at least try and get safely away since as-Salifa had more plans for his particular talents and energies.
Leaving the Ras Cherratene safe house Fettah walked to Place Seffarine and past the medersa Attarine, the religious school there. Circling the Kairaouine Mosque, he wandered aimlessly through narrow, winding alleyways with traditional crafts were being practiced in every nook and cranny. Past the brass makers souk with beating hammers that sound like so many guns being fired, before continuing on through a mind-boggling range of products available for sale. Leather goods, textiles and yarn, Moroccan pots, metal ware, jewelry, carpets, henna; each merchant busily trying to entice passersby with their wares.
To Bou Chantouf this was all the more reason that the country needed a revolution. His whole being felt that people had become bewitched with the material society of the West, thinking only of what they could buy and not of Allah.
It was at this time that he overheard two shopkeepers talking about the sweep for suspected terrorists. Bou Chantouf stopped, tense with a sudden alertness. He edged closer to better hear over the buzz of the crowded souk. Listening closely he learned that the gendarmerie plus obvious DST agents are combing both Fez el Bali and Fez el J'did for a terrorist cell that meant to cause havoc at tomorrows festival with possibly an attack. Momentarily he ducked into a nearby shop and pretended to be interested in some brass platters. He scanned the crowd outside the shop door for any obvious plainclothesmen or uniformed gendarmes. Seeing none he continued to look intensely at the large number of people before leaving the shopkeeper and joining the crowds outside. Jostling through the pre-festival crowds he frowned as he walked past the Shrine of Moulay Iddriss, focus of tomorrow's festival.
Like most Islamic fundamentalists, he believed that the attention given to so-called saints was haram, forbidden by religious doctrine, and that Sufi brotherhoods were heretical, feeling that a true Muslim should only follow the Quran, the teachings of the Prophet, peace and blessing upon him, and sharia law. Tomorrow's moussem and parade put on by the Sufi's made them unbelievers. Just the idea that a person should enter a trance to have direct communication with God was beyond his belief. It was fitting that the king would die on this day.
His eventual destination was a tiny tailor shop inherited from his uncle. Unlocking the folding metal gate securing the minuscule space within, barely 2 meters wide he began to quickly gather together copies of the Sufi robes he and Hasan were to wear in tomorrow's parade. Folding them, he was startled by the sight of a uniformed gendarme standing at the entrance. He quickly stuffed the Sufi gowns into a dark plastic bag, stood up and greeted the officer at his doorway.
"Salam aleikum," Fettah formally greeted the gendarme.
"Wa alaykume salam," replied the officer. "We are questioning businesses in the medina concerning a possible attack during the upcoming festival. Have you heard of any gossip regarding such a thing? From your appearance you obviously are a more traditional member of the faithful and as such, could hear things which we do not."
His mind quickly settled, Fettah calmly replied, "La! I have heard of nothing which might be of help in your investigation."
"If you happen to hear of something, of course you will report it to us immediately," responded the officer as he moves to the next business on his long list.
"Yes, of course," Fettah dutifully replied with a smile.
S
oon Bou Chantouf was sitting in the sparsely furnished room of the el Yhoudi safe house, taking a long breath at having arrived without being further accosted. Twenty-four more hours to wait before the parade! So close nothing must come in their way. Shortly Hasan would be arriving. Now was a time for prayer to ask Allah to smile favorably on their undertaking.
Chapter 16 - Thursday - 3:47 p.m.
"Whoever wants to hurt never misses his target." Berber proverb
Meanwhile, Hasan has visited an acquaintance on the outskirts of Fez. He had known the old bachelor for many years, having grown up on a similar farmstead next door. He has visited this small farm numerous times before to buy eggs. He knew that in a dilapidated barn on the property hornets could be found. Having gone to the farmer weeks earlier, he requested a large number of the hornets captured and is now returning to bring his second deadly package back to the medina.
Driving up the almost hidden rutted road, he saw the old man stacking olive branches while a scruffy cat rubbed against his leg. He quickly got out of his car and within moments had received the box of hornets, paying the farmer a small sum of money. With fearsome, dead eyes Hasan watched and waited until the old man turned his back, then struck swiftly and brutally, snapping his neck between the second and third vertebra. Dragging the farmer's lifeless body into the barn, he retrieved his money along with the box of hornets and returned to his battered red taxi. He carefully placed the buzzing box on the passenger seat and headed back to the medina and the el Yhoudi safe house.
Negotiating the crowded streets, packed with both townspeople and tourists, Hasan drove past Borj Sud, the sixteenth century fort overlooking the southern ramparts of the city. Turning into the Bab J'Did gate, he finally reached the car park at the Place Rcif in the center of the medina. Stepping out of his taxi, he gently picked up the now humming cardboard box containing hundreds of agitated hornets. Locking the car doors, he walked off towards the safe house.
Not going directly to the house, he first walked down a side street, little more than a narrow and dusty alleyway really, before removing a key from his pocket and unlocking a door set into a garden wall. Quickly going inside, he again locked the door before crossing a small courtyard garden with overgrown and dusty shrubs and a non-working fountain. Using the key to unlock another door on the opposite side he exited into yet another winding alleyway, even more shadowed and narrow than the first. Here he met a young boy bound for the local bakery carrying a board with unbaked loaves of bread on his head. Hasan then remembered that he had not eaten since early morning. There would be time enough for eating once he is secure inside the safe house. He soon found his way to its hidden doorway, the sounds of the Maghrib time of prayer call floating above the medina. Casually he looked at his wristwatch; it is 6:18 pm, just 24 hours before the beginning of the new Morocco.
Chapter 17 - Thursday - 4:36 p.m.
"The polite tongue can suck the lioness' breast." Moroccan proverb
Ayrad Afellay's car passed through the Bab Ain-Zleten gate into the medina and parked in the adjoining car park. He exited his car near the steps leading down to the Tala'a Kebira, telling his driver to wait. Leaning against the flaking wall for a moment and lighting a cigarette he took in the hustle and bustle of the street, noticing that itinerant merchants had set up their small portable stands close to the stairs. This was illegal, since they neither paid business taxes nor were licensed by the government, but that was not his worry today. He was surprised that all of them had not moved their business elsewhere in the city with the flooding of the medina by both uniformed and plainclothes gendarmes and DST agents. He also realized they have to try and make a living to feed their families in this tight economy just like everyone else.
Rising, he walked down the crumbling stairs to the tala'a, going over in his mind how he will approach Akmed Benharoun and question him without overly alarming the rest of his family. In Morocco, as in much of the rest of the world, "Who" you were sometimes was more important than "what" you were, or in this case what you might be involved in.
In Morocco and Fez in particular there were a small number of elite families that were above the rest, a patrician bourgeoisie whose origins went back to the founding of the city of Fez. The descendants of those first families still dominated the business world in the country today.
Rising in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, they established their fortunes exporting hides and carpets to Europe and importing English fabrics and industrial products. As in Europe, daughters of wealthy merchants in need of prestige married them off to aristocrats in search of funds. Over the generations an aristocracy was formed that remained close to the Palace. Yes, better to walk softly; just lay it out without giving away too much and see how the young man reacted, then proceed from there.
When he arrived at the main family business he found Akmed had not come to work today, having called his older brother Miloud and telling him that he was ill with a fever. Chief Inspector Afellay quickly decided to proceed with questioning of Miloud. He asked if he had noticed anything suspicious involving his younger brother and told Miloud that Akmed's name had been mentioned in a routine investigation concerning possible disruptions during tomorrow's festival.
He was an open and candid man and made no attempt to dissemble his thoughts. He answered bluntly that he had noticed nothing that would be considered suspicious. Outwardly satisfied, Afellay extended his hand in thanks and asked Miloud to give his greetings to his father and mother before turning and continuing to walk down the tala'a. Turning to his right, he plunged into the heart of the medina. He did not like coincidences, and the fact that Akmed was absent today after his name being mentioned was too much of a coincidence. He would send someone over to the young man's residence and have him brought in for questioning. Something wasn't right and time was fast running out to pay too much attention to niceties.
Few shops were found in this mostly residential section, its narrow streets hemmed by flaking walls and bags of trash along with the odor of centuries. He was reminded of an old Berber saying; "A jointly owned house brings problems." One would still occasionally walk past a beauty parlor, a bakery or a simple pushcart selling fruit or nuts. As he neared Ras Cherratene he spied the old one-eyed beggar sitting in a doorway. Approaching him, he respectfully greeted the beggar, for he had been taught to respect first the age and then the wealth. This old man certainly had little wealth, but his great age was worn as a symbol of pride.
"As-salam aleikum" said Afellay.
"Wa alaykume-salam" replied the old man quietly.
"I wonder if you can help me?" asked the Chief Inspector while he idly clinked a number of 10 dirham coins from one hand to another.
"What would you ask a poor old beggar man?" came the reply. "I am Chief Inspector Afellay with the Sûreté Nationale. I was wondering if you had perhaps observed anyone suspicious in this area in the last few weeks?"
Slowly the old man reached into his tattered and stained djellaba and scratched his stomach before looking up at the Major.
"N'aam" he replied. "Yes," and he proceeded to tell his story.
Across the medina the call to prayer floated over the dusty rooftops. Akmed Benharoun sat in his friend's apartment drinking a barely chilled Coke and sampling some dried fruit from a plate. After his sister's warning, he had gone to one of his fellow conspirators for the night rather than returning to his own apartment. Akmed would remain here with his friends until tomorrow's parade, when he and the others would go to witness their strike for democracy. So much depended on getting close enough to the TV cameras that would be filming the review by the royal couple. In the corner lay boxes filled with their message to the world, soon to be scattered in front of a national audience.
Chapter 18 - Thursday - 6:14 p.m.
"The determined ostrich hunter will surely meet one." Moroccan proverb
Afellay returned to the waiting car and punched in the phone number to his office. Quickly he gave instruction
s for a search team to enter the suspected house on Ras Cherratene as well as the houses surrounding it, though he seriously doubted that they would find anyone at home. Next, he ordered that Akmed Benharoun be picked up and brought into headquarters for questioning. Finally he gave instructions for men to comb the Kairaouine section of the medina and be on the lookout for the taxi driver, possibly named Hasan and the elusive "tall one". Twenty-four hours from now the King would be in the reviewing stands and the potential for disaster was too great.
Being awake for almost two days straight, Afellay knew that he could not operate at full capacity without getting some sleep. Leaving instructions to be called immediately if anything of importance was discovered, he told his driver to take him to his home in the Lido Quarter of the Ville Nouvelle. Driving through this part of Fez, one could half close their eyes and imagine being in any modern southern European city, with its many sidewalk cafes, crowded streets and modern shops, maybe a little more shabby and dusty, but close enough.
Trees lined the European-style boulevards and pedestrians crowded the sidewalks. This Fez was the future, he knew, while the medina was its past. Looking out at the passing scene, he saw many young men and women strolling together dressed in the latest western fashions. It was not unusual to see three generations of Moroccan women, each easily distinguished from the other by their dress. The oldest would be in the all-encompassing dark kaftan, often with a veil covering the lower part of her face. Closer inspection might show, if the woman was from a Berber village, a tribal tattoo on her forehead and chin. Her daughter would most likely be dressed in a less covered fashion, probably a longish skirt with long-sleeved blouse and a headscarf covering her hair. The youngest generation would easily fit into any American or European scene, with no head covering and often bare arms and midriff.